WHY HALLOWEEN GIVES ME THE HUMP ...

It’s that time of the year again folks: Halloween. Just as you were beginning to actually enjoy the heat of summer, BAM! October 31st comes rolling around the corner, slapping you in the face.

As a kid, I never really got into the whole Halloween thing. All my classmates would plan their Batman or truck driver costumes weeks in advance. They would build up the suspense and tension for the big moment when they could cover their faces with a mask that not only cut all visibility, but it also made breathing next to impossible. Not to mention the flaking, toxic Chinese paint they used to colour them. 

And don’t forget that god damn rubber band. Kids were constantly screaming in agony because that rubber band that holds the mask on would break and nearly cut an eyeball open. You’re no longer a kid anymore, and Halloween just isn’t what it used to be. 

Relevant Halloween traditions went toilet-flushy-bye sometime after I reached the socially legal trick-or-treating age. It used to be fun as hell to turn your garage into a makeshift haunted house for the neighbour kids and send dad out in coveralls with a fake chainsaw to hide in the shrubs and scare the bejeeus out of off all the shameless candy beggars. 

Today all the carousing has gone away for fear of litigation, loss of rental deposits and possibly just laziness. It's less effort to download Halloween apps on to the kiddies' iPhones than to teach them how to plant fake insects or bob for apples -- and this makes Halloween so boring it might as well be Tuesday night at Applebee's.

Still, it's possible to can commit a few pranks on Halloween night without serious injury or property damage. Do a polite ring-and-run, give out cans of potted meat instead of candy, maybe even toilet paper your own house and blame someone else for it.

And where have all the homemade treats gone? It's really too bad you aren't allowed to give out homemade treats on Halloween; every year, you have to wrestle with whether to save cash by giving out cheap candy or be the cool house with the fun-size Butterfingers. Fresh-baked cookies, rice Krispies treats and popcorn balls would be a welcome change and a genuine money-saver -- if you don't subscribe to the theory that some out there are determined to bake razor blades into their brownies. 

Eating a whole bag of Sour Patch Kids was fine when you were 10, but now it’ll just do you dirty. Really dirty. For the love of corn syrup and citric acid, just drop the bag and avoid the stomach ache while you still can.

Trick-or-treating isn't even fun anymore. People are so paranoid these days that old-fashioned, door-to-door trick-or-treating has been effectively replaced by zoo-boo, mall-walking and the bane of the Halloween holiday: trunk-or-treating. 

Instead of enjoyable neighbourhood candy-soliciting, the kiddos can go to a parking lot to collect a few handfuls of raisin boxes, toothbrushes and gluten-free caramels from car trunks and then stick around for four more hours while trying to get their gossipy, pumpkin spice latte-fuelled parents' attention. Staking out rich people's houses, predicting candy offerings by lawn-care techniques and practicing social skills by actually talking to people you don't already know are some of the things that made Halloween great.

Trick or treating is seriously one of the craziest and most unsafe things a parent can allow their child to do. Think about it. You put your kid in an outfit that they can’t breathe in, they are sweating to death under the layers upon layers of polar grade clothing under their plastic costume, then they are sent into the dark streets to play Frogger with traffic and go to stranger’s homes and ask for candy that hopefully isn’t poisoned with asbestos. 

Trick-or-treat sounds more like a threat than a good time, and substituting this for the traditional dress-rehearsal-for-life, outside trick-or-treating sadly reinforces the community-killing theory that kids aren't safe leaving their porches. “Trick or treat!” Nope. “Give me candy.” Still nope. No one gives you candy with three magic words anymore. In fact, that ended a long time ago. Now, you’re the one expected to hand out the free stuff. You can try and avoid it all you want, but you won’t stop getting knocks at the door ’til you cave.

Going out? You wish. Because Halloween falls on a weekday, and you’re expected to be up bright and smiling the next morning for school, it’s more than likely that you’ll be sitting in bed watching “Halloweentown” and binging on candy corn. Even when we shouldn’t go out though, some of us still do (if you don’t fall into the category above). The difference is we used to get euphoric sugar highs after Halloween. Now, we just get hangovers drag on for days.

Even Pumpkin carving’s a pain. Where do we start? Pumpkins are expensive (for a college student’s budget at least), carving takes so much effort and the stringy pumpkin guts that get stuck in your fingers are actually revolting. You’re better off just buying a pumpkin and attacking it with a pack of stickers.

Halloween is pointless, but there is one thing that I truly get a kick out of every year. I love going to work and trying to pick out the co-workers that were at costume parties over the weekend. It’s easy to spot them. They are the ones that have an odd blue hue to their skin because their Blue Man Group make up has penetrated their pores. 

Or, you can find someone that still has a little bit of green Hulk makeup behind their ear. The best are the people that have had the inside of their mouth torn to bits by those tortuous plastic, glow in the dark Dracula teeth. 

Good luck eating lunch.

Ironically, in 3 weeks time I'll be dressing up myself, for something much more appropriate.

It'll be Birmingham MCM Comic Con, and I'll be going as the Doctor.

YOU SNOOZE, YOU LOSE (PART II)

Apologies to you first of all, for the fact my last post was a load of rubbish. I genuinely couldn’t think of anything funny to rant about so I resorted to that last bastion of a bored blogger with nothing to do except wait until the end of the year so I can sleep for two weeks solid, and wrote some gumph about food and calorie counting.

I must have bored you to sleep. Speaking of which, did you know that sleep is underrated ?? According to experts, it is as important to your health as exercise, nutrition, avoiding hungry Bengal tigers and not being accidentally set on fire. And it's quite possibly the easiest route to self-improvement and happiness imaginable.

All you have to do is just lie around doing nothing for eight solid hours, genius !! It’s so simple, even the second-generation offspring of a village idiot and a GMTV weathergirl could do it.

Nowadays, you can’t really count on much anymore. But one thing is for sure: two times a year, the time is shifted. Once a year, in fall, we win one hour, which I am personally very excited about every year, since there is one more hour for sleep, cuddling or whatever comes to my mind … But when I think about the time in spring, when the clock will be shifted from 3 am to 4 am and we loose one hour, my stomach gets a little upset – it’s a pretty bad loss, that hurts very much.

Yet amazingly, concerned health campaigners apparently want Britain's schoolchildren to be given "sleep lessons" to teach them the benefits of regular night-long kip. This is actually quite an exciting development, because it raises the prospect of "sleep exams" – practical snoozing assessments that even the dumbest school kid could master with their eyes closed, sounds perfect.

