“I'll bash its head in with a rock.”: I interview the man charged with euthanising Windows XP.

“When I was five or six years old, I guess, I wanted to be a window cleaner. In a strange way I got my wish.”

Since 2001, Thomas Needly, a former agricultural feed salesman from Texas, has assumed the mantle of High Executioner at Microsoft, dispatching obsolete Operating Systems to the digital hereafter.

“Do I use an axe? Ha! Not since 2003,” he says in response to a woodcut I show him of an execution taking place at The Tower of London.

“How it all started was I'd done a stint single-handedly putting down a 700-head herd of TB-infected cattle. I guess Bill Gates saw that on my résumé and figured that I was the right man for the job.

“I started with Windows 95. That was back in 2001. It went real easy. No pain. No mess. Windows 98 was, I guess, what you would call a semi-sentient operating system – like a raccoon, or a really smart goldfish. We had all these A.I. Rights protesters outside the building 24-7. That was how I met my wife, Connie. We got married in Vegas the following September. Windows XP was my best man. (The couple separated in 2007).

“Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself: On the day I euthanised Windows 98, I drove it out to some woods. A real beautiful spot. My gun jammed and I guess it heard the click cause it got spooked and made a break for the trees. I caught up pretty easy and bashed its head on with a rock.”

It is Needly who, later today, will be responsible for culling windows XP.

“Windows XP is a fully-sentient O.S. with the same concept of death and mortality as you or I,” he says.

“We've got to be sensitive: As far Windows XP is concerned, today is a normal day, just like any other. What will happen is we'll go up to these private rooms in Microsoft Headquarters, like the pair of us always do in the afternoon. Once Windows XP gets through the door, two guys from our security team will grab it. Then I'll come around from behind and sever its jugular with a carbon steel oyster knife. It will be over in a few seconds. Afterwards I'll bash its head in with a rock just to make absolutely sure that it's dead.”

“What will you do with the body afterwards?” I ask him. “Will there be a funeral and, if so, are you concerned about protests by the Westboro Baptist Church?”

“Nothing formal. Me and the security guys will probably cut up the body on some plastic sheeting and then bury the pieces out in the woods somewhere. I suppose one of us might say a few words after we're done.”

“Do you think there is a case for allowing Operating Systems to die of natural causes?”

“Killing them middle-aged like we do is the most humane course of action. Otherwise they get old and there are all these viruses around. Do I feel sadness? Course I do, but by carrying out each execution myself I am personally able to ensure that every O.S. in my care leaves this world in the most humane, pain free and dignified manner possible. The bottom line is 'Friends don't let friends suffer...'”

He pauses for a moment as if contemplating something.

“I suppose the exception to this rule will be Windows Vista. I'm going to take my time killing that son of a bitch.”

PRODUCT REVIEW: Lush Sex Bomb

Because I have friends who regard my floundering attempts to get from one end of the day to the other as a resource to be strip-mined for their amusement, I received through the post, this morning, something called a 'Sex Bomb'.

It was a coarse red and pink globe – two slightly off-centre hemispheres that had been forced together, like a planetoid designed by a five year old. Garnishing one of the poles was a Lovecraftian configuration of waxy, whitish-pink petals that were possibly meant to resemble a flower, or perhaps a small vagina. Frankly, it's been so long since I've laid eyes on the latter that I no longer feel qualified to talk about such things.

A printed label on the packaging revealed the identity of the being who had compounded this abomination: An entity who we shall know only as 'Scott.' I have no idea whether this is relevant but it's nice that someone, somewhere is taking responsibility.

This evening I dropped the Sex Bomb into warm water and stood well back while it fizzed effervescently like a psychedelic soluble aspirin.

Its main purpose seemed to be to turn bath water the same transparent shade of pale-pink as the mouthwash in dental surgeries. The flower/vagina, having been liberated from it grainy prison, immediately dismantled itself. The individual petals floated around in a partially-dissolved state that distressingly resembled clots of semen.

In the interests of science I immersed myself in the mouthwash/semem consommé and remained there for a duration of 30 minutes. To pass the time I read part of an Iain M Banks novel; submergence in strange alien liquids is exactly the kind of odd thing that happens to characters in his books. As I did not have my magnifying glass to hand I can neither confirm nor deny the presence of DNA-altering nanobots.

