The Goats From Gemma Meadows (Part 6)

Part 5 is here.

Cliffey was aghast. This was not the magical, dreamlike Joel Fields he had always imagined.

Nor was it the overgrown, abandoned Joel Fields that Goldberg had suggested.

This was a desolate wasteland. No life at all. Just dry, dusty, decrepit, doomed desolation as far as the eye could see.

No grass.

No dandelions.

But thankfully, no monster either.

Really, the only thing there at all was a decaying wooden sign that probably once said 'Welcome to Joel Fields!' but now just said "We come t   o l  ie  s!"

"They should be here by now," said Goldberg, thinking aloud and sounding rather concerned. "I mean they've been walking all afternoon, right?"

Cliffey nodded, his mouth still hanging open.

Just then, a huge shadow fell upon them. There was a flutter of giant wings.

They looked up, and the biggest crow they'd ever seen swooped down to greet them.

And on its back were Sarah and Pete.

"You're okay!" cried Cliffey as he hugged them tightly. "I was so worried!"

But as relieved as Sarah was to see Cliffey again, she simply could not contain her disappointment.

"I thought you were taking us to Joel Fields?" she said, wrestling free of Cliffey's embrace and turning on the crow.

"And so I have."

Sarah went on looking at him, waiting for the punchline.

"Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."

"Sarah," interrupted Goldberg, "This is it. This is all that's left of Joel Fields now."

No, thought Sarah. This couldn't be Joel Fields! Where were the green grass and dandy dandelions? Where were the dreams and visions she'd had for as long as she could remember?

Where was Heaven?

"This...isn't it. We're not there yet."

Cliffey and Goldberg explained everything. They took it in turns. The history, the monster, his teeth, the hundreds of goats that were eaten, the fact that nobody knew where he was now. The lot.

And when they were finished, nobody said anything for a long time. Sarah was silent, trying as best she could to take this all in. Cliffey and Goldberg were silent, wondering if they could go home now. The great crow stood, silent, surveying this whole saddening scene. Pete-

Where was Pete?

* * *

Pete was pleased to see Cliffey too. He had both of his goat friends together again. But he didn't care to hear the story that Cliffey and Goldberg were telling.

He already knew it all.

So while they were filling Sarah in, he wandered off. In search of a monster.

Pete allowed himself a little smirk. Everything was suddenly going according to plan.

TO BE CONTINUED

We Was Robbed

It seems that when, in the last blog, I said "tomorrow", I meant 'Monday', and when I said "cricket jibes", I meant 'news of a burglary'.

I'm typing this on Cliffey's laptop because mine has been stolen, along with Sarah's camera, my mum's laptop, and Sarah's phone charger. They almost took my phone charger as well, but they must have changed their minds at the last minute because we found it hanging off the clotheshorse in the hallway.

So my dad took me to the police station and they sent their man 'round to see what was what. He took a statement and told me that someone from the CID would come to investigate. Sure enough, another boy in blue arrived this morning to take my prints and dust for the prints of others. Whoever did it left their glove behind - I was tempted to ask on my Facebook status if anyone had lost one - so that's a lead at least.

On the plus side we did win the pub quiz at the George last night; our prize was a 24 crate of Foster's but I'm more interested in the Indian for two. I traded my share of the beer for that voucher, so all cries of alcoholism can desist now please.

Also I've suddenly become amazing at WWF No Mercy, which is heartening.

Joel.

P.S. Tomorrow - cricket jibes!

P.P.S. Actually tomorrow is Part 6 of The Goats so you'll have to wait 'til Wednesday for the cricket jibes.

Los Veinticincos

Los Veinticincos (Spanish for "The Twenty-Fives") are a fearsome group of exemplary evildoers, feared the world over for their cold-blooded murderousness and the fact that their name is in a foreign language. Would-be members of this deadly crew must fulfill three requirements:

1. Your birthday must fall on the 25th of November. Falling as it does exactly one month before Christmas, we know it to be the most evil day of the year. Some simple minds assume October 31st to be The Devil's birthday; in actuality, it is November 25th.
2. You must be at least 20 years old; we don't want any teenagers ruining our evil plans, what with their moodswings and tendency to rebel against authority.
3. You must be PURE EVIL.

Yesterday was the 25th of November and, as I'm sure you're all aware, Peter Murphy spent the day celebrating his 20th birthday. He's been Evil Director of Doooom for years now and it looks like he's set to step into the world of elite evil. Assuming he makes it through their torturous initiation ritual*, here are some of the people he'll be joining:

NAME: Mark Lanegan

PROFESSION: Screaming Tree
BORN: 25th November, 1964

Mark Lanegan is a musician, best known as vocalist of the Screaming Trees. He joined Los Veinticincos in 1984, and it wasn't long before he was elected leader on the grounds of "looking the most evil". I mean look at that picture! He looks like the bastard son of Nicky Wire and The Joker. Those who have heard him speak say that his voice is "so gravelly you could park a car on it". Legend has it that he named his band after a rather grisly incident where he actually planted a tree inside one of his enemies and it emerged a couple of years later from the unfortunate young man's shrieking mouth.

NAME: Xabi Alonso
PROFESSION: Cheating Footballer
BORN: 25th November, 1981

Xabi Alonso has been in the news recently because of allegations that he deliberately picked up a second yellow card to ensure a clean slate in the knockout stages of the Champions League. Not the most stealthy member of the gang, what with all this media attention he's been getting, but this whole story has shown us that his evil time-wasting skills are second to none. His other crimes including playing for Liverpool but then leaving, and being Spanish. 'Spain' is just one letter away from 'pain', don't you know.

