When I was a kid, I suffered from terrible nightmares.
Not this kind.
All kids have them, I’m sure. But mine were especially vivid, and used to frighten me quite badly. I never dreamed of crazy monsters or anything like that. In fact, I rather liked the idea of monsters. I mean, if tentacled fang-beasts or whatever are real, then that must mean that unicorns and griffons and The Popples are real too, right? That’s common sense, but since I wasn’t riding to school on the back of a magnificently feathered Pegasus, I figured out that monsters couldn’t possibly be real pretty quick. Continue reading
I’ve been watching a lot of Netflix, recently. Not that I had to pay anything, you understand. I’m so poor that when I walk through town, the tramps give me money, no joke. I got a birthday card from the Inland Revenue with a fiver inside!
They even sent me a cake!
My brother has a Netflix account, you see, and he doesn’t mind at all who’s using it when he’s not, so I get to watch for free. And a good thing, too, because I’ve come to the conclusion that Netflix is a load of rubbish. You’d find a better selection of films in a charity shop. No, you’d find a better selection of films in the bin outside the charity shop. Continue reading
It’s easy to write about toys and cartoons. Nostalgia works well on these things – they survive the passage of time and for the most part there are indelible records of them. But a large part of our childhood was consumable, literally. I know where my He-Man toy is, but I probably couldn’t tell you what happened to that Trio bar I ate in 1991. All we have is memories… and sometimes a curious stain on the floor. (It was chocolate Nesquik, I swear.)
Yeah, I’d get in his van.
So let’s take a walk down the supermarket aisle of yore, and rediscover those foodstuffs that may have shaped our childhoods as much as any toy we played with…
I’ve joined a gang.
Not the bad type. Although when I was at school the idea of gangs of any kind was strongly discouraged. It was even seen as a bad word. You had “groups”, maybe. But never “gangs”.
Over here in Britain, gangs aren’t really a thing. Maybe you have some teenagers in tracksuits who loiter outside the Spar, or drive around town on their 50cc chicken chasers. In the States, however, they are very much a thing, and there’s all sorts of violent crime associated with them.
But my gang doesn’t do much. We’re the amiable sort. You could say we always get along with people.
When it’s late at night and you’re staring up at the ceiling, does your mind wander to thoughts of a life of adventure? Storming the castle, fighting impossible odds, to save the maiden fair?
Who doesn’t want to be a hero, to have an alter-ego that would leave Bonnie Tyler speechless? It’s a very attractive idea, that you can be Johnny Punchclock one moment, and Muscles McSixpack the next. You can live an ordinary life, hiding in plain sight, until such time that you are needed. Your duty done – the bad guys smashed up and the damsel in distress suitably snogged – you slink back into the shadows and proudly smirk at the headlines the next day.
This may come as no surprise to those who know me, but I’m what most would call a “sensitive” guy. Make no mistake, I’m not emotionally fragile or anything. Quite the opposite; when the mood takes me, and I can call on the Power of Grayskull, I can be quite fierce.
But I am definitely sensitive or emotional or whatever. The kind who cries at movies. I totally lost it the other day watching Short Circuit 2. Yeah, the sequel.
I went to pieces…! That little goggle-eyed Johnny Five is such an endearing character, so optimistic and full of life, that when the baddies smash him up at the end of the film you can’t help but feel for him. It’s unbearable – like watching Hulk Hogan choke-slam baby ducks. YOU JUST CAN’T DO IT.
“I’M COMING BACK FOR THE EGGS!”