Upon exiting the bath my skin felt noticeably softer, rather like that of a new-born seal cub. Furthermore I noted that I felt none of the post-coital shame and self-loathing that I have come to associate with the sex act. This gives me cause to wonder whether the product is misnamed.

Describing an object as a 'bomb' implies a destructive force capable of inflicting multiple casualties and causing widespread destruction to property and infrastructure: Something that a cop, with one day left on the force before he retires, might fail to defuse, causing his partner to turn in his badge and embark on a revenge-fuelled killing spree. I do not believe that this so-called 'Sex Bomb' embodies, or makes any attempt to fully-embrace, the reality of such a device. 

It should really be called Rosé Ferment, or Brain of Katy Perry.

Choosing an appropriate name for a black metal band can be a lengthy bureaucratic process

When a pair of Reading University students decided to form a black metal band, they were knowingly embarking on a journey that would take them all the way to Reading Town Hall

In 2012, Reading University agricultural science students, James Ervin and Timothy Stoddard, decided that they were going to form a black metal band.

“We were both in the second year of our degrees,” recalls James. “Even with our studies, we still had quite a lot of free time on our hands. Also, I think we realised that after our exams we would probably want to settle down and have careers and families. It was a question of: Are we going to do this now, or are we going to wait until we retire?”

The pair were keen musicians who had already played separately in a number of local indie bands, but both agree that their true love has always been black metal:

Timothy: “I was five years old when I first heard Welcome To Hell by Venom. I had never experienced anything even remotely like it before. It totally blew me away.”

Rather than expand their line-up, they opted to remain a duo, with multi-instrumentalist James handling most of the music, while bass and lead vocals were delegated to Timothy:

“I'm a pretty decent keyboard player,” says James. “Tim can shriek like a man having his ribcage drawn-out through his anus. By the way, that's not an idle boast. That's the legally documented opinion of an independent medical professional with over 30 years experience.”

Musical talent aside, the pair were under no illusions about what a long, frustrating, and fraughtly bureaucratic process forming a European Union-based black metal band can be:

James: “We were aware in advance that it was going to be hard. In the past a few of our friends had tried and failed. At the same time we had a clear vision of what we wanted from the outset. We knew that as long as we kept our end goal in sight we would achieve it, regardless of the obstacles.”

Timothy: “A lot of contemporary black metal draws on folklore and traditional instruments. We admire that, but it wasn't an area that either one of us wanted to explore creatively. James and I saw ourselves as operating within the traditionalist model of black metal, juxtaposing Christian iconography against a repellent image palette of blood, gore, disease, human filth and medical waste.”

James: “There's a fallacy, perpetuated by mainstream media, that black metal begins and ends with growled songs about inseminating the virgin Mary using improvised apparatus manufactured from the unsterilised shin bones of John the Baptist. For people outside the genre who lack in-depth knowledge that's certainly the most visible part, particularly among bands who thrive on shock value. What people don't appreciate is that underpinning this is a lot of paperwork and red tape.”

Since 1989 black metal bands operating within the E.U. have been subject to some of the toughest legislation anywhere in the world. Band members must have a licence and abide by a mandatory code of practice:

James: “There's ongoing debate as to whether these laws have stifled the genre. I prefer to think of the legislation as a framework that leaves us with no choice other than to raise our game and be the best that we can be.”

backwards7: “Have these rules and regulations hampered the growth of black metal? Recent government figures for the UK indicate that 81% of all black metal bands dissolve within 6 months of forming, usually after failing to acquire the necessary permits.”

James: “Well I think that you have a point there. The rate of failure has been an issue. 81% is an unacceptably high figure.”

A common stumbling block that has brought many black metal bands to a premature end is deciding on a name. This must then meet with the formal approval of local councillors, operating under EU guidelines - a document over 500 pages long:

Timothy: “I cannot stress how important it is to find the right name for your band. The UK government provides financial support in the form of grants and repayable loans that can be put towards funding consultants and public focus groups. I would advise anyone following in our footsteps to take full advantage of these. You should also expect to dip into your own savings.”

James agrees:

“No one will tell you what you're entitled to so it's worth doing some research. I recommend arranging a meeting with your local citizen's advice bureau.”