NAME: Christina Applegate
PROFESSION: Smelly Pirate Hooker
BORN: 25th November, 1971

Christina Applegate is Los V's beautiful but deadly femme fatale. She spent her childhood amongst thieves and murderers on the infamous pirate ship Veronica, and this is the name by which many of her victims know her before she kills them (all sensible killers operate under a pseudonym, of course). She was recently diagnosed with breast cancer, and she is now out for revenge on the executives who cancelled her TV show while she was recovering. They may soon find themselves on the wrong end of her weapon of choice, which is, ironically, a TV antenna.

NAME: Bruno Tonioli
PROFESSION: Flamboyant Dance Judge
BORN: 25th November, 1955

As a homosexual, Italian lunatic Bruno Tonioli was a prime target for bullying in his childhood. In an article on the Daily Express website, he talks about how he was once "chased...out of a club with a broken bottle and pinned...up against a wall." The interview would have you believe that he got out of it with "a bit of wit and imagination". The reality is he snatched the bottle right out of that guy's hand and cut him to ribbons. That was his first taste of blood, and he liked it. To his credit, unhinged as he is, the evillest thing he tends to do nowadays is annoy Len Goodman on Strictly Come Dancing. But who knows when he might snap?

NAME: Barbara & Jenna Bush
PROFESSION: Twin Daughters of Ex-President
BORN: 25th November, 1981

They're the offspring of George W. Bush. Need we say more? The Bush sisters are also the only documented case of both twins being evil. Joined Los V's on the same day as Xabi Alonso, leading to some rather nauseating erotic fanfiction about the three of them.

NAME: Mary Anne Schimmelpenninck

PROFESSION: Mischief-Maker
BORN: 25th November, 1778

I know what you're thinking, who? Well, at the ripe old age of 232, Schimmelpenninck is Los V's oldest member, and one of its craftiest. She is the daughter of an arms dealer and, as her Wikipedia page will tell you, her family considered her a "mischief-maker" who "broke off eleven marriages". But while it's true that she showed slightly unsavoury tendencies in life, she never really went fully evil until after her death in 1856. It's a lot easier to do evil shit when you're a ghost, and you'd be amazed at some of the things she's gotten up to since she kicked the bucket. Whenever a TV programme suffers from 'technical difficulties', it's because she's messing around with their equipment. In 1931, which you'll remember as the year Christmas never came, it was because she stole it. Some people suspect that she is responsible for the whole Bermuda Triangle thing; others say that hiccups are caused by Mary Anne playing tricks on your diaphragm. And she's still responsible for a healthy chunk of worldwide divorces every year. We may never know the full extent of her powers, and that makes her perhaps the scariest 25er of all.

NAME: Kerry "Skull" O'Keeffe

PROFESSION: Australian Cricket Commentator

BORN: 25th November, 1949

Well first of all look at his nickname. If that don't strike fear into your heart, then you're a steelier soul than I. Time was when he could hide his passion for breaking legs behind cricket, a sport nobody really understood anyway. "And O'Keeffe has broken the other guy's leg...erm...does he get a point for that, Bruce?" "Why yes Bruce I believe he does." But now he resides in the commentary box, and he has to find other outlets for his creativity. Enter Los Veinticincos, who were reportedly in need of a good leg man at the time to deal with their numerous debtors. Of course, he is no gentle soul when he's commentating, either; apparently other commentators are afraid to work alongside him. They're probably worried that he'll hit them for six! Ha!

It's funny because it has something to do with cricket. Incidentally, Kerry O'Keeffe's wife is named Veronica, so Pete might be called upon to do some legwork pretty soon if you catch my drift.

More cricket jibes tomorrow.

Joel.

*Nobody on the outside is completely certain of what goes on during initiation, but most academics agree that it involves geese.

Games People Play

We in the house have recently discovered the mighty awesomeness that is the Tell Me Quiz! The idea is that players have to name something that belongs in a particular category and begins with a certain letter. For example:

Tell me something you wear on your head beginning with F.

'Fedora' would be an acceptable answer; 'Fop Hat' definitely would not, PETE.

We have also been playing the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? game, which is fantastic also. It's even more fantastic - and tense - when played with all the appropriate music and soundbites. I'm not great at it though.

I'm also not great at No Mercy so I'm actually practicing in between writing the blog. Tom beat me twice the other day, and he'd never even played it before. Fuck's sake.

Joel.

The Milkshakes of Bristol

Milkshake #1 - Strawberry Milkshake from YoYo

YoYo is a "gourmet hamburger bar" that Josh and Mark took me to after the Titus Andronicus gig. I had a rather delicious wild boar burger, but I could have had anything from kangaroo to springbok. I could even have had ostrich but I don't see any reason to make those buggers any angrier.

Titus Andronicus were fantastifabulous, as expected, but I had perhaps a little too much fun shouting along to them. I went up to Patrick "Beardy Vocalist" Stickles after the show and told him, as best I could, that my vocal chords [points at throat] were fucked [slicing motion] but that was AMAZING [thumbs up]! Josh had to order for me at YoYo because I pretty much couldn't talk after the gig, but their thick, fast-foody strawberry milkshake did go some way to soothing my corroded throat. So I'm grateful to them for that.

Josh spoke to Patrick too. He asked if he could get his hands on the setlist but had to make do with a guitar pick instead.

