Children's Television: The Re-Imagining

Hello.

Children's television isn't what it used to be. It really isn't. You only have to look up a clip of Chockablock on YouTube to see that.

Anyway, in a bid to improve what's come before, I've tried to re-imagine some children's television classics. You know, like that Tim Burton does.

May contain scenes of a sexual nature.

Click on the link to go straight to that Re-Imagining. Click "Back" to come back to the list.


1. In The Night Garden
2. Something Special
3. Rainbow
4. Bob The Builder
5. Postman Pat
6. Dogtanian and the Three Muskehounds
7. The Magic Roundabout
8. Teletubbies
9. Rentaghost
10. Wizbit
11. PC Pinkerton
12. Bananaman
13. Lazy Town
14. Captain Pugwash
15. Bernard's Watch
16. Bagpuss
17. Come Outside
18. Woof!
19. Button Moon
20. Scooby Doo
21. He-Man & The Masters of the Universe
22. Saved By The Bell
23. Pigeon Street
24. Rolf's Cartoon Club
25. Mr Benn
26. Simon and the Witch
27. Fireman Sam
28. Numberjacks
29. Winnie The Pooh
30. The Family Ness
31. Bod
32. SuperTed
33. The Animals of Farthing Wood
34. Nina and the Neurons
35. The Clangers
36. Penny Crayon
37. Around The World With Willy Fog
38. Cloppa Castle
39. The Smurfs
40. The Trap Door
41. Small Wonder

1

In The Night Garden

... "Let My people go, that they may hold a Feast to Me in the wilderness." Alas, Makka Pakka's words fell on deaf ears, and the Night Garden saw ten terrible plagues.

Back

2

Something Special

... as he was led from the dock, his wrists in shackles and his life in tatters, Mr Tumble felt no remorse. The screaming woman leapt at him from the baying crowd, restrained by two burly officers. "Rot in hell, you monster!" she screamed. As she spat at him, his handcuffs prevented him from using his beloved Makaton to convey his own thoughts, so he used something a little more Anglo Saxon. He would seek his revenge.

Back

3

Rainbow

... the colours were resplendent, and through their prismatic glory, highlighted all that was wrong in men's souls. Zippy raised his arms to the brilliant sky, knowing that o'er the streets and houses, the eponymous natural phenomenon, climbing high, would enlighten Man. That he shared a house with an anthropomorphic ursine and a hippopotamus of indeterminable gender was immaterial.

Back

4

Bob the Builder

... Wendy crossed the builder's yard, unable to shake the feeling that she was being watched. It was an horrific sight, most likely the product of witchcraft. The vehicles were moving of their own accord, with hypnotic eyes which refused to break their gaze, burning into her soul. The sinister mood was broken by a whistling sound. It was Bob up on the scaffolding, hurling blue language, a builder to the end.

Back

5

Postman Pat

... as he repaired Mrs Goggins's shelf for what must have been the seventeenth time, Pat mused that he should probably have been delivering letters. However, with the forthcoming strike, the money had to come from somewhere. Indeed, Ted had shown Pat some quick-cash schemes on the internet, amongst other things. Terrible, terrible things.

Back

6

Dogtanian and the Three Muskehounds

... in an already sombre mood, Cardinal Richelieu, in his lavish, ornate carriage, surveyed les paysans de Paris outside, and Monsieur Treville's accursed Musketeers. Something was amiss; they had been mystically transformed into dogs. A chill went up his spine, as he caught his own reflection in the glass. The curse had afflicted him too. This could seriously harm his shot at the Papacy.

Back

7

The Magic Roundabout

... His face was still reddened from the surgery. What had those monsters done to him? Realising he could still be recognised, he applied the huge fake moustache, and prayed it would be enough. "That music," he whimpered, "that awful music... make it stop!" That ridiculous unmanned carousel did not relent, as the tune reverberated around his broken form like a dervish. He wanted to go to the source, silence it forever, but found his legs would not comply. Glancing down, he witnessed the full devilish folly of his former captors, a spring, clumsily attached, disabling his ambulation. His primal scream was drowned out by the endless tune of the devil.

Back

8

Teletubbies (via The Twilight Zone)

... Tinky Winky made his way through the ruin and debris. After Po and Dipsy's thoughtless, cruel defacing of the listings magazines ("doggerel", as they called it), the war came, leaving him alone at last, free of the taunts. His house and town now lay at his feet, as battered monuments to what was but is no more. "Time enough at last," he thought, but as he picked out his television viewing for the next several years, he stumbled, and broke his screen. "That's not fair. That's not fair at all. There was time now. There was all the time I needed..! It's not fair!"

Back

9

Rentaghost

... Harold Meeker seriously began to regret the day he let Hayley Joel Osment stay at his house, and the unwanted guests he brought with him. He grasped his crucifix, and began the waiting game. Claypole would return soon, the jester of the court of Satan, sitting astride the steed of mockery, black as coal. This time he was ready.

