Nick the Superhero

New from NIXCO PUBLISHING DIV, a part of JP Publishing

Nixco are proud to present the first draft of a manuscript by their recent discovery Master Edward Piron. While on a cycling tour of Cambridgeshire our Director came across burgeoning author Eddie Piron, labouring in his lonely garret on the edge of the windswept and mysterious Cambridgeshire Fens. He was given shelter from an impending Steppe-born blizzard by Master Piron where he was invited to share the Author's sparse meal of a bowl of 'Cocoa Rocks'. Later that evening while mooching around the house to keep warm, our Director came upon this ms on the pages of that budding author's vehicle of choice; the School Exercise Book. While perusing said ms, he managed to dislodge a molar-impacted 'rock' with his prehensile tongue, the sudden burst of chocolate on the tastebuds reminding him of the unstinting generosity of his diminutive host, he made a vow that such literary talent should not go unrewarded and so we present (almost unedited), for your delight:

NICK THE SUPERHERO

(A WORK IN PROGRESS)

BY

MASTER EDWARD PIRON

Nick the superhero
By Eddie Piron

First published by Jerry Piron in 2007
and illistraited by Gail Crow (also in 2oo7)
Nick the super hero

By Eddie Piron

Soon to be available from Nixco :
The Tom Landrover collection
By Eddie Piron

Tom Landrover and the wizards commentary (book1)
Tom Landrover and the indian duel cave (book 2)
Tom Landrover and the lost planet dividing (book 3)

Important message:
If you happen to be named “ Nick” , you probbably are a super hero but I am so-
rry to say this book will be about a “ Ni-
ck” you might not have met before. The
super hero by name is: Nick , Adrian , H-
ayes.
by Eddie
Contents
0. How to become a super hero
1. The beginning of Nick Hayes...
2. 53 years later
3. The humourous werewolf
4. The humourous werewolf ‘s helping hand
5. The evil army of werewolves
6. Nick the super hero!
7. Werewolves. Now known as the ultra evil werewolves!
8. Desert land
9. Nick the super hero saves the centurys!
10.1,000,000 years later...
11. Not the end of Nick!... but a very old
man!

chapter 0
how to become a superhero
To become a superhero you need a load of coloured cloth, a pair of scissors and a bannana incase you get hungry. Then you need to make sure its in your size otherwise you could look fat or, iff its too small you might get blown up. Once you’ve done that you need to fly off and do super things like mend fences and-
Iff you do that you’re not a superhero. First of all iff you’re hungry take a bit of the bannana. Then you need to do prop-er super things like save inocent people from firey biulding-s and things like that. But something even worse than that could happen in this story. Now you can go on to chapter one...

Chapter 1
The beggining of Nick Hayes
Once upon a time there was a zero year old named Nick. He died in I’mm not going to tell you because you’ll give it away years. A fact about the most spectacularly ordinary pupil imaginable. This chapter is called The beggining of Nick for a great, brilliant, spectacular, superb,fabolous and good reason. But in the last chapter of this book you might be in for a bit of a shock. I wouldn’t in one million years tell you what its called (because you might already know) but I can tell you something that would give you a very good idea of what it couldn’t be called: it isn’t the end of Nick.
By the way, I can tell you what chapter two is called because you won’t want this chapter to go on for years and years until you get to tired to read any longer. The thing is I’ve for-gotten what chapter two is and I don’t want to go back to the contents. Ha, ha! Ok, Ok, I’ll tell you. Its called 53 years later. Now days Nick is fifty-three years old. In the future he went on a wild adventure named chapter eight. But for now we’ll say that Nick Hayes is a zero year old who has just born and has no idea what will happen when he’s a grwn up. I should tell you something though. Iff you haven’t read chapter zero you must read it imedeately. This is serious as-well as amazingly humorous. The reason this is, is because only one person in a galaxy is aloud superhero responsabil-ity. Don’t ask yourself why I said that, it was for a brilliant reason. First of all this is not a true story ok?
Second of all Nick’s mum and dad were the only couple brave enogh to give Nick superhero responsability.
And third of all, don’t go thinking “everyone is gonna be a superhero!” because they aren’t.
So, you now no about superheros, their responsability and what might be happening later on in this story. But you’ll still be wondering how the rest of the story will go I haven’t told you the whole story yet. Wonder as much as you like but it’ll take a long time until you get to find out the mystery of mainly chapter eight, but also chapter three, four and five. Find out as chapter one comes to a sad end.

Chapter 2
53 years later

Fifty three years later, Nick Hayes sat on his bed being dificult with himself.

Here's a picture of the successful graduates of the Nixco School of Writing and Learning, well not really but here's some of last year's students at their Graduation last week. If you're viewing this page then you either have remarkably good taste or you've followed up the address from the WLM "flier" enclosed in the Pharmacology Students Welcome Pack.

So why have you arrived at one of my blogs? The simple answer is because someone dropped the address onto my flier "for a laugh". However, writing a blog can be a good way to expand your writing skills, you can use it to try and iron out the things that aren't making sense to you, you can use it as a diary of how miserable/ecstatic you feel (remembering that the entire world can read it of course), or you can use it to hone your web construction skills. I use them to become famous and have Publishing Houses begging at my door for copy, so if you know anyone in publishing then please push them in this direction.

