A Saviour

This morning, just after The Wright Stuff, Uncle Joe, the father of all wickedness, ceased his cry of "Come out Horton, come out Horton" and began an onslaught. He is somehow able to control the elements, slowly raising the temperature of the Scottie Dog in my thigh until the heat became unbearable and the flesh seemed to scorch.

He taunted me and played tricks with my mind, so that I imagined for a time that I had no fingers, and that I had the head of an ox. He also sent a small plague of locusts, but that was more of a nuisance than anything else to be honest with you.

As the last of my hope faded, and I felt that death was imminent, I saw the spirits of my fallen sparrows, a heavenly choir of angels, drift serenely through the window. I drifted in and out of consciousness but saw those bright and shiny spirits fly together and assume the shape of a glowing elderly gentleman with a beautiful face that radiated benevolence. It was Uncle Ben.





He stooped to stroke my clammy brow, and smiled compassionately, then said "Stay here Horton, stay here Horton". He stretched out his arms and grimaced - at once the demonic form of Uncle Joe was drawn through the wall towards this saintly protector, screeching in terror and frothing at the mouth. With one touch, Uncle Ben turned Uncle Joe into an ice-cube which he popped gently into his pocket.

"That ol' rogue won't bother you no more," said he.

I am now recovering in bed, while Uncle Ben brings me various wholesome rice dishes to revive me.

A Siege

I have stayed in my room all day, not daring to confront the malevolent being who has assumed the form of Uncle Joe. At times he calls to me from outside the door, always the same refrain: "Come out Horton, come out Horton". At other moments I see his face hovering at my window, with that chilling fixed smile curling his lips. I feel intuitively that, should he wish to, he could easily breach the rudimentary barricade I have created by the door, but that he is choosing instead to toy with me for his own pleasure.

Luckily, I have a small stock of dry-roasted peanuts in my room and a tube of Athlete's Foot cream: combined, these have provided me a tolerable sustenance, but I will need to obtain more nourishing victuals soon if I am to survive.

Images of chocolate eclairs, pickled eggs, and American candies plague my thoughts, arising either through simple delirium from hunger, or placed there telepathically by he who wishes me harm. This electronic diary of mine provides a welcome distraction to my gnawing cravings. Only this and Ebay.com - today I have bought a Gremlins 2 collectable thermos, and a signed copy of Alan Titchmarsh's latest novel.

Maybe these will cheer me if I live long enough to enjoy them. The cry of "Come out Horton, come out Horton" chills me anew.

Uncle Joe Appears

I do not know whether or not the events of today bode well for the future. I should begin by stating candidly that I am a coward and a broken man. I made no effort to venture outdoors to face the gulls, electing instead to hide in the loft inside a box of childhood board games.

Squatting uncomfortably within such cramped conditions has led to the little Scottie Dog from Monopoly becoming embedded in my thigh, which is vexing and intolerable to me. I have tried to gouge it out with a potato peeler, but have enjoyed no success.

As I stood in the kitchen lamenting the miniscule dog in my leg, I felt a qualm in my loins and turned around to see that the pixelated gulls had somehow made their way into the hall. Being two-dimensional, it is possible they flitted through gaps in the brickwork.

At once they began to blur into each other, a seething mass of coalescing pixels that wouldn't have cost very much if it were a special effect. They merged slowly into the form of an imposing and majestic gentleman who looks exactly like the corporate character 'Uncle Joe' who produces 'Uncle Joe's Mint Balls' and exudes the same menace.

I have fled to my room and barricaded the door. Meanwhile, Uncle Joe calls to me, "Come out Horton, come out Horton". I am frightened.

A Plan is Devised

I am emotionally drained. I spent the best part of yesterday peering through the letterbox in despair watching my beloved sparrows succumb, one by one, to the gulls' insidious machinations. As the last one fell - a plucky youngster I had privately nicknamed 'Spillane' - I knew that I could hide no longer.


After a bleak night plagued by incessant digital hooting, I finally formulated a plan to trounce the pixelated gulls. They are fearless in battle and unnerving to witness, but slow-moving and clumsy, a weakness of their nature which my scheme sought to exploit.

At dawn, I stepped confidently out into the morning light and declared, "Those who seek to end me, take heed!" whereupon I set out my terms and conditions for their surrender. They appeared to laugh, though it was hard to be certain on that point as their resolution is severly restricted.

As they approached, meaning to destroy me, I prepared to put my plan into operation with self-assurance and poise. It was only then that I realised a crucial error - a large portion of my plan was dependent upon an ability to travel backwards in time and an aptitude for forward rolls, both of which are talents I lack.

I was left with no option but to retreat to the safety of my home, where I sit and wait for a better idea to strike me.