Back

10

Wizbit

... He had seen empires rise, civilisations ground to dust, mountains crumble 'twixt countless graves and the blood-red sky. Nothing had prepared Squidgy Bog for what now stood before him. A conical being, swathed in the colour of the devil's vomit, flanked by a rabbit/human hybrid. He had seen Donnie Darko and Harvey; 7-foot rabbits are never a good thing. "Ostagazuzulum," began the pointed one. This was ancient magic, dark and diseased; perhaps the sighting of Paul Daniels and his assistant, the Lovely Debbie McGee, was an omen. "Ha-ha, this a way," began the incantation, and Squidgy Bog was the most certain he had ever been that Puzzleopolis was doomed, presided over now by this jaundiced footsoldier of Satan.

Back

11

PC Pinkerton

..."So what have we got here?" he whispered grimly under a veil of nerves, his complexion pallid as a spectre.
"Double homicide," growled Inspector Belle through immaculate smoke rings, stepping over the chalk outline and its sanguine contents. He punctuated the air with his Cuban, flecks of filthy ash peppering the crime scene. "It's up to you to find the killer."
  He gulped; this was far more than he had ever had to deal with. Usually, it was all about helping kids use a ladder, or finding the vicar's lost tortoise. His throat closed up, and a bead of sweat panicked its way down his brow.
  "I'm putting you in charge of this investigation, Pinkerton. Find the monster that did this."
  Checking his radio was working, he made his way out of the pungent room, phobic of the next few days. Cleybourne would never be safe again.

Back

12

Bananaman

...For when Eric eats a banana, an amazing transformation occurs. His violent allergy to potassium kicks in, directly affecting his pituitary gland; this causes rapid growth in his musculature, though his trachea swells and chokes him from within. The lack of oxygen to the brain induces some very bizarre delusions of grandeur, hero-fantasy and spandex fetish, moments before expiration.

Back

13

Lazy Town

... Nobody knows what killed Sportacus. Perhaps it was his old nemesis, Robbie Rotten, stepping up his plans from 'mildly annoying' to 'homicidal'. Maybe he choked on his beloved 'sports candy'. Or could it have been an aneurysm caused by intense perturbation surrounding Stephanie; how come she was human, yet is a descendant of puppets? More likely was the syringe housing a lethal cocktail of steroids and adrenaline, injected straight into his heart. It would be days before they found his corpse, and what they assumed was a suicide note. However, it was just a childish scrawl, an approximation of words stabbed onto the page with a crayon by a petulant infant. Sportacus never bothered with learning, favouring anything physical to the point of fascism. His illiteracy was not a condition, it was a choice. So there he lay, a less than heroic, big, dumb, beautiful corpse, attracting flies like a singularity.

Back

14

Captain Pugwash

"We're in international waters now, me hearties." The Captain's tone was one of relief, and the crew of the Black Pig relaxed. "But," he continued, "they'll be looking for us. I've taken the liberty of providing new identities for you all, ones that will no doubt fall into urban myth forevermore." Tom, now known as Roger, looked at the list of puerile names, knowing he could never look his mother in the eye again.

Back

15

Bernard's Watch

... The world was still, nary a whisper. He stepped around the three dimensional photograph he had instigated by using the magic stopwatch, and found himself at a moral crossroads. Left, he could save the world a piece at a time, helping people find lost items and so forth. Right, he could use this power for his own wicked ends, embark on a guilt-free crimewave in this silent, lonely world. Clasping the watch to his chest, Bernard felt a smile bleed onto his face. He swaggered over to old Mrs Jones, removed her pension money from her fraying handbag, and walked towards his new life, oblivious to the damage he was about to inflict on the space-time continuum. A mere 7 light minutes from Earth, a singularity was formed; the folly of Bernard's actions would soon have consequences of a celestial nature. Bernard did not know this, nor did he care. What he did care about was the new PlayStation 3 he had under his arm. He did also now know that it was difficult opening a till when time was frozen.

Back

16

Bagpuss

... He swooped from above, hunger in his maw, and death in his wake. Finally, the cold embrace of silence, the mice splintered in his mighty talons. He traced back his trail of destruction, saw the pink and white striped cloth in tatters over the slightly less marvellous Mouse Organ, wondering if Emily would still love him. Augustus Barclay Yaffle mused that despite his degree, a wonderful achievement for a bird made of wood, the black heart of the predator still beat within.

Back

17

Come Outside

... "Come outside, Pippin." The precocious dog did as Nurse Gladys said, and saw her mistress stood beside the spotted plane, rifle in hand. Maybe the cost of running the plane and keeping a disgusting canine that can do mediocre tricks was too much of a financial burden.

Back

18

Woof!