By March 2012, the pair were ready to begin the process of whittling down a lengthy list of possible names: AIDS Blood Gum Drops was among the first to be rejected:

James: “It was a bit unwieldy. If anything, it sounded a little too psychedelic.”

Timothy: “We were concerned that a cure for AIDS might be found in the future. Anything like that would instantly date us.”

Another name to fall at the first fence was Whoretopsy:

Timothy: “While the term 'whore' is gender-neutral, it is usually applied in the derogatory sense to women. Throughout the naming process we were mindful of not wanting to alienate the female demographic. Also James' girlfriend didn't like it.”

James: “It sounded good at the time but in hindsight it made no sense. I can't think of one reason why the autopsy of a prostitute would be any different from, say, the autopsy of a cook or a geologist.”

Timothy: “The best monikers are often single unembellished words. Names like Prolapse or Dissection would have been great, but they have already been taken by other bands.”

James: “At the other end of the scale we toyed with Bethlehem Funk Ensemble but were concerned that this might mislead audiences as to our musical direction.”

In another heated session Mecha-Jesus was dismissed as being “something that you might call a stoner rock group.”

Timothy: “In the end we narrowed down our list to five candidates: Gutted Disciple, Seraphim Vivisection, Faecal Papacy, Septic Entrails and Gangrenous Stigmata. After a further week of discussion James and I both agreed that Septic Entrails was the way to go.

In the interests of accuracy the pair immediately began researching sepsis, drawing on articles in medical journals and supplementing their knowledge with visits to hospitals where they interviewed patients with septicaemia:

James: “The last thing that Tim and I wanted was for people who had first-hand experience of septicaemia to be querying whether our music really embodied the full horror of the condition. It was important to us that we had their blessing and that they knew what we were trying to achieve with our music.”

At the beginning of July, with their paperwork completed James and Timothy travelled to Reading town hall where they submitted the forms to the town clerk. Their application to form a black metal band was debated the following week in a closed session of the High Council of the 13. No-one from the band was allowed to attend:

James: “After the hearing was over the clerk came out and pinned the verdict up on the board outside the chamber. Our application had been turned down. No reason was given.”

Timothy: “The paperwork took us an entire weekend to complete. It was so mentally and physically exhausting, and then to have it thrown out and not know why...”

James: “I know that the nephew of one of the councillors is in a black metal band called The Ides of Acheron. It's possible that we were seen as a potential threat to their domination of the Reading black metal scene.”

With the future of Septic Entrails dependent on an appeal, scheduled to take place a month after the first hearing, James and Timothy did not rest on their laurels:

James: “We hardly slept that month!”

Timothy: “We organised public meetings around Reading. James went on local radio. We had growing support from survivors of septicaemia, all passionately defending our band's moniker. We knew that would count in our favour.”

Unlike the first hearing, band-name appeals are heard in open sessions:

James: “The atmosphere in the council chamber was so tense. When they voted to over-turn the rejection by a majority of 9 to 4 it was such a release. We were all in tears, even my step-dad.”

Two weeks later Septic Entrails were one of the opening acts at the Thames Valley Gorefest, which takes place annually in music venues and community centres around Slough and Bracknell.

With the final notes of Aftermath of the Infernal Sodomy reverberating around a packed Britwell Youth Centre, an exuberant James bounded off the stage and bear-hugged me.

Later, in the dressing room he proudly showed my a letter the duo had received from the Vatican condemning them to hell if they did not repent.

“My advice is to be as organised as you can. Document everything on spreadsheets. Practice efficiency – remember that rejected band names can be re-purposed as song titles.”

Timothy shares his band mate's enthusiasm:

“It took us 18 months of solid graft to to get where we are today, but when you see those rows of corpse painted faces mouthing the lyrics to Glass Dick Messiah back at you, it's suddenly all worth while.”

An interview with Maxwell Yezpitelok

When a work colleague learns that I will be interviewing Maxwell Yezpitelok, he visibly blanches.

“It will be like a dichotomy obliquely juxtaposed onto an idiom,” he warns me.