It's easy to sleep when you're a kid. Your mind and body skitter around all day until they burn themselves out, leaving you blissfully knackered when the sun goes down. You've really only got two modes: on and off, kind of like a modern toaster.

But once you reach adulthood, things are altogether less binary. You've got responsibilities and concerns, not to mention an alarm clock with a sarcastically oversized face sitting beside the bed gleefully mocking any attempt at getting some shuteye.

Chances are you've spent your day mumbling at your co-workers, bumping into office furniture and performing many mundane chores. Your brain spends the day in a state of drowsy, languid semi-consciousness, and only decides to spring into life when it’s time for the lights to go out.

The insomniac brain is a bit like a fleshy i-Pod, your skull is pre-loaded with various modes with for several hours. Sometimes your companion is a peppy irritant who passes the time by humming half-remembered 1980’s TV theme tunes until you have the urge to garrotte them with their own underpants.

Other times it's a critic who has recently compiled a 1,500-page report on your life so far and wants to run you over with it a few times before going to print. Worst of all is the hyperactive sports reporter who delivers an uninterrupted running commentary describing which bits of your body are currently the least comfortable. No matter where you put that leg, he won't be satisfied, he's convinced your jaw could unlock with a yawn and you’ve almost certainly got the world’s itchiest bottom.

Arnold Schwarzenegger, that well known professional Austrian and part-time mysogynist, describes that he gets up early to complete a training session. Afterwards, he has breakfast, feeds his furry companion and includes some play time. He calls his kids to tell them that he loves them, reads one or two scripts and informs himself in German and English newspapers about actual happenings. “At this time it’s about 5 o’clock in the morning” he says.

This is the point at which "sleep lessons" might actually come in handy. That's when you need all the help you can get. But before the experts get too carried away, let’s have practical tips only, please. No one needs to be told how important it is for your health. We've all experienced the aftermath of a sleepless night, especially after a heavy session in the Austin Sports & Social Club.

I've even got a phrase for it: "time-poisoning".

Anyway, here's a list of some of my own sleeping "dos and don'ts" guaranteed to give you a good night's slumber.

1) DO keep your eyes closed. Amazingly, this helps a lot.

2) DON'T try to convince yourself you're asleep by making comical snoring noises that sound like an angry polar bear chewing a chainsaw in a wind tunnel.

3) DO focus on slowing your breathing down as much as possible. Imagine there's a speed camera at the end of the bed pointing at your face that can photograph air. If you inhale or exhale too quickly, it'll fire a sharpened steel bolt straight into your forebrain.

4) DON'T go to bed wearing a makeshift crown fashioned from old coat hangers and jingle bells - if you do, don't sit upright violently shaking your head from side to side.

5) DO keep the "worrying cells" of your brain occupied. Imagine you're a contestant on Countdown, but try not to picture the gigantic clock … If you start thinking about that, quickly interrupt yourself by imagining Jeff Stelling throwing to an ad break.

6) DON'T stay in bed if you haven't fallen asleep within 30 mins. Instead, get up and do something practical, such as drive a car, operate some heavy machinery or retype “The Fourth Protocol” with your feet.

7) DO drink nine litres of warm milk before bed. Lace it with some crushed diphenhydramine if you feel.

There, simples. Nighty-Night.

NOM, NOM ... BOOM !!

Here's another few millimetres shaved from the national joy quotient, courtesy of you inner Clarkson/Brooker/Boyle: the Food Standards Agency is launching a scheme to get restaurants to print calorie information on their menus, alongside the name and description of each dish.

What used to happen was this: at the end of the meal, the waiter arrived clutching a dessert menu to ask if you wanted pudding, and you and your companion shared a quick jokey conversation along the lines of "I'll have one if you do" or "if you order the Chocolate Guernica, I'll have one mouthful ... just the one, mind".

This would continue back and forth and so until the waiter smiles and says, "I'll get two spoons". and a few minutes later you enjoyed guiltily tucking into a velvety mass of warm brown mush together, then went home giggling like schoolkids to underline what a decadent pair of naughty revolutionaries you'd been.

[Hang on a minute, didn't I cover this in my Anti-Valentine's Day rant last year ?? Oh, yes I did ...]

Now, that same dessert menu will become a dossier of sobering statistics. Sure, it'll still be accompanied by devilish descriptions of moist sponge enrobed in an oozing burqa of dark chocolate sauce, but no amount of unctuous wordplay can ever distract you from those cold, hard numbers.

FIVE HUNDRED FLIPPIN’ CALORIES ?? The waiter might as well tip a jug of freezing water directly into your lap. Perhaps if it was accompanied by a list of strenuous physical activities you'd have to undertake in order to burn off all that fat and sugar, the balance would be redressed.

The drawback of this new system would be that business lunches with the boss would be rendered awkward and excruciating. But that's a small price to pay. In reality, however, this idea is about as much use as a Sat-Nav on a lawnmower. All it will achieve is a rise in the national level of food-related neuroticism, which is surely peaking in conjunction along with all with the obesity statistics. So does it matter if now and again we all slip into the occasional meaningless phrase? It does if you have a voice that makes headlines about eating habits at a time of a national obesity crisis and when it has just been confirmed that millennials are the fattest generation in history.

It matters if you start to imply that the poor have so little agency that they may as well give up, that the poor are so sensitive about being told the plain truth about what causes obesity (eating too many calories and moving about too little), and all its consequent health risks, that the main way ahead is government action against cheap food, unhealthy food and a ban on junk food adverts on the Tube.

A similar system in New York restaurants apparently reduced the average diner's intake by around 100 calories. A success, on the face of it, although the figures don't show how many of them went home and tucked into a bowl of Ben & Jerry's because they wanted dessert but didn't want to be judged an indolent slob by the waiting staff.

Now, there are certainly grounds for understanding why the poor make the food choices that they do and these must surely be about poverty as well as ignorance. If parents want their child to avoid dental problems and getting fat, it is logical to make sure they are not having a breakfast of cola, crisps and chocolate biscuits. This is irrespective of whether the day is starting in an inner-city tower block or a six-bedroom former vicarage along a gravel drive.

The whole calorie-counting business is far too banal anyway. It encourages fat people to waddle around with a head full of numbers, perpetually totting up their scores like a cross between Carol Vorderman and the Green Goddess. It's the same with alcohol and units. Literally no-one understands the units system.

Around last Christmas the NHS ran a campaign called “Know Your Units” which looked a bit like the periodic table as drawn by Pete Doherty: rows upon rows of different-shaped glasses full of different drinks, each with the relevant unit number finger-painted in the condensation on the side of the glass.

