For Love Of Digby by David Whyld> x you
You look about the same as you usually do: slightly* overweight, but otherwise in peak physical condition. To say that you spend most of your life sitting in this chair watching TV, you have retained the physique of an athlete that you had during your teenage years and, aside from a beer barrel of quite startling proportions, don't at all resemble a guy who does nothing all day aside from sit in a chair and watch TV. You consider that the exercise you generally get done in a day's TV watching - lifting the remote, changing the channel, turning the pages in the TV mag to check what's on the other side - keep you as fit as those fools who jog ten miles a day.
And then you notice something a little odd: you have a bell on your head.
Frowning (which causes a ding-a-ling sound to echo around the room), you reach up and take the bell off.
* For 'slightly' read 'massively'.
> ring bell
Normally you're against anything so hectic as bell ringing, but you're also the sort of person who can't have a bell in his possession and not ring it. So you take a good hold of it, and ring away to your heart's content:
ding
a
ling-a-LIIIIINNNGGG!!!
You're still ringing the bell when a strange looking fellow in a red and yellow outfit and wearing a rather fetching hat comes bursting through your back door.
"My bell!" he cries. "Damn you, you fool! You'll wear it out if you keep ringing it like that!"
[MORE]
You raise an eyebrow. "Your bell? I don't remember that."
"But you took it from me during our years fighting the Japs," says the man. "Surely you remember that."
You frown. "No."
"Sergeant Willikins needed a couple of men for a certain death mission and we volunteered. Remember?"
"No."
"We raided the enemy camp, torched their supplies, then activated the bomb which wiped out half the enemy populace in one go. Any of this coming back?"
"No."
[MORE]
"You got shot. Twice. Both times in the left arm. You spent six months in hospital paralysed and almost lost your arm. Coming back?"
"No."
"Someone dressed as Hitler tried to knife you in the hospital ward and you used your own bandages to strangle him?"
"No."
"They were showing Blake's 7 on the hospital TV?"
"Ah!" Realisation dawns. "McCready! You old devil! How have you been?"
He stares at you. "Minus my bell, that's how. You remember when we split the proceeds from the raid on the enemy base and you took those old TV mags and I took the bell?"
You give a half nod. You vaguely remember something like that. But there was something on TV at the time...
[MORE]
"Well, after we got discharged, we went out drinking... must be, oh, twenty years back... and when I woke up the next morning, you'd took my bell. Took me this long to track you down. I had to hire detectives, sell my house to pay their bills, auction my kidneys on the black market to pay more bills... all to no avail. Then one day on my way to work as a jester, I happen to hear a bell. My bell." He reaches out a hand. "I'll take it back now, if you don't mind."
"And if I do mind?"
McCready hesitates. "A trade then? My hat for the bell?"
It is a very nice hat... but then you reflect that McCready has spent twenty years of his life looking for this bell. Maybe you can get more out of him than a simple hat.
> give bell to mccready
Deciding you'd rather have the hat than the bell, you happily make the trade.
"You'll be glad you did this," says McCready, watching as you take possession of his prized hat. "It's fair set my mind at ease has this and-"
"You still here?" you ask, peering over the brim of your new and rather fetching hat.
McCready frowns. "I was just giving my going away speech-"
"Well, you've given it so you can go."
McCready's knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip on the bell... then he sighs and they loosen again. "Oh, what's the point? You were always more interested in TV than humans anyway..."
"Speaking of which-"
[MORE]
"No, I don't know how to fix a broken remote control. You're on your own there. Literally. And furthermore-"
"Furthermore, there's the door."
McCready opens his mouth to say something, closes it again, then snaps, "at least I have a TV that works!" before storming out.
His words don't bother you much. After all, you have a TV that works. It's your remore that's the problem.
> look under rug
You bend over (with great difficulty) and tug up one corner of the rug. You find yourself staring at nothing more interesting than bare floorboards...
Oh, and a postcard.
Frowning, you pick the postcard up and let the rug drop down.
> look under rug
You bend over again (with even greater difficulty than before) and tug up one corner of the rug. This time you see yourself looking at a wallet.
But not just any wallet.
Your wallet.
You frown. Why is your wallet under the ru-
Ah. You remember. You got worried one day that you might pass out while watching TV (a constant threat when most of your waking hours are spent sat here) and some enterprising thief might try to sneak in here and rob you while you were unconscious and unable to defend yourself. So you hit upon the bright idea of hiding your wallet under the rug which, you saw in a film once a while ago, is the last place any would-be thief would think to look.
Well, you're awake now and not likely to get any sleep with the tragedy of your broken remote hanging over you, so you reclaim your wallet.
> look under chair
It's awkward, particularly for an individual of your, um, bulk, to manoeuvre themselves to look under the chair without standing up, but you manage it. You've had to in the past after you once dropped your remote and it fell down there...
Today, you find nothing more interesting than the floor.
Until, that is, you look a bit harder, and then you catch sight of a scarf.
You fish it out, wondering why it's under the chair. It's definitely yours alright - you remember buying it the night of the Star Trek double bill - but you can't remember a decent reason for why it's under your chair.
> x rack
Empty at magazines at the moment (buying them requires leaving the house and you'd hate to think you were missing something important on the TV while you were out buying one), so you tend to just use the rack as a temporary storage space for items you're intending to throw out but haven't yet got round to making the arduous trek to the dustbin (all of fifteen feet away on your back yard) to permanently dispose of.
At the moment, the magazine rack is home to an old and battered radio, a baseball glove and a cardboard box.
> get box
You try to take the cardboard box out of the magazine rack and find the battered radio emerging with it.
> open wallet
You open the wallet. Inside, nestled amidst the mothballs and old coins that were probably out of circulation long before your grandparents were born, is a single stamp.
> stick stamp on postcard
You lick the stamp then stick it on the postcard. There! Perfect.
> x chair
After the TV, this is your pride and joy. Some men buy cars that they heap oodles of attention on. Not you, though. Most cars don't have TV sets built into them, and you imagine that tearing down the motorway at 95 mph with a 32" TV screen taking up the dashboard might be a tad illegal.
So you got yourself a chair instead: gleaming black leather, upholstered, padded back, armrests, footrest… at least that's what it was like when you bought it in the Summer of '82. These days it's looking a bit the worse for wear. There's even a cavernous gap down one side that threatens to swallow you whole every time you seat yourself in it.