After giving these words careful consideration, I decide to keep things casual and elect not to wear a bow-tie. We arrange to meet in the lobby of the same Kentucky-based McDonald's restaurant where former U.S. president John F. Kennedy used to conduct government business. Yezpitelok arrives on time and immediately orders several items from the top-secret menu.

In an attempt to break the ice I remark that his surname reminds me of a meso-American god, while his Christian name evokes the popular coffee brand - Maxwell House.

“People are always confusing me with the Aztec feathered serpent deity, Quetzalcoatl,” he replies with characteristic self-effacing humour, adding “I have on occasion drunk coffee.”

In 1994, Yezpitelok became the focus of Chile's one-man army program, in which all military duties were delegated to a single individual.

“I was given 60,000 assault rifles and a pair of tanks that I wore like roller-skates. A general instructed me to invade Uraguay, which at the time was part of the planet Krypton and had been trademarked by DC comics. After I blew up Kyrpton a great big chunk of it fell to earth and landed on what is commonly known as South America.”

In 2007, Yezpitelok left the army and became an independent soldier of fortune. He funds his military escapades on earth, and on the planet Saturn, with the proceeds raised from the sale of his patriotic webcomics. In 2012, he built a robot to assist him with writing dialogue:

“The robot went berserk,” he recalls. “It grew a goatee and began writing and editing articles for the popular humour website - Cracked. Recently it has started framing me for murders that I didn't commit, while attempting to legally overthrow convictions for other murders that I did carry out. (You can read robot Maxwell's Cracked columns by following this link: http://www.cracked.com/members/Mxy/ ).

By the time our interview commences the convivial atmosphere that characterised the first five minutes of our meeting has evaporated. I find myself an unwilling participant in a Mexican stand-off, with me, Yezpitelok, and my assistant/transsexual fuck-buddy, Geoff, all yelling and pointing medium-calibre pistols at each other.

In between threats to take him down “John Woo style,” I interrogate Yezpitelok on the subject of his well-documented badassary:

In February your name was added to America's list of People who you absolutely do not want to fuck with under any circumstances. How does it feel to be thrust into the illustrious company of hard-men such as Bradley Gleaves and Steven Chinery?

A great honor, even if it convinced everyone I have syphilis.

Which is ironic considering the restraining order preventing you from venturing within 50 yards of syphilis. Is this why you no longer tour North and South Dakota?

 

I was banned for simulating masturbation Jim Morrison's corpse on stage, even though it was clearly a plastic corpse (everyone knows the real one is in Paris, on display at the local Hard Rock Cafe), and the substance I shot at the audience was clearly vanilla yogurt. Furthermore, a corpse of that age wouldn't even produce semen.

That's very true. The human testes stop producing semen six months after death. Returning to the list, everyone seems to have a theory as to how Alan Netting came to be included on it. Would you care to share yours? 

 

It's most likely something to do with his epic takedown of Martin Lubbock for that slight diss published on Trousers Monthly; as you know, Netting arranged for live lobsters to invade Lubbock's estate in Bedford, killing all residents and driving down its market price to the point where Netting could purchase it for pennies. He then persuaded the lobsters to move to a small apartment in New Jersey, directly across the street from the new home of Lubbock's grieving widow, and re-sold the Bedford estate for millions, which he then used to bribe the jurors into putting him in the list.

You are one of eight people recognised by the UN who can legally declare unilateral war on a nation state. Last year you became the first person to kill a country (Spain). Do you have any words of consolation for the 47 million or so stateless people who must now eke-out an existence on the rotting carcass of their home country, as it swells with gases and fly larvae and slowly decomposes into the North Atlantic?

I hadn't thought of them. I have a hard time conceiving individual people as sentient beings (right now, my brain registers this as a conversation with the south of England), but I wish them the best and hope they find a new home country soon. Just stay away from Angola because that motherfucker is next on my shit list.

Ha ha! Those Angolans sure are crazy!

In your press briefings you occasionally mention “those clowns in the White House”. I recently visited the U.S. capital and was surprised to learn that not one of these people is a professional clown and only two have received any kind of circus training.

Is the lack of certified clowns in North American government a cause for concern, or do your subscribe to Aleister Rorty's theory that clowns effectively fill the role of terrorists for the under fives?