... The moon hung nonchalantly in the colourless void, shrouded in a lone cloud, a celestial eyelid. It drifted silently, bathing Eric in the unfettered lunar waves. Since being bitten by the werewolf mere days and insomnolent nights ago, the schoolboy wondered when this would happen. His nose began itching, and muscles started to contract; sinews flexed and follicles writhed, the lupine curse smothering his humanity piece by living piece. His bipedal existence seemingly at an end, he went to howl at the moon. "Woof," he said, then began to lick his testicles, really hankering for a biscuit.

Back

19

Button Moon

... Leaving his copyright-infringing rocket, he made his way to his trusty telescope, and began spying on people, his voyaging and voyeurism proving strange bedfellows once more. He considered his prosthetic arms for a second, and experienced a flush of emotions. Although it was wonderful that a double-amputee could indeed make it into space in an empty tin of beans, much less get his rocks off by his cosmic stalking, the irony of his name saddened him. "I shouldn't be alive," he thought, wondering what sort of monstrous cardigan this moon had fallen from.

Back

20

Scooby Doo

... Norville Rogers was nervous, as usual. They had caught the 'ghost', bound tightly in twine, but his nerves were frayed. He needed a little something to take the edge off. His dog spoke to him, which was the first sign that something wasn't quite right. Considering taking him to Esther Rantzen, he swallowed his 'snack', and his mind wandered; how did he get his nickname? Was it due to his sexual prowess, or could it have been his love of dancehall/reggae fusion? Snapping out of his daze, he realised that he had pulled the mask from their captive, and found another monstrous face beneath. He tugged at the twisted visage, an action accompanied by a sickening squelch. Poor, misguided Old Man Withers, the victim of an hallucinating beatnik.

Back

21

He-Man and the Masters of the Universe (Hallowe'en Special)

"Come out, Skeletor! I know you're in there!"
  Skeletor sighed. What now?
  Letting down the drawbridge, and picking up his junk mail, he saw the uber-tanned fascist and his moustachioed comrade, all baby oil and plastic multi-coloured body-armour.
  "Oh, it's you."
  "This is the end, Skeletor! How fitting that it should fall upon Hallowe'en!"
  "But... it's my birthday! People celebrate my birthday on Eternia through the pagan festival of Hallowe'en!" His calcified face tried to twist into a remorseful puppy-dog eyed expression, but could not.
  "He's trying to trick you, He-Man!" barked Duncan through his porn moustache.
  Skeletor slapped a clawed hand to his face, and shook his head in disbelief. "No, look. I'm really not. I'm just sick of this harassment."
  "Your foul deeds warrant it," shouted the testosterone-soaked defender of the crown.
  "What?!" Skeletor's shock was obvious. "But... what about my catchment area programme for Eternian schools? The improvements I've made to arboreal areas? Getting rid of bendy-battle tanks? I just want a better Eternia!"
  "Bob? You okay?" The voice came from behind Skeletor, and was silenced in seconds. The sword whistled through the air, slicing the newcomer in two.
  "That'll teach you, Beast Man!"
  Skeletor, jawbone agape, tried to weep. A lone worm tapered from his eye socket. "You monster!" he yelped. "That was John Beastman, my campaign co-ordinator! You've murdered him!"
  "That was self-defence," muttered Man-At-Arms. "See? He was wielding a flask of deadly acid."
  Looking down at the bubbling liquid, Skeletor corrected him. "No, that was my caramel latte!" Would nothing go right for him today?
  "Now it's your turn, villain," growled He-Man.
  Skeletor leant towards him, conspiratorially. "Listen," he whispered, "I know your secret identity. Maybe we can strike a deal."
  "How can you possibly know that?"
  "My wife Barbara works in the Photo-Kwik on the high street. She compared two sets of holiday pictures, and noticed that you're just Prince Adam with a spray tan."
  He-Man gulped. "Okay, I'm listening, monster."
  "I'm not a monster. I'm not the one who lives in a skull-shaped castle. I mean, come on."
  "Fair point," he mused.
  "Okay, this is how it goes," said Skeletor, calmly. "You stop harassing me, or I'll call the police. Simple as that."
  "Never!"
  Skeletor had had enough. In the background, he saw that disgusting Orko floating around. "Right, you killed my friend, I'll have to kill yours. I see he's already got a huge, round target painted on him."
  He-Man called his bluff. "Go ahead. You'll be doing us a favour."
  Skeletor lowered his magic staff, dejected. He wasn't a killer.
  Unfortunately, his unwanted guests were.

* * * *

  Years passed, and to this day, children wander the land on All Hallow's Eve, wearing masks of every description, depicting each of Skeletor's horde, taking symbolic bribes of sweets from disgruntled constituents. People have forgotten the true story of Skeletor and his tarnished name. History is written by the winners, and kind-hearted, skull-faced Skeletor, the victim of a muscled idiot's racism and ongoing campaign of hatred and harassment, forever smeared by the author. If you are trick or treating this spooky night, try to remember the lost hero, Skeletor, for he will protect you from the true monsters. Some say he will return one day. If he does, and you are lucky enough to witness his resurrection, do remember to ask him: "So, how come you've got a muscular body, and a skull for a head?" He will tilt his head back and laugh that wicked laugh of his, but do not be afraid, for this is just his way.

