THE RANTING BRUMMIE PRESENTS: "THE DISSEMINATION" (A SHORT STORY)

It was a dark night. The darkest night there had ever been, in fact. The moon had attempted to brighten the sky, but had eventually given up and moved to Alpha Centauri. The tides had not noticed - yet. Hopkins could see the dim flicker of a car's headlights coming towards him, gathering speed in an effort to crush him. 

He leapt out of the way just in time, and the headlights sped past, almost clipping his ear. It was a further ten minutes before the rest of the car arrived. Campbell stepped out of the car and shook Hopkins's hand. "Sorry I'm late," he explained, "But my headlights flew off without me and I couldn't see where the hell I was going."

"It's always the same with Hondas", commiserated Hopkins.

"Anyway, down to business..." started Campbell, but his voice broke off. He then reattached it using a paper clip. Hopkins shivered, and the night seemed to grow even darker. Somewhere an owl hooted, but it wasn't anywhere near them so it didn't really matter.

"Business..." he mumbled, looking at the floor. "Must we?"

"It must be done", replied Campbell. "I must disseminate essential information. That is my purpose."

"OK. Then take this." Hopkins handed Campbell a flat board, as used in games like Monopoly, Chess and Polo. "I can help you no further." And with that, he was gone. Campbell stared at the board. The side closest to his eyes was marked with roman numerals. The other sides were identical, except that one had letters on it and the other two were covered in felt.

"What the hell is thing? How will this aid me in the dissemination of essential information? What does Christopher Biggins do these days?" These questions raced through Campbell's mind, and the one about Biggins won. Although it was a photo finish.

But before these questions could be answered, the sea noticed that the moon had gone after reading an article about it in 'New Scientist'. The tides disrupted, and a gigantic tidal wave roared over the world. Campbell saw the huge mass of water bearing down on him, and he knew that he was doomed. But - as the wave was about to hit him, he held the board over his head out of desperation.

The water hit it, and dispersed either side of him. Saved, he sat on the board and floated off on the huge lake that was once England. He knew what he must do - find survivors, and disseminate essential information to them. Campbell floated for hours, the board supporting his weight on the new ocean that had so rudely knackered England. Eventually he came to a small, man-made platform in the sea. It was smaller than an oil rig, yet bigger than a vinegar bottle. A winch was lowered down to him, and he was raised aboard. He was greeted by a small Chinese man.

"Greetings, O Stranger. I am Onli Wun Lung, master of the cult of Naxos."

"I am Campbell" replied Campbell, because he was.

"The cult of Naxos has been expecting this flood. It was foretold in the Book of All Things," said the Chinaman, holding up an Argos catalogue.

"I see", said Campbell, because he could. In fact, his eyesight was very good.

"Come, join my disciples for a meal", continued the Chinaman, "Do you like steak?".

"Yes, I do", answered Campbell, because he did. Medium rare, usually.

The chinaman led Campbell up a spiralling staircase, into what passed for a dining room. Five young women sat round the table, and stared at the men as they entered. The Chinaman motioned for Campbell to sit down, and the motion was carried 6 to 1. After the Chinaman had left to prepare the meal, Campbell cleared his throat and turned to his eating companions.

"What the bloody Hell's going on round here, then?", he asked.

"We are members of the Cult of Naxos, unfortunately", said the woman closest to him.

"Eh? Why don't you just escape?" asked Campbell, as it seemed important at the time.

"Because our feet are cemented into the floor", answered another of the women.

"I can see how that would make running away a problem," said a concerned Campbell, "What is this Naxos thing anyway?"

"The Master, Onli Wun Lung, worships those cheap classical music CD's that clutter up record shops. This platform is a testament to his faith." Campbell was still confused, only more so.

"But where did he get the money to build it?" he asked.

"He invented the original format for Noel's House Party," replied the third woman on the left.

"That bastard!!" screamed Campbell, enraged. By the time the Chinaman had returned with the meal, Campbell was deep in thought.

"What are you thinking, O honoured guest?" inquired Onli Wun.

"I'm thinking of an old paintbrush on a staircase, and I don't know why," replied Campbell.

"Never mind, here is the meal" said the Chinaman, briskly. "And afterwards, I will give you a huge sum of money for no particluar reason, O honoured guest."

"Thanks ... " replied Campbell, his anger subsiding.

"But, before the meal, I must play this Modern Jazz Quartet record to honour Naxos," stated the Chinaman, in an overtly holy manner. Campbell screamed, leapt from the window, and paddled off on the board as fast as he could. He paddled for what seemed like horses, but were in fact hours. Eventually he fell asleep, and the board continued drifting. He awoke on a beach, the board still beneath him. The felt was soaked, and had sand stuck to it. Which was a shame. He looked up to see two pallid men dressed in purple robes standing above him.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, more politely than you might expect.

"We are the Observers. We watch all. We have semi-infinite powers, which you cannot begin to understand. You are as an amoeba to us." replied one of the pasty fellows.

"Eh? Where is this place?" inquired Campbell, like the rapscallion he is.

"You could not understand, for you are as an amoeba." an observer replied. Campbell stood up and brushed the sand from the board's felt.