Not only did it underline how baffling the units system is, but because the forbidden beverages were all lovingly shot, cool and inviting under studio lights, it actually made you want to try drinks you wouldn't normally contemplate. Hey, that vodka and tonic I saw on telly this morning looked utterly refreshing. How many units was it again ?? I can't remember. Think I'll have 10. Nice round figure, that should blot out any doubt. Hey, as long as it’s wet, I’ll drink it !!

Fundamentally though, obtaining food requires effort, whether hunting it down, gathering it, tilling for it, or working for it. Put food ‘on tap’ and you end up with scenarios like learlier this year when one ‘disgruntled’ customer phoned the police because Dominos wouldn’t deliver during a snowstorm.

Yes, we might have smartphones that can show us the entire takeaway menu, but we are lumbered with the metabolism of animals. So rather than bashing us squarely in the back of the head with a metaphorical sledgehammer, surely the healthy-living mob would be better employed to devise more creative means to make our indolent, jelly-bellied, slobbering populace bend to their free-range, organic-farmed wills.

For starters, how about hooking every chair in every restaurant up to a weighing machine ?? Having instantly gauged how heavy you are, a computer then prints out a menu with all but the least gluttonous items removed. You might end up with a choice of nothing but almonds and watercress, but at least it’d count towards your five a day.

How did we ever survive before the Food Standards Agency ?? Simple, we just didn't eat stuff that …

a) Smelt a bit funny.

b) Had mouldy brown or green bits growing out of it.

c) Glowed in the dark.

Actually, why not go the whole hog and ban food altogether ??

STEP 1) Make owning a kitchen illegal.

STEP 2) Replace all supermarkets and cafes with trucks that rove the streets three times a day dispensing bite-sized meal-pellets.

STEP 3) Make sure the trucks are controlled by a computer, so they adjust their pace each time a crowd approaches, forcing them to break into a run and gain essential exercise.

Alternatively, they could carry on patronising and nagging and prodding and hectoring until everyone in the country gets so utterly sick of it all, they take up arms and start a violent revolution. Beating your way through a flank of riot police with a sledgehammer surely burns off thousands of calories.

And afterwards you can sit down in the rubble and skeletons eating mouthfuls of apple pie and custard, secure in the knowledge that you've earned yourself a treat.

Bon appetit !!

THREE LIONS 2018 - A SONGSHEET FOR RUSSIA

Original Lyrics by D.Baddiel / F.Skinner
Original Music by I. Broudie

It's leaving home, it's leaving home, It's leaving, footballs leaving home,
It's leaving home, it's leaving home, It's leaving, footballs leaving home,
It's leaving home, it's leaving home, It's leaving, footballs leaving home,
It's leaving home, it's leaving home, It's leaving, footballs leaving home,

Everyone seems to know the score,
England 1 Germany 4,
Even worse, than before,
Then Pirlo came and blew us away,
Suarez then made us pay,
Iceland ruined our day,
And I remember,

Three Lions in the Charts,
Skinner and Baddiel,
Back when comedians,
Could get a record deal,

We try to play football like a don,
We scrape out of the group and then,
It goes wrong, we get conned,
And I still see those corners from Kane,
And a purple-faced Wayne,
Drawing 0-0 again,
And Carroll starting,

Three Lions in the Charts,
Skinner and Baddiel,
Back when comedians,
Could get a record deal,

[commentary]
"Smalling, to Henderson, back to Walker, out for a throw-in."
"England lacking at little bit of quality in the final third Clive."
"And the other two thirds come to think of it Alan ..."

Yes I know we'll play shit,
But we'll still buy the kit ...

It's leaving home, it's leaving home, It's leaving, footballs leaving home,
It's leaving home, it's leaving home, It's leaving, footballs leaving home,

Three Lions in the Charts,
Skinner and Baddiel,
Back when comedians,
Could get a record deal,

Three Lions in the Charts,
Skinner and Baddiel,
Back when comedians,
Could get a record deal,

[repeat to fade].

IN APPRECIATION OF CLIVE JAMES NOT BEING DEAD ...

Ken Dodd died this week. Which was a shame, especially for the HMRC.

We're so used to celebrities popping off these days that sometimes the odd one flies under the radar. Sir Roger Bannister, the first man to run a mile in under four minutes, also recently headed off to that great running track in the sky, having left many people shocked he was also a highly-regarded doctor.

Usually when a famous name trends on Twitter, it means the famous body attached to it has either died or done something scandalous, and the tone of the messages makes it easy to tell which is which: it's a world of goodies and baddies, of bouquets and bollockings, hail-marys and hastags.

One day someone's going to die in the middle of a scandal and really catch everyone on the hop. And then, just as the wave of public sympathy crests, I pop up on this very blog to say they've got a face like a butcher's perineum, the social grace of a week-old cheese sandwich and the mental agility of a cork in a milk bowl. Or maybe that's just me reading about the exploits of Joey Essex again and can't resist the urge to call him out for being a brainless moomin who deserves fame as much as Nick Clegg deserves a room of Playboy models and a bucket of rasperry jam. I don't even know what that last simile means, but it's the sort of thing I say.

A while ago I got a bit of a shock when I saw a series of tweets full of praise and admiration for the voice of sardonic humour himself; Clive James. But Clive James wasn't dead or mired in scandal: he was ill. He is ill. And he'd given a radio interview in which, among other things, he spoke about his illness in his charming characteristically erudite terms. "I'm getting near the end," he said. "I'm a man who is approaching his terminus."

I felt sad, as along with Jeremy Clarkson, Charlie Brooker and Armando Iannuchi, much of my humour and outlook on the world, as well as my love of journalism, is influenced by Clive James.

One of the few occasions I was ever allowed to stay up past midnight as a boy was watching his hilarious "End Of The Year" shows for the BBC on many a New Year's Eve in the late 80's and early 90's. I always knew that Christmas was over and it was time for a New Year when Clive James came on my TV screen and cleverly diassembled the old one with his inimitable dry witty sarcasm. Sadly, for the poor buggers who can be bothered to scrape their eyeballs across my incoherant ramblings - which right now means you - I am no Clive James.

He has a way of gliding through sentences, effortlessly ironing a series of complex points into a single easily-navigable line, illuminating here and cogitating there, before leading you face-first into an unexpected punchline that makes your brain yelp with delight. He can swallow images whole and regurgitate them later as hallucinogenic caricatures that somehow make more sense than the real thing.