Happy Skeletor's Day, one and all!

Back

22

Saved By The Bell

... Zachary Morris was led through the halls of Bayside Public School by Slater. This was a culture shock for him; transferring from his prank-led life in a Californian school to this esteemed English institution was not what he was expecting. No girls, he was told by his guide, but soon that would not matter a jot. Slater, with a coquettish wink, warned him of Belding, who ruled the school with an iron rod. Tipping his boater and straightening his blazer, he introduced Morris to Powers, known as Screech. Through the rigorous processes of fagging, to which he would soon be most accustomed, he would soon know why.

Back

23

Pigeon Street

... William the window cleaner took full advantage of his unique position, realising too late that being on top of a ladder is a two-hand job. As he fell to his grisly death, across the way, Mr Baskerville was investigating the recent spate of murders on the estate. Walking past Hugo the chef, carrying a very suspicious looking Lovettesque pie, he was nearly hit by the oncoming Clara in her lorry, carrying yet another load of illegal immigrants. Driving past the park, she failed to notice Bob and his brother Reg, burying the recently deceased Moreen in a black bag behind a tree. Meanwhile, filthy old Mr Jupiter lay across the park bench as usual, moving the view of his telescope from Mrs Glossop's bedroom window to the heavens, seeing the oncoming asteroid. Hours later, all that survived were the cockroaches and the pigeons.

Back

24

Rolf's Cartoon Club

"The first rule of Cartoon Club," he began, "is you don't talk about Cartoon Club." However, he was speaking to nobody. The room was empty, except for his drawing board, reams of paper, and some dusty video tapes, some containing cartoons. As he drew the demons in his head once more, he uttered the heavy-breathed incantations, to no avail, laughing to himself. "Can you tell what it is yet?" he wept, casually soiling himself, wishing the rabbit god would leave his dreams forevermore.

Back

25

Mr Benn

... Mr Benn sat in the cubicle, blood pouring from an open wound in his shoulder. He guffawed, removing his Viking helmet and wolf-pelt tunic. He had had a wonderful time raping and pillaging across Dark Ages Britain. Indeed, if it weren't for this shop being built on top of C.S. Lewis's grave, he could not go on such magical adventures. The mystical portal to other times, other places, had given him the opportunity to be a bastard throughout history, and he relished it. Such a difference to his everyday job, he mused, finding himself dressed once more in his suit and bowler hat. Come to think of it, he hadn't been to work in years. Well, it didn't matter. The suit was only for show anyway. Plus, every time he came here, he took home a valuable artefact as a 'souvenir', fetching thousands of pounds on eBay. He made his way to the shop's exit, carrying the genuine Viking helmet under his arm. As if by magic, a security guard appeared.
  "Where do you think you're going with that?" he growled, blocking his escape.
  "But... I've always been allowed to take something back with me," stammered Mr Benn.
  "Let me guess, short bloke, glasses, fez." Mr Benn nodded. "That's the work experience person. We've been watching you for weeks. You never pay anything, and you've nicked at least one item of stock in every visit."
  "But... they're souvenirs from my magical adventures!"
  "Look... what's your name?"
  "Colin... Colin Benn."
  "Look, Colin. Give me that helmet back, and be on your way. I never want to see you here again, is that clear?"
  "Muh," muttered Mr Benn.
  "What? I didn't hear that."
  "I said yes!" he shouted in reply.
  Mr Benn walked down Festive Road, realising that he'd wet himself during that confrontation. Now, what to do with the rest of the day? He made his way to the cinema, not realising that it was built on top of the grave of George Orwell. Little did he know it, but one way or another, Colin Benn was in for quite a full afternoon.

Back

26

Simon and the Witch

... It hard been a hard day, certainly. He had been distracted a little lately, and was finding it very difficult to get a full grasp of algebra. Now, he had to complete two pages of his textbook for his homework. He sighed, and made his way home. Although he wasn't one for cheating, perhaps his new friend could help him, conjure the answers into his workbook. He smiled, and the smell of a barbecue wisped around him, carried on the gentle summer breeze, making him ever so slightly hungry. He quickened his pace towards his house, eager to appease his growling stomach. As he turned into his street, nothing had quite prepared him for the sight that greeted him. It wasn't every day you saw an angry mob wielding burning torches, especially not one dancing around a burning pyre. Reverend Greene seemed to be conducting a ceremony, throwing holy water into the centre of the fire, chanting Biblical portents at its core. At the centre of the flames, Simon could see the witch, her smouldering form dotted with embers, in the middle of summoning some unholy daemon to wreak havoc and bloody vengeance upon her blood-baying audience. The smell hit Simon once more, and he really fancied a burger.

