The Ten Commandments Of "Yellow Car".

1: If thou see'st an car and it is red, thou should not say "Yellow Car".
2: If thou see'st an car and it is blue, thou should not say "Yellow Car".
3: If thou see'st an car and it is black, thou should not say "Yellow Car".
4: If thou see'st an car and it is white, thou should not say "Yellow Car".
5: If thou see'st an car and it is grey, thou should not say "Yellow Car".
6: If thou see'st an car and it is pink, thou should not say "Yellow Car".
7: Basically, if thou see'st an car any colour other than yellow, don't say "Yellow Car" is what I'm saying.
8: If thou see'st an car and it is yellow, then thou must say'st "Yellow Car"
9: Vans, lorries, buses, coaches, motorcycles and trikes don't count as cars. Neither do taxicabs in America.
10: No live otters on the flight deck.

The musings of Doctor Marcus Burkenhare.

"So I'll give you your 'free speech society'. Anyone can say anything without fear of repercussion. Before you've finished patting yourself on the back for being so progressive, I've started rumours that you're nothing more than a lying, cheating dirtbag unfit to hold office in a sweet shop, let alone government, while at the same time insisting that I am the one to be trusted on all counts at all times.
With that established, I proceed to further demolish any reputation you may ever have had, turned society itself not only against you but against all you ever believed in, forging the people into a massive blunt tool with which I shall depose you and install myself as ultimate leader in perpetuum.
And when that is done, I turn the tables on the very people who put me there, reversing any good works you may have done and putting the entirety of human civilisation under my thrall as little more than my personal plaything. By splitting society into ever-smaller cliques I ensure that everyone is in-fighting against one another and no genuine resistance shall ever be found to my tyranny.
Billions suffer and it's all your fault - why? Because you insisted I could have total freedom of speech.
Pah, freedom is over-rated. Give me a benevolent dictatorship anyday."

How Did A Kitten Get To Be Called 'Puppy'?

I'd like to take a few minutes out to explain something. As anyone who knows me knows, I have cats. A lot of cats, if five can be considered a lot. There's Suki, the Old Girl (we can't be entirely sure but pretty certain she's somewhere in the region of twenty-three years old), Harry the Bruiser (the inspiration for my short story 'Biscuit The Dreamcatcher'), Shady the Shae-Shae, we may never know exactly what happened to her tail, but I'll tell the tale (pun intended) sometime. Then there's the little ones - Ozzie the Dude (it's official - the vet said so) and Gizzie the Puppy.

Puppy? Yes. But she's a kitten. Yes.

It all dates back to one evening: I was sat in the lounge, the wife was at work and I was - as usual - on Twitter. Someone had posted a short film of some cute puppies doing cute puppy things. I watched the video, laughed and aloud said the words "Aw, puppy."

Across the room, from behind the curtain, I heard a little 'mew?'.

Looking up, I said the word again. "Puppy?"

Again; "Mew?" There was a definite questioning tone to it, as if it were saying "Yes? What do you want?"

Once more, this time a little more definite. "Puppy!"

Gizzie's little black-and-white fluffy head popped out from behind the curtain. "Mew!" She leapt off the windowsill, crossed the room and jumped up on the sofa next to me.

"So your name's 'Puppy' now is it?"

"Mew!" She replied.

So from that day on we've always referred to her as 'Puppy', or sometimes 'Puppy-Kitten'.

True story. 

ROAD SAFETY ADVERT CAMPAIGN IDEA - DON'T DRIVE LIKE A RICHARD!