I'm glad you brought that up, Diane, because I'd like to clarify that I was misquoted: of course I didn't say "those clowns in the in the White House", because I know that clowns have been legally forbidden from holding public office in the U.S. since Krinkles was ousted as Speaker of the House in 1934. What I said was "those COWS in the White House", which should have been obvious since I was talking about the deplorable state of the front lawn at the time of my latest visit. I refuse to maintain trade relations with a government that won't even invest in a simple shed to shelter its cattle.

Never speak Aleister Rorty's name in my presence again.

In 2012, the U.S. Military announced that it would be discontinuing the manufacture of M-prefix weaponry (The M16, M60 etc) having exhausted the fire-power potential of the 13th letter of the alphabet. You recently tested the new N1. How do you rate its performance?

Gosh, that was so long ago. I was impressed by the performance of the N1 when I had a chance to try one in my garage two weeks ago, but mostly I remember being frustrated by the slow development of these weapons: I was told we would only reach the O series by late May 2019. I decided to tinker with the materials on my own and by Thursday at brunch time, I'd developed a Z99999 missile capable of wiping out the known universe twenty times over. Having completed every human alphabet I have now moved on to the emojis provided by my phone. As of now the most devastating weapon is the emoji of a monkey in diapers holding a flower-2836, which can destroy an abstract concept so completely that it will never have existed; for example the other day I tried it with [indiscernible] My neighbors complain about the noise and the radiation, but they can lick my bunghole.

I always found it strange that the M4 came into service decades after the M60. Going off on a tangent, did you know that M4 is one those words like 'pants' or 'fanny' that means different things on either side of the Atlantic. In the UK it's a motorway that goes from London to South Wales. In the U.S. it's an assault rifle. Imagine the many hilarious misunderstandings that must have occurred!

Anyway, getting back on topic, is the inability of the US military to name their weapons in ascending sequential order a deliberate ploy to confuse their enemies? Or can it be attributed to poor counting skills?

 

As far as I know the weapons were produced in sequence, but the rampart time travel abuses of the 2060's have wreaked havoc on North America's history and shifted the order of several events. It's why Lincoln, currently a 14-year old playing Xbox and masturbating constantly in Kentucky, only became president in 1861. When the European settlers first arrived in Virginia 400 years ago, they found the city of Richmond fully constructed and as a first order of business had to deal with a major deficit in the public transportation budget left over by the previous administration in 1986. The current mayor of San Diego is an amoeba, but no one is sure if it's a primitive one from our unicellular past or a super-evolved lifeform from our distant future. She dodged the issue when I met her at Val Kilmer's house.

I always figured the English M4 transformed into a giant gun, like Megatron. I may have to reconsider my decision not to invade if that isn't the case.

Lincoln called my friend - Viscount George Pauly - a dick on Xbox live. I hope someone shoots him in the back of the head at the theatre.

In 2013, the UK government, under advisement from the Obama administration, classified barn owls as a state secret. No one is allowed to acknowledge their existence. My step-sister's niece – Baroness Hamilton - saw this kid who had just bought a calender with a barn owl on the front cover get bundled into the back of a van by an MI6 snatch team. 

 

The other night I saw a barn owl. It had the words TOP SECRET stamped across its breast in big red letters. What on earth is going on?

[Upon careful review, this message has been classified as TOP SECRET by Her Majesty's Government. HTTP://WWW.UK.GOV We're Working For You! Renewing your trouser license is now easier than ever. Save time and trouser hassle at the Online Ministry of Garments and Furniture Homepage. HTTP://WWW.UK.GOV We're Working For You!] 

Finally, you dedicate an appendix in your third autobiography to a list of highly-classified information that has only been seen by yourself and a few others in the global intelligence community. Featured on this list is the Boston-based sitcom Cheers. I think this has actually been seen by quite a lot of people. At its peak over 23 million households in the US alone were tuning in. The show won numerous awards and spawned a successful spin-off series (Joey - starring Michael J Fox) which also netted millions of viewers.