Interlude - His Milkshake Brings All the Girls to the Yard

We stayed the night at Rob's flat, Rob being a friend of Mark's who goes to uni in Bristol. He very kindly let me have his bed for the night; I think I was supposed to be sharing it with Josh but he seemed happy to kip on the floor. His days of sharing beds with men are all but over.

Milkshake #2 - Coconut Milkshake from AMT

I could have had a lie-in on Saturday morning. Herbie was driving Mark and Josh back home in the afternoon and there was a free space in her car with my name on it but no, I'd already paid £7 for the 9.54 train to Cardiff Central so up I got at some ungodly hour and trudged to Bristol Temple Meads in the rain.

My breakfast consisted of an apple from Tesco and a coconut milkshake from AMT, one of those train station coffee bars. It was a very nice milkshake but the purchase was kind of a dick move on my part; what with it being November and all, it was pretty cold out, and the milkshake was also pretty cold, and, well, it's just plain mathematics:

Pretty Cold² = Real F'in Cold

On the train this time I was sat alongside a table of middle-aged women eating brioche and drinking some sort of orange drink from plastic wine glasses so that was all very civilised. I was reading the Kick Ass comic which is so violent it makes Kill Bill look like Dora The Explorer but still, very civilised indeed.

Epilogue - Hot Chocolate & Malibu

On Saturday night, Sarah bought me a bottle of Mailbu and, just for the sake of experiment, I got quietly drunk. The initial plan was to mix it with Pepsi, but Pepsi's so detestably foul that after one glass I just started doing shots. Sarah now now holds the honour of being the only person ever to see me drunk; the rest of you will just have to use your imaginations. Apparently I'm quite funny.

There's still about half a bottle of Malibu left, by the way. According to my mum it goes quite nicely with drinking chocolate so I will probably try that sometime soon. That suits me a lot better than shots.

Joel.

P.S. Keep an ear out for Angry Christmas, the new song that Josh and/or myself may or may not be working on.

James Blunt has a new album out!

Oh no! Best familiarise yourself with the video so that you know what to do in an emergency.

The album's called "Some Kind of Trouble" and he seems to have gotten sneaky this time because his face isn't on the cover. This is presumably an attempt to trick the more foolish of us into buying it in the mistaken belief that it's, I don't know, a mis-printed Dinosaur Jr. B-sides compilation? So to make sure you're ahead of the game, keep an eye out for this image:

If you see it at your local music store, the generally accepted protocol is to cover the album with another album by a better artist. Blur, Blondie and the B-52s are all popular choices due to their alphabetical proximity, but don't be afraid to get creative! There's nothing more fun than the thought of a James Blunt fan scouring HMV for their idol's new masterpiece, working their way from B to Bl to Blu, only to be greeted by a Cannibal Corpse album.

There's already been debate in the house as to whether we should be so afraid of James Blunt or if, on the contrary, we owe him our props because he prevented World War III. I'm sure you've all worked out where I stand by this point, so if you are a fan then feel free to ignore this warning, buy the album, even go and see him live at St. David's Hall on February the 24th if you're that into him. If you think my disdain for the Bluntster is totally unfounded, then by all means hit Hell No! and never read the blog again.

As for the rest of you, here is a song I have written in the style of James Blunt. It's called:

Watching Over Me

Who can say?

Who can say when will come the day,

When everything that we know changes?

I loved you,

I loved you and you loved me too,

But you could never see this through.

And the day it died,

Well of course I cried,

But I won't stay down,

I won't come untied,

There's still hope, you'll see,

You'll come back to me,

There's an angel watching over me,

There's an angel watching over me,

Oh, oh.

There's a chance,

There's a chance that it could all go back,

To the way it was before I lacked.

Do you hear?

Do you hear my song in your bed at night?

Do you wish somehow it could be alright?

And the day it died,

Well of course I cried,

But I won't stay down,

I won't come untied,

There's still hope, you'll see,

You'll come back to me,

There's an angel watching over me,

There's an angel watching over me,

Oh, oh.

Is it true?

Is it true that I could be with you,

'Cause it all seems lost, so can love come through?

And the day it died,

Well of course I cried,

But I won't stay down,

I won't come untied,

There's still hope, you'll see,

You'll come back to me,

So I'll close my eyes,

And I'll count to three,

I took up my cares,

With The Man Upstairs,

And he said that he would make repairs,

Did I make mistakes?

Did you make them too?

Are there angels watching over you?

And if it's all over,

Will they get you through?

* * *

So there we are. James Blunt.

Joel.

P.S. As wrong as it seems to even mention them in the same blog post as James Blunt, Titus Andronicus are an excellent band for whose live show I am going all the way to Bristol tomorrow. I am about 7/10 excited right but I expect this to climb rapidly over the next 24 hours.

A Blog To Clear The Fog

Holy fog. I walked to uni this morning - my bike chain's still off but I wouldn't have wanted to cycle in those conditions anyway - and I decided to go past CAI and Cathays station rather than down Richmond Road like I usually do. It was a lot more fun than I expected to have in the cold on my way to a 9am lecture, because of course all the Cardiff people were making their way to their 9am lectures too. The result was a vast army of students marching resolutely through the fog - and yes, I too thought it odd that everyone was in step with each other, but there it was. It made a very satisfying noise, all those feet stamping on the frosty pavement.