The Gulls Pixelate

My reign is already beseiged with problems, a schism having formed among the birds. This morning, to demonstrate my capricious nature to my subjects, I fed the sparrows with succulent apple cores and gave the gulls nothing but carpet swatches. It was my intent to favour the sparrows for the first year, then favour the gulls for the second, so that neither should become complacent.

At once I realised the folly of this whimsy, for the gulls became threatening and began to pixelate. Their stilted and awkward movements strike terror into my heart. In this guise they have waged a holy war against the sparrows and myself, pecking and squawking. A great many sparrows lie maimed. As King of birds, it is my duty to end this affront, but for now I have abandoned the lawn in fear and taken refuge indoors where I must consider my plan carefully.

The Birds Console Me

After consuming the homunculus, I have garnered respect from the neighbourhood birds at last. At 2pm I ventured outdoors to bury some soiled catalogues, and saw that a great multitude of sparrows and gulls had amassed on the lawn.

I took this as an omen of good fortune in light of my recent unpleasantnesses, and celebrated by removing my shoes and enjoying the breeze generated by their beating wings as it wafted against my soles.

The birds then took it in turns to expertly suckle at my toes, which surely offered them scant nourishment, but which soothed me greatly. Each tweet from each beak seemed to declare me Monarch of their race.

I feel now that they expect me to offer them sanctuary and to bestow upon them favours, but I will be a hard King, and will rule with an iron fist.

The Confrontation

Today has been wearisome and trying to me. The homunculus has spent the day lording it over me in my own home, to my everlasting mortification. From the early hours of the morning it greedily satiated its rapacious appetite with crisps and vinegar from my own larder, pausing only to intermittently cackle - I could endure such torment no longer.

Shouldering the door down, I flung myself into the kitchen, noting that from every surface there now sprung toadstools of enviable girth, and made a grab for the creature.

To protect itself, the venomous fiend took on the likeness of a small church, the inherent holiness of such imagery no doubt intended to provide a natural protection against destruction, but being a heathen, this gambit failed to deter me and I smothered the beast in tinfoil.

I placed the bound homunculus in my oven at dusk, and left it there to perish in the heat. The noxious smell that now eminates from the kitchen tells me the beast is surely cooked.

I will eat it later with a can of coke (diet).

The Homunculus

The homunculus has taken unfair advantage of my hospitality. It sat in the bath for many hours, and used up all the hot water, before toweling itself dry with my bath mat.

I am convinced the creature is in some way wicked - wheresoever it steps, an abundance of toadstools grow, even from formica and other surfaces which would not ordinarily support such fecundity.

It has now commandeered my kitchenette, and will not tolerate my approach. I have tried slipping lighted matches beneath the door, but this has only angered the beast.

If I do not act soon, I fear I will have no food left, for even now I hear the creature opening yet another tin of Alphabetti Spaghetti.

The Curse Manifests

The spectre's prophecy is vindicated! Early this morning I heard a scuffling at the front door, which I took to be a stray labrador or an injured milkman, and so I ignored it.

The strange muffled shuffling continued for upwards of 25 minutes, so I shouted "Who is there? A fiend?" By way of response, a whooping holler echoed through the rooms that put me in mind of a dying elk.

My tastebuds seemed to discern butterbeans, though I had eaten none for months...I knew that something supernatural was afoot. I steadied my nerves and prepared to open the front door dramatically, in the fashion of Peter Cushing or Nanette Newman.

Doing so, the door swung back and caught me a right ding in the ankle. Shocked, I stepped backwards onto a block of Lego, left there, I assume, by some kind of mischievous nephew. The spectre was correct - my ankle is now swollen. Cursed! I am cursed!

On the doorstep, I beheld a homunculus. I have invited it in and given it some pepper and run it a bath. There it sits still, relaxing in my Radox Aromatic range of bath products.

I cannot help but feel uneasy about this visitor. More later.

A Spectre/Phantom is Seen

I awoke this morning from afflicting dreams, knowing that today I would witness a miracle. Enduring some unpleasant spasms in my back, I rose from my bed and crept furtively downstairs, where I fancied I saw a spectre of sorts hovering by the sink. On closer inspection this turned out to be a curtain, but the damage was already done - I spent the rest of the morning in a state of vexation and afright, unable to rouse the confidence to stir.

Watched Neighbours at 1.40pm, which cheered me somewhat. For dinner I ate some sage.

Just moments ago the curtain by the sink wavered and seemed imbued with life once more. "Speak phantom," I said, in a tone that I fancied sounded commanding. The phantom took on the weathered form of Bill Owen, who played Compo in Last of the Summer Wine before sadly dying in 2000. He told me that tomorrow my ankle would suffer, then the phantom dissipated.

I look to tomorrow with terror.