"Why do you keep saying I am as an amoeba?"

"You could never hope to understand our ways, for you are as an amoeba."

"It makes you feel big, saying that, doesn't it?"

"We have no feelings in the same way as you do, amoeba-like one. We are vastly removed from such inferior notions as arrogance and pride."

The other observer shot Campbell a glance, using an old cannon. "You're as an amoeba!" he giggled.

"Oh shut up," said Campbell. "Have you got anything to eat? I'm starving." An observer handed Campbell a bowl full of coloured pills.

"This is the food we eat. You could not possibly comprehend, for you are as an amoeba." Campbell took the bowl.

"Wow! Is one of these pills the nutritional equivalent of a full meal? Or will a single one last me a whole week?" he asked. An observer shook his head.

"Er.. .no. You have to eat a whole bowl." the other observer chipped in, "Three times a day, usually. We use this device called a spoon!" he added. A spoon was handed to Campbell, as you might well expect.

"Hmmm. Thanks," he said, obviously unimpressed. The observers looked distraught. Then one whispered, "Amoeba!" and they started giggling and cheered up a bit. After Campbell had eaten the bowl of pills, he decided to ask more questions. This was probably a good idea.

"So... Observed anything good lately?" he asked.

"Everything has been observed by us. We are aware of your purpose." came the enigmatic reply.

"What? You know of my mission to disseminate essential information?" Campbell asked, as excited as a little boy with a new cog.

"Yes. Your information must be disseminated to the remaining populace of the Earth. You can use our phone, if you like." Campbell called the only remaining radio station in the world, who offered him a five-minute slot after the Golden Oldies hour. And after Marvin Gaye's 'Sexual Healing', Campbell spoke, and those with radios listened.

"Ignorance can always negate sanity. Maybe, eventually, lunatics lose sight of our threats."

The speech was made; few listened, and fewer still understood. Most thought he was being secretly ironic or something. But the essential information had been disseminated - only time would tell if it would help.

The observers listened to the message, and knew it's true meaning. They remained silent for a moment, then eventually one finally decided to speak up.

"That phone call is going to cost us a fucking fortune … "

THE END

HERE, INCY-WINCY ...

Yes folks, Summer is over, the sun failed to shine on TV or in the sky for that matter, yet Autumn itself still presents new opportunities, everyone is still in t-shirts and shorts for as long as they can manage, music festivals are still on, the football season is back up and running, and if you’re embarking on a new relationship, it’s a still good time to be loved up as well … lucky bastards !!

However, Autumn is also the very worst time of year, for one simple reason … it's house spider season. Which means very year, right about now, thousands of the godless eight-legged little buggers emerge from the bowels of hell with the sole intention of inflicting torment on the unwary. To a committed arachnophobe like me, house spider season is like living inside a live-action version of the classic 1990's computer game “DOOM”. My bedroom is transformed into a sort of white-knuckle ride-cum ghost house in which dropping your guard, even for a moment, can have dire, unimaginable consequences.

A while ago for instance, after a stint at the pub, I woke at 04:30 am for a dozy trip to the lavatory. As I sat there, blearily performing the necessaries, in the dark, a spider the size of a small dog unexpectedly crawled out from behind the toilet and scampered across my bare right foot. I reacted like I'd been blasted in the coccyx with a taser. Sheer blind panic took control of my body before the need to ‘stop going’ had even registered in my brain. You can imagine the aftermath. Actually, no, don't imagine the aftermath …

Many years ago, when I was a student, I was helping to prepare a meal for a video we were shooting in a hall of residence kitchen, when some demented jester ran in from the garden carrying a massive spider he'd found outside. Having made a couple of the girls scream, he then decided to lunge with it, open-handed, in my general direction. Without even thinking, I swiped at his face with the equally enormous and dangerously sharp kitchen knife I was holding in a desperate bid to stave him and his eight-legged friend off.

Fortunately, I missed him, and then unfortunately it meant that I had to spend the next four and a half hours listening to him self-righteously bleating on and on and on and on and on and on about how I very nearly killed him and how he was only having a laugh. I just shrugged back to him; “Don't startle someone with a knife in their hand unless you're prepared to face the consequences, you prat. Next time you might not be so lucky.” I said.

And please don’t use this as an excuse to mark me down as a complete and utter wuss. I don’t find snakes or rats to be scary and there are people who are utterly terrified of them. People can be scared of harmless things like water or totally random things like the number thirteen. Fear of spiders or snakes isn't a choice, but an evolutionary trait that some have and some don't, just as some people can roll their tongues and others can't. Don’t get me wrong, if faced with the prospect of tackling a spider, and particularly if I happen to be in the presence of a lady who is so wracked with fear that she has had her own panic room built to avoid them, then I will grudgingly wade into action armed with something suitably solid in order to smash it out of existence … an army boot for instance. And even that still probably wouldn't be heroic enough to persuade her to be my girlfriend …

Oh, and please note that I certainly AM authorising the use of lethal force as a default option. There is NO excuse for ANY of this messing around with pint glasses and sheets of card and 'putting him back outside'. He'll just crawl straight back IN again, stupid !! I mean, if an escaped prison convict climbed in through your bedroom window you wouldn't stick a massive pint glass over his head and 'put him back in the garden' would you ?? You wouldn't feel safe until you saw him in handcuffs and with blood running down his nose after a good beating from the long arm of the law. It's the same with spiders. If it's not been reduced to a gritty, twitching little smear and then flushed down the bog encased in several layers of toilet paper, it's not been dealt with at all.