So last night everyone went to town. Except me, and Sarah, 'cause we stayed in and polished off the Eureka boxset. And Josh, because he came 'round to pick up some CDs and admire the Pink Floyd poster that Sarah had very kindly bought me.And Pete, 'cause town's not really his scene. And Tom, who did come to the house, but only after everyone else had left.

At some point yesterday evening I answered a phone call from Soph's mum, Lynda. The conversation went more or less as follows:

"Hello?"
"Hello?"
"...Is that Soph?"
"No, it's her mum."
"Oh I'm sorry. You sound a lot like her."
"I don't look like her, I'll tell you that. Is she around?"
"No, she's gone out."
"Where?"
"Into town."
"Has she gone to Oceana?"
"I'm not sure."
"Did Alex go with her?"
"No, I think Al went home."
"Did...um, what's his name, my favourite boy..."
"...Cliffey?"
"Cliffey! That's it!"
"Yeah, he went."
"Oh good, he'll look after her."

As it turned out, I think Cliffey ended up coming home early. Soph is probably okay but I've not seen her today, so everyone please keep an eye out just in case she's just wondering around somewhere.

Also present at some point last night was Gem's friend Mike (not to be confused with Meic), whom I've never met but I'm getting to know what his voice sounds like through a wall pretty well.

Joel.

What I Did On My Reading Week

Not a whole lot of reading, I have to say. The one book I have had a look at is Straw Dogs, and that's a philosophy book so it's more the sort of thing Cliffey should be reading.

I did play No Mercy an awful lot, and I think I'm getting worse (Sarah beat me earlier today, and she'd never played it before).

I also ate a lot of lovely food (Special K with chocolate and red berries is FANTASTIC), and watched a lot of A Town Called Eureka. We're nearly at the end of season two now and it's getting very interesting.

But yes, not so much reading. Tomorrow my group and I have to present our research proposal to the class, so we hurriedly knocked one together earlier today. It's still going to be awesome though, so don't worry.

Joel.

Your Daddy's Car

I don't think I made a note of it at the time so I'll mention it now: Xander, Cliffey's car, passed on to the Great Tesco Car Park in the Sky. Some time ago, actually. If you didn't already know this, I'm sorry you had to find out this way. I told Cliffey to mention it on The Xander Appreciation Society's Facebook page, but I don't think he did. It's a sad state of affairs - he should be able to get a new car with the insurance money, but it obviously won't be the same. And there's always a hint of tragedy in his voice when he says he's going to get the bus to work.

So rest in peace, Xander. You were one of my favourite places to listen to the Klezmer Kollectiv.

Why do I bring this up now, I hear you ask between your heaving sobs? Because we made a trip to big Tesco's last night in a different car, and it was an unmitigated disaster.

Well, that might be a little strong. But I'm sure it would have gone better in Xander.

Sarah, Josh and I had just seen LCD Soundsystem and Hot Chip at the CIA (a real slayer of a gig, I might add, particularly All My Friends), and had come back to a house with Tom in it. An average Friday night. Once I had recovered from a) the gig, and b) the walk home, Cliffey and I turned on the N64 and did another Royal Rumble on No Mercy. I won with Kane - Cliffey's really not very good at Royal Rumbles - and was all ready to call it a night when the decision was made to head to Tesco's for a late night shop.

So we piled into Tom's car (which I think is called Shaniqua) - me, Sarah, Soph, Cliffey, and of course Tom - and set off. Pete wanted to come to, offering to ride in the boot, but we decided that was a bad plan and, given what followed, that was probably a good shout.

We were somewhere near Roath Lake, getting our collective groove on to my Destiny's Child album, when suddenly Tom shut the music off and pulled over. I initially protested at this abrupt silence, but soon shut up when I realise that we'd been pulled over by the police.

The blue lights echoed in the rear window. We sat silently and waited for judgement.

Turns out Tom had just forgotten to look before going across a junction or something. The fuzz were soon on their way again, but it was a nerve-jangling experience while it lasted. The police have never seemed scarier*, what with their uniforms and their questions and the fact that it's kind of hard to see their faces when you're in the back seat and they're standing outside the driver's window.

Of course, the fear was somewhat nullified when we saw another policewoman, in full uniform, trying to choose between fried eggs and hot lips at the pick 'n' mix in Tesco. A fun moment.

Tom, probably still a little shook up from the police incident, drew further criticism at the self-service checkouts. One of the shop assistants apparently told him:

"Hurry up, I know what you kids are like."

Charming. The expedition wasn't a total cropping fail - I did get a nice loaf of tiger bread, and we discovered the existence of the Yumberry, which is cool - but as I say, it probably would have gone better in Xander.

Joel.

*To me, anyway; I think everyone else in that car was fairly certain that we weren't going to get arrested. I just have a slightly over-active imagination, and am extremely naive.

Cliffé Noir

Ugh. I feel like some dumb mick's been doing a riverdance on my brain. It's too bright in here, doesn't this bastard have any curtains? Might as well be in the goddamn dentist's chair. I could use a good hard drilling to take my mind off this headache.

I've got a message from my associate back in Cardiff. He's been running a couple errands for me, sorting out some paperwork and running it down to the office for me. Looks like he's got it all done, so that's something. He's asking me if I want to go see the Christmas lights get switched on tomorrow night. Yeah, as if I need to see any more lights.

What the hell am I even doing here? Everyone here in York is either too Northern or not Northern enough, it's hard to know where you stand. I mean, I'm here to see JR, but the journey up here took a fucking age and all that Holland-haired potato fetishist ever did anyway was beat me at Risk.

