Alex Bell – fantasy author

I realised it’s been a while since I did a Wunderkammer post, and as I don’t want the blog to be lacking in weird stuff, here I shall present not one, but two, instances of weirdness.

Number One – the Mastodon:

 As you can see, it is both shrivelled and dead. Obviously, therefore, I love it. I found this mastodon whilst heading an archaeological dig in the wild jungles of Peru. Now Seth, as I like to call him, keeps my shrivelled mermaid and shrivelled bigfoot company. There is a fourth member of their little gang, but I will write about him another time.

Number Two – Erin’s New Hat:

This is Erin’s new hat. My Mum recently went on a trip to Marrakech, and she bought this for him in one of the markets there. That’s how cool my Mum is – when she goes on holiday she brings back presents for me, and for my skeleton. And it was perfect timing too because Erin was becoming bored with his Victorian top hat, and had taken to trying to put it on the Siamese, which she dislikes. And an unhappy Siamese makes for an unhappy human. Now, because of the hat, we are all happy, and living together in harmony once again. Soon, Erin will own more hats than I do. I spoil my skeleton almost as much as I spoil my Great Dane. Moose has a hat too. Here she is wearing it on her birthday:

So make that three instances of weirdness.

Oh yes, we are all mad here.

I currently include a hedgehog in my varied menagerie because it seems that my Great Dane has something seriously wrong with her lips – in that she has no feeling in them. I caught her a few weeks ago running around the garden tossing the hedgehog around, apparently in the belief that it was a spiky ball. I got it off her and, fortunately, it did not appear to be hurt. But it was seriously underweight, and the hedgehog rescue people told me that it would be unable to survive hibernating as a result. I therefore have to look after the hedgehog until it warms up in the spring, at which point I can let it go.

I have been calling the hedgehog Spiky Harold, which has got me thinking about the original Spiky Harold. For those who don’t know, Spiky Harold is a fiendishly difficult retro computer game back from the days when computers didn’t have mice. It’s the first computer game I can remember and, even now, just hearing the name of it gives me that childish excited feeling. Having said that, my brother and I could never get very far on it before poor Harold got killed.

But after Spiky Harold came the Sega. I know 99.999% of gamers will probably deride me for saying so, but I regard the Sega as by far the best games console. These were games that you could just sit down and play without having to spend hours and hours and hours practicing first. The original Sonic, for example – absolutely loved it. Spent many happy hours battling Dr Robotnik and co. But a while back I tried to play a new Sonic races game with my brother on his Playstation 2, and I couldn’t even finish the race. Stupid bloody New Sonic kept running off the edge of a cliff, damn him.

My eight year old cousin got a Wii for Christmas, and when I saw her playing on this recently I was like ‘jeepers!’ It all looks so complicated! A far cry from the pick-up-and-play games of yester-year. And I can’t help but lament the decline of the Sega because for people like me – who are not hard-core gamers but wouldn’t mind whiling away an hour every now and then – we need games we can just plug in and play. Things like old Sonic and the absolutely tremendous Castle of Illusion.

Perhaps the new games have better graphics, and the remote controllers vibrate now and all the rest of it, but I will always prefer the Sega, and I miss that clunky old games console even now. I could actually beat my brother in the occasional Sonic race or Bloody Roar battle back then (which infuriated him, and made me feel tremendously good about myself). Now if I ever try to play a game with him on one of these modern consoles, I get pitifully thrashed within minutes. Seconds, even. If I want to play a computer game now, it’s pretty much a question of tetris or nothin’. And – let’s face it – there’s only so much tetris a person can play before they get the urge to kill someone. So my plan is for the shops to scrap all this PS3/Wii/X-Box nonsense and just bring back the good ol’ Sega. Games ain’t so much fun when you have to spend hours perfecting your technique before you can even start. It was all so much better in my day . . .

This is the exciting tale of Smith and the Snow Hounds. A story of snow, stealth, Siameses and sinister plots. You have never heard a legend quite like this one. Once upon a time . . .

This is Smith:

These are the Snow Hounds:

This is the Evil Siamese, who has just ordered the Snow Hounds to find Smith and destroy him:

The Snow Hounds were shocked, but as the Evil Siamese must be obeyed in all things, they set out on their daring mission to find Smith and defeat him. The Black Snow Hound was the bravest but the Spotty Snow Hound – as shown in the second picture – was able to levitate at will by flapping her ears. Together, they made a formidable team. They travelled many miles through harsh and terrible terrain, sometimes going for days without food or sleep:

Carrying huge and fearsome weapons with them as they travelled:

Until, finally, after many months of weary searching, the Black Snow Hound discovered Smith’s Lair:

And the White Snow Hound pulled off Smith’s nose and ate it - effectively stripping the snowman of all his powers:

The Snow Hounds returned to the Evil Siamese’s Castle in triumph:

And the Evil Siamese slept well that night, safe in the knowledge that her enemy had been defeated:

And they all lived happily ever after, except for Smith.

The End.

Cast:

Black Snow Hound: Loki

Spotty Snow Hound: Moose

Evil Siamese: Suki

Smith: As Himself.

Pretty good, innit? I ought to go into the novel-writing business . . .

