Stalker

I’m being stalked.

No, I’m not being paranoid or egotistical, I really am being followed. Someone (or something?) tall and impossibly thin has been following me for about a week or so. He’s dressed up like a stereotypical scary man - long beige trenchcoat with belt, trilby hat and a dark scarf that’s pulled so far up I can’t see his face. A bit like Rorschach from Watchmen. He stands out a mile. He doesn’t go to great lengths to hide but I’m not sure whether that’s because he wants to be seen or because he’s just very incompetent.

Every time I leave the house, he’s skulking behind the huge horse chestnut tree across the road. He moves very stiffly, like his back is in a brace. His arms are always down by his sides, hands deep in his coat pockets, and his legs are always together and don’t seem to bend. Thinking about it, I don’t know how he moves, but he does.

I’m pretty nervous, although he hasn’t done anything threatening yet. Has it got something to do with Barry?

Death By Crisps III

I have the evening to myself.

Just me, a stack of DVDs (no, not that type), plenty of beer and the number of the local indian takeaway. Quality man time is hard to come by these days but, by God, when it arrives I make the most of it.

I blitz tidying the house when I got home from work, load the dishwasher and chuck all the random bits of crap into the cupboard under the stairs. A quick shower and change into slobbing gear, then dial up a takeaway lamb bhuna with special rice and onion bhajis, sadly no poppadoms (“About 40 minutes, sir” - damn), and finally crack open the first can of chilled ale.

As I tilt my head for that first deep gulp, I notice three unopened tubs of paprika Pringles in the corner of the kitchen worktop. Where the hell did they come from? And three of them? Seems mightily excessive. I try and push them from my mind as I pad bare-footed into the lounge and draw the curtains against the dark, foggy evening. The corner lamp goes on, the big cushion plumped up on the floor and I settle down to watch ‘Paris, Texas’ by Wim Wenders - a stunningly beautiful film. But first are those damn copyright warnings, seemingly in every known language on Earth. Can’t skip them, can’t fast-forward, just sit there and wait like a lemon. RAGE! Just as the first few bars of the slide guitar soundtrack kick in, I hear a clattering sound from the kitchen, followed by three soft pops.

I pause, first myself then the DVD. Then go into the kitchen and flick the light switch. Straight away I notice the three Pringle tubs on the floor. Correction, the three empty Pringle tubs, their lids scattered a couple of feet away. I bend closer and notice trails of Pringly dust leading out of the tubs in all directions. What on Earth?

A scuttling, scratchy sound from behind makes me turn, and I just catch a glimpse of something flit past the open kitchen doorway in the hall. Something small, oval, pale brown. Was that...? Nah, must be the beer. Only I’ve hardly had anything and I feel absolutely fine.

A sharp searing pain in my ankle makes me cry out in surprise, and I instinctively reach down, then the same pain in my finger.

“Bloody hell!”

Pringles!

Several of them buzzing around my foot, two of them with red-stained edges. My blood. They’ve sliced me!

I lash out with my foot, but all bar one of them dodge out of the way. The one I connect with splits in two, and each piece scampers off, apparently none the worse for their separation. Oh great.

My ankle and finger sting with eye-watering intensity.

The Pringles quickly swarm back to my feet and I have to hop and lash out to protect my toes. They’re as tenacious as a couple of young cats with a trapped mouse, and their persistence pays off as I get another couple of cuts. God-damn, this is starting to get serious. I stumble against the table, reaching out to steady myself, and a half-full glass of water goes crashing to the floor. A Pringle gets sloshed and like a vampire exposed to sunlight, it hisses and collapses into a mushy pile of slop. All of a sudden, the others stop rushing my feet, and stare at their fallen comrade. Then, as one, they turn back to me, only now they don’t rush but hesitate. Interesting. They have a weak spot.

Slowly, eyes firmly fixed on the seven Pringles watching my every move, I shuffle sideways and pick up another glass from the draining rack. Then, I reach out and clumsily turn on the tap and fill the glass.

I watch them, they watch me.

I fling the water at them, catching one, but the remainder scatter backwards and out through the kitchen door. I run and slam it shut, then rest my head against it and exhale loudly. Now what?

I glance back at the three empty tubs: ‘90 Pringles in each one’. Great, just great. That means getting on for 300 of them are free and out there, somewhere. Wait, out there? Maybe there are more in the kitchen! I fill the glass again and with a not insignificant amount of trepidation, slowly crouch down and peer under the kitchen table.

Nothing.

And nothing under the sideboard or in the corners of the room. I appear to be alone. Some small relief at least. Then a horrible thought hits me. Barry!

Where was he? I hadn’t seen him all day. He usually hides under the sofa. Would they find him? Would they hurt him? I have a bad feeling they wouldn’t be comparing flavours. I have to find him before they do. I take a box of cornflakes and place it by the bottom of the door. Slowly, slowly, I turn the handle of the kitchen door and open it a crack, the box blocking the small opening by the floor. I peep out, and my bowels turned to water. Oh crap.

