The Settee of Doom
I used to make my own fun when I was little. Yes, I did normal things like watching telly and
playing with toys and I definitely played with other kids as well, but by and large, I was
always most comfortable on my own, with nothing but my imagination for company. I never
had any trouble communicating with myself and never gave myself any grief over the choice
of games I might play. Sure, I got bored every now and again, but only if I was being forced to
do something I didn’t want to do, like sitting in the back of a car for an hour or walking round
some boring old pottery on a Sunday afternoon. Being an only child helped - there was
never any older or younger sibling stealing attention away from me or telling me to shut up.
When I was very young, I would usually wake at around six in the morning, or whenever the
sun rose. I didn’t go straight to Mum and Dad to wake them up - I’d spend as much time as I
could in my own company, drawing, playing with toys, writing stories, but more often than
not, I’d talk to myself in different voices, imagining someone else there with me. This might
sound like an early sign of schizophrenia but it wasn’t anything of the kind. I wouldn’t say I
had an “imaginary friend” as such - I didn’t seriously believe anyone was actually there. I was
just playing - acting if you like - and if I played by myself, no one could tell me my ideas were
stupid. This would of course change drastically as I grew up and developed other, more
cynical, voices in my head, who would regularly tell me all my ideas were rubbish and
prevent me doing most things I tried to set my mind to, but that’s another story.
I remember one weekend at my Gran’s house, climbing all over her sofa. No, hang on, it
wasn’t a “sofa” - only people on the telly said “sofa.” This was a settee. So yes, I remember
one weekend at my Gran’s house, climbing all over her settee. It was an orangey-brown
mock leather thing with flakes of plastic hanging off it, which made comforting deep squeaks
as I dragged myself across it. I’d probably seen one of those Doug McClure films the night
before - you know, the ones that used to be on telly a lot, like At the Earth’s Core, where a
gang of people would get lost in a subterranean cave and there would inevitably be a
sequence in which they had to traverse some kind of chasm with no obvious walkway or
bridge, at the bottom of which would be a bubbling, spitting pool of molten lava,
necessitating a perilous attempt to climb across juts and ridges in the cavern walls, holding
on for dear life. One of the group - usually some bumbling, greedy idiot played by a stalwart
character actor - would panic halfway across, lose his grip and fall to his fiery doom.
Well, that was what I was playing on the settee. The settee - a three piece, consisting of a
three-seater, a two-seater and a one (except it can’t have been, because there’s no way you
could fit that many chairs into her tiny front room, but let’s not worry about that now) - was
the wall of the cavern, and the carpet - a dark green thing with great big orange flowers on it
- was a spitting, bubbling pool of lava. Starting at one end of the room, I barked orders at my
imaginary friend to “Hold on to the walls!” and “Watch out for the lava!” as we jumped,
grunting and groaning like proper action heroes, from one seat to the next. Inevitably, at
some point, my imaginary friend slipped and I had to grab hold of his imaginary hand to
prevent him from tumbling into the volcanic depths. But my grip was too weak, and he fell.
Then, as I tried to make the desperate leap from one chair to the next (which I had
designated as the exit), I inevitably fell too, screaming “Nooooo!” as I drowned in the
imaginary magma. Then I had my Sunday dinner and went home.
I expect that’s what was in my mind when I wrote The Forgotten World, the first original
piece of fiction in my Fairburn books. In fact, apart from a Doctor Who story I wrote at
infants school, it’s the oldest surviving piece of fiction I ever wrote. It’s also a template for
virtually every adventure story I’ve written since.
The Everyone of Death
The Forgotten World is essentially a tale of hubris, in which an overconfident idiot falls to his
doom while boldly attempting to shimmy across a vertical surface. It’s also a cautionary tale
to those who are less confident - never follow an overbearing fool into a cave full of lava,
especially if you’ve got doubts. The characters don’t really have character as such, except
that one is a boastful explorer and the other is his cautious friend. But that’s still impressive
characterisation for a seven year old, and far more impressive than most of the lazy rubbish
I would trot out afterwards. Mick is a daft name for an action hero, but then he’s not really
supposed to be one - he’s an action hero’s friend, so I’ll let me off.