TMFFTTM 12

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me, such as when cooking with wine always buy two bottles. Jerry had invited me along to provide moral support as he took Eddie to the Northants Caving Club Family Weekend (please don't launch [as everyone else has] into, "I didn't know there were any caves in Northamptonshire.", there aren't, it's where they all live). This involves camping, caving and a sort of communal meal/football match (dependent on age).

We had decided to go up on the Saturday (well Jerry had, as he was doing a run [the Colworth Five] on the Friday) so I arrived late Friday, bearing what I could carry without my back exploding, consequently, I would be caving in old clothes, as opposed to a weighty furry- and oversuit combination.

Actually, arriving late on Friday didn't go down to well as Gail had cooked, and it took me two hours from London to their door (Cambridge Public Transport Committee having decided that it was a much better idea for buses to leave the Station five minutes before the trains arrived, as opposed to, five minutes after), however the salmon was still delicious, if slightly unexpected.

In the morning I was treated to the usual "accidental" door opening and stage whispers, I rose to fulfill my duties as "Second-Best Tickler". While swimming lessons took place, Jerry and I hoovered (!) and finally got the DVD player in the car working. Then we packed, installed Eddie and headed North, pausing only to buy lunch and fire up HP plus Goblet of Fire. We arrived at Birchover and found the campsite by the simple process of knobbling passing folk from Northamptonshire and saying, "Where's the campsite?" They would stop and say, "Oh Hello! It's over there". After forking out an exorbitant campsite fee £7.50/$14 ("Humph! I'd rather not have the sauna and pay less!" J), we persuaded folk to move their cars off the flat bit, and pitched the tent.

The afternoon progressed with tea, and Eddie coming over all shy, so we, Eddie and I, decided to head off for an explore, and a bit of a climb up and down a bank or two, this went quite well, only two assaults by brambles (one each) and one sitdown on a very pointy rock (Eddie). Plus, there was still tea waiting when we got back.

Eventually the caving trip was declared and we all set off for Jug Holes. Having the Ordnance map I guided Jerry onto the most direct route, after a mile or so of terror, we decided not to come back that way, and so pulled in behind everyone else at the parking for the cave. We changed, Jerry into a furry and oversuit combination, myself into my crotchless cycling trousers ( I should say that this indicates wear and tear rather than perversion ) and horridest t shirt, later followed, reluctantly, by a fleece, Eddie into "whatever young boys get dirty in" clothes.

The cave came in two parts, the first part being a large cavern entrance with a series of small muddy (very) chambers at the back. As I sat in one, waiting for Eddie to negociate a slippery slope I glanced at the boulder next to me, it glanced back at me, it was blue! I hefted it, it was blue - and heavy. I picked it up and took it into the sunlight, it was now muddy and only vaguely blue, but it was still heavy. I broke it. "Cor!" A big lump of Blue John. Thus happy we went down the hill to entrance two and the possibility of the "round trip". The entrance was a large pipe, inside there was a mine adit and halfway along a mine cart (very Indiana Jones) and a small laminated notice saying, "Don't touch the ceiling - Loose Rocks" (very Big John), after that a chamber, another truck and a bit of natural cave, muddy and tight natural cave. We squoze on, the mud lubricating our passage by the simple process of coming off on our clothes. Eventually we met the party coming the other way, some elected to carry on, others to go back with us, though sadly no-one knew the way. After a ten minute faff the through route was discovered and the shorter people (not me - for a change) assisted over, under, down and between things. The end was a twelve foot ladder climb, that was much easier if you didn't use the ladder (or eschewed it, as we say in the Lake District). This caused the most heartache for the junior members, as they were too short to climb anything but the ladder, I agreed with them, I hate the bloody things. Back in the sunlight I surveyed myself, blue Bedford cord (crotchless) trousers - now brown, grey fleece - now brown, natty striped undies - now brown (mud - thank you), horrible t-shirt - not brown enough due to intervention of fleece. We broke out the binliners and changed.

Back at the campsite there was a lot less grass visible, most of the site seemed to be full of fifteen year old school parties. I went and checked my bag, yep, there were the essentials of happy camping, ear plugs and a sleep mask, they just might work against the undoubted onslaught of RnB and rioting. Jerry, Eddie and I went to sleepmat at about 10.00, and so did the school parties, consequently we were only kept awake by the riot and ghetto blasters of the Northants Caving Club.

Morning, heavy cloud flying in from the west, casting a weather eye we dissembled the tent just as it began to rain, then we went for a little walk, which became littler as the rain became heavier. So we went home.

A couple of days later, and after an extensive flailing to remove loose mud, I did the washing, lobbing in a pair of grey trousers with the fleece, this was a mistake, I had forgotten the tenacity of cave mud (so tenacious that most cavers have a pair of underpants dedicated to caving trips, as they never wash sucessfully), consequently I now have a pair of grey trousers and a fleece that are impregnated with a fine grit, giving them a certain stiffness and a mild abrasive nature (rather like myself).

Moral: Been caving? Use a bucket!