At least last night was entertaining. I for one stilll have enough alcohol in me to knock out a pitbull. And for someone who's so good at Risk, JR sure knows his way around a woman. And neither him nor that doll last night thought that was gonna last. He's got this catch-and-release technique going for him. Just does it for the pleasure. It's less cruel, really. Ain't no trout wants to be thrown in the keep basket.

I need something to eat. I've got to get some food. My stomach's growling like a rusty Ford making its last slow journey before being set alight and abandoned in a kids' playground. Check the cupboards, JR's gotta have some bread or biscuits or somethin'.

But no. Just goddamn fucking potatoes.

"JR! You asshole!"
"What?"
"Where's your food?"
"Mmf...try the cupboards..."
"Yeah, I did. All you got is potatoes. Where's your real food? Don't tell I gotta find my way to a McDonald's at this hour."
"Fuck you, Cliffey. I've got the hangover from Hades here, and all you can do is whine about food. Fuck you."

No way am I going to make it outside. My legs already feel like two individual waterbeds. I'm gonna lay back down on the couch and try to imagine that I've just eaten. Pork sausages. Plump. Toffee apple glaze. A heap of mashed potato the size of Austria...no. No good. A poor man doesn't get richer by sticking his fist in his pocket and pretending it's a wallet full of hundred-dollar bills, and I'm not gonna get full from a picture in my aching head.

"Aaaaaagh!"

Hurf. If JR's hangover was half as bad as mine, he wouldn't be screaming so loudly. I think I'll tell him so.

"JR, if your-"
"Fuckfuckfuck."
"What the hell is it?"
"Cliffey, get in here."

In JR's room is a corpse, no head, broken, bloodied, twisted, tortured.

"Is this yours?"

JR is freaking out. Obviously he's not used to this sort of thing.

"There there. Come through to the kitchen, I'll make you some hash browns, that'll calm you down."
"Cliffey, there is a dead body in my room."
"Yes. There is a dead body in your room."
"Well...what the hell's it doing there? How did it get there?"

Well, shit. This is exactly the sort of thing I came here to get away from.

* * *

[DISCLAIMER: This is all pure fiction, of course; while I'm not entirely sure of what went on during Cliffey's visit to York, I think we can be fairly certain that JR did not find a decapitated corpse in his room. Also, Cliffey is not a hardboiled detective, and JR isn't the ruthless womaniser I make him out to be here. He is a potato fetishist, though. That's the stone cold truth. - Joel]

Zednik's Slice

Someone took No Mercy out of the N64 last night to play Goldeneye. Meic was 'round, so I'm guessing it was him and Pete. Pete's probably practicing up so that JR doesn't totally dominate him again when he comes home for Christmas. Not that that won't still happen.

Speaking of JR, Cliffey has been away for the past few days because he's gone to visit his life partner in York. I received a text from The Big C himself last night informing me that JR has earned a man point, although details were not forthcoming. More on that as it develops - Cliffey's back tonight so he should have a lot of oop north tales with which to regale us.

The Christmas lights go on in town tonight (I know, it gets earlier every year), and it looks like Sarah and I will be heading in to watch, although I'm probably more excited about the pancakes and bratwurst than Matt Smith and the ferris wheel. I think Sarah's plotting to get me on the ice rink before winter ends, and I'm already trying to work out how I can fall over in such a way that I avoid getting my head sliced off by the most ice-skates.

Don't laugh. It's almost happened at least once. Yeah.

Joel.

The Goats From Gemma Meadows (Part 5)

Part 4 is here.

The forest between Gemma Meadows and Joel Fields was hard enough to navigate in broad daylight, but at night it was practically impossible. Sarah and Pete were still trying to forge ahead, but it was so dark that they could well have been going in circles since teatime.

"Pete," Sarah said finally. "I'm getting too tired to walk, and we're never going to get anywhere in the dark anyway. Let's find a place to sleep."

"And where might that be?" Pete snapped. "Did you see a bed and breakfast just through that last clump of trees? Or perhaps some sort of goat hostel?"

"Oh, shut up, Pete."

"I'm sorry. I'm just frustrated. I always thought that Joel Fields was just a stone's throw away."

There was a rustling in the leaves ahead. The two goats whirled around to see two fiery red eyes staring down at them from a nearby tree.

"You shouldn't throw stones...when you're in a glass house..."

* * *

Goldberg and Cliffey were both well aware of the troll bridge.

For Goldberg, it was a nuisance. Whenever he wanted to make a trip into town, he had to time his journey so that the troll was asleep when he went over the bridge.

For Cliffey, of course, it was much more terrifying. It was only an afternoon since he had narrowly escaped death by the troll's terrible claws.

But either way, they knew that there should be something under that bridge.

"...Perhaps he just...left?" said Goldberg, hopefully.

"Perhaps," said Cliffey. But he didn't sound like he really thought so.

* * *

Sarah and Pete were too scared to run. Those evil ruby eyes went on staring at them, seeing into their souls.

"Silence is golden," croaked the voice from the tree again. "But my eyes still see!"

And with that, the biggest crow they'd ever seen swooped down to greet them.

They still couldn't move.

It landed just a few feet in front of them. It stood there on the path, still staring at them.

They said nothing.

Suddenly, the great crow spoke, much louder than before.

"Speak!" he boomed. "And I shall listen."

It was Sarah who finally stepped forward, full of fear.

"We...we're going to Joel Fields." She waited for a reply, but the crow just stared at her. She nodded, and went on, a little more confidently this time. "We're going to Joel Fields, where the grass is twice as green and the dandelions twice as dandy but we're lost. Can you help?"