SCENE: A country pub. Mid-shot, showing both front door and a few cars in the park.
CLOSE IN: Front door. It opens to show RICHARD.
V.O.: This is Richard. He's just had three pints, but thinks he's okay to drive.
RICHARD gets in his car and drives off quickly. Sudden screech, crash noise. A single wheel or hub cap rolls past.
V.O.: He isn't.
SCENE: A different RICHARD behind the wheel. He has his mobile phone against his shoulder. In the background we can hear him speaking 'Yeah mate, no mate, alright mate'.
V.O.: This is also Richard. He thinks it's okay to use his phone while driving.
The car careers off the road. Sound of a crash, again a wheel or hubcap rolls past.
V.O.: It isn't.
SCENE: A third RICHARD driving. He comes up behind a slow moving car going up a hill.
V.O.: This too is Richard. He thinks he can overtake this car on the crest of a hill without any problems.
RICHARD starts overtaking. As he reaches the crest of the hill, we see a massive lorry coming the other way. Close up of his panicked face as we hear brakes screech and the sound of crashing.
V.O.: He can't.
SCENE: All three RICHARDS standing next to one another. First RICHARD has his arm and leg in plaster, second RICHARD has steering wheel wrapped round his head, third RICHARD has a neck brace. All are battered and bruised.
V.O.: Drive safely. Don't drive like a Richard.
CAPTION: Don't drive like a Richard. Drive Safe.

The Lone Ranger - Or 'You Learn Something New Every Day'.

The Lone Ranger and Tonto had been tracking the bloodthirsty bandit Blackheart Bart for five days now.
They crouched in the undergrowth near his hideout, watching the single sentry pacing up and down.
"Well here it is old friend," said the Lone Ranger. "Blackheart Bart's hideout."
"Yes, it is Kemo Sabe." Said Tonto.
"Do you think you can take out that sentry with your bow and arrow?"
"Of course I can Kemo Sabe." Tonto drew his bow, nocked an arrow to the string and took careful aim.
"Remember, don't shoot to kill - we don't work like that." Said the Lone Ranger.
"Of course not Kemo Sabe." With that, Tonto loosed his arrow, which struck the sentry right between his thighs. He collapsed without a sound.
"Great shot!" Said the Lone Ranger. "You got him!"
"Yep," said Tonto. "Right in the Kemo Sabes."
And that, historians determined was the exact moment the Lone Ranger's relationship with Tonto went sour. 

Sook The Wook.

Sook the Wook was the oldest of all the cats. Being so old, she was also considered the wisest of all the cats. This may or may not have been entirely true, but she was certainly wise in her own way.

All the other cats came to her for advice. One day, two cats approached with a mouse. They explained to her that they had both pounced at the same time, and were currently arguing as to which of them would get to eat it. Sook the Wook heard both their stories patiently before ruminating a while. Finally, she came to a judgement and without a word sprang forward and swallowed the mouse whole. "Now, it belongs to neither of you. You shouldn't have been so foolish in arguing between yourselves."

Reluctantly, the two cats accepted her judgement and went their own ways. When she was sure they had gone, Sook the Wook leaned forward and coughed hard. After a couple more coughs, she brought the mouse up and spat him on the floor, still alive and quite confused. Sook the Wook bent down and spoke in soft tones to the mouse. "I'm sorry I had to do that; had I not, one of them would surely have eaten you. Go from here, and be safe little friend."

The mouse looked at Sook the Wook in surprise, then bowed gratefully and ran away. The next day, Sook the Wook awoke from her mid-morning pre-lunch slumber to find the mouse had returned with some friends, and they had brought her some cheese. "My family and I brought you this to say thank you for saving my life," said the mouse.

"There is wisdom in mercy," replied Sook the Wook. "Thank you for your gift."

In fact, so grateful was the mouse that he and his family would bring some cheese to Sook the Wook every day, which made her most happy. Sook the Wook loved cheese.

Devices for defence of the self from Burkenhare incorporated.

In these increasingly-troubled times, it’s reassuring to know that there is a company out there that has your best interests at heart – for a price of course.
THE HOUSING BOOM:
Your plasmatronic defence shields failed, the space pirates holed both your engines and you were lucky enough to send a distress call and get to the escape pods before the warp core breached (if you don’t know what that last bit means, it’s not good). Unfortunately, you are now stranded on a hostile ice planet with no shelter, and the evening’s drawing in.
That’s when you need Clarence Burkenhare’s Patented Housing Boom. Simply take the four-inch spheroid in your hand, give it a good shake, pull the pin and throw and in a split second you’ll have a comfortable and surprisingly roomy shelter big enough for up to four persons of average height, weight and diet.
The patent-pending Buckymax(tm) buckminsterfullerene and long-short-overchain polymers are lightweight, but sturdy enough to tolerate any* atmospheric conditions, and the natural design of the quick-drying foam means it can withstand up to a force 12 gale. The expanding doorway-tube automatically cuts off at three feet, creating a natural entry/exit from your new shelter, and once erected it can last a lifetime** if needs be.