TMFFTTM 11

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me about, such as never re-arranging furniture until guests are pounding on your door. I was meandering about the supermarket looking for something for my evening meal (I'd already found a do-it-yourself Bhel-Poori kit) when I found myself pondering the rice selection.
"Aha!" I thought (fortunately, as I find that spoken soliloquies on the relative merits of various dried cereals or farinaceous goods, tend to attract attention to oneself, and not in a "How fascinating me too, did you know wild rice isn't actually rice?" sort of way), "I've never actually done a proper risotto, pilafs yes, oodles, but never a real 'stand over the pan and stir things till they fall into a glop of the right consistency for one's own taste' sort of risotto." My hand stirred, hesitated and darted forward. Hence it was that I left with a packet of Arborio rice.
"Why - " you may ask, "with all your culinary expertise, and with all your spare time in the evenings, as I know you have no social life, have you never attempted a risotto before?"
"Well - " I reply, "what with, as you know, no social life, and the consequent malaise engendered by the same, I spend a lot of the time slouched in front of the TV. Therefore, for me to take time away from said TV, to stir rice, seems as pointless as watching the TV in the first place."
"But..." you counter, "..."
"I know!" irascibly.
Thus it was that the anxiety started, for, as you probably know, the basis of a good risotto is wine, dribbled into the pan to be soaked up by the parched rice grains, till they swell and deliquesce with oenous aromatics. But how much? I poured a sloosh, the rice glooped it down, loosened it's belt and gave me the stare of an orphan. I poured more, it did the same again this time jutting its lower lip. After the next go, I carefully inspected the bottle, took the risotto off the heat, went and got a glass, put the risotto back on the heat, poured a glass, re-inspected the bottle. I became an aid-worker in the Camp, feeling guilty, though eminently sensible, I turned on the kettle, and lobbed some East-European veggie stock into the pan.
It was a good risotto, though I ran out of wine halfway through the plate.
Moral. When wine is an essential cooking ingredient, buy two bottles.

TMFFTTM 10

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me, like the fact that Supermarket staff may have more about them than you give them credit for.
It hadn't been the best of times, we'd had gales that had marooned my brother and family in London, and, Gent that I am, I'd abandoned my bed to them, occupying the sofa in a sleeping bag. The sofa proceeded to destroy my back, already in a parlous state from shopping and humping computers, consequently I had had to abandon my trusty steed and use Public Transport, the resulting bout of flu had laid me out for two days, during which time I caught up on large amounts of sleep, a fair amount of pain, and perfected my listless sigh.
I was due to go to a Beer Festival on the Thursday with a younger friend of the female persuasion, and exercising cold logic with the precision of a surgical instrument, had decided to prepare the sleeping arrangements prior to our, potentially unsteady, return from the Fest. First however, I was beset by the inevitable anxieties that face a man of a certain age when about to play host to a "young gell": would my puissance overcome her so that I would have to succumb protesting, would I be ravished(though in my post-flu state I would have served better as hot-water bottle than sex-object)?

Reality intervened, and I sorted out the bed clothes and towels, then opened the sofa bed by exerting a back-friendly downward pressure to shift the cantilevers, there would, at least, be two of us to reverse the process.

Thursday. Snow. A text message, "There's snow. I'm not coming. Sorry" I went to work, the handbasin belched forth the sort of miasma normally associated with the undead, necessitating extensive furniture moving, panel removing, flooding and calls to non-existent College plumbers. The Tube collapsed on the way home (due to severe weather conditions - my arse) causing me to skedaddle under most of the City as I sought a way home. I arrived after an hour and a half (double the normal time). My brother called to tell me that I was to be an uncle again, such was my mood that I am afraid to say that I was churlish, "Oh great, another dependant, another birthday to remember, more present expense".

I put away the bedclothes and towels, and opened the gin, later I tried to close the bed, I failed. As I applied upwards pressure, I could feel my lower back saying things along the lines of, "I really don't think you should be doing this." and "I may not know much about levers but I know what I like and I don't like this!"

My living room still contains the sofa in bed mode, perhaps it adds a bit of BoHo chic.

Moral: Never re-arrange the furniture till they're at the door or you may do yourself an injury.

TMFFTTM9

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me about like the fact that you can never get away from the TV. I had been dragged kicking and scheming to the pub by drinking protagonist Dean, and had just had a pint of my favourite beer put in front of me (Timothy Taylor's Landlord from Keighley in Yorkshire, which has been my favourite pint long before Madonna even discovered where Yorkshire was).
I eyed it somewhat sceptically, it lay in the glass, moribund, a few bubbles of the kind normally associated with pond scum disturbed its otherwise featureless surface, they clustered together at the centre like musk oxen attacked by wolves. I nosed it, sadly the pungent reek of aldehyde failed to prick the back of my nostrils, there was no scent of pear and pineapple, the beer was perfectly sound, just flat and lifeless, a badger that had failed to cross the beer highway. Call me stupid, I felt duty bound to drink it.
As I ploughed through the listless beverage my mood followed the meniscus on its downward curve, I ended up vaguely depressed about the whole London bitter scene; "You pay us a fortune, we deliver the average.".
Dean departed, and I decided to cheer myself up by buying some prawns to bang into Tom Yam soup. I defy anyone to be depressed after Tom Yam soup, the amount of pain it causes releases enough endorphins to get an elephant doing cartwheels. At Sainsbury's I decided to get some cash, the machine sucked in my card and counted out the notes, I heard it. The little door did not open, the sheaf of crisp, warm banknotes was not pressed in my hand. The machine counted again, the little door did not open, the sheaf of crisp, warm banknotes was not pressed in my hand - again. The machine cogitated and then produced an apology, "I'm sorry I cannot give you the money at the moment. Do not worry it has not been taken from your account."
--------------
I waited, the card did not appear, as I waited my dudgeon rose. Customer services scenting the aroma of not very good beer, glazed as I explained my predicament, then told me I'd had it, as if the Bank had ordered my card retained, that was it. I tried again, twice and once more with an overling. The upshot was that they could do nothing, I suggested they turned off the machine at least, they acquiesced, well, they said they would. I stalked off to the bus stop with two pounds forty three to my name, fifteen minutes later I was on the phone to the bank, cancelling the card whilst contemplating the credit card that could have been my soupy saviour.
The day after, I discovered my card, nestling, where it has always nestled, in my wallet. It is, of course, impotent, no matter how many slots I shove it in nothing will ever come out, what happened during that interval I do not know, did my flash of hubris obscure card retrieval, did a microwarp happen in the monetary space-time continuum, is some other card (apparently recognisable) gumming up the works of the apologetic machine?
My new card arrives next week.
Moral. While you may think supermarket staff are jumping to conclusions, they may have a point.