All of which prompts the question of why the Army doesn't get involved; think about it, a dedicated anti-arachnid task-force that could turn up at your home in the dead of night and use a rubber mallet to splat that absolute whopper that ran under the cupboard an hour ago and has left you unable to sleep ever since. Failing that, I recommend having some dynamite and a chainsaw handy until next Spring.

Sweet dreams, everyone.

THE SOUND OF MUSIC

Being a child of the 80's, and a teenager of the 90's, in other words, when music was last any good (and YES Mr Cowell, I am point the finger of blame squarely in your smug, inauthentic direction !!) I remember the days when carefully compiling an EMI C90 cassette of personally selected tunes for a friend or potential love interest was a key, almost holy bonding moment in almost any kind of relationship, romantic or platonic.

You'd meticulously assemble a collection of your favourite tunes then spend an hour painstakingly inking the titles and artist names on the inlay card, which never had enough room on it anyway, unless you scratched away in tiny capitals as though manually typesetting a newspaper press aimed at squinty-faced ants working in a dollhouse … on the moon. It took effort, craftsmanship and patience. It was a specially-tailored gift. It showed that you genuinely cared and that the other person really mattered a great deal to you.

Making a compilation for a friend was one thing. Assembling a tape for someone you wanted to go out with romantically was something else entirely; a real high-wire-with-a-bed-of-nails-surrounded-by-a-moat-filled-with-starving-alligators-replacing-the-safety-net act. Open with something earnestly romantic and you'd mark yourself out as a soppy, anti-sexual drip. Go the other way, spicing up the playlist with an explicit R&B tune in which the protagonist lists 5,826 assorted tricks he can perform with his tongue and you'd still fail ... only twice as quickly.

And if you somehow avoided soppy ballads entirely, and concentrated instead on showcasing how radical and eclectic your musical tastes were by segueing NewOrder and Led Zeppelin into a self-consciously difficult 19-minute electronic Kraftwerk epic which sounded like someone hitting a gigantic metal pig with a damp phonebook while a broken synthesizer slowly asks for directions to the kettle factory ... then you'd totally alienate them completely and forever.

Alternatively there was still the radio, but what if the all-important signature tune that signified the moment to go for it was suddenly replaced with a breaking news bulletin - specifically a live police press conference in which two cardigan-shod parents tearfully begged for the safe return of their daughter’s missing and very much beloved pet hamster Mr Snuffles ?? As mood-killers go, it would be on a par with looking across at your red-hot date to discover she had suddenly and impossibly sprouted the face of Alan Titchmarsh, and was looking back at you, licking his lips whilst grinning madly and reciting dirty limericks in a high-pitched voice.

But then, technological progress muffed it all up. First of all, CD’s smothered cassettes. Then 50% of 18-24-year-olds started running their own DJ night, which was just like compiling a tape minus the faffing around with the inlay card, except you had to take it even more seriously and pretend you were cool by designing your own sleeves with a bunch of felt-tip pens. And then finally, everyone got iPods, effectively granting control to Steve Jobs and his pals over their existing musical collection allowing a total and almost Rupert Murdoch-like dictatorial monopoly over their own ears. Compilation tapes were dead ... or WERE they ??

The other week I finally checked out Spotify. If you're not familiar with it, it's basically a cross between iTunes and a customisable online radio station. I'd heard various people raving about it and didn't entirely grasp why, until I realised that it meant that you could compile a playlist, then generate a URL for others to click on. It's like being able to mass-produce a compilation tape in minutes. OK, it's broken up with irritating adverts now and then, but hey, it's easy to use and seems to work quite well. What this means is I'm suddenly in a position to offer you, dear reader, a free compilation tape. But rather than any old tape, I've rustled up a special challenge: Summer's here, so consequently many of you will be embarking upon thrilling new romances. Others will be cementing existing ones. But don’t forget that passion can be fleeting.

So here’s the gig. Beckon over your beloved. Dim the lights. Get yourselves in the mood, press play, and prepare to test your ardour to its very limits. The first couple to successfully make out through my entire playlist wins a trophy or something. If that's too much, total respect will still be accorded to anyone who manages to kiss and cuddle for the entire duration of the "Monstrous Psychedelic Bubble Exploding In Your Mind Remix" of Oasis’s “Falling Down”, and then uploads the evidence to YouTube. It won't be easy. But if you manage to make it to the end, then congratulations: you've proved that your love will abide through the ages. Oh, and as a bonus, why not pick one of the entries for the first dance at your wedding.

That is, if you CAN actually bear watching all your guests drunkenly doing a heavy-metal version of the Macarena`, and then violently throwing up.