Back

27

Fireman Sam

... He sat in the only remaining chair in the room, averting his eyes as Bella's body was removed from the scene. Tearing his breathing apparatus from his face, he threw it to the floor, sending a plume of ash into the already choking atmosphere. He slumped forward in his seat, and buried his face deep in his hands, forcing back the tears. Miraculously, the grandfather clock still stood in the corner, a little worse for wear, scorched at the edges, but the pendulum swung disapprovingly at him, a wagging finger at his conscience. The constant tick tock tick tock tick tock why why why why won't it stop... The clock's face provided no answers, staring back at him sternly and unflinching. Yet another incident in Pontypandy with a tragic outcome, and he was in no doubt as to who did it. It was him. It was always him. The Price boy. The clock tick-tocked tick-tocked the fact back at him, that he had ample chance to stop him. Every time, he got away with it, like he had signed some Faustian pact under Satan's very letterhead. This was Sam's fault as much as Norman's. No more, he told himself. This ends here. Rising to his feet with renewed determination, he made his way to Jupiter, faithful old Jupiter. Its engine was, indeed, remarkably clean, he thought. Everyone told him so, but he'd never taken the time to appreciate it. He digressed; time to admire that later. Reaching for the sharpest looking fire axe, he tested it against his finger. It drew blood immediately. A smile spread across his face like a raging inferno, and he wrote the word 'revenge' in his own blood across Bella's broken door. Time to clear his conscience, once and for all, stop the mocking of the constant tick-tocking that reverberated its nagging, tutting opinion around his skull. Norman Price's deal with the Devil would soon be null and void.

Back

28

Numberjacks

Living near Sellafield had been an interesting experience for all of them growing up; fate and genetics had conspired to shape them all exactly like numbers. So, what’s the obvious thing to do when you have eight fellow numerically shaped and named mutants, and you’re shunned by society as a whole? You set up a high-tech base of operations inside a sofa, and get information on world events through a clever combination of the internet and child labour, and this is precisely what they had done. Their ranks were now about to swell, as they welcomed their newest member, Pi To Three Hundred Digits. One thing was for sure… they needed a bigger sofa.

Back

29

Winnie the Pooh

... After mauling Christopher Robin, he began to feel more like himself. Hundred Acre Wood smelt of death once more. As he put on a funny hat, he saw the Pope squat down behind a tree. That answered another of his many questions.

Back

30

The Family Ness

MacTout blows on his bagpipes, whilst Elspeth and Angus watch those notes go floating across the waves. Abusive Ness appears at once, his looming, daemonic form casting a twisted shadow. The language he spat in his Scots brogue was as blue as the sky. The whole of the Family Ness were not too far behind. Queasy Ness rose from the Loch, and soon the banks of this idyllic spot were painted a foul yellow. Sacrilegious Ness leapt from the turbulent underworld, destroying the local church, burning its splintered remains with a ferocious laugh and a flaming torch. Murderous Ness finished off the townsfolk, silencing the cacophonous din forevermore. Meanwhile, away from the swift, brutal devastation, Reclusive Ness was Loched away in his underwater hidey-hole, waterproofed pornography and Domino's Pizza his only, constant companions.

Back

31

Bod

It was fast approaching Christmas, yet he did not feel festive. Isolated here in the wilderness, his crops were failing, the year's erratic weather conditions murdering his livelihood. He began to sob gently, the weeping cry echoing back, mocking him.
  He heard a noise. The letterbox! He found himself leaping excitedly towards his front door, but stumbled slightly, guessing it was just the wind bobbyknocking his hopes away. But... what was this? A letter? Or perhaps a Christmas card? A small, white rectangle of hope stared up at him. He stooped, grasped it in his shaking hands, and opened his front door. He shouted his thanks to Frank the postman, who did not acknowledge him, and visibly quickened his pace.
  Farmer Barleymow was oblivious to the snub, as he opened his letter. Perhaps his family had forgiven him? He knew it was probably far too much to expect, but he had done his time. He remembered the day that PC Copper came knocking at the door, telling his now former wife and children his list of vicious crimes. He never saw them again. Perhaps it was a Christmas card from Flo. Though he was a ruddy-faced old farmer rattling around alone in his rapidly crumbling smallholding, he knew he could make her happy, get some semblance of a normal life once more. He tore at the envelope.
  It was a letter. An official letter. He held it up towards the single source of light in the room, a lone bulb, with not even a moth wanting to orbit it. It was a court summons. A solitary tear plopped onto the page, as he slumped into his only chair. Flo would never want him now. Who was he kidding? She was always too wrapped up in spending time with that weird alien kid, the one who modelled himself on Charlie Brown or something. He wept uncontrollably, screwing the letter into a ball and throwing it into the dying embers of his fireplace. He collected his single piece of rope, stood on his only chair, made a pretty sturdy knot, and looked up to the single rafter that crossed his decrepit ceiling.