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TMFFTTM8

It was one of those things that my Father failed to tell me about, like checking your anchovies before paying for them. I had arranged to take two American geologists on the historical pub tour, frighteningly they wanted to start at midday. So it was that I met them (twenty minutes late due to a bomb scare) outside the National Film Theatre, Tom already firmly outside his first pint, Pat having eschewed the notion due to the hangover from the previous night, and burgeoning jet lag.
We set off, I took a breath to run quickly through the skyline, picked out the steeple of St Bride's, "That's St Brides....."
Tom, "That's the wedding cake one - right?"
"Oh umm, right. That's Cleopatra's nee..."
" Yeah found buried in sand in Egypt, brought over in a caisson 1877/78, and erected to commemorate the end of the Napoleonic Wars, 1815, money supplied by public subscription."
"Right, let's go to the first pub!"

To be fair, I had taken Pat on the crawl before, and they had spent a large part of the previous late afternoon/evening trawling up and down Fleet Street and the Strand, mind you he seemed to have pulled off a prodigious feat of memory. We crossed the river after a brief excursion to the lookout on the top of the Oxo Building, and went to my favourite pub, the Blackfriars. This is where we decided to have lunch, always a pretty hit or miss affair in a London pub. My pie was somewhere within the treble ring, Tom's fish was closer, Pat's (why do I want to eat it's friggin' 4 a.m) steak sandwich bounced off the outer wire and embedded itself somewhere in the nether regions of the pub carpet. We carried on, sticking our head in St Pauls for all the spiritual enlightenment you can get without paying £9/$17 and recrossing the Thames on "The Blade of Light" (official) or "The Wobbly Bridge" (tabloid).
"There's a TV!" The unjetlagged using his uncanny observational skills, honed by many years of having eyes.
"Oh yeah.".
We carried on deciding to refresh at the Anchor Bankside, and, after a pause, reemerged and set forth upon our riverine trek (Oh to be in Edinburgh, to make the pun work). After a quick stroll through Borough market, with Tom failing yet again to spot the hotpants, (there seems to be something about males together, in a country not of their own, the culture shock seems to produce a bonding pattern entirely based on wishful sex and some function of the area of exposed flesh) we ended up at the George 3rd.
Later we returned to the river.
"Hey! There's the TV again!"
Somewhat mellowed we meandered on, stopping off to admire various bits and marvel at Tower Bridge, (that's the one that should be at Lake Havasu but no-one bothered to tell the millionaire purchaser that it wasn't London Bridge - har har).
At this point I was beginning to rue the fact that they were geologists, the conversation was littered with:

"Hey isn't the food in Thailand great?"
"Yeah but what about the stuff they eat in Korea!"

"Had to spend a week off San Diego, saw twelve Blue Whales."

"Wow, the Arctic!"
"Yeah but the South Pole!"
"Oh yeah"

"Hawaii, what's your favourite island?"

We approached Tower Bridge, the rest of the evening was to be spent crawling along the north bank going to the historic Thameside pubs and ending up at the Prospect of Whitby, potentially the oldest pub in London.
Three quarters of the way across Tower Bridge, Pat started,

"There's the TV!"


Moral: While there may be nothing on TV, it's damn difficult to get away from.

Here at Nixco the summer holidays have definitely started, so we asked our local scryer, Old Nick to consult his ball and advise us horoscopically where to go.


LEO July 22 - August 21
A safari. Leo males traditionally lie around sated for hours at a time in the sun, Leo females traditionally kill game animals and feed the kids. C'est la vie - don't knock it. Can't afford a safari? then come to Colwyn Bay Mountain Zoo.http://www.welshmountainzoo.org/new/home.htm

VIRGO August22 - September 21 Another quiet year for Virgos. I think a gentle water-colouring holiday will suit the average virgo. Llanidloes is nice and very handy for the Laura Ashley Factory Shop.http://www.llanidloes.com/

LIBRA September 22 - October 22 The stars tell me that Libra will enjoy a musical holiday this year, you've missed the Eistedffodd at Llangollen but there's still Llandrindod Wells Victorian Festival! http://www.victorianfestival.co.uk/

SCORPIO October 23 - November 21 The Scorpion has ten legs to deal with, rather like Line Dancing, and you can find all you need for Line Dancing at Hooked on Country in the town of Amlwch on the beautiful HOLIDAY Isle of Anglesey.http://homepages.tesco.net/~hookedoncountry/

SAGITTARIUS November 22 - December 20A centaur with a bow. Well even old Nick can't turn you into a centaur for a week (though there are several in Harry Potter ("Dull, dull, dull." Another unbiased reviewer)), but he can recommend the next best thing, Yes a pony trekking holiday in the Beautiful Black Mountains.http://www.transwales.demon.co.uk/