> reach into gap
Biting your lip against anything unpleasant biting at your hand and tearing it off at the elbow (you saw a film in '94 where that happened and have therefore been wary of it ever since), you reach warily into the gap… and find something.
Hey! A wafer!
A bit grimy and a bit mouldy and a bit stained but still food. This ought to mean that once you get the remote fixed, you'll be able to last that extra bit longer without having to go and fetch yourself some food.
> reach into gap
Hoping you're not making a terrible mistake here, you reach warily into the gap… and find something.
Hey! A card!
It looks like the card of a well known pizza delivery boy called Ivan who you've used regularly over the years as calling for home deliveries of pizza instead of cooking food or going out to buy it means that you get more time to spend watching TV. You'll have to give Ivan a call the next time you feel a bit peckish.
> reach into gap
You pluck up your courage and reach into the gap once more… and find something.
Hey! Some gum!
From the general hardness of it, you're guessing it's been here for the best part of the last decade but you're betting it still knocks socks off that can of beans you've got in the kitchen cupboard.
> x stand
The stand. It's nothing more interesting than a block of wood which you positioned next to your chair one day as a handy place to put refreshments, the idea being that the more you store there the less time you'll have to spend away from your beloved TV fetching said refreshments. At the moment, it's unfortunately looking somewhat depleted. There is a whistle on the edge of the stand.
There is a knock on the door then, before you can even shout "go away, I'm watching TV!" in wanders a short fellow in a postman's uniform.
"Got any post?" grunts the fellow. "Only the post box at the end of the street's been swiped by a gang of vicious and sadistic post box thieves, so they sent me door to door. Name's Pat by the way."
Postman Pat? He looks more like a short terrorist than a postman but he does have the uniform.
> give postcard to pat
Pat takes the postcard and sniffs it. "Well, I don't smell any kind of drugs or illegal substances on it, so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume this isn't a bomb. I'll put it in special express next day delivery."
"Which takes a day to get to its destination...?"
Pat snorts. "A day? Yeah, right... A month. Two months. Six." He shrugs. "Hard to say really. That's assuming we don't lose it which is a good possibility. Anyway, I'll be off with-"
"You dropped it on the floor."
Pat looks down and picks the postcard up again. "Ah, so I did. Butterfingers they used to call me-"
"You dropped it again."
Pat takes it more carefully this time but still manages to drop it a grand total of five times before he's out of your house.
> get whistle
You take the whistle from the stand.
> push stand
You give the stand a little nudge and off the side drops a thimble. Funny how you never noticed that before.
> get thimble
You take the thimble.
> blow whistle
Curious as to just why you have this whistle with you, you raise it to your lips (panting a little at this unusual exertion), take a deep breath, and blow it.
Toot!!!
You're a little surprised when, from underneath you, there comes the sound of an answering whistle. What? Has your cellar been invaded by whistling insect men from that sci-fi film you saw one night? You always suspected it wasn't a work of fiction like they claimed but instead a factual drama and that the whistling insect men really did exist-
Oh, hang on. It's your mobile. You were sitting on it.
You fish around underneath you and, sure enough, pull out your mobile. A little squashed actually, and it doesn't smell too good considering which part of your anatomy was on it, but it's still in one (vaguely mobile-like) piece.
> x mobile
In 1992, when you purchased this, it was state of the art technology. Now... well, it's not really anything to write home about. Even for someone like you, whose life revolves around his TV, it's kind of embarrassing.
These days, to even get it (kind of) work, it needs a really good shake.
> shake mobile
You shake it. Several possible options display them to you on the mobile's 0.2 inch screen:
A1 Phone the police and report that your remote isn't working.
A2 Phone your parents.
A3 Phone your bank manager.
A4 Phone your MP.
A5 Phone for a pizza.
> a3
You call your bank manager.
"Ye-esssssssss?"
"I've got a problem with my remote. It-"
"Is this related to a mortgage or current account?"
"No. It's the remote for my TV. It's not-"
"Do you wish to transfer funds to an alternate account? Or do you wish for another account to be opened?"
"No. Nothing like that. My remote isn't working and-"
[MORE]
"All done, sir. Money has been transferred to your current account. Thank you for calling us."
"Hang on! That's not what I-"
Click.
The bank have hung up.
The mobile makes a buzzing sound and switches itself off. You'll probably need to shake it before it works again.
> shake mobile
You shake it. Several possible options display them to you on the mobile's 0.2 inch screen:
A1 Phone the police and report that your remote isn't working.
A2 Phone your parents.
A3 Phone your bank manager.
A4 Phone your MP.
A5 Phone for a pizza.
> a5
You call Ivan the pizza delivery boy.
It takes a while for him to answer, but at least he apologises with, "sorry 'bout the delay, guv'nor, only some rats got into the pizza cases I had stored in me toilet and died," before asking, "so you want a pizza then?"
"I don't suppose you fix remotes?"
A lengthy silence. "They made o' pizza, guv'nor?"
"No."
"Then no."
You sigh. It was probably a long shot. But you order some pizza anyway. Maybe inspiration will strike you while you're eating.
Ivan promises to deliver the pizzas just as soon as he finishes having the sewage pipe under his house rerouted.
The mobile makes a buzzing sound and switches itself off. You'll probably need to shake it before it works again.
> chew gum
You pop the gum into your mouth and chew.
It's hard going at first, what with the very texture of the gum threatening to remove your teeth every time you bite down, but you've eaten some truly horrendous things in the past (when you're watching a fourteen hour Simpsons marathon, you eat what's to hand and don't worry about whether it's 'edible' or not) and your pallet is certainly up to the challenge of the gum.
And as you chew it, you...
Hallucinate.
(At least you're assuming it's an hallucination. It might be really happening. If being mysteriously transported in the blink of an eye to a castle floating above the clouds, while still being seated in your favourite chair, sounds at all plausible, feel free to believe that instead of the hallucination theory.)
[MORE]
"Greetings!" cries a tiny pixie, flitting about your head on wings of light. "Greetings, Balor Robertson! Greetings, Mr Robertson! Greetings, Robertson the Conqueror-"
"My name's not Robertson," you say.
The pixie stops flitting about and looks at you. "It's not?"
"No."
She peers closely at you in case you have Mr Balor Robertson the Conqueror concealed somewhere about your person. "You sure about that?"