Back

32

SuperTed

With dwindling fuel reserves, his rocket began the final descent. It punctured the atmosphere silently, gloved hands casually working the complex array of controls. The craft gracefully upended and lowered itself gently to the ground. The retro rockets kicked in, scorching the tarmac below. The tailfins cut softly into the melted road, plumes of smoke outlining every surrounding building.
  Silence. The dead of night provided ideal surroundings for the brightly-coloured interstellar dirigible, starlight being the only betrayer. A lone silhouette appeared at the door, the airlock gasping as though it had been holding its breath this long journey. The door clanged against the side of the rocket as it swung open, and the ramp descended with a casual whir. He strolled down, holding a small bag containing a miraculous prize. Entirely naked, his jaundiced form wore many battle scars, showing up as perfect circles. It was how he got his unfortunate, and less than heroic, nom de guerre. Running his fingers through his red mohawk, he set foot on the Earth.
  His mission was clear. He had to bring life once more to one who had died; it was a clear way of infiltrating this world, making it ripe for conquest. Get one of its people indebted irrevocably, and hold them to ransom to clear the way for the invasion force. He chuckled, obliviously stepping over the body of the businessman who had got in the way of the descending craft, and headed for the window of the toy factory.
  He broke his way in, and saw the lifeless corpse. Was that the best this world had to offer? Did they really dispose of their dead in such a dishonourable way? No matter; it did not sully his objective. Emptying the contents of the bag over the inert form, it screamed into life; unbeknownst to the visitor, artificial stitching became flesh, and stuffing became blood, organs, bone and sinews. It breathed for the first time, and the visitor smiled, unaware he had just created an entirely new species.
  Explanations were brief and garbled, as the new life form was led back to the craft. Within minutes, it had left the Earth once more. Later that day, it arrived at its first checkpoint, an asteroid shrouded in nebulaic clouds. The new life form was led unceremoniously to the alien agent known as Mother Nature, a vile creature known for bizarre, unholy experimentation. A bitter-tasting liquid was forced down the new life form's hours-old throat, and within moments, it began to convulse. It tore at its own skin, tearing it asunder, revealing a crimson outfit beneath. Spotty vomited; in all he had ever seen, all he had ever inflicted, nothing came close to being as disgusting as seeing a creature tear off its own epidermis.

Back

33

The Animals of Farthing Wood

As Fox tore at Badger's throat, he seemed to not care that he was begging for his life in perfect English. His jaws dripping with blood, he sniffed the air. More prey. Caught up in his own hunger-panged instincts, he failed to notice the crimson-jacketed toffs, brazenly flouting the will of the law and the outrage of decent-minded folk.

Back

34

Nina And The Neurons

The voices... Unrelenting, cruel, dictatorial, constant companions, guiding her every whim, miniature puppeteers tightening their strings with every passing day. It had taken many years of training to get to this position, her education putting her on an ever-higher pedestal in the scientific community. She had to pause, and wonder if the knowledge she retained came from books, or from some misbegotten whisper from within her compromised grey matter. The portion of her mind which was still hers drifted, remembering the instant that led to this eternal torment. It was an innocent query from an inquisitive child, wide-eyed and Scots-accented, as they all were, asking about split personalities and the duality of the human soul. Deciding to demonstrate on herself, she gazed into the swirling lens of her self-constructed machine, silver and looming. Such hubris! Tinkering with nature, her mind was torn asunder. One being now housed six individual minds, each of the newcomers assuming control of one of her main senses. Drinking her seventh neat whisky, she felt herself numbing; time to silence the little bastards once and for all. The alcohol should buy enough time to implement the everlasting silence that would soon follow. Her hands trembled as she fumbled for the revolver on her desk, another artefact in a cluster of junk that reflected her fractured soul. Holding the weapon to her temple, her finger slowly began to pull the trigger. Then came the bang, the blackness and the silence.

Her eyelids forced themselves apart, revealing a sideways view of the floor of the lab. She was on the floor, a painful bump on the back of her skull throbbing the message home that she was still alive. Rising groggily to a seated position, the revolver lay dormant before her, a slight wisp of gunsmoke rising to meet her. She rose above it to her feet, noticing the lone bullet hole in the otherwise immaculate wall. Perhaps she had silenced the voices anyway. A smile spread across her face, the first time in weeks those muscles had been exercised. Pouring herself another whisky to celebrate, she heard a laugh. It was soon joined by another, then another. It was then that she realised her failure. They had assumed control of her body at the last possible moment, saved themselves. Her face dropped, and she sobbed uncontrollably, the weeping drowned out by the guffaws of her unseen tormentors.

Back

35

The Clangers

"That's one small step for man," crackled the voice, "one giant leap for mankind."
  It was truly an historic moment. He had stepped onto the lunar surface only seconds ago, leaving a footprint that would remain undisturbed on this lifeless terrain. He could not help feeling that something was watching him. Perhaps it was the thought that the millions of people back home were watching his time-delayed actions in low-resolution monochrome, including the President, or the lonely, distant planet Earth, a half-closed eye staring sleepily, half of its immense majestic form swathed in shadow. Perhaps it was the general sense of claustrophobia generated by the movement-limiting space suit, coupled with one sixth gravity. Whatever it was, he put it down to stage fright; how often does an ordinary man make history? Their time here was limited, and they had a lot to do. He chose to ignore the strange whistling sound. It was probably some feedback in his comms system.