CAPRICORN December 21 - January 19The seagoat. Wales is the Ideal place for you with its spectacular coast and rugged mountains. Swim or scale it's your choice Capricorn, or combine the two in delightful Pembrokeshire.http://www.pembrokeshirecoast.org.uk/

AQUARIUS January 20 - February 18 While some Aquarians are decidedly wet, you are willing to try all forms of liquid, so why not try some delicious Welsh wine from Worthenburys while you relax in the delightful industrial setting of Wrexham!http://www.worthenburywines.co.uk/

PISCES February 19 - March 19 The fish in the sign of Pisces swim in opposite directions signifying internal conflict, why not lay the buggers to rest during a delightful spa break in the lovely Welsh countryside. Though I'm not too sure about the thermotherapy, no it'll be lovely you'll see (well you won't hear, certainly).http://www.escape2001.co.uk/

ARIES March 20 - April 18Aries is the sign of the ram and we all know what the ram is don't we children, it's a sheep, and where better to hang around with your ovine cousins than on a farm holiday in agricultural - Wales!http://www.croeso-betws.org.uk/acc/bb/tyddyndu.htm

TAURUS April 19 - May 19Spain! Espana! Sun! Flamenco! Sangria! Sounds fab, not a great place for bulls though! Taurus will be much better off touring varied South West Wales and visiting their "Older Brothers" at the many and fascinating Agricultural Shows.http://www.bbc.co.uk/wales/southwest/sites/shows/pages/pembrokeshire.shtml

GEMINI May 20 - June 20Gemini, your twin aspect always makes you unsure of yourself and others. Old Nick recommends that you get away with that "good friend".What better way to get to know someone than to share a room in one of Wales plethora of B&B's, who knows you may progress from those "Twinbeds" to a double !http://www.britainsfinest.co.uk/bedandbreakfast/search_results.cfm

CANCER June 21 - July 21Crabs like you love the seaside and with well over 80 miles of coastline, what better place than Cardigan Bay. You can even fish for some of your crustacean buddies or indulge in some guilt-free cannibalism. http://tourism.ceredigion.gov.uk/saesneg/beaches.htm

Nixco is not sponsored by Visitwales.com honest, no really.

TTMFFTTMA 7

It was one of those things that my Father failed to tell me about, like checking that the girl you're walking with has tissues.
As I cycled in the other day a taxi went past with the following emblazoned on the side:
DNT B WSTFL
"Aaaahh" I thought, "How nice, what a lovely sentiment for the mildly depressed."
Unfortunately the next line was all about recycling, so, realising that I'd misread WSTFL for WSTFL, I became wstfl.
However, in the evening I attended an "event" at Heals (a swish furnishing shop), featuring 10% off (ha, let's talk about my salary) and a tasting of Vina Mara wines. I swilled and spat at the start but then the security guard moved me past the planters.
My tasting notes from the evening:
Cava - it's cava.
Rose - it's horrid
Rioja - s'ooright
Rioja Reserva - bit planky, as in licking a freshly sawn bit of oak, or a good kipper.
Rioja Gran Reserva - not as planky as the reserva but a bit more acidic.
Crianza - Has hints of oak, like a cudgel made of that fine wood .
White Rioja - Cor you're lovely! Sorry bit of internalisation. Alright, sort of Spanishy.
White Something Else - I'm sure it would have been fine, but I suddenly found myself in Habitat (the shop opposite) with some unusual pressure bruises round my upper arms.
Habitat had come out in opposition, first of all it wasn't invites only, secondly they had half-naked, HALF-NAKED girls in hula skirts, I seem to remember that their fizzy wine was better but that could have been the Alka-Seltzer I had later, needless to say I won't be shopping there for sometime.
So thus fuelled and inspired I left for home.
Now, I've been frequenting a lot of Turkish shops lately, lured in by the cries of,
"How much? Crikey that's cheap!"
and so have adopted a form of the Mediterranean diet (lots of herby stuff with olive oil, fresh vegetables, a lot of peppers and a bottle of Australian wine, plus an awful lot of mint tea, chiefly due to the awful lot of mint.
I had started the morning with a spot of frantic maceration and had spent most of the day deep in infusion as I'd decided to introduce a piece of tuna to salsa verde. At work, after consulting t'internet, I discovered that I needed anchovies and that I'd left out the capers. Capers I had, a small jar of Spanish nonpareille in salt. I washed them four times, they still constricted the back of the throat like the first accidental contact with the Med. In my younger days, at College, a caper was a manoeuvre in Morris Dancing, though, if you were rich and used to such things, you might know that it was the green stuff in Tatar Sauce that made it taste like peculiar salad cream, but I digress.
I decided I could pick up the anchovies from the supermarket on the way home, so fortified with Vina Maria off I went. Supermarkets seem to offer much more choice that the average Italian fishmarket, so imagine my surprise when, on arriving back home I discovered that I had failed to get just, "Anchovies "and had ended up with "Anchovies with Garlic and Herb in Olive Oil", note "Herb", singular, and even that was parsley, hardly worthy of the name "herb" in my view. Anyway the purity of my concoction was diluted by a momentary lack of concentration.
Moral: Always read your anchovies.

