The Bit At The Start
“Bugger!” Said God.
Dropping his astral hammer, he proceeded to hop up and down across the cluttered workshop, cursing and swearing creatively. This was to be expected, as doing things creatively comes with the territory. Once he had cursed the name of all things, then the name of some things he hadn’t created yet, then invented some new bits of anatomy, he calmed down a little. He stalked over to a small writing desk in the corner, on which there was a large thick leather bound book lying open. Pulling a grubby little pencil from behind his ear and licking the end, he began to write.
DAY 6: All this bloody flat earth brouhaha is really beginning to get on my nerves. I don’t care what they say, it’s complete cobblers – The slightest breeze and everything slides off the bloody thing. Gravity is a virtual impossibility, and I’ve tried gluing it all down but those damn stupid humans keep pulling their legs off to get mobile. And continental drift – bloody continental slip off the edge more like. It’s like a load of big flat green lemmings in here. ‘Try something different’ they say, ‘spheres are so last year’ they say. I even tried a bleeding cube to please the buggers, and one of them dropped it on his foot. No, stick to what you know, and leave the clever stuff to the clever folk. I like my balls, and I want to keep them. By which I mean spherical planets.
NB: Thinking of growing a beard, getting some robes in, going for the whole wise thing. I hear it’s going to be really huge this season. I’m just worried I’ll look like my Dad.
God dropped his pencil and scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“One more before tea,” he announced “ GABRIEL!”
Somewhere in the distance was the sound of broken crockery (well, crockery being broken - once it’s smashed it stays pretty quiet). God sighed and his eyes went heavenwards, which in this case was towards the garden outside the window. Heavy feet thudded down some stairs, and by the sound of it rolled the last few steps.
“HowcanIhelpsir?” Spluttered the tubby, short, red faced and breathless man who burst through the door.
“Gabriel.”
“Yes sir.”
“You’ve got chocolate on your chin. No, you missed it. Left a bit…. my left…. that’s better.”
“Sorry sir.”
“Hmm. I think we need to have that talk about corsetry. Anyway, where’s that planet I asked you to throw on the compost heap earlier? The one the Advisors said was too round.”
“Um, in the kitchen, sir.”
“In the kitchen.”
“Yes.”
“Not on the compost heap.”
“No.”
“Despite the fact I asked you over four hours ago.”
“I was just getting round to it, sir, but…”
“You were eating a chocolate cake.”
“Yes.”
“Ho hum, never mind. Luckily enough, I need it back. Be a good chap and fetch it here for me. And no dipping into the jelly bean jar while you’re there.”
A few minutes later Gabriel returned with a small blue and green ball sitting comfortably in the palm of his hand. Meanwhile, God had gone over to a cupboard in the corner, and from a bag selected a thin metal pole with a kind of flat blade attached at right angles to one end. He took the planet, and stepped outside into the bright sunlight. Striding purposefully across a perfect lawn, he made his way to a tiny hillock, where he stabbed a bowl topped spike into the earth, and balanced the planet on top.
“FORE!” He bellowed, and sent Earth spinning into orbit.
Chapter One
“Hello Tel,” said the little fat man sitting at the kitchen table. “How have you been keeping?”
Thelopius looked at him for a moment, pausing as if in mid decision. The spoon hovered in mid air and coffee granules bounced one by one onto the work surface. He blinked twice, considering the mans presence for a moment before speaking.
“Not too bad, thanks,” he said carefully. “Just got in from work, thought I’d have a cuppa. Yourself?”
“The usual, Tel, the usual. Old Bob still pottering in the garden, that sort of thing.”
Thelopius wiped up the spilt coffee granules, his brow furrowed.
“Jolly good, jolly good. Is he well?”
“Yes, yes, fit as a fiddle. Just not interested any more, if you know what I mean. Says all the fun has gone out of it.”
“Yes, of course,” he spooned sugar into his cup, “the fun. One thing… who are you exactly? It’s just, well, I don’t want to appear rude, but I really can’t place your face, and this is my kitchen. And you’re in it. And those are my doughnuts.”
“Didn’t know how long you’d be, got peckish sort of thing. Sorry.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are.”
He waited a moment.
“Now please put them down.”
“One more.”
“No.”
“Oh. Have you got any biscuits?”
“Yes I have, and no you can’t. I’d really rather know who you are first?”
The little fat man looked Thelopius up and down, scratching at his chin. Once he had worked the crumb loose he ate it.
“You really don’t know me, do you?”
“I really gave myself away when I said ‘who are you’ didn’t I?” Tel checked his grip on the heavy kettle.
“Hmm. Does the name Steve mean anything to you?”
“I know Steve the fishmonger in the market, but that’s not you. And I know Steve at the call centre, but he’s not you either. I don’t know you. At all.” He stood with his legs at shoulder width apart, not quite sure of the correct tough yet not too threatening attitude to adopt.