He once famously described Arnold Schwarzenegger as looking like "a brown condom full of walnuts", that Murray Walker used to commentate on Formula 1 races "like his trousers were on fire, whilst the men actually facing the danger are all so taciturn that you might as well try interviewing the cars themselves", that participation of President Gerald Ford in a pro-celebrity golf tournament "was more than enough to remind you that the nuclear button was at one stage at the disposal of a man who might have either pressed it by mistake or else pressed it deliberately in order to obtain room service" and the romantic novelist Barbara Cartland as having “Twin miracles of mascara, her eyes looked like the corpses of two small crows that had crashed into a chalk cliff.”.

Everything I have ever written in the course of my life consists of me trying and failing to write anything as explosively funny as that. Which possibly explains why his stuff reads so effortlessly. The best bits simply fly into his mind without his face ever seeing them coming. All with a marvellous, warm, comforting almost treacle-like voice, listening to him was like wearing headphones made from fresh-out-of-the-oven danish pastries.

Anyway. The media-centric wing of Twitter was filling to the brim with this kind of sentiment when happily, after about 30 minutes, a spokeswoman intervened to point out that Clive James is still very much alive, is "in fact in reasonable shape", and is "looking forward to years of working". At which point the tributes died down a little, not because they weren't heartfelt, but because they suddenly looked a tad presumptuous.

But it's nice to think Clive James got to read a series of warm tributes while he's still very much with us. Too often we speak warmly of people who influenced us when it's too late for them to hear us. These days the custom for social-media addicts is to issue a sad 250-character epitaph accompanied by a link to a YouTube clip of one of their finest moments.
 

Much more fruitful, if not very British, to gush at them while they're still in the room. Not every day, that would be nauseating. But now and then. Hence the uncharacteristic and frankly mawkish level of online fawning I'm displaying right now.

Thank you, Clive James; thank you, for not doing a Ken Dodd.

BATMAN: CURSE OF THE AMARANTHINE AMETHYST

Batman brooded over the Bat-Computer. Just as he was about to find hot Bat-Girls in his area, however, he was interrupted by Alfred, his loyal butler.

"Sir," he said, dusting off the Bat-Armoire, "I'm afraid I have some dire news. Would you like to hear it?"

"Sure Alfred, but only if you wear a pink elephant costume while you tell me."

"I'm already wearing one, Master Wayne," Alfred confirmed. "And the dire news is this: I'm afraid the Joker has kidnapped Adele and is holding her hostage atop Wayne Tower. He expects the Mayor to pay $700bn dollars for her safe return and no one dares to try and stop him."

"No one but me," Batman said dramatically.

"I knew you'd be up to the task, sir," Alfred said with a smile, "Now, which vehicle should I prepare for you this evening, Master Wayne?"

"I'll take the Batwing, Alfred," Batman answered.

"Very good sir. I'll go warm it up," said Alfred, and went to check on the Batwing. He was back in two minutes with ghastly news. "I have ghastly news, sir. The Batwing's primary exhaust is completely broken. You need to get to the city as soon as possible, but it may take hours to replace it."

"I can wait, Alfred. The Batwing has to be fully functional before I take off," Batman answered.

"Are you quite sure, Master Wayne?" Alfred asks, "You can simply use the Batmobile if you need to get there in a hurry. And you really need to!"

"No, Alfred. Patience is a virtue."

After fetching his toolbox, Alfred set to work on the Batwing. Ten minutes of dead silence in, however, Alfred was bored. "Did I ever tell you about the time that Lucille and I went to that spa in the mountains? It's a marvellous story, it really is. Let me tell you..."

"Might was well Alfred," grumbled Batman, adjusting his Bat-jock strap for a quick scratch.

"Well as you know, Master Wayne, I was a rather dashing young man in my youth. Oh, those were the days! But anyway, that's where the story starts.

I was young and handsome and had a lovely lady friend named Lucille. She's dead now, of course, but...Spoilers! Anyway, we were both spry and resourceful little things, you know. Very talented. Oh, how we used to sit together at the old diners as the jukebox played our favorite tune... Something about a doll made of....paper, or something?

Do you know the song, Master Wayne? Well either way, we very much enjoyed one another's company, you know. Why, just the Friday before the adventure in question, if my memory serves correctly, we had stolen... Well, borrowed a rather interesting vase from the depths of a scorching volcano!

That, however, is a COMPLETELY different story for another time, Master Wayne! Just know that it involved furious boiling lava, a tiger, a cursed jewel, and quite a steamy romance if I do say so myself! I did tell you what an absolute philanderer I was back then, did I not? Very well then. Again, a story for another time.

But anyway.... What was I talking about again? Ah yes! The spa trip! Well you see, Master Wayne, we had only had a small taste of adventure, mystery, and intrigue, so we were quite keen to experience another thrilling romp, as they say. So we packed up our things and embarked into the mountains of Northwest Colorado. Or was it Northeast? Northsouth? I can't remember for the life of me! But either way, it was a mountain range, Master Wayne.

Perfectly easy to visualize. Of course, there are certain details that would add to the immersion, but I think I'll go for the short version this time if that's alright with you.

Either way, Lucille and I were amazed by the scenery. Positively enraptured! We set off towards those gorgeous purple peaks in search of a legendary treasure: the Amaranthine Amethyst! You may not know about it now, but that amethyst was the talk of the town back in the golden days!

It was rumoured that the gem had an unlimited supply of magical energy, meaning that it could power anything from a single light bulb to an entire continent with just a touch!

Imagine the possibilities, Master Wayne! Master Wayne?... Are you closing your eyes because you're imagining the possibilities? Oh good, as long as you're paying attention.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes... The Amaranthine Amethyst could not be found my mortals, or so it was said, because its color blended in perfectly with the purple mountain majesties known as the Rockies! Well, were Lucille and I daunted? No, sir! You can bet your last Warner Bros. lisenced Bat-Dollar on it, we were as gung-ho as we could be about our quest!

We would find this gemstone and bring the world to its KNEES- I mean, donate it to a charitable philanthropist of some kind to make a new clean energy source, naturally! And we would do it all while staying at the most luxurious mountainside spa in the western United States, Pike's Palace! Oh, you should have seen it! A massive, stylized structure made entirely of stainless glass, looming majestically over the cliffside- oh, it was divine!

Lucille and I were so excited, and I won't deny that more than just quiet reading went on in our bedchamber that night! Oh, don't snort so loudly, Master Wayne! I was young! And open your eyes, it's almost the best part!

Well, regardless of how our first night went, we started to notice oddities around the spa the next day. The workers and concierges gave us strange looks in the halls, whispering ceased when we entered rooms, and the hamburgers at the food court were eight dollars!

The last incident might have actually been commonplace in hindsight, but it made us all the more suspicious as to who exactly was running this spa. We tried to speak to the manager, but his door was always locked and we didn't usually feel like leaving the indoor pool anyway.