Important message from Nixco Human Capital Division to all Nixco Workers

Dear Minion,
It has come to our attention that some of you are worried about holiday and work parity issues after the forthcoming assessment. Please do not be worried, your holiday entitlement will not change and everyone will work a thirty five hour week, allow me to explain.
For Support Staff who currently work a thirty seven hour week, an hour will now contain 63 minutes 26 seconds, and you will work 35 of them.
Similarly, those staff who take 25 days leave will now be expected to take 25 days of 14hrs and 24 minutes.
You are asked to ignore any celestial objects that might indicate that the day/night ratio is otherwise, as these objects are temporarily outside our control.
The HC Divisiuon would like to take this opportunity to advise you of our new motto - Carpe Diem.
Sally Bratt
Commander
Human Capital Division

New Weight Loss Programme from Nixco.
Following on the success of our Cardiofasterization Programme, Nixco are proud to present :
"Spintoff"
an exercise and weight loss programme.
Step one.
Buy or otherwise obtain a serviceable bicycle.
Step two.
Ride bicycle first thing in the morning between the months of November and March.
Step three. Do not sniff.
Mucus is stuffed full of glycoconjugates, and what are the first two syllables of glycoconjugates - yes Glyco and we all know what that means - Sugar!
So by not sniffing and therefore reingesting that mucus, you are contributing to significant sugar- and therefore weight- loss.
Nixco provide a fantastic range of accessories for those on the Spintoff programme, these include the Twin-Tube Loogey Luge with volumetric backpack, for those who want to quantify their weight loss.
The Spintoff Moustache, made from a material developed by NASA for spacesuit gussetting, capable of absorbing 2550 times its weight in fluid (available in a range of colours, including "flesh" for the ladies.
And for those who wish to go "au naturel " Spintoff Mucoff detergent.

TMFFTTM6

It was another of those things that your father fails to tell you about as a boy, like checking that your underpants are in your luggage. I had set off with my companion Liz for a walk in the countryside. Liz is "clubbing fit" the sort of club that plays 170 beats-per-minute music till five o'clock in the morning, whereas I have the fitness of one of the denizens of the sort of club where elderly gentlemen with red faces and carbuncle noses, snore gently under a copy of the Times, and wheeze when their cigar is reluctant to draw. Consequently a walk with Liz consists of me staring at her receding buttocks (not as in "hairline") for a few seconds, before turning my attention to her heels, and then the patch of ground immediately in front of me. Occasionally she stops to let me catch up (and, I suspect, gloat), and point her in the right direction, before she trips off into the distance, surrounded by a pink haze. I should point out, sadly, that the haze is probably less part of her character but more some sort of catastrophic vascular event that I'm going through.
This particular day we were doing a round walk from Tring Station to Ivinghoe Beacon and were on the return leg when disaster struck. My bowels (yes them again) announced their presence by going into spasm causing me to use my outdoor skills and scan the barren ground for some sort of public convenience, or, failing that, cover. Pressure mounted, this was not going to go away. Stiff-legged, tight-arsed (no comments please) I made my way towards a narrow thicket, occasionally stopping as waves of discomfort coursed down my, soon to be less, corpulent frame. Liz watched, caught in limbo halfway between pity and hysterical laughter.
"Liz, got any tissues?"
"One - but I've used it."
What sort of girl was this? La belle dame sans tissus. Inconceivable! A woman in the countryside with almost no paper products of any kind. I accepted the tissue and found some acceptably thick Leylandii. I emerged sometime later, pale, and with only half a handkerchief. It could have been worse, the same bug had caused three solid (I use the word advisedly) days of D and V in other people.
Moral: While all women should carry tissues some of them don't.

CARDIOFASTERIZATION UPDATE

A BULLETIN FROM THE UN (ALLEGEDLY).

WORLD-RENOWNED NIXCO CARDIFASTERIZATION HAS SIGNIFICANT EFFECT ON GLOBAL WARMING.
Cardiofasterization, the essential premise of the NIXCO NATKINS diet (holding one's breath during exercise to increase the heart rate) contributes significantly to a drop in Global Warming.
By holding one's breath, one prevents GREENHOUSE GAS, CARBON DIOXIDE from being released into the atmosphere.
In fact several FORMER SOVIET REPUBLIC NATIONS now exhort their populations to hold their breaths for as long as possible to obtain Emissions Credits as specified in the KYOTO PROTOCOL.

We have been told that we should exercise for half-an-hour, five times a week."Exercise? Pah!" I hear you say, but, fear not, we at Nixco have the solution.

Yes! Our Boffins and some physiologists have been studying modern diet trends for ages, and by careful extrapolation and application, have come up with a new and exciting exercise regime for YOU, the people.

Yes! You don't have to stop slouching! Or even get off the couch! With the New Nixco Natkin's Workout.

Our Science Team at Natkins HQ have studied exercise extensively;
What does it do?
Why does it hurt?
With Natkins it's "All Gain, No Pain"

In brief: Exercise increases the "burning" (a pseudotechnical term) of energy sources in the muscles. This process normally requires Oxygen (air), and in order to get that "air" to the muscles the heart beats faster, we call this Cardiofasterization [Nixco TM]. It is this Cardiofasterization that gives exercise its benefits.

Our workout induces Hypoxic Cardiofasterization without the need bend, stretch or break sweat, simply holding your breath for two minutes twenty times a day is equivalent to Half-an-Hour's Workout in a Very Expensive Gymnasium.