"Quite sure. I've even seen my birth certificate."
"Hmpfhhff!" The pixie stamps her foot in indignation. "Well, that messes up the speech I had prepared. A damn good speech it was as well. Had drama, character, poise... the works! And then you go and mess it all up by not being the right person. Makes me mad, I can tell you." She fumes for a while longer. "I suppose you don't want the wand then?"
[MORE]
"The wand?"
"Yes. It's a special wand." She nods at you as if you might doubt her. "Magic."
"Can it fix remotes?" you ask.
"No. But you might as well have it anyway..." She drops a rather naff-looking wand into your lap. "I don't think Mr Balor Robertson is going to show up now. Thinks he's all big and important since he became the Duke of Hell no doubt. Well, when I see him he'll get a thick ear and no mistake! You want to know what else he'll get when I see him? Let me tell you..."
But whatever she is planning to tell you is going to remain unsaid, but with a cry of ATISHOO!!! you suddenly find yourself waking up.
Whew! you think. That was one crazy hallucination/day dream there.
And then you spot the magic wand lying in your lap. And wonder.
> wear hat
You put on the hat.
> wear scarf
You put on the scarf.
> x box
Not the best looking cardboard box in the world if the truth be told. You have vague memories of it once containing something but whatever that was, you no longer remember. There are strange markings on the side.
> read markings
The markings have been greatly distorted over the years and are now hard to make out. But you see:
T*e ***kag*
DO *** O**N
by or*** o* ****i****
> z
Time passes...
There is a screeching of brakes outside the house, a crash (as of a very big car ramming into a much smaller car), a cry of "goddamn heathens! Parking in their own drives like that!" and then the sound of someone approaching your front door.
[MORE]
A moment later, in strides none other than Bartholomew 'Bart' Nash himself. His timid assistant, who looks like she's permanently on the verge of a nervous breakdown, trots after him.
"What a dump," Bart snorts as he takes a look around your house. "Muriel, make a note. Competition winners in future must come from better backgrounds."
"Yes, sir, Mr Nash, sir, of course, sir, yessir, yessir, yessir!"
Bart looks at you. "So you're the chap who won the competition to meet me, eh? Bet you must be feeling pretty damn pleased with yourself right now, chappy? Muriel, make a note of how pleased he looks."
"Yes, sir, Mr Nash, sir, of course, sir, yessir, yessir, yessir!"
"Got anything to say, fellow?" Bart asks. "Or are you just gonna sit there like a lemon all day and not say a word?"
"Do you know how to fix a remote?" you ask.
[MORE]
Bart looks at you. His eyes cross slightly as he wonders if, somehow, you are making fun of him. Then they uncross. He smiles.
"Not got a damn clue," he says cheerfully. "I break something - a table, a car, a rival's back with a cricket bat - I just get Muriel here to fix it. Isn't that right, Muriel?"
"Yes, sir, Mr Nash, sir, of course, sir, yessir, yessir, yessir!"
Just as you are about to ask if Muriel knows how to fix a remote, Bart barks, "Muriel, nip to the car and fetch me some beer, love."
"But, sir, we're out of beer, sir, and you're under a court order, sir, not to drink, sir, not after you ran over those gypsies-"
"Then go find a pub, Muriel. Pronto!"
Muriel scurries away.
[MORE]
Bart looks back at you. "Okay, fellow. You got till she gets back to ask me about anything under the sun. I can assure you I'm a font of knowledge. Man doesn't get where he is without being a font of knowledge."
Your first question would probably be who the heck are you? but you're not sure that would go down very well.
> z
Time passes...
[MORE]
There is a knock on your front door followed, a moment later, by Ivan strolling into the room.
"Wotcha, guv'nor!" he says, giving a strange salute he probably once saw in a film, took a fancy to, and started using as his own. "How many times have I told you to lock your front door?"
"But if I did that, I'd have to leave my seat every time the door needed answering," you point out.
"But," says Ivan, "if you don't lock it, you might get burglars in here who'll murder you in your sleep."
You shrug. You've considered the pros and cons - convenience against having a knife stabbed into you while you sleep - and it's an acceptable risk as far as you're concerned.
"My pizza?" you say, reaching a hand out for it.
"Ah," says Ivan. "Slight problem there."
[MORE]
Ivan explains about your credit rating. And the fact that you've been ordering pizzas four to five times a week for the past seventeen years and haven't paid for any of them yet. And that you now owe £87,213.54.
"And you don't think I'm going to pay?" you say, a hot flush coming over you. "Why, I've never been so downright insulted in all my life! The nerve of it! Didn't I tell you about my mother dying and I had to pay for her funeral?"
Ivan nods. "You did."
"And isn't that good enough?"
"'Fraid not, guv'nor. I 'ave it on good authority that you were lyin'."
"And who told you such a slanderous thing?"
"Your mother."
[MORE]
Damn. You forgot she was Ivan's boss. Bit of on oversight there but then when you watch Eastenders' marathons for ten hours a day, it's perhaps understandable.
"So," you say, "if I want that pizza I'm going to have to pay you £87,213.54 for it?"
Ivan nods.
You whistle. That's one mighty expensive pizza.
"And," adds Ivan, "you gotta pay the money straight into my account. I'll wait 'ere wiv the pizza till it's sorted."
And he does, the swine. Your taste buds fairly melt over the smell of the pizza, but unless you can somehow get your hands on £87,213.54, melt is the only thing they'll be doing today.
> pay ivan
"The money's sorted out, Ivan," you say. "Call your bank and have them transfer it across to your account."
Ivan looks suspicious (you're not sure why, as this is the only the twenty-third time you've told him this over the years (and you've only lied twenty-two of those times)) but he puts in a quick call to his bank, passes you his mobile so you can authorise the funds transfer, and then stands there in something approaching shock as £87,213.54 is transferred over into his account.
"Blimey," he says, handing you over the pizza, which smells even better by the second. "I don't suppose I get a tip...?"
You tip your finger up at him.
Ivan snorts. "Figures," he mutters and, £87,213.54 the richer, he departs your house.
> eat pizza
It's a terrible thought that you might miss the repeat of Digby, but at least you've got something to eat while you ponder over this unfortunate turn of events.
So you open your mouth, savour the smell of the pizza, bite down on it and...
Crunch!