* Within reason.

** Considering anyone in such a situation would in all probablity have neglected to bring food or water with them, lifetime is construed as two to six weeks, maybe longer depending on circumstances.

CHRONOMITE:
Ever wanted to blow something (or someone) back to the stone age? Well, with Clarence Burkenhare’s Patented Chronomite(tm) temporal disaffection explosives you can! Just place your charge, light the fuse and BOOM! the chroniton-heavy particulate detonation will hurl any given body backwards (or forwards, if you use Clarence Burkenhare’s Patented Blue Chronomite) through time. Full instructions are supplied with each shipment, including how much Chronomite is needed to disassociate any given body through any given amount of time. As an example, one half-stick of Red Chronomite, correctly applied and detonated can project an object the size of the average family car eighteen months into the past. Better act fast, as an unfortunate incident at the processing plant has rendered the entire Isle of Wight suspended sometime around last Tuesday, so stocks are limited.
Clarence Burkenhare Defence Systems Incorporated – If it kills you twice as fast, it’s probably a Burkenhare.

DOOM GRENADES OF DOOM!:
Is there a pesky planet obscuring your lovely view of the Horsehead Nebula? Neighbours getting noisy? Just don't like people? Then this is the product for you! Utilising Clarence Burkenhare's patented molecular energy bond dissipation system, the Doom Grenade Of Doom collapses the energy bonds between atoms, causing a catastrophic chain-implosion that can turn entire planets into miniature black holes in a matter of minutes. Just press the button, place on any solid surface and retreat to a safe distance (preferably an orbit of approximately 3500 miles or greater) and watch the planet itself crumble, fold and simply disappear, leaving nothing more than a rock the size of a small warehouse (we were going for the size of a cricket ball, but physics got in the way).

NARRATIVE VEST:
Do you have an annoying tendency to get fatally shot? Would you like to avoid being gratuitously killed at inopportune moments? Do you have occasional moments of gut-wrenching existentialism? Then you should buy the Narrative Vest! Simply don this stylish double-breasted (single-breasted available by special request) garment and you will become the chief protagonist in the story of your own life, with the added bonus that you cannot be killed. The patented automatic narration system ensures that your every move is documented by our reknowned Narrat-O-Tron, while the perpetual cascade of Narrativite particles ensures your continued survival.
Warning - while you can not be killed, you can still be injured, although there is always a good chance of a decent recovery, given time and a sympathetic audience. Narrat-O-Tron voices vary according to region, budget and other factors currently out of our control.

THE RANDOMISER 3000:
 You're down to just three men and your last two energy cells, and that rampagnig mob of enraged locals keeps getting closer and closer. This sounds like a job for the Randomiser 3000! A single shot from this ergonomically-designed psycho-magnetic electro-pulse crowd control device will have them all wondering why knees bend in one direction, or what the price of fish has to do with anything, or any one of countless random topics of intense thoughtful debate. It's hard to rampage when the question of 'how can you tell when you've overcooked black pudding?' is running through your conscious mind. With a study rechargable power cell capable of a thousand shots, the Randomiser 3000 is the perfect device for utterly non-lethal crowd control, that is assuming the debate over why sour cream has a sell-by date doesn't get too out of hand!

(This message presented on behalf of Clarence Burkenhare Defence Systems Incorporated. All rights reserved. Clarence Burkenhare Defence Systems Incorporated cannot be held responsible for any loss of life, limb, mobility, sanity, property, planet or solar system due to misuse (or correct use) of any products. Always read the instructions before use.)