  Later, after planting the flag, the sound was back. Aldrin confirmed he could hear it too. "Uh, Houston," began Armstrong, "having some feedback here, and it's getting louder."
  "Negative," came the reply, "probably just some inner-ear noise from the travel. Nothing to worry about."
  It was getting louder. He could see that it was affecting his colleague, too. It couldn't be coming from outside. That wasn't possible. It was then that he realised, the whistling was in his very mind, getting louder and louder, pounding, reverberating around his skull. He wanted to tear his helmet off, massage his temples, somehow end the now constant tooting of Satan's pennywhistle. Through beleaguered eyes, limited by a lack of panoramic vision within this dome of despair flanking his head, he saw a small shadow moving around a crater. Bounding in comical slow motion towards the source, he saw hundreds of them. Strange, rodent-like creatures, moving in a strange, jerky stop-motion fashion. Somehow, life had found a way to evolve on this barren moon. This eclipsed his earlier feat; discovering other-wordly life in such unforgiving conditions was proof eternal that Man was not alone in this universe. The creatures were small, ugly and legion, possessing emotionless eyes. They must have been extremophiles to be born here, oxygenless and bereft of liquid water. Incredible, yet frightening. As he reached for the bulky camera to capture the moment, one of them turned, and noticed him. It stared, then made its way towards him. A cold sweat broke out over his forehead, as the echoing whistle crescendoed furthermore. He tried to turn and run, as dozens, then hundreds of the creatures approached, able to traverse in this low gravity a lot more successfully than he, as he stumbled clumsily. His instincts tried making his legs run, but the gravity tripped him, mocking his escape. Soon, he was covered with them, unable to fight them off. The only thing he could do was scream. Though heard at CAPCOM, who had cut off the feed to television broadcasters, the cold vacuum of space absorbed the sound, wrapped it in despair, as everything went black.
  In the Oval Office, Nixon paced around his desk, casually catching sight of the footage from the lunar odyssey, an afterthought of the Kennedy administration that he was bound by. Arms folded, a broad smirk clambered between his sagging jowels. He watched with suppressed glee as his astronauts were overpowered and taken over. Soon, they would return to Earth, with a precious cargo. Soon, his master, the Soup Dragon, would take its first steps on Terran soil, a conqueror. Soon, people would regret voting in the wet liberal bleatings of Kennedy at the start of the decade in place of Nixon. "Y'see, Jack, you should never fuck with Nixon, 'cause Nixon always has a back-up plan. Before long, the American people will regret ever getting you into power to even suggest getting us to the moon." Talking to a memory, he chuckled coldly. "Well, Nixon's President now, and soon, I'll be part of a great interstellar Empire." He turned off the television, as a low-resolution monochrome image of an American hero faded to a point, and he began planning what colour his robes would be.

Back

36

Penny Crayon

When Penny Crayon's school began Sex Education classes, the world would never be the same again. Indeed, civilisation was still recovering from the day the avid yet highly impressionable youth watched a documentary on Hitler and the Schutzstaffel. Though she did not yet know it, Penny's grandmother was on the verge of obliterating mankind with an innocent purchase. The spotty urchin behind the counter assured her that the Terminator box set was suitable for a child. Perhaps he would have reconsidered his response had he known the age-restricted product was an intended gift for a child with cursed, life-creating art supplies. Soon, it would not matter.

Back

37

Around The World With Willy Fog

He had nobody to blame. He had made the gentleman's wager, now he had to live with the consequences. Stood on the deck of the mighty sailing vessel, the sea air teased his throat, as he stood tall and proud in all his finery. The impressive topper adorned the mighty king of the jungle, an elegant crown of a society animal. His immaculate suit was battered by Poseidon's wrath, yet remained somewhat impeccable, as was only right and fitting for a person of his calibre and standing. If only he could find shoes that fit.
  He checked his pocket watch, perfectly reflecting the sky in sepia-toned distortion, and tutted. It tick-tocked away, mocking him, taunting him childishly with its looped playground chant with what he now realised. He knew that he had lost the wager, and therefore his standing in society. The financial loss was indeed catastrophic; he was now no better than a pauper, a guttersnipe hungrily chasing the discarded crumbs of another's meal. The worst part was his immediate loss of status, the inevitable shunning by England's finest men of standing, not to mention the devastating effect it would have on his philandering ways. There was indeed no chance now that not even the most desperate of frustrated, flustered ladies about town would so much as glance down their noses at him, unless it were on their terms alone. He was no longer a playboy, but a plaything.
  He was roused from his musings by Rigadon, who, with Tico and Romy, confirmed that which he feared. Even taking the crossing of international time zones into account, there was no possible way that they would achieve their goal. All was lost at sea.
  The chill ocean breeze seemed to take on an icier countenance, as they caught his expression. The veneer of a Victorian gentleman had dropped.
  An hour passed, as the ship traversed stormier climes, battering the blood-stained bulkhead, gradually washing away his crime. Nearby, shielded within his cabin, sprawled across the floor like a prized rug, Fog gnawed at Romy's shinbone, using Tico's spine as a toothpick. Sated by his repast, he drifted into a soothing catnap, a king once more.