You frown. That sounded suspiciously like a sound you shouldn't hear emanating from a pizza. Not to mention the fact that there seems to be something stuck in one of your teeth.
You probe it with your finger then tug it loose.
It's a rat skull.
[MORE]
Ivan, it seems, still hasn't got rid of that rat problem which has infested his business for the past decade.
Now, if you were the energetic sort, and you didn't have a remote to fix and Digby to (hopefully) watch later on, you'd be down that pizza hut like a shot and give Ivan a piece of your mind.
But as it is, you keep hold of the rat skull, force your simmering anger down somewhat, and wonder if there's some way you can make a complaint without leaving the comfort of your favourite chair.
Oh, and you eat the rest of the pizza. No point in letting good food go to waste after all.
> shake mobile
You shake it. Several possible options display them to you on the mobile's 0.2 inch screen:
A1 Phone the police and report that your remote isn't working.
A2 Phone your parents.
A3 Phone your bank manager.
A4 Phone your MP.
A5 Phone the pizza delivery place and complain.
> a5
You call the pizza delivery company. The phone is answered by someone you haven't spoke to before.
"I want to make a complaint!" you say.
"Yeah? Me, too, pal. You see the conditions I have to work in! Man, a rat just popped its head outta that pizza and winked at me! It actually winked! Christ, this place is going to the dogs!"
This stops you in your tracks a little... before you realise that you are supposed to be the one complaining.
"That doesn't matter right now," you say. "I found a rat skull in my pizza-"
"I'm not surprised one bit, pal. Tell you what, find three and we'll give you a free pizza. Can't say fairer than that."
[MORE]
"Er... you... what..."
"Sorry, pal. No time to chat. If I don't get that arsenic cleared up before the next batch of pizzas go out, I might get fired when our customers start dropping dead."
And with that, the man hangs up. Leaving you sitting there, staring at your mobile, and hardly able to believe what just happened.
And you're no closer to getting your remote fixed.
The mobile makes a buzzing sound and switches itself off. You'll probably need to shake it before it works again.
> shake mobile
You shake it. Several possible options display them to you on the mobile's 0.2 inch screen:
A1 Phone the police and report that your remote isn't working.
A2 Phone your parents.
A3 Phone your bank manager.
A4 Phone your MP.
A5 Phone the pizza delivery place and complain.
> a5
You call the pizza delivery company. The phone is answered by the same person as before.
"My complaint," you say, "is that-"
"Complaint? You want to complain? Man, I'm so busy I haven't got time to complain! I'm so busy I can barely find time to breathe! I'm so busy-"
Ten minutes are spent listening to the man telling you how he's so busy he can't even answer the phone most times.
"And furthermore-"
You hang up. When the word 'furthermore' is used in a sentence like that, it's obviously going to be bad news.
The mobile makes a buzzing sound and switches itself off. You'll probably need to shake it before it works again.
> shake mobile
You shake it. Several possible options display them to you on the mobile's 0.2 inch screen:
A1 Phone the police and report that your remote isn't working.
A2 Phone your parents.
A3 Phone your bank manager.
A4 Phone your MP.
A5 Phone the pizza delivery place and complain.
> a5
You call the pizza delivery company. The phone is answered by the same busy person as before.
You suppress a sigh as you say, "any chance you could hear my complaint before you start saying how-"
"Busy! Too busy to hear complaints! Man, the pressure I'm under you wouldn't believe. You want to know why I'm busy?"
"Not one bit. Now if you'd be so kind-"
"Damn remote control fixing business! Bah, it's enough to drive a man to drink!"
You blink.
[MORE]
"You oughta try holding down a job at a pizza delivery place and fix remote controls. It ain't fun, I can tell you. The amount of times I have people phoning up for a pizza when once, just once, I'd kill just to have someone ask me to fix their remote. Oh, I'd beg for that sort of thing to happen!"
"Well, speaking of funny coincidences-"
"Damn your coincidences, you inconsiderate swine! Me, I'm trying to run a successful remote fixing business and I keep getting people phone up to complain!"
"But I want you to fix my remote-"
"Damn you, pal! Damn you! Oh, you people make me sick..."
The man hangs up.
The mobile makes a buzzing sound and switches itself off. You'll probably need to shake it before it works again.
> shake mobile
You shake it. Several possible options display them to you on the mobile's 0.2 inch screen:
A1 Phone the police and report that your remote isn't working.
A2 Phone your parents.
A3 Phone your bank manager.
A4 Phone your MP.
A5 Phone the pizza delivery place and complain.
> a5
You call the pizza delivery company. The phone is answered by the same busy person as before.
Before he can get a word in, you blurt out: "I want you to fix my remote!"
"Damn you, you complaining swine! Always phoning up giving me grief! Curse you! Curse you all, you lying, sneaking, thieving toerag of a-" A slight pause, then in a completely different tone of voice: "you want a remote fixing? Why, of course, sir. It would be a pleasure. A pleasure, I tell you. Why, let me just grab my coat and I'll be over there in a flash."
Before you can say, "my address is..." the man hangs up. How strange.
The mobile makes a buzzing sound and switches itself off. You'll probably need to shake it before it works again.
> shake mobile
You shake it. Several possible options display them to you on the mobile's 0.2 inch screen:
A1 Phone the police and report that your remote isn't working.
A2 Phone your parents.
A3 Phone your bank manager.
A4 Phone your MP.
A5 Phone the pizza delivery place and complain.
> a5
You call the pizza delivery company. The phone is answered by the remote repairing guy.
"I do apologise for my assistant before. I have disciplined him severely and he shall not trouble you again with his incompetence," he says in the kind of voice that says yes, I knows it's pretty obvious that it's the same guy as before, but cut me some slack ok, pal, or I might just start ranting again.
"Quite alright," you say. You tell him your address. "Only it's quite urgent."
"No problem, sir. I know the place. Let me just grab a few tools and I'll be there this Saturday!"
"Saturday? But I need the remote fixing today!"
[MORE]
"Today? Well, I'm a bit swamped with work right now - one job a week on Tuesday, another in 2009 - but if you promise to tell me I did a great job even if I don't, I'll see what I can do."
"You did a wonderful job," you say.
"Thank you, sir. I shall leave immediately."
The phone goes dead.
The mobile makes a buzzing sound and switches itself off. You'll probably need to shake it before it works again.
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
[MORE]
There comes a knock on the front door followed a moment later by the arrival of the guy from the pizza delivery place.