Tyburn-English

Sometimes I speak my own language. Not literally as in every word, but I tend to use a lot of personal shorthand. I shall hereby attempt to bring you the basics of, as I call it – the Tyburn language.

To BAF – Blue-Arsed Fly – i.e. run about GSD PDQ.
To GSD – Get Shit Done, Getting Shit Done, Got Shit Done.
Squirrels! (Or Squirrel Pants) – Usually a single-word exclamation, denoting that unpleasant experience (in men, no female equivalent has been determined yet - feel free to add your own suggestions) where one’s underwear is attempting to devour one’s nuts (or stuff them in the nearest convenient hole)
Sweeny! – Upon entering a coffee shop with my wife, a quick cry of “Sweeny!” means “I’ll get the coffees, you go and find the comfy chairs”. From an old Sean Hughes routine about fighting over the comfy chair in which to watch The Sweeny.
(Quick note – do not, under any circumstances say the phrase “There’s no ‘I’ in ‘Team’ to me, unless you’re prepared for and willing to accept the response “Maybe, but there’s a ‘U’ in ‘C*nt’)
(Additional note – probably not a good idea to say “At the end of the day…” to me either, unless you’re okay with me saying “…the sun goes down” under my breath.)
(Additional Additional Note - "On the other hand..." usually ends in "Your fingers face the other way.")
Aren’t Fluffy Bunnies Cute? – This actually means ‘Your arguments, which I am not a part of but am caught in the middle of is getting a little too heated for my tastes – I’d really like you to change the subject.
I Hear The Himalayas Are Tall This Time Of Year - Same as above, originally a line by Vila in Blake's 7. 
(Not sure how to spell it, but it’s pronounced as a quite lazy-sounding ‘fu’m', with a glottal stop in the middle.) – Never mind, on with the next bit.
Mission, Mission Up, to get Missioned or Missioned Up – To set about doing a particular task with great gusto and intensity. It’s not just wanting to GSD, it’s having to do it at the expense of everything else.
Dot, dot, dot. – Used when I can't be bothered to finish the sentence but you know where I'm going with it.
‘Simons’ – my own little bit of Cockney rhyming slang (I’m half-Cockney) – Simon Cowell = Bowel. A case of the ‘narky Simons’ refers to Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

The Castaway.

Dragging himself up the beach, John spat out a mouthful of sand, his head still reeling from the whirlwind of events that had led to him finding himself stranded, naked on a small island in the South Pacific. What had started as a quiet and romantic cruise ended in disaster as the ship struck first a reef, then the wreckage of a battleship that had last seen the light of day in 1943, then sunk straight down with a loss of all hands – except John. Having swum for nearly six hours, his joints screaming at him, he pulled himself onto dry land and passed out.
The next morning (it had to be morning, the sun never usually looked that mercilessly cheerful any other time of day), John sat up, looking round. There seemed to be some flotsam washed up further down the beach, so he scrambled to his feet to see if he could find anything of use. Several empty suitcases, they’d suffice as the basis for a shelter of some kind. A rather large embroidery box, all sorts of needles and threads for all occasions. Which would be great if he had anything to sew. Finally, a small loom; his loom to be precise. Well, that was a start. As a professional tailor, John could quite easily manufacture himself a suit to keep the sun’s relentless rays at bay, and his hobby of weaving would also come in handy. If only he could find something to weave. . .
Then he saw it – a small patch of some native grass which, upon further inspection seemed to have just the right tensile strength and attributes to weave into a rudimentary cloth. Gathering up great handsful of the grass, he set up his loom and started to work.
The loom clickety-clacked into the morning, the odd native grass turning into a surprisingly good cloth which John, after having cut to size and shape, turned into a rather fetching two-piece suit; comfortable, protective and stylish to boot. Folding the two lapels of the jacket together, he noticed the suit’s one downfall – a distinct lack of buttons. Another quick beachcombing exercise came up with the solution: three small stones, each with a small hole which would be perfect for the purpose. And so, seated on a nearby rock, he started stitching his makeshift buttons onto the jacket.
So intent, so focused on the task, John never noticed the tiny sparks jumping from the needle as it struck the stone. The light was starting to fade, so he sewed faster. Without his even noticing, his trousers had started to smoulder and soon, his lap was ablaze. Gripped with a haze of panic, John first tried to take off the trousers, then made a last-ditch attempt to leap into the nearby sea, but it was no good. The fire had taken hold. He died in a fury of flames, the needle still threaded held in his outstretched hand.
It was three days later when a search and rescue ship showed up. The lifeboat slid ashore with a muffled crump, Captain Bright stepping off first. Surveying the scene, Bright motioned to his first officer, a haggard-faced old seadog named Carl. “What do you make of it?”
Carl studied the tableaux – a body burnt to a crisp amidst the ashes of his improvised clothing, the needle, the ersatz buttons. He nodded grimly. “Seems like people in grass trousers shouldn’t sew stones.”