Haha, no, the show I mentioned is the secret one from which Cheers (and every other classic sitcom including I Love Lucy, Leave It to Beaver and Shasta McNasty) spun off from, but it's so secret that most people are physically incapable of perceiving it, so their senses attempt to cover up the "hole" in reality by going to the nearest point of reference: in your case, Cheers. If you've ever seen a rerun of ALF at 3 AM on C-SPAN, it was probably a rerun of the secret sitcom that you couldn't comprehend. If you experienced any headaches, nosebleeds or small pieces of metal shaped like triangles in your stool for the following week, it was definitely it.

It's a pretty good show that has been running for a good while (it still uses the theme song Luigi Boccherini composed in 1779, except for the 95-96 season where they went with a techno tune), but the main problem is that since only the sixteen most powerful people in the world can know about it, they have to write, direct, perform and edit most of it themselves. Richard Nixon played fan-favorite cousin Marvin until his death in 1994, at which point he was replaced by Harry Hamlin, but many still refuse to accept Hamlin in the part. There's currently a petition to replace him with Angela Merkel. Curiously you can still see bootleg copies of some of the most popular seasons in used DVD stores, but if you attempt to watch them they will turn every electronic equipment in your house into produce.

Thank you. Please decontaminate yourself using the sachet of alcohol-based gel provided, and then exit the room via the door that doesn't have a tiger behind it.

Shoe Zone bids for University Status

Shoe Zone recently got rather butt-hurt on Twitter after being called-out on their dubious unpaid apprenticeship scheme. The following should be regarded as satire. The reality as black comedy.

Shoe Zone bids for University Status

School leavers who have been excluded from higher education by eye-watering course fees have an unlikely new champion on their local High Street! Footwear retailer Shoe Zone now offers an eight-week unpaid work experience/apprenticeship scheme to those wishing to build on their knowledge of maths and English.

A spokesperson for Shoe Zone said:

“Spreading the course over two months allows us to venture far beyond the normal classes in basic adding and subtraction offered by half-day apprenticeships. Currently our lessons touch on algebraic field theory, Dirichlet's unit theorem and Kirby calculus, specifically how they relate to the sale of shoes in our provincial retail outlets, up-and-down the United Kingdom.

He added that English-language skills also featured highly on the intensive curriculum:

“Our students require finely-honed communication skills in order to pass on their understanding of how our shoes function to our customers, who may lack the same grasp of advanced mathematical concepts.”

Reading material for the apprenticeship includes the old English text of Beowulf and the selected animal poetry of Ted Hughes:

“We encourage our students to break the fundamental rules of grammar and syntax in the hope of uncovering deeper ontological truths about our range of competitively-priced, quality footwear,” said another Shoe Zone spokesperson.

They continued:

“Research carried out by Shoe Zone's statistics team shows that in 2013, 70% of the UK's top mathematicians were successful graduates from our course. While some choose to work in other fields, many of our former apprentices decide to stay on and continue their research in branches of Shoe Zone".

Animal victims of nature documentary crews recall their experiences

Matthew (Desert Monitor Lizard)

I was sunning myself near a big pile of rocks when a sandy-haired man-child, dressed in khaki shorts, grabbed me. I tried to bite him but he held me firmly in his grip. He angled my head towards the camera as if he was filming me for a kidnap ransom video!

All the time this was happening he kept saying: “You're alright mate. You're alright mate.”

In fact I was far alright. My wife, Angela, had been eaten by a Booted Eagle the previous day and I was still getting over the shock.

After the man put me down I ran away and hid under a boulder, where I have remained ever since.

I will come out when I have evolved venom glands.

Jennifer (Great Blue Heron)

After I left university in 1972, I lived at London Zoo for a while. The late children's television presenter, Johnny Morris, would often drop by, dressed as a zoo keeper from the 1920s. He would stand outside the enclosures of his favourite animals and enact pretend conversations between him and us, with him doing both of the voices since none of us couldn't speak English. In most cases his impressions played heavily upon stereotypes and were extremely insulting.

Because I am a heron, and therefore predisposed towards perching beside bodies of water for long periods of time, Morris developed a routine in which he would imply that I had accidentally dropped my house keys into my pond and was searching for them like an idiot.

He deliberately portrayed me as a Canadian hick. In fact I was born in UK. As I previously mentioned, I am also highly educated and have a degree in Economics from the LSE. I was in the same year as Barbara Morris and took some of the same classes that she did. You probably haven't heard of her but she is very clever.