"Ah," he says, upon taking a look at your remote. "Yes, I see the problem with this. It's a simple case of... grkrkrk!"
"Grkrkrk?" you say with a frown. "What's that mean?"
The man goes purple and clutches his chest. "It means... hrkrrkr!... that I'm having... ghghghgkgk! ... a heart... attack..."
You push your remote at him. "Before you do..."
"No time..." he gasps. He drops to one knee. "Call an... ambulance... now... before I... I..."
You quickly shake your mobile and call an ambulance.
[MORE]
While waiting for it to arrive, you make polite conversation with the man: "...so if you're feeling well enough, there's this remote..." but as he just gargles and gasps and makes choking gestures, you guess now isn't a good time to bother him.
After a few minutes, the ambulance arrives and several people rush into your house, load the man onto a stretcher and cart him away. They aren't impressed with your questions as to whether any of them happen to know how to fix a remote, but you learn a couple of new swear words that you never knew before.
After they've gone, you sit back and ponder the fate of your poor remote and wonder just what you'e going to do with it... and then you notice something interesting.
The repairman left behind his toolbox.
> x toolbox
A rusty old toolbox (with the emphasis definitely on both 'rusty' and 'old') dropped by the guy who came to fix your remote. After a quick perusal of it, you would guess that the words 'battered', 'dented' and 'piece of crap' could also be used to adequately describe it.
At the moment, the toolbox is closed.
> open toolbox
You open the toolbox with a stomach-wrenching cr-rrr-eee-aaa-kkkk!!! and find, inside, not the tools you were expecting but a badge.
How strange.
> get badge
You take it from the toolbox.
> x badge
A simple badge with the word UFO emblazoned on it in black marker pen.
No matter how long you look at it, you can't understand just why it was inside a workman's toolbox.
> wear badge
You slip the badge on. It changes your Geek Rating from Nerd to Super Nerd but as you also qualify as a fully blown couch potato, you doubt it's going to affect your street cred much.
> shake mobile
You shake it. Several possible options display them to you on the mobile's 0.2 inch screen:
A1 Phone the police and report that your remote isn't working.
A2 Phone your parents.
A3 Phone your bank manager.
A4 Phone your MP.
A5 Phone the pizza delivery place and complain.
A6 Phone the local UFO group.
> a6
Deciding that unselfish action is called for, you phone the local UFO group and report the unfortunate situation regarding the pizza delivery/remote fixing guy.
"Ah, the Martians dealt with him, it seems," says a sad voice on the other end of the phone.
"Martians? No, it was a simple heart attack."
"The Martians are cunning like that, friend. They can strike from afar with their unwholesome rays of death and it appears as a heart attack when hitting its target. A terrible, terrible weapon it is."
"And so he didn't have a history of heart problems?"
"Well, he did but I'm sure the Martians just used this as a convenient cover story for it."
[MORE]
You start to point out that this makes no sense, but then realise that you're arguing with a man who believes in Martians and rays of death that can cause heart attacks from a distance. You're also wasting precious time.
"Say, I don't suppose you UFO types know anything about remo-"
"I shall send you our brochure," declares the man. "It tells of the dangers of the Martians and their rays of death and how best to avoid them."
"But does it cover remote fixing-"
Unfortunately the man has hung up.
The mobile makes a buzzing sound and switches itself off. You'll probably need to shake it before it works again.
> z
Time passes...
Your mobile buzzes as a call comes through.
"Cedric? This is Bartimony. Do you remember the call sign?"
"My name's not Cedric and I don't know any call sign," you say.
"Perfect! You remembered it down to the last word as well. Impressive stuff, Cedric. Now, is the meeting still to take place on the arranged time and date?"
"No idea."
"Me neither. We need to meet, Cedric. Your place or mine?"
"I don't have a clue where your place is."
"Good. I'll come to yours."
And before you can ask how this stranger knows where your house is, he hangs up.
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
[MORE]
There comes a knock on your door and then a fellow in a bright yellow tracksuit with the words Delivery Service crayoned on the side strides in.
(Doesn't anyone ever bother waiting for you to answer the door?)
(Actually it's probably just as well they don't because they'd be waiting a long time.)
(It's surprising what you can miss on the box when answering the door.)
"Parcel for you, Mr Tungsten," says the fellow.
"But my name's not Tungsten."
He frowns. Then hands you the parcel, which turns out to be a brochure.
"Take it anyway," he says. "Damned if I'm carting it all the way back to the depot."
[MORE]
"Do I have to sign for it?" you ask.
"What - and make me more paperwork? Not likely!"
The man snorts and wanders off, leaving you the proud recipient of a seriously strange brochure indeed.
> x brochure
In big letters on the front, this brochure declares itself to be:
THE UFO WATCHERS GUIDE
[TO ALL THINGS ALIEN]
(being a treatise on Martians, their rays of death and
various other things of interest)
> read brochure
Sure you're wasting your time, but unable to think of anything better to do right now, you open up the brochure and read:
We are not alone! No, we are not! They are out there! And they are coming for you! And you! And you over there in the corner! And you in the back! They're coming for ALL OF YOU!
But never fear for there are ways of protecting oneself from them! To be completely immune to their alien death rays of death, you need only:
Recipe 1: wear a scarf, wear a thimble, chant!
Recipe 2: wear a hat, blow a whistle
Recipe 3: eat a wafer, wave a magic wand
Be careful you get the procedure correct or a fate worse than death itself will befall you!
Crazy stuff. But the craziest of all is that it seems to be written on somehting with all the texture of toilet paper.
[MORE]
"Is it safe to talk?" asks a voice from out of nowhere.
You look around but see no one. "Who is that?"
"'Tis I - Bartimony!"
You remember the stranger on the phone, the one who thought you were called Cedric and droned on about a meeting.
"Where are you?"
"Concealed in a place where no eye can see and no ear can-"
You look over your shoulder. "Oh, you're hiding behind my chair."
Bartimony - who looks about as intimidating as a librarian who also practices ballet dancing in his spare time - gives a sheepish nod and steps out from behind the chair.
[MORE]
"You have me at an disadvantage it seems, Cedric," he says. "Per chance you have been honing your spying techniques since our days together in the SAS."
"But I was never in the SAS. And my name's not Cedric!"
