The Call of Death. Maybe.
Yesterday I was driving behind a white van with a sticker which said "How's My Driving? 020 8446 8547."
I couldn't work out what disturbed me about that at first. Then I realised the number is a land line.
That raises all sorts of existential questions. How can the driver be driving and answering the land line somewhere?
Unless he's got some kind of Michael Keaton in Multiplicity thing going on. Which I doubt. God what a waste of multiple bodies that film demonstrated. I didn't even see the film but I know for a fact that at no point did he use a spare body as an alibi to get away with the horric but entirely morally jusitfiable torture and murder of a self-rightous politician or moaning child.
The Keatons at home
And what happens if I call that number on the back of the van to complain? I probably crash the car, because I'm on the phone.
Then someone rings the number from the sticker on the back of my car which says "How's my driving? 020 368 4688". Then they crash their car because they're on the phone. And someone else rings the number on the back of their car and...
...the cycle continues for ever.
Or something.
Sex, lies and eBay hate
I recently bought something on eBay. Don't ask me what. It doesn't matter.
Suffice to say it doesn't have any working orifices, nor does it call me daddy or scream when it senses my presence.
OK, alright, it was a camera. OK? Now you know, it was just a camera.
But it only takes pictures of crying children.
I was going to leave negative feedback but I suddenly realised I didn't feel negative; it's a really good camera. Sure, it's got it's faults like the whole only photographing sobbing kids thing but well, it's got 12 million mega pixles .
It feels really good in my hand. Really good.
Fortress of Deception
There is a cold-blooded, heartless killer among us. There is one who cares not for love or life or joy but exists only to bring pain and misery. Worse still, its hideous nature, and true dark intent are hidden beneath a brightly coloured veneer, masked by children's smiles; and the smell of rubber.
In the past our society has been threatened by war, internal conflict and even natural disaster, despite what Michael Fish said; but never before have we faced such an insidious threat, never have we faced a foe which strikes so brazenly at that which we hold so dear; our precious little children.
This is no greasy-skinned, combed-over, filthy rain-coated predator with a pocket full of sweets and the promise of puppies. No, far worse this horrid fiend is invited into homes by parents themselves, given freedom of the garden and the children are actively encouraged to play with them.
Yes. I'm talking about the bouncy castle. Fortress of inflatable deception. Keep of lies. Battlements of bashed kids.
In the gardens of well-meaning parents across the country, every day, children are left alone and vulnerable to the not-so-tender mercies of these rubber Hitlers. For too long those children, who have disappeared into the folds of rubber and never been seen again, who have bounced awkwardly and gone bald, who have collided mid-air with other infants and been turned into inoperable Siamese twins, have been our conveniently forgotten shame. Today, they found their voice.
Finally as reported by the BBC, someone has had the good sense to realise that if a child is hurt on or near a bouncy castle, the only way to cope is to sue the people who hired it. Thank the Lord. It is only in this sensible, non-reactionary, logic-based, greed-free way that this evil can be beaten.
Some will say it is the parents responsibility to safeguard their children, others will say that if a child is injured playing football, no-one is going to sue the owner of the ball. To these people I say shame on you. SHAME.
Let this evil end. Today.
In The Name of Science
When I was a little boy I used to enjoy taking apart old radios and stuff to see how they worked. Once I got hold of an old black and white TV, that was great. I must stress I wasn’t a vandal but I was inquisitive. Not in the sort of way serial killers are inquisitive about their victim’s insides. Or maybe in exactly the same way.
I wasn’t a freak. I must stress I wasn’t a freak. I really wasn't. I didn’t, for example, once use my Lego to build a little car with a little driver and a little passer by on the street, who was waving to them and I didn’t put firework bangers underneath them all and watch them blow up. Or film it.
OK, I did.
Don’t be frightened. It’s not like I ever did anything crazy, like burn a house down. Well, actually I did. No not really.
Well, yeah OK, really; just the top floor and roof. Imagine my dark eyes…see the fire…watch it burn. No seriously, I wasn’t some psychopath, it was an accident on the road of inquiry. Scientific inquiry. Or at least the eight year old equivalent.
The kind of desire for knowledge which makes you cut open a battery is, I’m sure, common with children; but it really is really something you need to grow out of. I speak from experience. There’s a name for it now I’m a grown up, it’s called ‘Invalidating the Warranty’.