Back

38

Cloppa Castle

(requested by @WadyWiwwow)

The clock struck half past three, seconds before Beosweyne's sword struck Jest A Minit's throat. Every day, for half an hour, there was brief respite, a snapshot of civilisation amidst constant warfare. Though one could argue that the bearded warrior was perhaps a little set in his ways, you could only drink so much lapsang souchong before it stuck in the craw like a milignant fishbone. Enough stalling, he thought, albeit in more monosyllablic diction; time to render the Byegones obsolete, and claim their undeserved wealth for his own. How the discovery of oil in the middle ages could lead to wealth was a mystery to him. He did not care.
  As Hench torched Cue-Ee-Dee's laboratory, Beosweyne was busy committing regicide. The bodies formed a path in his wake like breadcrumbs, and Cloppa Castle was his. With her dying breath, Queen Ethelbruda cursed his name. "Go to hell," she offered, spitting blood with every syllable. Beosweyne's lips split into a broad grin, partially veiled behind thick black hair. Sword aloft, he savoured the moment, as the deposed monarch longed for the end.
  She would have to wait; as the shattered derrick gave way, the oil gushed skywards, the earth weeping. Through an ebony curtain stepped Mudlin, spellbook in hand and a dark glint in his eye. He began the incantation as the sky blackened. The hirsute conqueror shielded his eyes as a chill wind lashed debris against his armour, and through trembling fingers he saw the horned silhouette, its crimson skin bleeding into view. It would seem that his dark master had betrayed him.
  The following morning, King Woebegone stumbled from the wine cellar with the mother of all hangovers. Two things immediately concerned him. The first was that he was almost definitely certain that there used to be a castle where there was now a smoking crater, circled by winged demons. The other thing was that he couldn't remember where he left his trousers.

Back

39

The Smurfs

(requested by @nessalouise)

They smurfed together in the pale smurflight. Hefty Smurf smurfed a smurfberry into Smurfette's smurf, and she smurfed. He couldn't help smurfing either.
  They smurfed into each other's smurfs, and began smurfing. As she smurfed his smurf, he couldn't stop himself from smurfing, and he smurfed in her eye. "That's never smurfed to me before", he smurfed, smurfily. She smurfed, carried on smurfing him, and soon, they were both smurfed. Smurfette smurfed the long smurf of Smurfs smurfing up behind Hefty Smurf, and smurfed to herself. It was going to be a smurf night.
  The next morning, Gargamel was a tad disappointed. He had devoted the best part of 28 years into capturing a Smurf, and now he had two. As he gnawed the blue flesh from what was Hefty Smurf's leg, he couldn't help retching. He did have to wonder why he'd bothered.

Back

40

The Trap Door

(requested by @twittedeschi and @Wulfruna)

Berk gulped as The Thing Upstairs barked the order to feed him once more, the messy smack of its mandibles reverberating through the ancient rafters, the castle's original purpose shrouded in mystery and cloaked in carbon-dated enigma. As he opened the Trap Door, a foul stench escaped and filled the confined mess of the chamber. "Smell that," said Berk, sublimating the fact that he was worried which of the Thing's heads he'd have to feed today. Would it be the one that looked like Kerry Katona, manic yet deep-set eyes bereft of soul? Or would it be the Dale Winton head, all camp and burnt umber? He certainly hoped it was neither. He peered into the darkness beneath the now open hatch, and saw the evil glint in the eyes of the worst monster it had ever presented, and he had seen Barrymore down there once. "Fritzl?" muttered Berk, backing away nervously, using Boni as a shield.

Back

41
Small Wonder
(requested by @heavenlyfodder)

Ted had had enough. After two and a half decades of upgrades on VICI, he was delighted to discover the "inter-net". Having wasted tens of thousands of dollars on his robotic folly, losing his family in the process, he discovered two things. Firstly, there was a "web-site" called "The eBay", and secondly, there is a market for exactly what he was selling, several in fact. He did think it was cruel irony asking VICI to set up a "PayPal" account for him, but soon it would not matter. He had to chuckle to himself when he set the item condition to "used".

Back

There will be more... any particular children's programme that you feel isn't gritty enough for today's knife-crime, hoodie dumb-fest, let me know, and we'll see if we can do something about it. Oh yes.

Send me a request to either of my accounts (@IanHewett or @DystopianF) with the hashtag #DYSTOPIANKIDS on Twitter