The hall floor is teeming with them. I close the door, panic rising in my chest. A glass of water is useless, I need something else. Something more precise, something like...a water pistol! My son was playing with one the other day. Where was it? Please, please be here, I think as I ransack the kitchen. It was here, I’m sure of it. Nothing, nothing, noth...yes! Under the oven gloves, third drawer down.

I stick it under the kitchen tap, and water sprays everywhere. My heart’s beating like a techno track while the pistol fill up. Come on, come on! The icy cold water spills over my hands. Fully loaded. Right, you fuckers, time for mass crispicide. I stride to the door and kick it open like a badass. Well, I try to kick it open, but I'd forgotten the door opens inward and it remains stubbornly closed while I fall over backwards. My knee screams in pain and so do I. As I lay flat on my back, dazed, one of the Pringles I mushified lets out a few porridgy burps. I look over at it and it burps again. Was it...laughing at me? I get to my feet and stamp on it - it explodes wetly but my knee screams in pain again. Dammit, this isn’t looking good, but for Barry’s sake I can’t stay in the kitchen.

“Bring it on!” I yank open the door and start firing. They can dodge my kicks, but the squirt from the water pistol is either too fast for them or harder to see. Within a few seconds I’ve reduced a dozen or so to mush, and as I move into the hall taking more out, I notice they back off sooner. They’re on the back foot, and in a perverse way I can’t help but admire the speed with which they react and adapt. They seem to have a collective intelligence, like ants but more so. It’s scarily unnerving.

As luck would have it, there’s another water pistol on top of the shoe cabinet, and I pick it up and back up into the cloakroom taking pot shots at the thinning horde. I fill up both pistols and, dual wielding like a character in a videogame, advance back into the hall. My confidence rises as more mushy piles appear. Must be getting on for 100, I think. Over a third gone. They’re running scared now they’ve met their match! I even afford myself a little giggle: once you pop, you can’t stop. Then the lights go out.

SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!!!!!!

Have they cut the power? I don’t believe it, they’ve cut the power!

I stop my firing and pause, resting my weight on my good leg. Think, Nick, think! They must have got to the fuse box in the cupboard under the stairs. The door’s just a few feet in that direc...

Ahhh!

Searing pain in my already injured foot, and I feel more slices. I try and hop to my other foot, but of course my knee is weak and it folds under me like a soggy breadstick. I collapse in the darkness and the pistols are jarred out of my hands.

They’re on me in an instant, cutting the skin on my arms, my legs, my neck, like a thousand paper cuts. I try and protect my head, but somehow they find a way through and I can smell them as they brush over my face, slicing relentlessly. My whole body is on fire - have they cut through my clothes? - and as I writhe in agony, I feel warm, sticky wetness everywhere.

No doubt I crush some of them underneath my body, but there’s still so many. Who would have thought you could have too many Pringles? I don’t even know if they’re still dissecting me, such is the intensity of the enveloping pain. But it quickly starts to fade to a numbness and I feel sleepy, so sleepy. My limbs are dead weights, like tree trunks, and my head lolls back and hits the wooden floor with a thud. A light suddenly appears through the front door, and a moment later the doorbell rings. Must be the lamb bhuna. But I’m not hungry anymore. I’m not anything.

Will you start the fans please!

I've been very busy procrastinating in recent weeks. That and watching a lot of Crystal Maze repeats on Challenge TV (6pm weeknights, Freeview channel 46) with Barry.

I get a twitch of nostalgia as the dramatic, pounding music kicks in (20 years ago? Cripes!) and whenever Richard O'Brian plays the harmonica or talks about Mumsie. I still marvel at the staggering ineptness of some of the teams. Several times Barry's turned to me as if to say, 'Where do they find these people?' If he had arms he'd be doing a massive facepalm.

I appreciate that being filmed might put the contestants under extra pressure and make them do odd things, but for crying out loud! Turn it around, TURN IT AROUND! No, the other way, you massive twonk! And, honestly, some of them stand around like they're admiring the decor, with their 90s hair and glasses as big as their vacant faces. I'd still fancy going on the show, of course. It struck me that it's the individual tasks themselves that are the attraction, not trying to get over 100 gold tokens and win the special prize. The challenge not the reward. Or maybe the challenge is the reward.

I'm increasingly thinking that this is the same with our crisp challenge. We're more than half way there – over six months without a single crisp or crisp-like substance. It's pretty impressive, and yet I can't help but think that when we reach that final day (though there are still difficult times, I know for certain we'll make it), I'm going to feel disappointed that it's all over.

So once the day of Crispageddon is here, should I succumb to the cravings or simply smile, politely decline the first packet offered to me, and reset the countdown for another year? Automatic lock-in.

Life with Barry

I'm making progress with Barry.

If you can't remember, he's the giant Hula Hoop that adopted us before Christmas. To start with he did nothing more than hide quietly under the sofa. Occasionally, if I was in another room, I'd hear him trundle around in the open but he'd scoot back into hiding the instant I came to investigate.