‘Everything should taste like bacon.’

It’s hard to argue with that, I feel. But, as a vegetarian, this obviously presents me with something of a dilemma. Imagine my delight, therefore, when I received this for Christmas:

It is bacon flavoured mayonnaise! Why was this not invented before? You can smother it on anything! I have eaten it with jacket potatoes, pizza, veggie sausages, sandwiches . . . in fact, so far, I haven’t found anything that is not improved by Baconnaise. Although not advertised as a vegetarian product – for this would, no doubt, massively put off the hard core meat eaters – Baconnaise is vegetarian. I wouldn’t say this product was the highlight of my Christmas (because that would, possibly, be a little pathetic) but it was certainly one of the highlights. Baconnaise has brought joy to my life. Rather like when I first discovered a vegetarian red wine after five years, and took to carrying the bottle around the house with me, which concerned visitors for it made me look like one of those depressed, alcoholic writers which, of course, I am not! Aha ha. I suppose eventually I will stop carrying the Baconnaise around with me but, honestly, I could eat it straight from the jar with a spoon, it tastes that good. 

But anyway – hello 2010. No doubt, like all the other years, there will be both good stuff and bad stuff. Mostly I am looking forward to Lex Trent coming out in February, as I wrote the first draft of that book when I was twenty years old – three long years ago, although it seems like much longer – and, really, I have had to wait an indecent amount of time to see it on the bookshelves. But I know that this year, my work will be duly universally recognised as the genius that it really is. Or else, people will just say with a haughty sniff: ‘But it’s not Terry Pratchett, is it?’ in much the same way that one might sneer at Daniel Craig because he is not Sean Connery. No one is Sean Connery. Probably not even Mr Connery himself. I think my favourite James Bond is Pierce Brosnan but there it is, we all have different tastes. To me, Baconnaise is the nectar of the Gods – to others it might be some foul spread that no one in their right minds would willingly eat.

Now I’m off to write my traditional long list of New Year’s resolutions, about half of which I might actually keep.

I love Jamaica Inn. For those who do not know, it is an ancient coaching house from the 1700’s, situated on the edge of Bodmin Moor in Cornwall, spectacularly shrouded in ghosts and atmosphere. It is also the inspiration, and setting, of Daphne du Maurier’s novel of the same name – a fantastic story of smuggling, murder, romance and intrigue. She wrote the book after becoming lost on the moor, and finding Jamaica Inn in the fog, where she was then entertained by the local vicar with ghost stories and tales of smuggling.

If I lived closer to it, I would be a permanent fixture in the Smuggler’s Bar. They have six reasonably priced vegetarian options on the menu (SIX! Arghh!) (one of which is veggie sausage and mash – arghh, arghh, have I died and gone to heaven?). I love the timelessness of it – especially when you stand in the courtyard outside in the dark, with the sign creaking ominously, and all this mist pressing in. I can practically see Daphne du Maurier riding across the cobbles on her pony. They even have a little brass plaque on the floor in the bar saying ‘On this spot, Joss Merlyn was murdered.’ For some reason this plaque delights me profoundly. I try not to spend too much of my time staring at it when all the locals are walking past it in such a blasé fashion. Plus I do realise that Joss Merlyn is a fictitious character created by du Maurier and so was not really murdered on that spot. In fact he wasn’t murdered anywhere but in du Maurier’s own head. But still, when I see the plaque, I can’t help thinking: wow, Joss met his well-deserved end right here on this spot!

Conveniently, Jamaica Inn also allows dogs. Moose was very warmly welcomed despite her huge size. Not only that but she was even provided with her very own private doggy water bowl. This is what I call service.

We’ve been in Cornwall since yesterday, and as a result of peoples’ reactions towards her, I am starting to suspect she may have sneakily got bigger without my noticing. She just looks medium to me. But when you hear people remarking upon her size in shocked voices, it does make you wonder. She has started leaping right over Loki in the garden, but I just sort of thought perhaps the Doberman was shrinking. But it has to be said that she takes up significantly more room on the back seat of the car than she did last time we came to Cornwall in May. In fact, there is not really room for me on the back seat as well but I manage to squash in there somehow. If she had any sense she would just put her head on my lap but, being a little afraid of the car, she prefers to sit on my lap as much as she possibly can. This is very sweet, because she becomes very cuddly in the car – like a nervous child – but it does mean that by the time we get wherever we are going, I can no longer feel my legs, and I am covered in slobber (because Moose has a propensity to motion sickness, which causes her to drool). My favourite cap is now quite ruined.

But, anyway, I am sure that she thoroughly enjoyed her time at Jamaica Inn, even though she had no idea that she was snoozing just mere feet away from where Joss Merlyn was murdered! Perhaps I will consider moving to Cornwall in the future. That way I can go to Jamaica Inn every day, and perhaps get lost on the moors and have an amazing idea for a novel. Or perhaps go back in time. Every time I go to Jamaica Inn I can’t help half expecting it to happen. And I am always just a little bit disappointed when I open the door to the Smuggler’s Bar to find that there are no bloodthirsty smugglers in tricorn hats gathered there, all staring at me murderously. Maybe next time. Hope springs eternal, and all that . . .