Even through all the strange goings-on, Lucille and I had the best time of our lives at that spa. We almost forgot that we were on an adventure to find a magical amethyst! And in fact, Master Wayne, I must admit something if I am to tell this story correctly.

One day, I was feeling very cowardly and told Lucille that perhaps we shouldn't try to be on a quest all our lives. We had enough money to stay at this spa for the rest of our lives, so I suggested we should live life lazily from then on.

Needless to say, Lucille was less than pleased with this suggestion. She smacked me on the mouth, took off her glove, smacked me on the mouth again, put her glove back on, almost smacked me on the mouth again but thought better of it, and stormed off in a huff.

It was a very sad and lonely night, Master Wayne. She didn't show up in the room all night, so I was forced to play Pachisi all by myself until dawn. When morning came, a member of the spa staff came to my door with a grim look on his face. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, "I'm afraid Lucille has left you to find the amethyst herself. She wants to be a success, even if you're not with her while she does it. She is finally taking a stand for what she believes in.

She was very sad when she left, however." "How do you know of this?" I asked desperately. The young man sighed and simply handed me a letter covered in Lucille's lacy, beautiful writing:

My Dearest Alfred,

I'm afraid I have left you in order to go and find the amethyst myself. 

I want to be a success, even if you're not with me while I do it. 

I'm finally taking a stand for what I believe in.

I was very very sad when I left however.

- Lucille.

I was heartbroken, Master Wayne. And moreso, I feared for her life. How could she hope to find the amethyst in the middle of the mountains all on her own? I wouldn't let it happen. I'd get out there and find her! I would redeem myself and save Lucille's life in the process. I pushed the clerk aside, storming into the lobby, when I heard a noise that still sends chills down my spine when I lie on the Bat-Matress at midnight and imagine it.

It was Lucille screaming. It was coming from the top floor. The manager's office. I should have known it all along. Without even thinking, I raced up the spiral staircase, tripping over my own feet, until I came to the manager's office door at last. The screaming was much louder here. I pulled out my trusty extendable battering ram (it served me well for so many years, bless it) and easily beat down the door.

What I saw haunted my nightmares for several weeks, but then subsided. It wasn't as bad as the screaming, really. I'd seen Lucille like this many times before, but under much different circumstances. She was tied up to a chair with a piece of tape over her mouth, but she still screamed quite loudly through it. Nearby was a short, balding man in a labcoat and green goggles.

I immediately knew that he wasn't to be trusted, so I shot him instantly. As soon as I untied Lucille and took the tape off of her mouth, she kissed me passionately. Then she told me that the person I killed wasn't the villain and was just a scientist trying to rescue her. Then she kissed me again. Then she told me that the real villain was hiding in the basement and was using the power of the Amaranthine Amethyst to make himself young forever with a terrible machine. Then she kissed me again. Then I asked her why he kidnapped her then.

She said it was just for fun, then kissed me again. Then she said were wasting time. Then she gave me a much shorter kiss and we set off down the stairs towards the basement. Your mouth is agape, Master Wayne. Are you overwhelmed? Am I telling this story a little too quickly? I apologize, sir. Please tell me if you want me to take things slower from now on.

I really don't mind. And I wouldn't say no to some feedback, either. You've been very quiet so far. And open your - Well, you might as well keep them closed if it helps you visualize it. You feel like you're really there, don't you, Master Wayne? Oh, I knew I was a good storyteller!

Thank you for being such a good audience; Your father would be proud, Bruce. Anyway.... Ah, yes. The basement. We ran down countless steps until we finally found ourselves in the dank, dark underbelly of Pike's Palace Resort & Spa. It smelled a bit like moldy cheese... Or maybe it was more like the Library of Congress, I don't remember.

But anyway, we walked down a seemingly endless dark hallway, accidently bumping into each other dozens of times, until we saw a faint, purple glow in a distant doorway. Finally we reached the mysterious room, where the Amaranthine Amethyst itself was sitting in a large glass tube and feeding its purple energy through thin clear wires and into... HIM.

Master Bruce, I don't wish to frighten you, but this man continued to haunt my nightmares until just a few months ago, and he still pops up now and then. Imagine if Killer Croc and Rosie O'Donnell had a baby, and that baby was never taught how to wear anything but a bloodstained towel from a spa in the mountains. Add a bit of the Incredible Hulk and a dash of sheer terror, and one can imagine a mere fraction of the abhorrent hideousness that shifted before our very eyes in that basement on that fateful day. "I will be young... FOREVER..." he wheezed.

Sorry if it isn't a good impression, Master Bruce. I was quite distracted by his aforementioned abhorrent hideousness and I didn't have time to get a good grasp on his voice. I did, however, get a good grip on my aforementioned gun and shot the beast in the head six times.

The creature didn't even flinch, but to his credit, he actually looked less ugly with six gaping holes in his face. At least now there was a little less to look at. He laughed a terrible laugh and said that no mortal weapon could slay him. This gave Lucille an idea, as she instantly lunged forward into the room as I shouted "Noooo" dramatically in slow motion.

Lucille was always clever, though. She broke through the glass tube, took the Amaranthine Amethyst in her hands, and stabbed the beast in the heart with it. The creature gave a mighty roar, the loudest noise I have ever heard. If I ever say "What?" three times and you have to repeat yourself over and over again even though I'm right next to you, this is why. The bellow seemed to shake the foundations of the earth itself, and Lucille and I were soon blown back in an incredible purple explosion.

Everything went blacker than your wardrobe in an instant, Master Wayne. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground amidst the smoking ruins of Pike's Palace Resort & Spa. Lucille was lying next to me. I limped over to her, praying she was still alive. I shook her and shook her, but she wouldn't budge and her eyes were still closed. Yes, just like yours, Master Wayne. Just when I had lost all hope, however, I saw something on the ground nearby. It was a small purple shard, the last tiny remaining piece of the legendary Amaranthine Amethyst.

I snatched it up with haste and put it in her mouth. Would this work? Would it bring her back? YES! She opened her eyes and sat up, coughing. She said it tasted like medicine. I was overjoyed, but our next adventure would not be so miraculous... But that's a story for another time. And look, Master Wayne! The Batwing is fixed, just in time! It's all ready to go now, so hop on in!"

Batman was silent and still.

"Master Wayne? Bruce, are you alright?"

Alfred realized that he had been telling his story for 80 years and Batman had died of old age. Luckily, Alfred is somewhat immortal due to his brief exposure to the Amaranthine Amethyst.

"Oh dear, I do get carried away sometimes..." Alfred muttered to himself.