Bartimony taps his nose. "But of course, Cedric. Your secret is safe with me."
What a strange fellow.
> talk to bartimony
"I don't know who you are or why you're here or why you seem to think I'm Cedric," you say, "but you couldn't be more wrong."
Cedric nods. "Keeping undercover at all times, Cedric. Good man. Tell me, do you have the package?"
"What package?"
"The one upon which the very fate of the world rests. Upon which the lives of countless millions hang in the balance." Bartimony looks like he's reciting from a script. And not a very well written one either. "Well, do you have it?"
"If you told me what it was, I might be able to-"
"Yes or no, Cedric. That's all I need to know. Yes or no."
> yes
"Good," says Bartimony. "I got a bit worried about it for a moment there. Now, hand it over."
"Hand what over?"
"The package, Cedric. The package."
You frown. "And would you believe me if I told you that I don't have a clue what the package is?"
"Of course not," says Bartimony. "After all, you just admitted that you have it."
He certainly has a point there.
"So hand it over, Cedric. There's a good fellow."
> give box to bartimony
"Good job in keeping hold of this, Cedric," says Bartimony, looking the cardboard box over as though it might contain untold secrets. "I knew I could rely on you. Your efforts in this regard will not be forgotten."
"I don't suppose you'd care to repay me by fixing my-"
"Take this," Bartimony says, cutting you off with the kind of ease that indicates he is used to doing this. He hands you a pencil. "That's your next assignment, Cedric. Guard it well. The fate of the world relies on its safe keeping."
"It's a pencil," you say.
Bartimony nods. "Yes. A pencil. That's what you'll tell anybody who asks you."
"But it is a pencil."
"Yes. Good, Cedric. You're darn convincing when you want to be."
[MORE]
"But... it... is... a... pencil..."
Bartimony laughs. "Careful! You'll be convincing me next. Now..." He looks around. "Must be going. Stay safe, Cedric, and remember: guard the 'pencil' with your life."
And without further ado, the strangest man you have ever encountered swiftly departs.
> wear thimble
You put on the thimble.
> chant
Following what was said in the brochure, you check you have the scarf and the thimble on (you do) and then you begin to chant.
You go for a quick um-um-um-um sound which is similar to what you saw in a documentary about Tibetan monks living in a monastery somewhere. You found it quite catchy and were planning to turn it into a proper recording, but there was something on TV at the time…
You chant some more um-um-um-um and even gesture vaguely in the air in the way those monks did. And then, as if by magic (or something equally bizarre), you find yourself holding what appears to be a manuscript.
How odd.
You chant some more um-um-um-um but whatever oddity put the manuscript in your hands before doesn't visit you again.
> x manuscript
Big bold letters on the cover denote this as:
"The Runny-Nosed Whelp & The Virgin Mary"
Being a worke in progresse by Esteemed Playwrighte Percival de Nihteweete
> blow whistle
Wearing the hat and carrying the whistle, you raise it to your lips (the whistle, that is, not the hat) take a deep breath, and blow.
Toot!!!
Nothing seems to happen so after a moment you give another
Toot!!!
and then you notice something blowing past the window. It looks, if your eyes aren't mistaking you, to be nothing other than some song lyrics.
As you watch, a freak gust of wind catches hold of the lyrics and blows them through a window you hadn't even realised until now was open. The lyrics land in your lap.
> x lyrics
They look to be the latest song in progress by that prolific writer of songs, Smidgeon Gobrit Tungsten Scothers IV, written especially for his good friend, Bartholomew Nash. You aren't sure about some of the lyrics - oh, how your bosoms are to me like a glass of wine to a blind camel - but this stuff is worth a fortune in the right hands.
Or, in your case, in the wrong hands...
> give lyrics to bart
"Ah, I wondered where these had got to," says Bart, stuffing the lyrics down the front of his trousers. "They're for my new pop career that a dear friend is planning for me. Want to hear some?"
"Definitely not."
"Gotcha."
And Bart proceeds to launch into what can only be described as the most appalling piece of music you have ever heard. It's like a combination of rap, pop, heavy metal, the blues, soul and reggae. Only a lot worse.
"Of course," he says afterwards, "some of the lyrics still need a smidgeon of work doing on them-"
"Like when you say all nuns should be shot and all priests hung from their bells?"
"Got it. What do you think about shooting the priests and hanging the nuns? Great idea, eh?"
You just decide to keep quiet and hope he doesn't torture you with any more songs.
> talk to bart
"So tell me how you came to win the competition to meet me," says Bart.
You struggle to retrieve a memory or two, but while you can remember the details of an episode of Blake's 7 broadcast twenty years ago, even down to what you were wearing at the time and whether or not it was raining, anything not directly related to TV is kind of a blur to you.
Not that it matters because...
"Reminds me of the time I was in the Sahara," says Bart, clearly not interested in anything you have to say. "The day I fought the aboriginals I think it was."
"There are aboriginals in the Sahara?"
"Lots of aboriginals in Austria, friend. You not aware of that?"
You open your mouth to say something, realise nothing you have to say will make a blind bit of difference, and proceed to close it again.
> talk to bart
"And there I was," Bart says, "knee deep in aboriginal dead when the werewolf turns to me and says-"
"I don't suppose you've ever learnt anything about fixing remotes on your travels?"
Bart frowns. "No. I don't think that's what he said. It was more along the lines of 'rarararahahahahahahahah!' or maybe 'rawaahahahahahahahaha'. Something like that. In any case, I don't think werewolves have much time for remotes what with the throat tearing and the blood letting and stuff. Anyway, where was I...?"
He clearly knows this already and proceeds to relate to you his continuing adventures when he was a spy for the king of Japan.
> talk to bart
Bart says, "it was a difficult decision. Accept the beer or let my comrades die a horrible, horrible death." He sighs. "Damn. But that beer was good- yes?"
"Can I have your autograph?" you ask, this being the first thing you can think of to shut him up.
"My autograph? Course you can, fellow. Least I can do (in the most literal sense of the word). You got a pen and paper?"
> give pencil to bart
"A pencil? What - you ain't got no pens?"
You shake your head.
"Damnation. When Muriel gets back, remind me to remind her to remind me not to let competition winners in future live in a house with no pens. Think you'll remember that, son?"
"No."
"Me neither."