For the first but not the last time in a Waen Shepherd adventure story, everyone dies. I think
it’s just an attempt to inject as much jeopardy into the tale as possible, rather than anything
more morbid. But it’s true to say that the body count in these books is extraordinarily high,
and this is where it all starts. No one in my immediate family had died during my lifetime
apart from my Great Gran and a cat, so I had no pressing reason to be obsessed with death,
but I was. The very first poem I wrote, age 5, was about death, and virtually every piece of
fiction I wrote at Fairburn features death, in increasingly bloodthirsty and sadistic ways. I’ll
put it down to watching too much sci-fi, but whatever the reason, I figured that if it’s an
action story then everyone has to die. Unless I was the hero, but even then, most of the
stories about me feature my death too.
I’m not convinced I knew what lava really was. I should have done - I knew it came out of
volcanoes and it was really hot - but in this instance, I seem to have confused it with acid or
some kind of corrosive chemical, which instantly rots the flesh away but leaves the bones
intact. Perhaps lava really does this, I don’t know, but the point is, I don’t think my young
brain really cared. As far as I was concerned, lava was an excuse for an instant, graphic death
scene. In this case, it’s a rotting skeleton. Future deaths would be much worse. I don’t know,
maybe I shouldn’t be too harsh on myself when it comes to the behaviour of lava - this guy
suggests real death by lava would be far, far more graphic than Hollywood has ever
imagined, so I can hardly expect a seven-year-old from Yorkshire to beat them to it.
Mick’s death is actually worse than John’s. At first glance, it looks like a supreme cop-out. The
cave went dark? Something happened? A sudden shock brought him to death? It seems I
couldn’t be bothered to think anything else up. Maybe it was home time and I had to stop
writing immediately? But no - I took the time to draw a picture afterwards, so this must have
been deliberate. And the more I think about it, this demise starts to feel much more
disturbing than the previous one. It taps into something really deep, a raw fear I’ve always
had of sudden death, of murder and violent accidents, of the possibility that I might die and
never know what it was that killed me. Most rational people have an understandable fear of
cancer or other lingering, painful deaths. I’ve always felt I’d like the time to be able to make
my peace and say my goodbyes. The thing that really scares the shit out of me is the thought
of just suddenly dying for no discernible reason. If I was truly a rational being, I’d probably
realise this is preferable. But deep down, I’m an irrational little boy, and the unknown
terrifies me.
On yet another level, this inconsequential story says a lot about my state of mind. The two
protagonists are struggling with going forward - if Mick represents me (he must do because
he’s the frightened amateur and the other guy’s a dominant bully) then it reveals how
trapped I felt. There’s no going forward and there’s no going back. Caution is the best course
of action. Perhaps we should never have come here? The next couple of pieces will reveal
more of the same. But in real life.
The Forgotten World
TERM 1
Sept-Dec 1979
TOPIC 1
Sept-Dec 1979
HISTORY 1
Sept 1979 - Oct 1981
SCIENCE 1
Sept 1979 - Mar 1980
GEOGRAPHY 1
Sept 1979 - Feb 1981
Clarke Hall
Old Houses
Fairburn v Burton Salmon
The Forgotten World
String Orchestra
Sheet Lightning
Grezelda the Witch
Bonfire Night
Metropolitan Police
Christmas 1979
Great Space Battles
Luddenden
The Hat’s Adventure
Sleeping Beauty
What I Do On Monday
Waen Shepherd 2
Waen Shepherd in: Green Squids
Ward’s 7: Move of the Galaxy
Ward’s 7: Alpha Centauri
Ward’s 7: Escape to Mother Ship
Ward’s 7: Death Planet
Blake’s 7
Ward’s 7: The Hunt
Ward’s 7: Rescue
The Flame in the Desert
The Fugitive
British Skiing Events
Fiends of the Eastern Front
Apeth (from Outer Space!)