Future-Past-Present History of the Russian Empire (Space Captain Flight)

As I have stated previously, the world Space Captain Duncan Flight inhabits is not like our current world. For those of you who may be interested, here is what happened to Russia…
1948 – As Hitler kept to his side of the bargain, so did Stalin. Not getting involved in the war the Russian economy stagnates.Eventually Stalin is ousted by the Slavograd Independent Beetroot and Borscht Combine in the Capitalist Revolution.
1956 – The Russian Capitalist Empire is overthrown by fascists in the Fascist Revolution. This lasts for two years until:
1958 – The fascists are overthrown by anarchists, who accidentally overthrow themselves twice in the space of one week with the Anarchist Decemberist Revolution Trilogy.
1959 – Just six months into anarchist rule, they are overthrown during another Revolution by the Surrealists. Moscow is renamed Bwah, which leads to enormous arguments as to how it is spelled, and for two weeks everyone is required under punishment of death by tickling to wear a fish. This ends when -
1959, two weeks later – Rodney Stiles, a taxi driver from Islington arrives in Bwah with documents proclaiming him to be a long-lost distant relative of Tsar Nicolas II. As the whole fish thing is starting to get a bit tired, the people embrace him and the surrealists are kicked out. Bwah becomes Moscow again and the Russian Empire is reborn. Tsar Rodney creates impressive policies which help the floundering Russian economy and gets the country back on its feet.
1987 – Tsar Rodney dies peacefully in his sleep. He is buried in Moscow with full state honours. His son, Tsar Rodney the second takes control amidst wide public approval.
Today – Tsar Rodney the Second is still in charge of a Russian Space Empire which extends over many star systems.

The Warrior's Lament

If you should choose to follow me,
Know that I am bound for Hell.
For the gates of Hades open’d wide,
As we all march’d on side by side,
Into the flames eternal.
Left for the shores of Bloody Hell,
Ten thousands strong and true.
But when we reached upon the scene,
Not one sole man stood whole nor clean,
Cast into flames eternal.
We fought the throng of daemon souls,
Two thousand still survived.
But still the daemons forth they came,
They bore Old Sinister’s evil name,
The Horde of flames eternal.
Then Sinister himself did rise,
He stood unholy ground.
His hordes, their spirit out had run,
And then at last Our will be done,
Down in the flames eternal.
Our mission spent, we turned to face,
The dawn of morning’s eye.
But morning’s sun it would not face,
The visage of Our bloodied race,
Back to the flames eternal.
For forty nights we fought and died,
The Sun did crack a frown.
And shed her tears not lightly,
Forever we battled nightly,
To quench the flames eternal.
And now men talk of deeds and words,
Forever from that day.
We are those who they call the damned,
Those souls that ever were condemned,
Unto the flames eternal.

Personal Journal of Space Captain Damien Drake, R.S.N.