> give manuscript to bart
"Righty-o," says Bart, and scribbles his signature in a most untidy manner across the front of the manuscript. "There. You can now go and tell all your friends you met the one and only Bartholomew Nash. Bet they'll be dashed proud."
You just settle for giving a quick nod of the head.
Bart crosses to the window and peers out. "Now where is that Muriel? Woman's always dashing off something. I don't know what's got into her lately. Ever since she started this remote fixing business, I'm lucky to catch sight of her."
"Remote... fixing... business..."
[MORE]
"Yes. She fixes remotes. Clever girl. Nothing she can't fix when she puts her mind to her. Of course, I never tell her that. Wouldn't do to let her get ideas above her station and- Oh, there she is."
In rushes Muriel, arms full of beer cans.
Just as you're about to ask Muriel about fixing your remote, Bart grabs the beer out of her hands, gulps it down in one go and emits a thunderous belch!
"Ah, tha' 'it the spo'..." he says, swaying drunkenly from side to side. "C'mon, Mu'iel, le's go 'ome..."
"Wait!" you cry. "My remote!"
But they're gone and, even though you struggle to rise from your seat, hours of inactivity spread out over the past twenty years have rendered you incapable of fast movement. By the time you could stagger ungainly to your feet, they'd be miles away.
[MORE]
At least you have the manuscript Bart signed. You're not sure how much use it'll be to you in your current situation but if it serves no other purpose, you ought to be able to dry your eyes on it.
Your pencil, alas, is gone. It seems Bart still had it with him when he left.
> shake mobile
You shake it. Several possible options display them to you on the mobile's 0.2 inch screen:
A1 Phone the police and report that your remote isn't working.
A2 Phone your parents.
A3 Phone your bank manager.
A4 Phone your MP.
A5 Phone the pizza delivery place and complain.
A6 Phone the local UFO group.
A7 Phone Percival de Nihteweete and say you have his manuscript.
> a7
It takes a while to be put through to Percival de Nihteweete himself and you almost give up a couple of times. But something - perhaps the knowledge that Percival, in his long and illustrious career as a playwright, might well have come across a few instances of remotes that needed fixing and know how to fix them - keeps you on the phone.
"Hel-lo?"
"I've got your manuscript. The one about the Virgin Mary and the whelp."
There are several seconds of deathly silence, then:
"My manuscript? Well, well. That is a turn up for the books. And would there be a price for the safe return of my manuscript?"
You realise you could ask for a veritable fortune here - Percival de Nihteweete is a millionaire after all - but then there's only one thing you really want.
[MORE]
"I want my remote fixing."
"Your... remote fixing?" You hear a muttered conversation from the other end of the phone. "Is that some kind of... prison slang?"
"No. It's my remote. It's broke. I need it fixing."
"And this 'remote' would be a person, I take it?"
"No. A remote."
More muttered conversation, followed by: "very well. I agree to your terms. Give me your address and I'll send the tactical strik- er, I mean I'll come alone and unarmed and without anyone following me in disguised police cars."
Wondering if you're making a mistake, but unwilling to pass up on the best opportunity you've had yet for getting your remote fixed, you give him the address.
[MORE]
The phone goes dead.
The mobile makes a buzzing sound and switches itself off. You'll probably need to shake it before it works again.
> eat wafer
You raise it to your mouth, brush away a few pieces of grime that seem to have stubbornly clung to it, and bite it.
It's tough going. The wafer has been unnaturally hardened by the constant pressure of your bottom against it and, as such, it takes more than a little grimacing and grinding before you're able to break it in your mouth and swallow it down. And then you spend a while feeling like your insides are being scraped raw by a garden rake and your lungs ache with a fierce, intense pain.
All in all, it's the best damn wafer you've had in a long time.
> wave magic wand
You wave the wand around.
Nothing seems to happen at first until you hear a crash from outside your house and then in runs a spotty-faced individual in a business suit.
"Strewth, cobber! Knock me down with a dingo, sport!" he cries, in what must be the world's worst Australian accent. "Think I crashed me old dangle dongle into your front wall, neighbour! Strewth a malarkey, eh?"
You frown. "Is that supposed to mean anything to me?"
"From the Land Down Under, sport," the man says. "Name's Butch McBricck. Good ol' Aussie I am and no mistake. Strewth!" he adds, as if 'good ol' Aussies' say this a lot and as if by repeating it frequently he can given the impression that that's what he really is. "Soz about the ol' front wall, sport, but I was just chuckin' back a tinnie when it 'appened and, well, I couldn't look at the road and the beer, y'know."
[MORE]
You glance through the front window. There does indeed seem to be something embedded in your front wall.
"Is that a go cart?" you ask.
"No, cobber!" the man says. He sounds almost offended. So offended in fact that his appalling Aussie accent falters even more than usual. "Me and me girl were driving around and I just... er, I mean me an' me Sheila were mosying around in our ol' dingle dangle and then 'strewth!' I thinks, 'I've only gone and 'it that there wall'. So's I came in 'ere to see's what I could do to makes amends for it." He glances around. "Anythin' you need fixin'? Mendin'? Repairin'? Me, I can fix near anythin' except for-"
You show him your remote.
"-except for them." He frowns. "Bummer, sport. That's one crockety remote you got yourself there, cobber. What 'appened to it?"
[MORE]
"It broke."
The man nods. "Figured as much, cobber. Cor, what a dingo to 'appen to a bloke. Looks like you'll 'ave to take up a new hobby." You're about to tell him that TV watching is not a hobby, it's a way of life, when he says, "wot about a new pair o' glasses, sport?" He indicates his own pair. "Ye can 'ave 'em if you want. Good pair they are as well. If you squint real hard, you can jus' about make out yer 'and in front of yer face."
"Don't you need them for driving?"
"Me? Nah, mate. I'm an Aussie. We're born behind the wheel-"
You nod to your front wall.
"Well, it weren't my fault some great big dozy plank went and built a wall at the side of the road like that!"
[MORE]
He shows you the glasses again. "You wan' 'em or not?"
You don't really, but as it's that or nothing, you might as well take them. And who knows, maybe you'll come across a remote repairman needing a new pair of glasses before the end of the day.
So you take the glasses. The man claps you on the back, says you're "a right fine mucker, sport!" and hurries out. You hear a thump from your front wall as his go cart disengages and then several more thumps as it makes its way down the street.
> wear glasses
You slip the glasses on and things look... different.