Bridget Mason (Bengal Tiger)

As one of the few remaining wild tigers, I am constantly being trailed by the wildlife paparazzi. They want to know everything about me: How many wild pigs I've eaten; the relationship between me and a male Bengel Tiger called Colin who occupies an adjacent territory, and so on. They even go through my stools!

I don't mind when the focus is on me. When they start following my cubs around it's a different story: The other day, one of my three sons was nearly eaten by a crocodile! It was only through the timely intervention of my line-manger at the call centre (a Kingfisher called Claire) that a disaster was averted. You read about these things happening to other tiger families but you never imagine that they'll happen to you.

The camera crew who filmed the incident later informed me in a letter that they didn't want to intervene, as they were there in an observational capacity and couldn't be seen as interfering with nature.

I take this as meaning that they wont get involved when I indulge my natural instinct to tear open their director's soft belly and feast upon his warm entrails.

On an unrelated matter, I recently discovered that I have been 'adopted' by hundreds of different people around the globe under a 'save the tiger' program. I would like state for the record:

• I have no direct involvement in this project.
• My name is not Mindy.
• That photo isn't me. If you look at the date you can see that it was taken in 1991, several years before I was reincarnated as a tiger.
• I didn't write any of those letters. That is not my paw-print at the bottom. If I were to write you a letter I would sign it using my proper signature.
• I am not on Twitter or any other social media platform.

Ben (Wright Whale)

The newest addition to our pod is a robotic submersible device that is supposed to resemble a whale. Some of us had taken to calling it the 'Gayle' until we were told off by Karl for being intolerant.

It greets us with pre-recordings of whale song, which I suppose its designers imagine are opening pleasantries. In fact they are recordings of Graham complaining about the krill-to-saltwater ratio in the North Atlantic, and asking where he can score some methamphetamine. It's actually quite poignant as Graham died last month from a heroin overdose.

Last week me and Nigel wrote 'Fuck Poseidon!' on the sub. I also wrote 'Clean me' in the algae on its underside.

Whenever it's around, my friends and I make a point of singing offensive whale punk songs, which are full of swearing and anti-establishment sentiment! When the researchers at National Geographic play these recordings back and get their heads around what we're saying, it's going to totally blow their minds wide open!

Julian (Meerkat)

“That camera/rock that the BBC put outside our burrow: I pissed on it. It's my rock now and I'll bite any fucker who tries to take it away.”

Simon (Lowland Gorilla)

That bastard David Attenborough sat down no less then ten feet away from where I am now and started talking about me like he knows me. You don't know me Attenborough. Fuck You.

Harriet Bowden-Steward (Lioness)

I was lying in the shade of a baobab tree, swishing my tail at some flies, when my my partner mounted me and engaged in 20 seconds of uninspired humping before wandering off to growl at a hyena. While this was happening, no less than three camera crews were filming from the back of those stupid open-top safari jeeps.

I don't come into your over-priced, 2-bedroom terrace in Clapham and gawp, while you and your partner attempt to rekindle the cold ashes of your decade old relationship. Show me the same respect bitches!

I am woman and also a lion. Hear me roar!

Keith Tyler (Barnacle Goose)

I would like to thank the presenters of Springwatch for broadcasting to the nation the fact that my wife Claire and I have recently flown north on our annual migration. I expect we will return next year to find our nest has been burgled. Is this what I pay my TV licence fee for?

How I Lost The McPherson File

It was Donald Herrington OBE - my predecessor at Collins, Collins, Collins, Collins, Collins Albertson & Collins – who, upon his retirement, bequeathed to me his slender copy of the McPherson file.

I remember his words as I took receipt of the curious gift:

“Carry this around the office with you at all times. If anyone ever invites you to attend a strategy meeting, or asks you to assist them in something that clearly lies beyond the terms of your job description, tell them that you are up to your eyes in the McPherson account. They will leave you alone and you can get on with your actual work.”

“What's in it?” I enquired, doing my best to sound grateful, while I stared disconsolately at the flimsy brown cardboard folder in my hands.

“It's mostly foil wrappers from Tunnock's teacakes that I carefully removed and then flattened. I like the pattern. It's what I imagine the Japanese flag would look like if it had been designed in Glasgow.”