Captain’s Blog, Stardate 12…29…add 6, carry the three…take away the first…erm… Tuesday.
Space Captain Damien Drake here, I know you’re probably expecting something from that Flight fellow, but never mind. It’s my show right now, not his.
Right, where was I? Ah yes, Stardate Tuesday… and a bit. Headed off to the Epistule Diem system to do a bit of morale boosting amongst the peoples, thought we’d drop by and give them a show they’d never forget. So we arrived in system, deployed our escorts (give ‘em a bit of show of force to show ‘em how well protected they are) and headed straight for the system’s capital, New Lymington, ignoring (as was our wont) the usual calls for identification – for heaven’s sake, we’re Royal Space Navy! We shouldn’t even have to identify ourselves!
Anyway, thought we’d start off our visit with a bang, so sent out a squadron of stealth Spacefires to drop pyrotechnic charges in the upper atmosphere: nothing like a good old fireworks show to get the ball rolling. I was watching from my unusually comfy command chair on the bridge, by Jupiter you should have seen those locals down in the city centre; running round cheering and jumping for joy, diving into the air-raid shelters (presumably to drag out the bunting and decorations in honour of our arrival), screaming like maniacs they were. Well, after about half an hour of this, they decided to join in, firing their old anti-spacecraft guns in celebration. Must say though, they really ought to watch where they’re pointing those things, nearly hit us a couple of times.
After a couple of hours of fireworks, I beamed down to the planet’s surface to talk face-to-face with the Mayor of New Lymington and present him with a memento of our visit; so I got our entire Marine contingent, all dressed up in their new uniforms (ones I’d designed myself. I was particularly proud of the new H.M.S.S. Pelican Mobile Ground Force insignia – a red armband with a bold black swastika on it, with a big black cross through the swastika – shows everyone what we think of the damned space Nazis.
We beamed down, all two hundred and fifty of us at once. I can tell you, the Mayor was so pleased to see me I swear he actually lost control of his bladder and genuinely wet himself. And he kept on gibbering in some strange sort of language that our universal translators couldn’t understand. At first I thought he was talking in Italian – something about ‘Viva Zrendra’ or something.  Fortunately mister Savage, my number One took him to one side and gave him a little help and he returned after an hour or so in a much more coherent state.
Quick cup of tea with the Mayor and his councillors later and we left for the stars once more, with the praises of the locals still ringing  in our ears – I was particularly fond of their cries of “Don’t Come Back!”, obviously wanting us to refrain from wasting time on such small trivialities until we’ve actually won the war. Ah, the simple lives of simple folk. There’s nothing quite like it.
(This log was recovered from the databanks of the H.M.S.S. Pelican,  June 15th 2016. It has been unaltered in any way. Copyright is held by Her Majesty’s Royal Space Navy. Any views and opinions in this log are those of Captain Drake and do not represent those of the Royal Space Navy or any associated organisations.)

Jinxx The Time Cat

One day, Jinxx found a hole in time, through which she could travel to any point, and any place in the whole of history.

So she went back to last Thursday tea time, when she had salmon.

Jinxx loved salmon.

A little parody song I put together a few years ago...

(To the tune of the Tom Jones hit Delilah, originally written by Les Reed and Barry Mason. - Credit where it's due and all that.)

I won't forget oh that night that I had that erection,

Waited for it to go down for ten hours or more.

It was amazing,

I jumped on the bed and I polevaulted out through the door.

My, my, my Viagra (He's only gone and took the bloody lot.)

Why, why, why Viagra? (Did I have to take the bloody lot?)

I could tell,

Those pills could do me no well,

But I took twenty and now I am going through hell.

Then the next day in a permanent way it was flaccid.

It slept like a log and then, all the side effects start.

First came the sneezing,

And God only knows what would happen if I tried to fart.

  

My, my, my Viagra (He's only gone and took the bloody lot.)

Why, why, why Viagra? (Did I have to take the bloody lot?)

I could tell,

Those pills could do me no well,

But I took twenty and now I am going through hell.

 Woke the next morn from a dream about porn I was turgid.

Stood to attention like a soldier saluting the brass.

Tripped on my slippers,

My knob broke in half and the end it went right up my... nose.

My, my, my Viagra (He's only gone and took the bloody lot.)

Why, why, why Viagra? (Did I have to take the bloody lot?)

I could tell,

Those pills could do me no well,

But I took twenty and now I am going through hell.