Tedosaurus (from Prehistoric Time!)
A Walk in Our Village
The Mountain Called Tyrannosaurus Rex
Florence Nightingale
War of the Worlds
The Micronauts in: Supersilver
The Settee of Doom
I used to make my own fun when I was little. Yes, I did normal
things like watching telly and playing with toys and I definitely
played with other kids as well, but by and large, I was always
most comfortable on my own, with nothing but my imagination
for company. I never had any trouble communicating with
myself and never gave myself any grief over the choice of
games I might play. Sure, I got bored every now and again, but
only if I was being forced to do something I didn’t want to do,
like sitting in the back of a car for an hour or walking round
some boring old pottery on a Sunday afternoon. Being an only
child helped - there was never any older or younger sibling
stealing attention away from me or telling me to shut up.
When I was very young, I would usually wake at around six in
the morning, or whenever the sun rose. I didn’t go straight to
Mum and Dad to wake them up - I’d spend as much time as I
could in my own company, drawing, playing with toys, writing
stories, but more often than not, I’d talk to myself in different
voices, imagining someone else there with me. This might
sound like an early sign of schizophrenia but it wasn’t anything
of the kind. I wouldn’t say I had an “imaginary friend” as such - I
didn’t seriously believe anyone was actually there. I was just
playing - acting if you like - and if I played by myself, no one
could tell me my ideas were stupid. This would of course
change drastically as I grew up and developed other, more
cynical, voices in my head, who would regularly tell me all my
ideas were rubbish and prevent me doing most things I tried to
set my mind to, but that’s another story.
I remember one weekend at my Gran’s house, climbing all over
her sofa. No, hang on, it wasn’t a “sofa” - only people on the
telly said “sofa.” This was a settee. So yes, I remember one
weekend at my Gran’s house, climbing all over her settee. It
was an orangey-brown mock leather thing with flakes of plastic
hanging off it, which made comforting deep squeaks as I
dragged myself across it. I’d probably seen one of those Doug
McClure films the night before - you know, the ones that used
to be on telly a lot, like At the Earth’s Core, where a gang of
people would get lost in a subterranean cave and there would
inevitably be a sequence in which they had to traverse some
kind of chasm with no obvious walkway or bridge, at the
bottom of which would be a bubbling, spitting pool of molten
lava, necessitating a perilous attempt to climb across juts and
ridges in the cavern walls, holding on for dear life. One of the
group - usually some bumbling, greedy idiot played by a
stalwart character actor - would panic halfway across, lose his
grip and fall to his fiery doom.
Well, that was what I was playing on the settee. The settee - a
three piece, consisting of a three-seater, a two-seater and a
one (except it can’t have been, because there’s no way you
could fit that many chairs into her tiny front room, but let’s not
worry about that now) - was the wall of the cavern, and the
carpet - a dark green thing with great big orange flowers on it -
was a spitting, bubbling pool of lava. Starting at one end of the
room, I barked orders at my imaginary friend to “Hold on to the
walls!” and “Watch out for the lava!” as we jumped, grunting
and groaning like proper action heroes, from one seat to the
next. Inevitably, at some point, my imaginary friend slipped and
I had to grab hold of his imaginary hand to prevent him from
tumbling into the volcanic depths. But my grip was too weak,
and he fell. Then, as I tried to make the desperate leap from
one chair to the next (which I had designated as the exit), I
inevitably fell too, screaming “Nooooo!” as I drowned in the
imaginary magma. Then I had my Sunday dinner and went
home.
I expect that’s what was in my mind when I wrote The
Forgotten World, the first original piece of fiction in my
Fairburn books. In fact, apart from a Doctor Who story I wrote
at infants school, it’s the oldest surviving piece of fiction I ever
wrote. It’s also a template for virtually every adventure story
I’ve written since.