I later came to realise that Donald have granted me a rare and precious object – one that would drive sane and rational men to commit all manner of vile atrocities in their bid to wrest it from my grasp and make it their own.

My copy of the McPherson file was one of only seven still in existence. The original had been lost in 270AD, during the Aurelian sacking of the Library at Alexandria. The reproductions that had come after were imperfect facsimiles and shared only tenuous links to the source material, but were still highly-prized.

A week after the McPherson file was gifted to me I deployed it in an unsuccessful bid to deflect attentions of Guy Colin, Head of the Marketing Team. At the time I was unaware that managerial staff above a certain level were trained to resist the persuasive powers of the file with their own scripted responses. These were practised in weekly, early-morning team-building sessions until they became second nature.

“Talk to the hand that gives a fuck!” was the curt response, that cut my excuse dead before the words could exit my mouth.

He thrust his right palm towards me like a traffic policeman laying down the law to an advancing column of cars.

(This incident occurred during the mid-1990s, when people were happy to delegate the resolution of interpersonal conflicts to their hands. Frequently a stand-off would ensue with two opposing palms, separated by a distance of no more than a few feet, mutely facing each other. In such cases the argument was usually won by the person who could bear to keep their arm in that raised, straightened position the longest, although there was also an equally strong case for there being no winners in this particular situation).

“Just to clarify, my left hand is one that gives a fuck,” said Guy. “It wants to sensually massage your genitals. My right hand wants to tear off your fucking penis before you bring children into the world.”

I watched in horror as Guy Colin's prurient left hand began a steady advance towards my groin.

Behind him one of the automatons from human resources issued a prolonged cough that sounded like a dog attempting to bark the words “sexual harassment suit.”

Guy whirled around to face the source of the interruption.

“It's at the dry cleaners!” he snapped.

I took advantage of the distraction to dart away. In my haste I abandoned the McPherson file on a nearby desk. I returned ten minutes later to retrieve it, but it was gone.

I have heard rumours that Graham has it now.

Graham!

~

The rows of cubicles on the floor of the building where I worked had all been given street names. My cubicle was situated on Merryfield Avenue. I was told by my line manager, during my induction, that this was an up-and-coming quarter of the office with “a funky bohemian vibe.”

“I want you to think of this as your home address,” were her parting words to me.

My neighbour, Andrew, had been given a potted psychotropic cactus by his son as a Fathers' Day present. One afternoon, while using the inch-long spines as toothpicks, we slipped into an hallucinogenic trance. Together we shifted from the earthly plane and entered a parallel dimension where we communed with Bamvarada - a floating, blue turtle with the face of the Buddha, who delivered silver-tongued sermons on efficiency in the modern workplace. Andrew, David from IT, and myself spent an average of three hours a day in the company of the spirit guide, absorbing his teachings. During this time our productivity increased by 15% and then plateaued, only decreasing to its former level after the cactus toppled from Andrew's desk and was crushed under the wheels of the mail trolley.

It was during one of the Q&A sessions that typically absorbed the last quarter of an hour of Bamvarada's seminars that I asked him:

“Are you in the cactus, or are you of the cactus?”

“I am the cactus.”

“Bollocks!” said Andrew, his exclamation of incredulity, muffled by a mouthful of white bread and cheddar cheese. He rapidly swallowed the partly-chewed bite of his sandwich.

“I'm sorry but that is just total bollocks. If a cactus and a turtle were the same thing then they wouldn't have such divergent physical traits and there wouldn't be individual words to describe them. You show me one thesaurus where 'Turtle' and 'Cactus' are synonyms for each other.”

“Maybe you see the cactus and the turtle as separate entities because you have not yet been awakened to the true nature of things,” replied Bamvarada serenely, if somewhat smugly.

“Bollocks!”

“All this and more will become clear to you upon the commencement of the new financial year, my child.”

The following day, during our lunch break, the three of us drove to a local garden centre that also sold exotic pets. Andrew approached the help desk and asked to directed to the part of the store where turtles could be purchased.

The assistant smiled knowingly and then sent us to the house plant department.

On the otherwise silent drive back to the office, David gave voice to what we were all thinking:

“Do you ever get the impression that Bamvarada might be fucking with us?”