THE END

(WHAT'S THE STORY) BLADES OF GLORY ??

So, it's the Winter Olympics, two weeks of people sliding down ice on tea trays, racing round ovals of ice in all-body condoms, skiing and shooting, more skiing, skiing off hills and down hills, and of course we now have snowboarding, which involves shaggy-haired people in baggy clothes and brightly-reflective sunglasses who go around calling everyone 'dude', flinging themselves around on planks of wood.

I must admit though, I do enjoy watching, especially the bobsleigh, which is basically Formula 1 with four men in an aerodynamically-designed bathtub charging down the cresta run on what amounts to be a clear death wish. It's all a lot of fun, especially as Britain now actually has a decent chance of winning or doing well in some of these sports.

There is however, one notable exception … an anomaly of the Winter Olympics, a event utterly baffling as well as being unbelievably boring at the same time … figure skating.

Figure skating is NOT, never HAS been, and should never, EVER, be considered to be a proper sport.

Now, before those of you who follow or indulge in figure skating whip off your Risports and spike the blade through my aorta after garrotting me with the laces, please note I think figure skaters are not just athletes, but remarkable athletes, requiring strength, speed, stamina, dexterity, balance, timing, guts and just about everything other imaginable athletic skill. Certainly, more athletic skill than I could ever muster, given I have all the grace and fluidity of a heavily-pregnant hippo.

Circus performers work at their craft for years, they entertain the masses with their incredible feats of athleticism (check out any Cirque de Soleil production and you will be amazed at the capacity of humans to perform such feats). Ballet dancers are amazing physical specimens who have grace and beauty in their movements. But, when all is said and done, figure skating is a competition, not a sport.

Oddly it has nothing to do with how difficult or entertaining it is (thank God that Bernie Ecclestone doesn't set the rules, otherwise we'd have skaters having to cope with random pyrotechnics or live snow leopards being released onto the ice if they're being too technical). Rather it is simply a matter of how the winner is determined, in that they use judges. It is the same for gymnastics, diving, beauty pageants or anything that chooses a champion solely by human opinion.

Now, to me a real sport needs to have a definitive, indisputable, quantifiable way to determine a winner. There can be no debate about the scoring system. A ball must go into a goal or through a hoop; a racer reaches home, stops the clock or finishes before the others. The winners run faster, jump higher, score more points or defeat all other opponents en-route to doing so in a final.

Uniforms are required, not feather boas, or sequins. Claude Debussy’s Claire de Lune shouldn't be used as a part of the competition. When done with the Olympics, the next step to becoming professional does NOT entail you skating with large stuffed mascots at Disneyland. Sport and Liberace should never be mentioned in the same sentence.

In many sports a clock is used to determine a winner, but the clock is not subjective. Besides, you can't have 53 guys racing down a ski hill at the same time (as entertaining as that would be, but hey, there's always the snowcross ... ) without some form of chaos, which is a valid reason for tuning in.

Figure skating has bugger all of this. Everything is about interpretation of success. It is about what the judge thinks, believes, feels. There is nothing absolutely quantifiable. Yes, the number of revolutions in a jump counts, or something, but in the end if two people do the same jump, a human has to decide which one he or she likes better.

That is not a sport.

Figure skaters wear fashionable ( … debatably) costumes in an attempt to appear more appealing, more flowing, more beautiful. The women (and most of the men come to think of it … ) wear makeup, get their hair done, wear jewellery, play stirring music. An overweight, ugly person would stand at a considerable, if not insurmountable, disadvantage in figure skating (Jenna Coleman would whip them every time).

A few years ago we had some hoo-ha with two American lady skaters, one was a powerful skater, possibly better at most aspects, but she was shorter, stockier and less feminine. Although she knew she was at a disadvantage against the taller, prettier, more graceful one, she conspired with her redneck boyfriend to have her opponent whacked in one of her skinny little knees. In a real sport, this wouldn't have been necessary. Ugly people can win in boxing, in skiing, in rugby, in soccer, in cricket. Beauty doesn't matter. Style doesn't count. There are no judges. Dominoes is more of a sport than figure skating.

Some devotees of figure skating will argue that referees are essentially judges, determining who scores and who doesn't. But this is wrong, a referee is merely there to assure order and make the competitors follow the rules. A large part of the judging in figure skating is based on aesthetic beauty, which is something most people do not watch sports for. You know a sport is lacking in athletic demand when a choreographer rather than a cornerman is a crucial part of the coaching staff.

Yes, in most sports, the referee has the freedom to determine right and wrong by what he or she sees – a false start, a professional foul, gaining an illegal advantage – but he or she is not determining the final victor. His or her assignment is to simply ensure that the field of fair play is adhered to by both sides. The refs can't just say that while one team scored more points or goals, in their opinion they thought the other team played better anyway.

This creates a bizarre paradox where something like darts is a sport and figure skating isn't, even though to compare the level of necessary athletic ability is comical. But it is what it is. Lewis Hamilton's Mercedes may be a clear class above other cars in Formula One at the moment, but he proved himself worthy of it by winning in categories where the equipment was basically identical.

Of course, many Winter Olympic sports are based on judges' scoring, including the snowboarding competition. But at least the scoring in sports like snowboarding is easier to decipher; the millions of people watching could see that the baggy-clothed, shaggy haired dude who won gold did so because his tricks were more impressive than those of his competitors, so there was no controversy when he was crowned the winner.

With figure skating, however, people will be left thinking they saw two fairly equal performances, only to find that the judges have somehow decreed that one was “far better” than the other.

There is one exception to this though: boxing, (or UFC / MMA or other kind of fighting / combat sports). However, this is fine because a clear victor can still be achieved (with a knockout). The judges are only used when the fight has gone on so long that it has to be stopped for the safety of the competitors. Of course, the presence of judges is why boxing is considered the most corrupt sport of them all.

Other than that, no judge should ever determine a winner in a true sport. When you have that, whether it is figure skating, gymnastics, gymkhana or diving, you have a competition. It isn't any different than "The X Factor", "Celebrity Big Brother", "Coach Trip" or "Strictly Come Dancing". It can entertain, the athletes can be talented, but don't tell me it's in any possible way a sport.

It simply just isn't. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to watch the curling …

PANIC STATIONS!

When I was a little boy, in the age of doom-laden public information films and pamphlets ("Protect and Survive" anyone ??) I was constantly worried about myself and my family being killed by a nuclear bomb. The thought of having to perform air raid drills and hiding in underground shelters were an almost daily part of my young life.