So send off today for your New Nixco Natkin's Workout Book - Remember Cardiofasterization could save your life! Send £40 to the usual Nixco Address. All purchasers receive a free "I'm on the Natkin's" T-shirt (available in XXL and XXXL only)

Dear Franchiser,
As you may have noticed there have been a lot of product recalls in the UK due to the inclusion of potentially carcinogenic compounds, such as sudan iv and para red, included as food dyes.It is with great regret that we have to recall one of our products: Orange Age Exfoliator.
Sourced from our far-eastern subsidiary, Nixcong, we have discovered that due to an error of translation the product is not in fact a "melange of citrus and rare tropical oils, guaranteed to restore the healthy glow of an eight year old" but is war surplus defoliant.
We therefore ask franchisers to return all stock (usual credit rules apply), and to advise customers that they should refrain from using the product and return it directly to us when we will refund monies reflecting the unused portion of the bottle.
Nixco will stringently deny any health problems associated with the use of the above.


Coming soon from Nixco, "Rite 2 Lite Leylandii Destroyer".

ttmffttm 5

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me about like keeping abreast of the changes in rail franchises.

My father as a young man was a keen cyclist, the sort of cyclist who would heave his ungeared bicycle up hills by dint of thew, or failing that, by walking. There are photo's of him dressed in long loose shorts, sensible shoes and socks and short-sleeved shirts, usually staring quizzically at a map, hair windblown and unkempt, occasionally a pipe will be clamped in his jaw, though how you cycle with a pipe without a; blinding yourself, or b; setting yourself on fire, is beyond me. Behind him, out of focus, will be other young men, similarly dressed, standing astride their bikes, arms akimbo. It seems that it was always my father's lot to find the route, guide the path of others, direct traffic, ironic that he himself rarely strayed from the beaten path of "should", "duty" and the "stiff upper lip".
It was my father who taught me how to cycle, the usual round of running behind a low bike holding onto the saddle, 'til, one day, the mantra of "keep pedalling", usually close to my ear, fades, becomes distant, becomes suspiciously distant! I turn, legs still flailing, to see - no one, the vast ocean of my confidence and competence becomes a Sahara of insecurity, the wobble sets in, a random harmonic of involuntary steering. I still have a scar from that bike.

It's hot, so I opted for cycling shorts. Now while I am usually a fan of wearing underwear, I believe that under cycling shorts it's counter productive, something to do with all that rubbing, heat and extra seams. So I sorted myself out a nice pair of briefs to add to the trousers already in the pannier. Therefore imagine my surprise, when, upon investigation, they were nowhere to be seen. Consequently I am writing this commando style.

Moral: whilst you may think you have packed your underpants, always double check, a few seconds now may save a lifetime of chafing later.

Dear Nixco Franchiser,

Firstly thank you for your order for 5000 of our Spirit Bangles, we enclose the official Nixco insert that should be included with the bangle. Nixco can also provide packaging designed to enhance the giftworthiness of the product in a choice of leatherine or vegetarian options, just order from the warehouse as normal.

Due to the uniqueness of our manufacturing process please remember to check the product for metal flashing before dispatch. Any flashing can be removed with a standard jeweller's file (Franchisee product 558. $5.00 or 1500 Nixcopoints).

We look forward to your next order.

Nixco

THE NIXCO SPIRIT BANGLETM.
Dear insert name,
You are now the proud owner of a “Nixco Spirit Bangle”TM, this bangle is specially designed to harness the Power of The Ancients for the use of the elderly.
Nixco realise that people like you insert name, people who are of a “mature aspect”, may need that little bit extra help with their bodily systems. So after years of extensive research we are proud to present the “Nixco Spirit Bangle”TM. Yes! Our team of professional charlatans has been scouring the texts and beliefs of the Ancients. They have spent time in Sioux sweat lodges attuning themselves to the Great Spirit Manitou. They have spent years studying the flow of Chi with renowned Oriental Practitioners. They have sojourned in the deserts of Egypt, sifting the sands of knowledge. They have thrown runes, yarrow stalks, and crystals. They have dealt tarot cards, looked through telescopes and visited bookshops in California, Glastonbury, Alderley Edge, Findhorn and Tintagel. They have eaten Peyote in Mexico, smoked Ganja in Jamaica, snorted Yoppo in the Amazon jungle, drunk tea in Bath, all to bring you the “Nixco Spirit Bangle”TM.
“But…” we hear you ask insert name, “how does it work?”
Firstly a core of pure copper is extruded from the East/West aligned smelter in our Feng Shui workshop, this is then enfolded in pure Ayurvedic Quality Silver by our Dwarf Smiths who can trace their line back to the Nibelungen. The “Nixco Spirit Bangle”TM is then stored in our Rune and Hieroglyph inscribed Pyramid for one Lunar Cycle before being taken in our Bathyscaphe to the site of Mythological Atlantis!!!
As you can see insert name , we don’t take your future lightly! So, wear your “Nixco Spirit Bangle”TM secure in the knowledge that we have done our best to instil within it the mystic powers that will ensure your older years proceed in a Natural Course!

Nixco make no claims that the “spirit bangle” can cure illness or will prevent the natural degradation of the human condition.