The crow didn't say anything for a long time. Sarah was wondering if he'd heard when she suddenly realised that he was whispering something. All she heard was something about good intentions.

"I beg your pardon?" she trembled, now more nervous again.

The crow sighed and shook his head. "Hop on," he said, sticking out his mighty wings.

The goats hesitated.

"Do we trust him?" Pete wondered aloud.

Sarah was about to set about weighing up the pros and cons of hitching a ride on this gigantic bird, coming to a logical decision, but before she could open her mouth they heard the roar of the troll behind them. So instead of a logical decision, all that came out of her mouth was a scream.

Quick as a flash, they scrambled onto the crow's back, and as soon as they were on, he took flight. Below them, they saw the troll emerge into the clearing, looking angrier and more grotesque than ever.

Both Sarah and Pete breathed a sigh of relief.

"Good thing we didn't stop for a nap," said Pete.

"Shut up, Pete."

TO BE CONTINUED

Blackberry, Slowberry

I started yesterday morning on a sofabed in Swanbridge. My headphone cable was wrapped around me - I had fallen asleep listening to the latest Interpol album - so I pulled it off, wound it up, and got up to greet the new day.

It was a wonderfully brisk autumn morning, so Sarah and I went out to pick blackberries. 'Cause that's what you do on Autumn days in the countryside (Swanbridge isn't exactly the countryside but it's a helluva lot closer than Cardiff), you pick blackberries.

Assuming there are some left. It seemed that someone had beaten us to it, 'cause most of the blackberries were either dead or not there. Sarah sadly suggesested that our search would have been a lot more fruitful  had we done it last week.

Fortunately, the people who had been at the blackberry bushes before us weren't gigantic freaks like I am. My tall stature and massive arms meant that we could access the high up and far away blackberries, and boy did I feel heroic when I jumped up to pull those berry-laden branches down to a harvestable height.

When we returned to Sarah's house, our hands were purple with blackberry juice and our tupperware box was about one-third full of blackberries. We'd also thrown a couple of blueberries into the mix; we weren't expecting to find them in Penarth in November but, heyho, it's all delicious.

Our intention was to bake an apple and blackberry crumble (Sarah already had some apples, we didn't pick those), and it was only when the assorted fruits were stewing in a saucepan that Sarah's dad pointed out that our blueberries...might not be blueberries. I had squished one of them earlier (just for fun) and was surprised to find a pip inside, but I decided that this must be a wild blueberry thing, and that I had been corrupted by my over-exposure to store-bought blueberries. How harsh and cruel nature truly is, I pondered.

But Sarah's dad said that they were foul-tasting slowberries, and although I hadn't heard of them then and can't find any evidence of their existence on Wikipedia now, they certainly didn't taste like blueberries so I'm inclined to believe him. Sarah's sister, who as the house's culinary whiz was helping Sarah and me overcome our kitchen clubfeet, removed as many as she could from the pot, but there were still quite a few pips to be found in the finished product.

Which was delicious anyway. Even Sarah liked it, and Sarah doesn't really like crumble. We just treated the pips like the silver sixpence in the Christmas pudding. Except there were loads of them.

When we came back to Cardiff in the evening, I found yet another empty Pot Noodle pot in the living room. Frustrated at Pete's repeated inability to use a bin, I decided to take action. I washed the pot out just enough that the remaining juices wouldn't go everywhere, placed a sticky note on the bottom reading "FUCK YOUR SHIT!", and hung it off the latch on Pete's door.

I felt pretty righteous until Pete got home from the pub quiz and pointed out that this particular Pot Noodle had been Soph's, not his. How embarrassing.

It's now on Soph's door instead.

Joel.

Joel Is From The 90s

On Friday I arrived home from uni to find a small, thoroughly wrapped parcel on my bed. I was damp and pissed off, because it was raining and I had just spent 35 minutes of my precious lifespan at a bus stop (I'm guessing there was some sort of cocktail party in Blimbo), but the arrival of said parcel cheered me up no end. Also I had just been to Cadawalder's with Sarah and we had eaten a chocolate muffin ice cream sundae thing each so I had a little extra cheer anyway. That is to say:

   2 Good things (Muffin Sundae + Parcel Arrival)
 - 1 Bad thing (Waiting Ages In The Rain For A Bus)
 = 1 Good thing

By the by, if anyone uses the term "muffin sundae" as a euphemism for something dirty, I'll sue them. But yes, this somewhat overly wrapped thing turned out, as I had suspected, to be the N64 game I had ordered from eBay some days previously. And if there's one thing more fun than playing WWF No Mercy as a ten-year old child, it's playing WWF No Mercy as an almost-not-even-a-teenager-anymore grownup, because you get the added bonus of nostalgia.

I of course grabbed the N64 from Cliffey's and started failing to challenge the Light Heavyweight championship with Edge straight away. Cliffey soon joined in and we had a Royal Rumble. I won with Shane McMahon. Cliffey was utterly humiliated.

At any rate, it turned out that Friday was Bonfire Night, so I eventually managed to tear myself away from the old-skool federation antics and go to the Co-Op, where I bought some glorious toffee apple sausages and did a baked potato to go with them. I care little for fireworks, but I am really rather keen on food, so I made sure to do it right. Pete and Alex and some of Alex's friends did actually let off some fireworks in the alley, but Sarah and I were perfectly content to watch - and listen - from our room. Josh and I had been to a music quiz the previous night (we came last, damn picture round, damn Boy George and Adam Ant looking a lot more like bald mental patients than they used to) and the indoor fireworks that had rounded that off were quite underwhelming enough for me, thank you.