Time Cop Tales. T.I.P3 (Temporally Important Person Protection Program). Second draft version, Work In Progress.

You'd think that safeguarding Hitler against time-travelling assassins would be the high point of any Time Cop's career.

You'd be wrong.

Any Time Cop can guard Hitler.

The real Time Cops guard David Tennant.

The thing most people – most uninitiated people - don't understand is that, without time-travel science fiction, there would be no time-travel real life. Hence there are always positions for those who fancy a real challenge, to guard any one of the several hundred influential people whose works inspired science to stick two fingers up at Einstein and say 'Back to the future we go!'.

The Grand-daddy, Herbert George Wells, has his own squad of covert officers watching his every move – or rather watching the every move of everyone around him. The same goes for the Whovian trinity – Sydney Newman, Verity Lambert and Terry Nation. With all the security those three have, only a complete craze-pot would go after the creators of Doctor Who. Those in the know, the real sneaky sons-of-bitches go after the actors, especially the high-profile ones like Pertwee, Capaldi or, in this case, Tennant.

Anyway, I digress. I was on Tennant duty in the middle of London, A.D. two thousand and five. David had just been to a meeting with some BBC producers and seemed in pretty fine fettle, he walked with a slight spring in his step and the vaguest hint of a smile on his face. I watched as he popped into a coffee shop and emerged five minutes later with a small paper bag and a tall latte. Then my warning bells started ringing. Someone approached from the east, a face that didn't quite fit the time.

Allow me to explain – you can always tell someone from the future as they tend to be a little paler, a little taller and a lot more psychotic. Something to do with living in an age of limitless information, limitless opinion and very little way to tell one from the other. The guy had a shambling gait, nervously shuffling his way through the crowd toward Tennant.

My training kicked in. He seemed to be favouring one leg over the other, occasionally pausing to readjust something – a gun probably – in his pocket. Classic stalker-killer profile. He closed in on Tennant.

“Excuse me, mister Tennant?” the man said, nervously brushing the back of his left hand against his nose.

“Yes?” Tennant seemed surprised to be recognised under his acting name – this was when he was still making the transition between stage and screen, so he wasn't used to being spotted in the streets.

“I'm... I'm a fan of yours, big fan, and I wanted to know if...” his right hand, still dug tightly in his pocket started to come up. I made my move.

Now, a Wade A. Newton Device is a wonderful thing. It's one of the few pieces of 42^nd century technology that was allowed to be issued to Time Cops on account of it being so damned useful. A slim metallic rod, only twenty centimetres long, it could do anything from stun someone to obliterate them totally in a heartbeat. I pulled mine and swiftly tapped the potential assailant on the small of his back with it, lightly enough that the device issued a stun charge that dropped him like a stone. Within moments, my backup had taken the man into custody, bundling him into the back of a passing 'ambulance' where he would wake up in a cell. Tennant looked at me, confused.

“Sorry about that,” I said, “he gave his carer the slip, good job I managed to find him before he had another fit. Well, he did – that's why the ambulance thing.” Sensing that my explanation was not going down too well, I reset my W.A.N.D. and tapped Tennant on the forehead with it. The 'memory wipe' setting can also be very useful in that it saves on trying to explain awkward situations.

A moment later, mister Tennant regained clarity, shook his head and smiled at me. “Hello.” He said.

“David Tennant?” Improvisation was never the best of my talents. “You were in the RSC a few years ago, I saw you in Stratford and thought 'that boy's going to go far'.”

“Very nice of you,” Tennant smiled. I asked him for an autograph (technically against the rules, but what else are you going to do?), which he signed dutifully, if still a little confused.

As I walked away, I turned. “By the way, I loved you in 'Casanova'.”

“Thanks very much,” he smiled again as I turned to go. I'd got three steps down the road when I realised exactly what I had just said.

“Hang on a minute,” I heard his voice tinged with a note of confusion, “we've only just finished filming, it's not on for another six weeks.”

THE END.

The Tale of Madam Goodwitch and Gizzly-Gee.