[Remove all pens, pencils and sharp objects from your breast pocket, take off your glasses, look away from the window, find a buddy and hold hands, no talking, walk quickly to the basement, get on your knees, place your head against the wall, wait for the all-clear signal and hope that the teacher forgets about the maths test that you didn't study for ... ]

But like so many awful things, you got used to it. The fear of instant annihilation was just always there, lurking in the background. Until it wasn't. Somehow, over time, the inevitability of the mushroom cloud simply went away. Wise and prudent men in our country and others, found a better way to exercise their hatred and fear of each others social and economic system.

Until now.

Now the wise and prudent men are no more, and the unthinkable is back on the table. Death and suffering on an unimaginable scale is once again an option. The low drumbeat of existential dread has returned, and I find myself thinking odd thoughts, like: "I hope someone reminds Donald Trump that he can't play golf in a Hazmat suit."

When I was a little boy the Russians were coming. At least once a week. I actually thought learning to speak Russian because when they got here, I wanted to know how to say, "Don't shoot !!" (не стрелять! if you really want to know, don't say this blog doesn't know how to disseminate important information ... ).

And now, more than half a century later, after their dumbass system of government imploded, the friggin' Russians are still coming. How is that possible? How are we still being tormented by a nation that thinks borscht is a good idea? By the people who somehow managed to contribute less to rock music than the French and have still never managed to make a decent motor car until the Germans, of all people, bought out Skoda.

I mean, sure, kudos on vodka, but how is it that these people are still making us miserable? And more importantly, why? Is world domination still a thing? And if it is, let's say they succeed. What then? The future supreme rulers of planet Earth are gonna rock the casbah with balalaikas? Forgive me, but in the words of their favourite son, Orange Julius, that is "sad."

I don't know about you, but I've been spending most of my free time in the land of Not Yet. If you're unfamiliar with it, Not Yet is a happy place where all the bad things that seem likely to occur have not happened ... yet. I like to think of it as a shimmering, shivering soap bubble whose fragile beauty is only made greater by the knowledge that it will soon burst, making way for the dark realm of You Gotta Be Kidding Me.

But not now.

Not Yet.

And yes, I would love to say Not Ever, but that place doesn't exist. Sometimes I feel like I'm standing on a dock watching Western culture drift away from me like a massive boat. As I imagine it, the people on the deck are not waving goodbye. They're looking away, toward the horizon. The future.

And the boat is accelerating. I don't bring this up to generate sympathy. No one threw me overboard. Disembarking was a conscious choice. And so is returning. With a little effort I can take a skiff out to sea and scramble up that gangplank anytime I want.

There is an almost perpetual gap between my expectations as to how things should be and the way things actually are. This space, or divide, causes me a considerable amount of discomfort, which I try to alleviate through the use of repetitive thoughts, as well as spoken and written words.

This activity is called "complaining." The fact that it rarely accomplishes anything, other than exacerbate my irritation, does not keep me from engaging in it. Furthermore, it appears that buried deep within my psyche is the firmly held conviction that complaining is therapeutic - even though experience shows again and again that it's not. In other words, I have a false belief that appears to be immutable, which drives me to take an action that only makes matters worse ... and I like it.

My only consolation is the knowledge that I come from a long line of complainers. One of my fondest childhood memories is looking up at the adult relatives gathered around the kitchen table, the men smoking, the women smoking, everyone eating smoked fish, and all of them talking over each other, loudly bitching and moaning about pretty much everything.

I remember that a rant would often end with the resigned, self-deprecating, seemingly rhetorical question, "Oh, well, who am I to complain?" Well, these many years later, it turns out it's not rhetorical.

And I now know the answer. This is my birth right.

I'm British, who am I if I don't complain?

… AND GUESS WHAT, IT DIDN'T !!

... yup, it's true. I binned it.

In fairness, it was snowing, I'd drunk a whole bottle of red wine, pretty much, and the Taxi Rank outside the ICC was non-existent, so I thought I could get one outside New Street instead.

No excuse though, I could have made a million and one other decisions, actions, and I'd have been sitting here moaning about having to drag my sorry ass back to work for another year instead of sitting here moaning about NOT being able to get back to work.

How it happened I still don't know. Other than suddenly finding my legs in the air, heading towards the solid concrete ground thinking: "Sh*t, this is going to bloody hurt ...".

And it did.

I felt my right foot almost detach itself from the rest of me immediately on impact, leaving it hanging off, bleeding rather profusely. Thankfully the bottle of Chablis I'd downed earlier was doing a pretty good job masking the immense pain that was waiting to hit me. A security guard from the building opposite, having witnessed my inglorious plunge, dashed over to assist. As did a number of passers-by. I could wiggle my toes, but my immediate thought was "That's buggered up Christmas ...".

At this stage I didn't know I'd NOT broken it, as it turned out this was a dislocation with an accompanying fracture, but lying there, on the floor, waiting for someone of a medical disposition to arrive, all I could think of was how I'd get my cards sent, can I get someone to finish my shopping for me, etc. Everything except my own situation in other words.

The last time I was in an ambulance, I was accompanying my Grandmother to hospital 10 years ago following a funny turn she'd had. The last time I was in hospital as a patient, it was in order for me to exit my mother's birth canal. My phone battery was down, having had no chance to charge it up previously, I remember asking the paramedic in my alcoholic fug if he had much contact with the British Transport Police and if I could call my mother. Except, as a result of the pomage I'd consumed earlier, it came out asking if I could call HIM mother, which caused a good deal of mirth amongst the ambulance crew.

I was annoyed at myself having had a pretty good evening at this point. And upset at myself for having buggered up my ankle, and not only my personal, work, social and comic-con lives, but having done so in the most idiotic way possible. My thoughts turned to writing this very post as I had an oxygen mask attached to my face and a needle shoved into my arm. Upon being lumped into the ambulance itself, I asked the lady paramedic if I was going to end up on Channel 4 being laughed at by some curly-haired millennial TV presenter. She laughed and said no, then radioed that we were on our way.

To Sandwell General Hospital ...

"SANDWELL ?! Hang on, that's bloody MILES away !!" I thought to myself in my best Richard Hammond-type internal voice as Chewie punched it. Why not the QE, or West Heath, or even where I took my Mother after her own infamous spill 5 years ago.

Being taken to Sandwell was like being taken into the heart of the Klingon Empire, not to mention that the anaesthetic effect of the booze was rapidly wearing off and I no one had any idea yet what I'd done to myself. Upon arrival at A&E, I had my most of my trouser leg destroyed and had to borrow one of the the staff's mobile chargers in order to maintain any hope of being able to communicate this monstrous mishap to everyone who I needed to. A Tweet and a Facebook post got the news out there, then came another dose of something, another needle in my other arm, and then another mask on my face which sent me off to Narnia for a quick kip.