You can't tell exactly how they look different but with the glasses on, there's definitely something different about things.
> l
The Lounge
You're seated in your favourite chair, positioned at just the right angle as to allow you to view your 32" TV in all its glory. A stand on which you generally store food and/or drink to keep you sustained during long TV-watching marathons is to the left of the chair, and to the right is the magazine rack. A certificate hangs from the wall. A plush rug covers the floor, deep enough so that if you accidentally dropped your beer glass it won't shatter upon impact. The walls are blank for the most part but a pancake you threw there a while ago is still there. Off to the west is a door leading into the kitchen. Also here is a toolbox.
> x certificate
Seen only through the glasses, the certificate reads:
Well done for finding this hidden Easter Egg.
If you can bear the incredible mimesis-breaking of it all, award yourself two points. If not, then you don't get the points.
And in smaller letters beneath:
"Made in Taiwan"
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
> z
Time passes...
There is a knock at the door.
You wait, expecting this person to just barge into your house a moment later the same way as all your guests do. But
knock!!!
obviously not.
[MORE]
"It's open!" you call, hoping this isn't a burglar, but as burglars seldom tend to knock on the doors of houses they are intending to burgle (you know this because you saw it on TV once), you think you're quite safe.
A moment later, in strides one of the ugliest fellows you have ever seen. He looks like a complete-
"Nihteweete," says the man, extending his hand. "Percival de Nihteweete. Playwright extraordinare. Perhaps you have heard of me? I am, after all, rather famous."
You have indeed heard of him. There was a programme on TV about him in, oh, 1992. Ran for 27 minutes and was interrupted twice by adverts. Interesting programme all the same.
But he didn't look anything like this fellow.
[MORE]
"Now," says the man who may or may not be Percival de Nihteweete, "about this... manuscript of mine you claim to have. Might I see it?"
"Are you any good at fixing remotes?" you ask.
The fellow hesitates. Then, thankfully, he nods. "I am indeed. An expert as it happens. I once took a course in remote fixing at Harvard and furthermore- what's that? too much? damn you fellow! i wrote the book on this thing and- but I'm sure you don't want to hear anything more about that."
"What were you doing then?"
"When?"
"Just then. When you started talking to yourself."
Percival (probably) shrugs. "I am a playwright. I am eccentric. Some might even say I am a little deranged- no i dont care if he sues! let him! - Now, the manuscript. Might I see it?"
> give manuscript to percival
Seeing no other way of getting this strange fellow to leave, you hand over the manuscript.
"You won't regret this," says Percival. "You did the right- yes ive got it. what? he just handed it over! yes im serious. what? beats me. i guess i must have intimidated him so much he- thing. And now, without further ado, I shall depart."
But he doesn't depart. Instead he reaches into his pocket and fishes out a gun.
"You're under arrest," he says. "It might have escaped your attention but I am not Percival de Nihteweete at all, but a cunningly disguised FBI agent. On my command, undercover agents will swarm this place and take you into custody for the appalling theft of poor Mr de Nihteweete's manuscript and- what? there are no undercover agents outside? youre sure? they got stuck in traffic? oh for the love of- oh hell." The man sighs. "Tell me, was my impression of the famous playwright at all realistic?"
[MORE]
You're tempted to lie to him - he does have a gun, after all - but if twenty solid years of watching TV have taught you anything, it's that the truth is out there. Somewhere.
"You were awful," you say. "Completely terrible." Then you hit him with the real killer: "I've seen more convincing playwrights on Eastenders."
He lets out a sigh. "Damn. What was it that gave me away?"
"Aside from the fact you don't look anything like Percival de Nihteweete? Or sound like him? Or that you've for a sticker that says 'FBI agent' on your shoulder? Or that you kept speaking into a supposedly hidden mike in your collar?"
"Yes, aside from that?"
"It was..." An idea occurs to you and you hand him your remote. "It was your complete inability to fix a broken remote."
[MORE]
The man frowns. "But what does that-"
"It's common knowledge that all great playwrights know everything there is to know about fixing remotes. That you don't is all the proof I needed to know you were a fake."
The man turns the remote over in his hands. "You know... I might just have an idea here..."
"You think you-" Then you remember yourself. "Oh, I doubt it. No one lacking the brainpower of a famous playwright could ever figure out how to fix something as devilishly complicated as-"
"It needs a new battery," says the man. He ferrets around in his pocket, brings out a battery and pops it in before handing it back to you. "There you go. All sorted."
[MORE]
You stare at the remote in your hand. Could it be true...?
"Now I've got to be back to the FBI station," says the man. "I'll take the manuscript so I can hand it to Mr de Nihteweete and- oh, it's been autographed by none other than Bartholomew Nash himself!"
"You know him?" you ask, a little distracted at the thought of your remote working now and all your problems solved.
"Oh yes. He's a hero of mine. The man's done so much, so very much. Why, did you know-"
"I hear he's visiting a bookstore in the downtown area. If you hurry, you might just be able to-"
Too late. He's already off and running.
> change channel
Breathlessly, you reach for the button on the remote that should, if everything is working, change the channel. Your finger hovers closer and closer, your breath comes in short, painful gasps, you extend your finger ever so slightly...
... and push the button.
Nothing happens.
Aside, that is, for the channel abruptly changing itself!
"Hoo-rrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaayyyyy!!!" you cry, overcome with emotion at this amazingly fortuitous happening.
You can now watch Digby The World's Biggest Dog secure in the knowledge that nothing, absolutely nothing, can stop you.
You settle back, let out a satisfied grunt, and wait for the best film ever made coming on.
[MORE]
You wait...
[MORE]
And wait...
[MORE]
And wait some more...
[MORE]
And then, finally, it is time.
[MORE]
LADIES & GENTLEMEN
This is a public service announcement
Due to unforseen circumstances, we regret to inform you that we shall not be broadcasting Digby The World's Biggest Dog this evening. Instead, we shall be showing an entire night of adverts instead.
We apologise for this break in our normal schedule and hope to resume normal service shortly.
And on that somewhat sombre note, For Love Of Digby winds to a close. Thank you for playing and I hope you enjoyed it.
If you're interested, the maximum score possible in the game in 50. If you achieved less than that, well done all the same, but you really ought to have another go and see if you can do better.
Any comments, suggestions, etc, to dwhyld@gmail.com
Thanks again for playing!
David Whyld