Yes, I have emerged from the other side, a bit bruised and shell shocked but I’ve made it! I have survived two brutal debates with my nemesis Ben Emlyn-Jones aka In The Description Box Below. It does seem as though I have lost both bouts if you tally up the amount of roses the cockroaches have thrown towards the Bullring. I was the bull, majestically sweeping towards a slow death as the Matador picked me off…theory by theory by conspiracy theory. Name after name of persons I couldn’t reasonably be expected to know. If the debate had moved to pastures of a more musical whim then the Bull wins hands down. He would know nothing, I assume, of the development of the piano sonata from Domenico Scarlatti to Johannes Brahms via Beethoven and Schubert. Although this Matador expected me to know, in depth, the bullshit nonsense from Rendlesham Forest in 19 fucking 80! I asked in Bull talk if the craft landed then where was it? Mr Answer for Everything just pounds the ring with his huge red rag, although at the time turquoise would have set off an explosion in my underpants.
I feel I fisted my way through the barren miserable landscape that is woo woo. Now we wander the valleys of Mars. It is a hunt. I am the prey. I will be picked off. Slowly. See there is no hope with woo, it gives no joy, just fear and perpetual misery. You feel as though the colourful Matadors of the woo world enjoys a strange nihilistic existence. As you would expect he is all wikied up for the journey with his band of nearly alive viruses that accompany him on such occasions. He gives me a headstart, I stride with the help of the weaker gravitational pull and stride desperately across the red landscape. The viruses praise me for giving it a go but they soon start to back their man. I am now in turquoise and can be seen for many miles yet a sand storm whips up the landscape and I disappear. I wonder if the viruses can penetrate my space suit. Maybe Mr Smallpox will bust through my face shield. I hide in a dip and quickly text that I can’t see how the twin towers where blown up by directed energy. Ms Influenza starts her trek to look for me with her powerful eyes and Mr Rabies strides towards the crater that is my home for now. The huge beast of the HPAWNO monster seems to have grown in stature. I can feel the pounding as he scrapes his way towards me quoting long and tedious passages from his self-published novel. Fuck!
Hot sweat pours from my skin. My hands are strapped down and my legs buckled. All around me is stuff that lives in ponds and I realise I am in a Victorian style operating theatre with plenty of space for the antagonists to watch my final moments. I declare that I don’t have a clue or give a shit about some bloke, a professor nonetheless, who happily accepts anecdotal evidence as proof for alien visitation from 150 Zimbabwean schoolchildren. The Matador enters for his final attack.
‘I am surprised how little you knew about the stuff that is practically made up.’ He says.
Sorry did he slip up there? Is he admitting he is wrong is he a contradiction? A large dose, maybe 1000 mg of chlorpromazine (woos don’t mind stuff like that if it suits their agenda) is injected into my arm. I feel tense but strangely exhausted and I forget the contradiction.
‘Now Mr Sluggs.’ says the man who runs the HPANWO empire, ‘I used to be a porter and I have more pride and dignity then you can imagine. We will make you well. We will remove this science nonsense from your mind through are freedom and truth foundation. Within good time you will be one of us again, you will be an Icke reading woo woo.’
Then I had a stoke and died before the ambulance arrived.