“Bob? Do you know Bob?”
“Bob……Bob……Bob….”
“You look remarkably like a goldfish.”
“Shut up. I don’t know Bob.”
“That could make things very difficult.”
“I’m already finding them quite taxing. Are you some kind of loony?”
The little fat man shook his head sadly.
“I really don’t want to do this, you know.”
He took a deep breath, puffing out his chest. He suddenly seemed larger, yet less tubby, more important, yet less self important. More remarkably, his head was glowing and he had sprouted big white wings.
“Thelopius Rumblebutt, Traveller in space and time, Chronicler of the Universe, Keeper of the epochal conveyor, Eater of the kebab of ages, hark now, for this is your call to arms,” he boomed. “In the name of Bob the Almighty I command you to action, in defence of the very fabric of reality itself. By your own oath I bid you follow me now.”
If it hadn’t been for the bit of jam on the fat mans nose Thelopius would have been very impressed. As it was, he lay on the floor where he had fallen, drool dripping from his unconscious mouth.
A short chubby angel with food stuck on his face towering above him shouting about Turkish cuisine, and a vague feeling of deja-vu crowding his head. It wasn’t a patch on the one where Elvis and George Formby were playing scrabble and arguing over the spelling of ‘uh-huh’ but it was enough to make him groan as he woke. He invariably woke from these ones with a headache big enough for the neighbours to hear.
He swung his legs to the floor and sat at the edge of the bed, shaking his head to clear it. As he forced his eyelids open to greet the pain of light he groaned. Sitting in the corner of the room with chocolate round his mouth was the fat man. He put down the Easter egg and waved.
“Morning! I thought you’d never come round. How’s the head?”
“Bugger off.”
“Charming. And I tucked you in last night and everything.”
“You’re not real, you fool. You’re a figment of my imagination. A dream, no more.”
“If I’m not real, then why does your head hurt?”
“How do you know my head hurts?”
“I saw you land on it.”
“You saw… ah, I see what you’re doing. You’re in my head, so of course you know how I feel. You’re playing mind games – or rather I’m playing mind games. I shouldn’t even call you ‘you’, you’re me. But with less style. And more weight.”
“That’s below the belt, Tel. I am dieting, honest. It’s not easy. I have…..cravings.”
“Stop eyeing that egg. I bought that especially for a friend.”
“Really – who?”
“Um, well, it’s for…..Dave. My mate Dave.”
“You haven’t got a mate called Dave. In fact, you haven’t even got a mate. You bought it for yourself. Because you knew you wouldn’t get one otherwise. ”
“That’s not true!”
“Is too. You have no friends, Tel. Not here, you haven’t. And there’s a good reason for that.”
“It’s the feet thing isn’t it? It always seems to annoy people, that one. I really can’t help it – my feet just seem be ergonomically perfect.”
“No, Tel. That’s a symptom of what you are. What you are is why you are so extremely average – look at yourself. You’re average height, weight, hair colour. Sitting here in your little three bed semi, popping out to work at the call centre. I mean, you even live in bleeding Swindon. You’re the average man on the street; you’re pedestrian, mediocre, banal. It’s no wonder that you have no friends.”
“Thanks for that, but I really don’t want to investigate the inner me right now. The time for soul searching is sometime when I’m awake. Which I’m not. And I’m not average – have you noticed the fetching hat and scarf on the hat stand?”
“The hat’s on the floor.”
“I missed. But the point is that an average person wouldn’t have a nice wide brimmed hat like that, or the absurdly long scarf. They’re a statement, they make me feel different.”
“Do you wear them often?”
“On special occasions.”
“How very average. You should listen to me. Tel, I’m your friend.”
“You’re my conscience or some bloody thing. Now sod off. I’m going back to sleep, and next time I really am going to wake up.”
“I won’t leave.”
“Can’t hear you.”
“I can wait.”
“La la la la la la la la la la la la la.”
“I’m off to use the phone. I hope you’ll be a bit less grumpy when you get up.”
“Go ahead,” muttered Thelopius, “I get a special deal for imaginary friends and family.”
He rolled over and went back to sleep.
In the hallway, the fat man picked up the telephone. He pulled out a little leather address book and proceeded to dial a number so long that he used all the buttons at least three times, and some others that weren’t even on the keypad. Eventually he listened to the recorded tones of a pleasant sounding lady telling him that his call was important. He was in a queue. His call would be answered shortly. His call was important. He was currently number three in the queue. His call was important. Their operators would be getting to his call as soon as possible. He was still number three in the queue. His call was important.
Forty six minutes and twenty three seconds later he had risen through the ranks to lord it over all the other callers as number one in the queue. He basked in this glory for a further twenty five minutes, during which time his call continued to be important. Fortunately, he had long ago learned the art of patience. Anyone with eternity on their hands needs to be able to cope with tedium. Finally, a languid voice answered, dripping with boredom.