After a week or so I noticed that, if I was in the lounge and all was calm, he'd cautiously roll out a few inches and pause, like a mother fox emerging from her den and sniffing the night air. He'd quickly roll back out of sight if I glanced down at him, but I was pleased nevertheless at his growing confidence.

Over the next few days he became bolder - rolling out further each time, and each time slower to roll back. Then one day, he came right into the middle of the lounge and just sat there, even when I forgot myself and stared openly at him. He swivelled on the spot to look back at me (don't ask me how I know when he's looking at me, I just do) and I felt a sudden connection, like a mild electric shock. He knew he was safe with me, and I knew he had an important role to play at some point.

I asked my son what he thought of Barry, and he just looked at me with that puzzled blankness young children have. Later, I overheard him whispering conspiratorially to his older brother about invisible friends and there was much giggling. Meh. What do they know?

And now, if I'm sat writing or reading on the floor, Barry will trundle up and lie next to me. I catch a faint whiff of paprika. It's strangely comforting.

Going it alone

Christmas is just a memory, the snow has long since gone and New Year's resolutions have already been put to the test. But fear not, despite mischievous temptation from unscrupulous relatives, we weathered the festive season with grit and determination.

But on a more disappointing front, my appeal to the crisp manufacturers has been an unmitigated disaster. I wasn't expecting much from the multinational food and drink conglomerates, but I thought a few of the smaller, independent companies might see the appeal and put themselves forward as the official Crispageddon supplier. But no. Nothing.

Bunch of arrogant, good-for-nothing...spudcookers! You can take your foil packets, your all-natural ingredients and no artificial preservatives and shove it! After everything I've done for you over the years, this is how I'm repaid? Well, I don't need you. I don't need anyone! I can make my own Crispageddon crisps. That's right, none of you are going to make a single penny from the biggest consumption of crisps since the little-known Frome Crispacide of 1986, when over 50 people in the Somerset town experienced a sudden bout of collective insanity and gorged themselves to death.

So now I'm on the hunt for the best homemade crisp recipes. Maximum flavour, maximum crunch. I have just over seven months to develop and perfect a rival crisp to take on the established might of the nation's snack producers. Of course, that will be especially tricky since I won't be able to test them myself, but maybe I can find some eager recruits. Perhaps Barry will be able to offer some constructive feedback. After all, who better to judge a crisp than a crisp? Or would that be classed as crisp cannibalism? I guess I should read up on potato ethics before I start experimenting.

Not just for Christmas

I adopted a pet at the weekend. Or, rather, a pet adopted me. It woke me up early on Sunday, tapping at the front door. When I opened the door, it rolled right through my legs and into the lounge where it keeled over by the radiator. Poor thing. It must be freezing.

It’s a giant Hula Hoop. 

Well, I say giant - it’s the size of a tennis ball so not that big really, but compared with a normal Hula Hoop it’s massive. 

I don’t know what flavour it is. Obviously I can’t just take a bite, and I suppose even a lick could be considered an indecent assault. Maybe I could tell by smelling it, but every time I try to pick it up, it rolls out of reach under the sofa. It’s skittish, that’s for sure. I’ll just have to bide my time and somehow gain its trust.
I have a feeling it’s been ostracised by the crisp community due to its size. Don’t ask me why, it’s just a hunch.
I think I’ll call it Barry. It’ll be nice to have a new addition at Christmas.

A parent speaks

Your mother and I are seriously concerned about your crisp problem for which we feel largely responsible.

Where did we go wrong? You were never dropped on your head when you were a baby; you were weaned onto solid food at an early age; you were given fluoride tablets; you watched "Knight Rider" and "The Dukes of Hazard"; we thought we gave you a balanced diet. Yes, we fed you crisps (not only ready salted but salt and vinegar and cheese and onion too), but never realised we were giving you a push down the slippery slope of addiction!

Perhaps if you had had at least one other sibling you might have learned to share and therefore avoided the excessive consumption of which we (uncaring parents) were never aware.

You have taken a very courageous step in attempting to rid yourself of this addiction.

Now having read your accounts of horrific experiences created by your overwrought brain in its attempts to protect itself from the even more horrific reality of a life without crisps by creating these imagined traumas, we are able to begin to understand what you are experiencing. The explosive crisp packets, the attacks you have imagined - attempts by crisps to attach themselves to your flesh - are the crisp-addict's equivalent of nicotine patches: an attempt to ease the pangs of withdrawal.

Things will get easier and you are not the first to have to face up to the problem which has existed for hundreds of years and affected some of the highest in the land. Shortly after mentioning a king and several dukes, Shakespeare speaks of crisps having had their day (Henry V, act 4, sc. 3): in other words, an addiction has been overcome.

At this time of year we are reminded of another famous king who was very seriously affected:

"Good King Wenceslas passed out

Eating crisps with Stephen".

In the end, he overcame his problem so well that he was made a saint, an example for others for all time! So the reward for perseverance can be tremendous. Stephen seems to have been forgotten by history but I would like to think that he made it as well.

Love and best wishes from you worried but hopeful parents!!