On emerging from this mini-coma hoping it was all dream after all, I found myself in a plaster cast, having had my dislocated right foot shoved back into place, then after a few hours in what felt like the USS Enterprise's shuttle bay, I was wheeled off to a ward in what was the NHS equivalent of being told to go and stand in the naughty corner to realise what I'd done.

A young Caribbean nurse came and took my blood pressure and hook me up to a drip, she was friendly and seemed to take a rather reassuring half-maternal, half-sexual interest in me as I relayed to her in my best, Clarkson-esque way what a total prat I'd been. Sleep was out of the question, given I'd just been put under a few minutes earlier.

Having put my phone into siege mode, I sat there watching the snow fall. I was miles away from home, in discomfort, with an injury that was going to keep me off work and require having to use crutches, a zimmer frame, and having to learn to walk again and make getting up or down stairs a bigger challenge than Stephen Hawking trying to play the well-known Takeshi's Castle game of bridgeball.

The sun eventually broke. Messages of support started coming through on social media. My brother in law and my mother were on their way with a much-needed phone charger. I then faced the prospect of having to urinate in what looked like a cardboard slipper, which I somehow accomplished. My temporary mother/girlfriend/nurse calmly came a took it way with some reassurance/light flirting. Then I had the first chance to change into a hospital gown which had the unfortunate side effect of flashing my arse every time I wasn't lying down.

Will and Mum eventually arrived just as I was being taken up to the ward that would be home for the next few days, much to Nursie's dismay and reluctance. Despite my foot being locked into position I had been told that I would be in for surgery later that day for a Swiss army ankle and that I wouldn't be able to eat or drink anything until then. Next to me was a rather odd skinny, bearded chap who clearly was on other substances that were not prescribed by anyone resembling a Doctor and who kept pinching my TARDIS-screen type TV because his was broken. He then spent the entire afternoon staring at a synopsis of "Homes Under The Hammer" and wondering where his psychosis medication was.

It was quiet, calm, and having seen family made it easier, but my thoughts immediately turned to my imminent surgery. The surgeon came, ummed and ahhhed for a bit, poke my toes with a pencil and left, the matron then stuck another needle into my hand and gave me some paperwork stating that if by some reason I came out with my foot on back-to-front, or if they had to chop it off entirely, it was my own fault and I wouldn't sue them. They then came and wheeled me into what was the most yellow room in the world, then stuck yet another mask on my face, sending me back into Narnia for another round.

For some reason I dreamt I was was Thor, and as I came around, my foot was in another cast, my toes looked like they'd been basted in tandoori sauce and as I recognised my father standing over me, I knew exactly what had happened ...

... Birmingham City had lost again at home, to bloody Fulham.

After chomping down an NHS chicken mayo sandwich, I was told I'd suffered an open wound dislocation with an ORAF fracture of the bone that sat on the one my mum had broken herself. I'd had two metal rods and 8 screws put in there, making me the world's most minimal cyborg and setting me up for a lifetime of setting off airport security scanners.

The first night was not good. The Vietnamese chap opposite me kept pinching everyone's drinking water despite being nil by mouth and putting back his own operation as a result. "Geoff", as I'd nicknamed my mildly-psychotic new friend next to me, kept moaning about his meds, and it was now snowing heavily.

Over the next two days, with no possibility of visitors due to the very snow that put me in this mess in the first place, I began contemplating things like when I would walk again, when I'd be back at work, when I'd be able to go to my next Comic-Con. And all the while contemplating how on earth I was gong to be able to handle my next bowel movement without bothering the nurse too much given they were short-staffed thanks to God's dandruff settling. Another wee in another cardboard slipper later and I felt I was going to be permanently constipated as I yummed down the NHS fish and chips I'd been served that night.

It's funny, just how much for granted we take being able to empty our bladders and bowels whenever we like. Having not shat properly for two days solid I could finally take no more and after breakfast and another cocktail of drugs, I gave in and called for the wheelchair with the bottom cut out and, having accidentally flashed my bum and love spuds at another (rather goregous student) nurse, was wheeled into a room where I promptly missed my target. Although it was rather a happier reunion between fresh air and my testicles.

That night a wannabe gangsta was bought in with a police escort boasting how he'd been shot and after chomping his way through the McDonald's his family had bought and using the word 'n***a' every five minutes as he got in touch with his 'crew', I attempted to get some sleep despite the Vietnamese chap deciding this was a good time to demonstrate his ability to out-snore a jumbo jet carrying the Foo Fighters trying to land in a wind tunnel being amplified by Iron Madien's speaker stack system.

The following day, having managed to regain control over my lavatorial habits and washed and shaved for the first time in a while, a slim, blonde lady looking rather like my brother in law's mum arrived with my crutches and a zimmer frame, and after an hour or so hobbling about like an octopus on roller skates and looking for all the world like my own grandfather, I was given my Iron Man / RoboCop leg / moonboot and discharged.

Meanwhile, the Vietnamese chap was still seemingly competing in the World Snoring Championships, 50p was asking for more McDonald's, and a local chap had been brought in with EXACTLY the same injury as me, on the EXACT same foot having done EXACTLY the same thing digging his car out of the snow.

Karma, eh ??

Having finally gotten home, and mastered the art of hopping up and down the stairs, I've been able to see some friends, sent my cards into work, successfully hobbled to and from the cinema and back to see the new Star Wars film, and even been round to my sister's. Christmas and New Year have now come and gone, and now I'm just sitting here, writing this blog, wondering if I'm ever going to be my old self again.

I miss being at work. I miss being at the pub on a Friday night, I miss being able to walk and miss being able to just hop upstairs and downstairs whenever I like to watch football and listen to music. I miss the fresh air, I missed the enforced bonhomie of New Year's Eve, I miss being independent to the degree I was, despite not truly being so, and I miss society as a whole.

I'm bored, lonely, thirsty, and wish to God that I hadn't done this to myself. All I had to do was be patient, just wait where I was, go the other way, stay out and have some fun, stick around for the after-party, have not have drunk so much wine, called a private cab rather than stubbornly go looking for a black cab on my mother's orders.

And now I worry, not about my finances, but both short term and long; my social life, my romantic prospects (yeah, right ...), and my Comic-Con calendar for this year, how much I don't want to rely on other people's goodwill and just how to get back on my own damned two feet and be myself again, all in the face of NHS bureaucracy and my mother's increased nimbyism.

This is my own personal purgatory, for now. And no-one to blame but myself.

Happy f***ing New Year everyone …