Madam Goodwitch loved two things - knitting and making magic. The only problem was that she was a little bit short-sighted, and had a bad memory. One day, she realised how lonely she had been feeling of late, so decided to do something about it. She would knit herself a little toy kitten. She sat in her big chair by the fire, picked up her knitting needles, and started knitting.

She reasoned she would start with the tail, as it was the longest and easiest part. As she knitted, from a fine black fluffy yarn, she started to sing.

"Oh Gizzly-Goo, Gizzly-Gee, make a little friend for me.
Oh Gizzly-Gee, Gizzly-Goo, make me a friend and I will love you."

The thing is, she had forgot that the last week she had broken her knitting needles when she sat on them, and the only thing she had left that was anything like a knitting needle were the two magic wands her father, who was a powerful magician had left her in his will.

She knitted and knitted, and soon enough, she had finished. In her sewing box were two beautiful green glass buttons, so she stitched them onto her toy kitten as eyes, and set her work down on the table to admire it.

As she stood back, she smiled at her work. "Gizzly-Gee." Remembering her song, she stroked the little toy kitten's head. "I shall call you Gizzly-Gee."

"Mreow?" The toy called Gizzly-Gee chirped back.

Madam Goodwitch was stunned. She reached out to touch Gizzly-Gee's fur. Gizzly-Gee, in return nudged her hand with its little head, purring. After a few moments, realisation set in. Madam Goodwitch picked up her little toy kitten and cuddled it with joy. "Oh my soul! My little kitten-toy is real! I love you little Gizzly-Gee!"

From that day on, Madam Goodwitch was never alone, her little Gizzly-Gee always sitting by her feet, playing with her yarn as she knitted, and sitting purring on her lap as she sat in her big chair of an evening.

Koshkin.

Koshkin was very tired.

"I'm so tired," she said as she climbed up to her favourite spot on the back of the sofa, next to the wall, "I could sleep for a bajillion years."

So she curled up into a little furry ball and did just that.

Aeons passed, civilisations came and went, stars and galaxies were born and died, and still she slept.

Finally she awoke to complete darkness.

Now, cats can see quite well in the dark, but this was a darkness so complete, so total, that even her green eyes could not penetrate it.

"Oh," said Koshkin. "This isn't very good."

She cleared her throat.

"Let there be light." 

"Please?"

A story in six words?

Stupidity cured? Overpopulation crisis now looms!

Mizzlemog

Once upon a time, Mizzlemog yawned a yawn that was so big and so wide that she swallowed herself whole, and was never seen again.

- The End.

Shae-Shae and the Rude Shadow.

Shae-Shae was a big cat, and she cast a big shadow.

Unlike most shadows, Shae-Shae's shadow was exceptionally rude.

It would follow her around, sticking it's insubstantial black tongue out at her and shouting very rude things at her.

"Look out! Here comes Shae-Shae with her big bum!" The shadow would shout.

Shae-Shae found it very annoying. 

One day, Shae-Shae was out walking. She walked along the street and along the lane, and down the alley where she always goes on her way home. But this day, there was a big dog chained up near the bottom of the alley, and it barked and snarled at her, scaring her quite badly.

Shae-Shae ran, her heart pounding, her shadow keeping up with her easily. She ran toward the fence, which had a hole in it. Diving through the hole, she got half-way through and then got stuck.

Shae-Shae's shadow stopped in front of her and started laughing. "Look at Shae-Shae!" It cried out. "She's got her big bum stuck in the fence! Ha ha ha! Big bum Shae-Shae's got stuck!"

Shae-Shae, at first panicked and scared, was now growing angrier by the second. She wriggled and struggled, and struggled and wriggled until with a loud crack! the fence broke and she leapt forward, catching her shadow with her claws.

What happened next was not pleasant. Shae-Shae devoured her shadow from the top of its head to the tip of its tail, angrily munching and crunching every last bite. As she swallowed the last bit of her shadow, she licked her lips smugly.

From that day on, Shae-Shae never cast a shadow, and she never worried about the size of her bottom either.