TTMFFTTM 4

It was another of those things that my father failed to tell me about, such as scanning the path at the bottom of the hill for indisposed farm animals before you actually descend.
The other Saturday having cracked a bleary eye and cursed at the weather ("Good! Bugger! Better do something then."), I hoist myself aloft, leafed wearily through my various biking trail leaflets and decide to head for "The Great North Way" in reality 32 Miles of National Cycle Route 12 ( and, amazingly, a nearly straight route; Sustrans, the people responsible for the National Cycle Routes, have managed to make the route between Birmingham and Oxford about 112 miles despite the fact that they are only 60 miles apart, hence, "amazingly") running from Letchworth in the "North" to Hadley Wood/Potter's Bar on the outskirts of London. It has several stations on the route to decamp to, plus one at either end, I made my final check by firing up the TV to check for the dread "Engineering Works" (a sort of mechanical plague that affects the British railway system, chiefly at weekends and during the holiday season. Trains are replaced with buses which have to drift tortuously over swathes of countryside before calling at all the stations that the train isn't, naturally they are full of the either extremely angry or semi-comatose, what they aren't full of is cyclists, as they don't take bikes), WAGN (the Company) was clear, I double checked, leaped into the saddle and pedalled for the station.
An hour later I detrained at Letchworth, carried my trusty steed up the stairs and ,after a brief perusal of the Engineering Works notice, began to roundly curse. The franchise for my particular length of track was now owned by First Capital Connect (some distance down the alphabet from WAGN), my route, which paralleled the main line, was bereft of trains from points south of five miles away, it was, in fact, also bereft of power lines. I decided that I should, at least, do some exercise and review the situation (plus the condition of my perineum and/or knees) at Stevenage where the branch line that was open, dived into the backwaters of rural Hertfordshire. Thus it was that I found myself on the Letchworth Greenway, a countryside access track circumnavigating Letchworth and uniting places of interest (including two power stations, Stotfold sewage works and Letchworth dump, it also offers several unparalleled views of the A1). However, I persevered and was rewarded with a lot of countryside, a good selection of butterflies plus several encounters with other flying insects ranging from the ballistic interaction of bumble bees to an ocular episode with some sort of long, small and, apparently sharp beetle (probably a staphylinid), the latter causing me to exit from the road stage left and weep profusely whilst waving on the somewhat baffled stream of traffic behind me.
By this time I had arrived on the outskirts of London (having succumbed to a fit of stupidity and a willing suspension of self-awareness in the Stevenage area) sadly with no real idea of where I was, however I spotted a view, pointed my front wheel in the direction of Canary Wharf (it's tall) and arrived home about an hour later, having done a few extra miles, well about 50 percent extra miles actually. Sunday dawned with pain, and hobbling.Moral: Keep abreast of changes of franchise in the National Rail System or your legs will ache.

TMFFTTM 3

It was another of those things that my father failed to tell me about as a boy, like checking your underpants for chilli seeds. I had decided to go for a walk south of London and had plumped for the Mole Gap Trail, all six miles of it, stretching between the North Downs from Leatherhead to Dorking, with an extra side excursion up Boxhill - for the view. The path follows the River Mole, which is a sort of turgid grey but slips by quite quickly on its way to join the Thames at Hampton Court. it looks unpleasantly greasy, like the top of a stockpot, and seems to have the consistency of vodka straight from the freezer (most of you will know what I mean by this) this illusion is probably brought about by the collection of tyres, rubble and engine blocks, not to mention the more normal detritus of tree branches, that lurk half invisible below the surface, or completely invisible under the sign that says "Unsafe to Swim". However, once the town is left, things cheer up a bit, beech woods come down to the stream edge on occasions, and the pastures are full of violets. I continued pausing only to crop a few ramsoms (wild garlic) and then to delve into my bag of emergency mint crumbles just in case I met a damsel requiring CPR or some other sort of close contact.
Finally I arrived at Westhumble, and set off to look for the stepping stones across the river, after passing the Stepping Stones pub which was packed to the rafters with Sunday Lunchers. I eventually found said stones seemingly several miles from the pub, and even then only after I'd crossed the river by footbridge. I crossed back over the stones, caught up with myself, and then creaked my way up Box Hill, 193 metres of it. Lo and Behold! A National Trust cafe! I paused for a coffee and a brownie - both average, before staring at a map on the wall to commit my descent to memory: along there, double back there, right there, across the footbridge by the sewage works and into town. Voila!
I descended, just before the footbridge I became aware of a cow, lying down in just the way that cows don't. It was flat out, upper legs dangling, front hoof occasionally moving, I approached, hoping to see a sleeping cow roll onto its belly and struggle to its feet, with the slightly shocked, slightly reproachful look that cows adopt when you disturb them (raising that weight of flesh can't be easy as some of you will tell me I should know). It opened an eye, rolled it, and groaned, groaned like a man with a cold, a near death groan, the groan that only the moribund can empathise with, the sort of groan where you cross your fingers hoping for a following inhalation.
I decided to stop at the Police Station in town and let them know. However, the bridge, so neatly marked on the map, so visible from the top of the hill, so handy for the town, was closed and had been for years, I accessed my photographic memory, cursed and started back up the hill, all the way up the hill, to tell the warden, resplendent in his Land Rover at the top. Thus it was that a National T rust volunteer was suddenly faced with a wild-eyed, sweat-dripping, red-faced individual, redolent with garlic, mint and coffee, speaking excitedly, though sporadically, about ill cows, and whose farm was whose. Eventually sense was made and 'phone calls started, and I limped back down the hill the way I had come up in the first place and started home.
Moral. When you have line of sight of your route, and a pair of binoculars, check for any ailing farm animals before you get to the bottom of the hill.