“Thank you for calling Clouds Recreation And Pleasure Resort, where business and pleasure can meet. My name is Charlene, how can I help?”
“I’d like to speak to one of the Doctors please.”
“Hold the line.”
Ten minutes elapsed.
“Hello sir.”
“Yes.”
“Who should I say is calling?”
“Steve. Just tell them Steve.”
Quarter of an hour slipped away this time. His call was still important.
“I’m sorry sir, there’s no answer there.”
“Then why did you come back and ask my name?”
“I couldn’t put you through without announcing you. Common telephone courtesy that is, sir.”
“You mean to say that you’ve been ringing them for over a quarter of an hour, and you’ve only just realised that they’re not in?”
“No, I rang them for about a minute. Then I went for my break.”
“But I was sat here like a fool.”
“How you sit is down to you, sir. Besides, the Union has rules about health and safety. If I don’t get up and go for a cigarette at regular intervals, I could suffer permanent damage to my health.”
“Great. Can I leave a message?”
“Certainly, sir. If you could just phone our message line. Just dial the normal number, then add twelve nines on the end. ”
“Can’t I give you the message?”
“No sir – Union rules you see. I’m a Call Handling Operative. I handle calls. I can’t leave messages. It would deprive someone else of a job sir. It’s my civic duty not to take your message.”
“Couldn’t you just write a note?”
“100 % computerised here, sir. Totally paper free environment. Very modern, sir.”
“Well could you send an email or something? Print off a note, maybe?”
“Sorry sir, the systems are down.”
“But I’ve been sat here for over an hour and a half.”
“You really should have a break sir. Bad for your health, that is. I could send you some pamphlets on health and safety if you want. Sir…… hello. Oh. What a rude man. Colin, I’m off for my lunch. ”
Steve redialled the incredibly long number, muttering to himself. He was soon listening to another equally pleasant sounding voice, telling him to leave a message after the tone. His message was going to be dealt with just as soon as possible.
“This is a message for the Doctors from Steve. Something’s come up, it’s really quite important. I can’t talk over the phone, but we need Tel, and he’s not listening. He thinks I’m some sort of apparition and tells me to sod off. I need your help urgently. Please call me as soon as possible.”
He didn’t hear the little beep that had happened just after he said ‘Steve’.
Thelopius woke with a shudder, an inexplicable feeling of frustration enveloping him. He felt hemmed in, trapped, crowded. A repetitive thumping sound bounced around his head, his personal Chinese water torture. Groaning he gripped his head with both hands, squeezing, almost as if he were trying to force the sounds out of his nostrils. It wasn’t sound that he forced out of his nostrils, but something slightly gooier. As he fumbled blindly for a tissue a single headlight shone through his morning brain fog, and his hand changed direction to the radio alarm clock. Swiping the off button, the thumping stopped, his body relaxed and he sighed. The only thing better than never listening to that, he opined privately, was those few blissful seconds of relief after turning it off.
“Sometimes,” he said aloud, “I wonder what’s happened to good music. They just don’t write tunes anymore.”
Sometimes, he thought to himself, I sound like a real old fart.
Ten minutes later, while eating his corn flakes, he ran through the events of last night with The Insectosaurus (free inside selected packets, seven to collect).
“I got in, I remember that. Went to make tea, I remember that. Mad fat bloke ate my doughnuts then sprouted wings. I wish I could forget that.”
The Insectosaurus looked sympathetically at him, in as much as a small lump of inanimate plastic can look sympathetic.
“I must have been dreaming, mustn’t I?”
The Insectosaurus gazed impassively.
“But if I was dreaming, then why can’t I remember anything else.”
Had it had shoulder muscles, The Insectosaurus would have shrugged.
“I must have fallen, hit my head, and triggered some kind of hallucinogenic experience. I knew I should never have taken those mushrooms at the office party.”
Had it had a mouth, lungs and vocal cords, The Insectosaurus would have said that Thelopius knew perfectly well that those were normal mushrooms, and the hallucinogenic effect achieved at the time had been solely due to his inability to handle Stockroom Dave’s Really Painful Home Made Gut Wrencher. This was an aptly named mixture, consisting largely of whisky, gin, vodka, lager and tar. When he threw up on the street, Thelopius had created a world first – a road that was guilty of drink driving. It must have been absolutely plastered – Thelopius bore witness to it swaying from side to side before jumping up to head butt him.
“I know, I know, it was the gut wrencher. But in that case, how can last night be explained.”
The Insectosaurus looked knowledgeable.
“No. No way. It cannot be true. If you think that I’m going to believe that I received a visitation from some kind of bloated angelic messenger with a food fixation, then you can think again.”
“You’re up, great. I just popped out for some milk. How do you feel today – just you seemed a touch testy when we spoke last.”
Steve smiled at him from the doorway.
The Insectosaurus looked smug.
“Stupid plastic git.” Said Thelopius, hurling it into the bin.