Joel.

P.S. Upon my return from the music quiz at Y Fuwch Goch, Sarah, Soph, Cliffey and I sat in the living room catching up on quiz shows for a couple of hours. I think I got a couple of the questions on University Challenge right but what I'm most proud of is spotting that Grass, Dragon, Poison and Fighting were all types of Pokémon on Only Connect. A huge moment I'm sure you'll agree.

These Conversations Did Not Take Place

But They Might Have.

* * *

Joel: You know what was a great song?
Cliffey: What?
Joel: The theme tune from Mummies Alive!
Cliffey: I...can't say I remember that.
Joel: Well you suck.

* * *

Gem: Dammit! Who the hell eats curry out of a glass, anyway?

* * *

Pete: Who wants to come to the shop with me?
Joel: No thanks Pete, I'm not wearing a shirt.
Pete: Sarah?
Sarah: You are a dick!

* * *

Soph: They're all animals!
Man on Only Connect: They're all brands of hand dryer.
Lady from Only Connect: That...is...correct!
Soph: Moh.

* * *

Tom: Oh it's a chance!
Cliffey: Shit!
Tom: Has to score!
Cliffey: Shit!
Tom: YEEEEEEEES! Slotted!
Cliffey: Shit!
Joel: Cliffey, that was your fault.

* * *

Soph: Check out the gloves I stole from work!
Pete: Those are some pretty sweet gloves, Soph.
Alex: Yeah, you're not supposed to take those.
Soph: Shut up, douche!

* * *

Gem: Sarah, did you clean up all those fag butts from outside?
Sarah: Yarr.
Gem: That was Pete's job!
Sarah: He be walkin' the plank.
Gem: I...are you...
Sarah: I'm a pirate today.

* * *

Alex: I'm just feeling kind of...I dunno. I miss you, and Soph keeps calling me a douche, and I don't know how I can hold up a meaningful relationship with a kleptomaniac...yeah...yeah, I know, I have to be strong. Okay. I love you too, JR.

* * *

Joel: And I would do an-eh-theng for love...I would do an-eh-thing for loooOOOVE...I would do an-eh-thiing for love...
Pete: Me ken't believe it's not kastard! 'Cuz it tayests like kastard taystes!

* * *

Sarah: I bought you a flan base, Cliffey.
Cliffey: Awh, thanks, Saz.
Sarah: And Pete, I got you some crisps.
Pete: Quavers? QUAVERS?! NOBODY LIKES QUAVERS, YOU CUR!
Joel: I like Quavers.
Cliffey: God, Pete.

* * *

Soph: I like chicken!
Gem: Soph, living with you is like I bought the dictionary on audiobook and put it on Shuffle.
Soph: I don't read books.

* * *

Tom: I'm working on a rap, right? It's called "The World I Mapped & The Ass I Tapped".
Joel: What?
Tom: It's about Christopher Columbus.
Joel: I'm going to bed.

* * *

For the record, no, I don't know how I managed to insert a hyperlink into my speech.

Joel.

Sharments II

The Re-Sharmenting.

RECENT THINGS

• Sunday was Halloween. We had a small gathering here to celebrate, and much Halloweeny music was listened to. If any trick-or-treaters did come to the house, I didn't hear about it.
• Friday was not Halloween but Josh and Rich and Elusive Dave had a Halloween party anyway. I went as a slightly cheap Freddy Krueger, and Sarah was the Grim Reaper. Josh wasn't anything in particular, he just wore spandex. Herbie and Mark were, between them, Team Rocket, although they were minus Meowth. I'm not sure what Soph was, some sort of evil prostitute possibly. Tom was a banana.
• Speaking of Tom, Tom has a tattoo now. Unless his parents are reading this, in which case Tom has not got a tattoo now.
• I paid the water bill last night, mostly because Dwr Cymru were threatening legal action if we didn't. It cost me about £300, so everyone in the house now owes me sixty pounds! Except Cliffey, who has already paid, and Sarah and Alex, who get to not pay bills because they pay in love.
• Many of the people affiliated with the house went to Oceana on Monday night. Nobody's quite sure what happened, but we do know that Cliffey, Soph and Tom spent yesterday on Cliffey's bed, laughing. Unless Tom's parents are reading this, in which case it was just Soph and Cliffey because Tom was in work.
• It's November, which of course mean it's Movember (or Novembeard if you prefer). I will be hoping to improve on last year's pitiful peachfuzz, but Cliffey, Josh, JR, Mark, Pete (I think) and others are all likely to do far better than me.
• I briefly became part of a folk three-piece yesterday, playing the bongos along with René (guitar/vox) and Calum (violin) from my uni ensemble. We played down in the foyer (or 'street') around lunchtime, belting out some folk songs and also a couple of Irish jigs, because Calum is just an awesome fiddle player. Then last night I showed off my bongo-playing skills to my awed housemates, and we obviously sang Creep, our house's national anthem. 
• The national anthem of the Josh/Rich/Elusive Dave household is Live & Let Die because we had a conversation about it there once. Should it be the Macca version or the Guns 'N' Roses cover? Cast your votes now.
• My brother Nathan came 'round on Friday night for a game of Risk with myself and Cliffey. I won in TWO TURNS, because I'm AWESOME. We filled the remaining time by playing Worms, at which I still rock although I think Tom won on Friday night.
• I hit The Record Shop on Saturday and got five CDs for a pound each. They were: Kid Carpet's Ideas and Oh Dears; My Computer's No CV; Meat Loaf's Bat Out of Hell II: Back Into Hell; Destiny's Child's Survivor; and Bloc Party's Bloc Party (for Sarah, I obviously already have that record, obviously). I love The Record Shop, everybody go there on Thursdays to Saturdays.
• You know another awesome shop? Wally's Delicatessen. Sarah and I went there on Sunday; I bought a small pot of olives from the olive pick 'n' mix (also featuring stuffed peppers!) and she bought a huge box of Nerds (remember those?) which we're still picking away at.
• Mark, Josh and I are going to see Titus Andronicus in Bristol this month, but not before Sarah, Josh and I go to see LCD Soundsystem and Hot Chip at the CIA.
• Soph got a WoMan point for carving the pumpkins on Friday night, but although there are a lot of pending Man Points they will have to wait until I get a new marker. Pete used the last one up by drawing on his face.