The Everyone of Death
The Forgotten World is essentially a tale of hubris, in which an
overconfident idiot falls to his doom while boldly attempting to
shimmy across a vertical surface. It’s also a cautionary tale to
those who are less confident - never follow an overbearing fool
into a cave full of lava, especially if you’ve got doubts. The
characters don’t really have character as such, except that one
is a boastful explorer and the other is his cautious friend. But
that’s still impressive characterisation for a seven year old, and
far more impressive than most of the lazy rubbish I would trot
out afterwards. Mick is a daft name for an action hero, but then
he’s not really supposed to be one - he’s an action hero’s friend,
so I’ll let me off.
For the first but not the last time in a Waen Shepherd
adventure story, everyone dies. I think it’s just an attempt to
inject as much jeopardy into the tale as possible, rather than
anything more morbid. But it’s true to say that the body count
in these books is extraordinarily high, and this is where it all
starts. No one in my immediate family had died during my
lifetime apart from my Great Gran and a cat, so I had no
pressing reason to be obsessed with death, but I was. The very
first poem I wrote, age 5, was about death, and virtually every
piece of fiction I wrote at Fairburn features death, in
increasingly bloodthirsty and sadistic ways. I’ll put it down to
watching too much sci-fi, but whatever the reason, I figured
that if it’s an action story then everyone has to die. Unless I was
the hero, but even then, most of the stories about me feature
my death too.
I’m not convinced I knew what lava really was. I should have
done - I knew it came out of volcanoes and it was really hot -
but in this instance, I seem to have confused it with acid or
some kind of corrosive chemical, which instantly rots the flesh
away but leaves the bones intact. Perhaps lava really does this,
I don’t know, but the point is, I don’t think my young brain really
cared. As far as I was concerned, lava was an excuse for an
instant, graphic death scene. In this case, it’s a rotting skeleton.
Future deaths would be much worse. I don’t know, maybe I
shouldn’t be too harsh on myself when it comes to the
behaviour of lava - this guy suggests real death by lava would
be far, far more graphic than Hollywood has ever imagined, so I
can hardly expect a seven-year-old from Yorkshire to beat them
to it.
Mick’s death is actually worse than John’s. At first glance, it
looks like a supreme cop-out. The cave went dark? Something
happened? A sudden shock brought him to death? It seems I
couldn’t be bothered to think anything else up. Maybe it was
home time and I had to stop writing immediately? But no - I
took the time to draw a picture afterwards, so this must have
been deliberate. And the more I think about it, this demise
starts to feel much more disturbing than the previous one. It
taps into something really deep, a raw fear I’ve always had of
sudden death, of murder and violent accidents, of the
possibility that I might die and never know what it was that
killed me. Most rational people have an understandable fear of
cancer or other lingering, painful deaths. I’ve always felt I’d like
the time to be able to make my peace and say my goodbyes.
The thing that really scares the shit out of me is the thought of
just suddenly dying for no discernible reason. If I was truly a
rational being, I’d probably realise this is preferable. But deep
down, I’m an irrational little boy, and the unknown terrifies me.
On yet another level, this inconsequential story says a lot about
my state of mind. The two protagonists are struggling with
going forward - if Mick represents me (he must do because he’s
the frightened amateur and the other guy’s a dominant bully)
then it reveals how trapped I felt. There’s no going forward and
there’s no going back. Caution is the best course of action.
Perhaps we should never have come here? The next couple of
pieces will reveal more of the same. But in real life.
The Forgotten World
TERM 1
Sept-Dec 1979
TOPIC 1
Sept-Dec 1979
HISTORY 1
Sept 1979 - Oct 1981
SCIENCE 1
Sept 1979 - Mar 1980
GEOGRAPHY 1
Sept 1979 - Feb 1981