That italics guy from yesterday was sure a dick, wasn't he?

Joel.

Around The Horn

Cutlery regrets to announce the cancellation of The 50th Post Special. Instead, please enjoy this light-hearted tale of folly and redemption on the buses.

I know, we're disappointed too. I don't know how Joel managed to get so big in Slovenia with this attitude. I daresay Slovakia will be a lot less sympathetic to this shit.

* * *

Monday morning is always band practice. Seven of us and our various instruments get together and make sweet sweet music for a couple of hours, before the midday cultures lecture come and dampens our spirits.

Yesterday, however, our noise-making was a little delayed. The beardy guy on reception refused to give me the room key without permission from our course leader, Ben Challis, and the ensuing wild goose chase (I never did track down Dr. Challis) meant that we wasted an hour or so talking amongst ourselves in the corridor. By the time one of the nice techies from the second floor helped us out, we were already halfway into our allotted time, and not looking too likely to accomplish much.

But this post isn't a tirade against the people on reception at the Atrium, nor is it a play-by-play of our abridged band rehearsal. This is a story about a boy (me) and his baritone (my baritone).

It's fair to say that I don't treat the old thing with a great amount of care. My bandmates are often left aghast at the way I toss it around, knock it over, and generally don't show it any respect.

Well yesterday it seems I was so excited to finally get into the practice room that I didn't even bother to bring my instrument in with me, leaving it still sat in the corridor. Our drummer, Luke, grabbed it for me and suggested - not for the first time - that I really ought to take better care of it. I agreed half-heartedly, and said that it was like a parent to me - I treat it horribly, but I'd be fairly sad if it were gone, perhaps because it's so important to getting me through uni. No more was said on the matter, and we used the hour as best we could. Songs were played, and I introduced my Spaghetti Western version of Holding Out For A Hero.

Now. There's an hour-long gap in my timetable between the band practice and the cultures lecture, and I usually spend this hour on the computers in the library, or I take the opportunity to go and get a bit of food (having to be in uni at 9am doesn't leave a lot of time for breakfast). Yesterday, however, I had a plan. I was supposed to be meeting Sarah straight after my cultures lecture and going to Swanbridge with her for an evening away from the city, with its noise and pollution and people who ask you for spare change and shout at you when you don't have any. I didn't want to have to drag my baritone, ungainly as it is, to the far side of Penarth, so I decided to get a bus home, drop off the horn, and speedily get a bus back into town in time for my lecture.

That was the plan, and it was going swimmingly until I got off the bus on Crwys Road and realised, at it sped off into the late morning sun, that I had left my baritone on the luggage rack.

Oh no! My dear sweet baritone horn! Would I never again sound its brassy tone? Would the makeshift handle never again slice into my weary fingers? Would my brave attempts at playing Klezmer Kollectiv tunes by ear never again make my housemates long for the wormy peace of the grave?

I wandered, shaken, back to the house, where I informed Cliffey of my plight:

"I've left my baritone on the bus."
"That's the saddest sentence I've ever heard."

I was in no mood to eat, but, knowing that I had to keep my strength up, I managed to choke down a bakewell tart. I prepared to head back to uni, taking a little consolation in the knowledge that Cardiff Bus does have a lost and found, and how money second-hand baritone horns does one bus company rake in over the course of a day?

I waited mournfully at the bus stop, not looking forward to the two hours of "the music industry wants to rape you" that lie in wait for me back at the Atrium. As the number 38 pulled up, I found the driver oddly familar. He didn't recognise me, of course, but that didn't matter because as I hopped onto the bus I saw, in the luggage rack, my baritone case. Somebody, apparently, likes me.

I was never worried, of course. I timed my journey perfectly so that I would catch the same bus on its return journey to central station. I hadn't even considered how useless  I would be to my uni ensemble without my horn. And I  knew that the driver wouldn't bat an eye at the fact that I got off the bus carrying a large brown case that had been there since before I got on.

So that's my good karma gone for the rest of the year, anyhow. I hurried back to the Atrium, baritone case swinging recklessly in my hand, and settled into my midday cultures lecture, where we were told, amongst other things, that session musicians no longer exist.

I was a bit alarmed; my cousin's a session musician. I should probably make sure he's okay.

Joel.

* * *

I know, that was rubbish. He didn't even mention the awesome Halloween parties, of which there were TWO. You'd think he'd remember at least one of them, right?