Adrian Chills

A screenshot of a Guardian headline for a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads "I wanted an oven with a knob. Instead I got a world of pain."

The box arrived on my doorstep one morning completely out of nowhere. It was a cube, about 4 inches square, made from a very dark wood and each face of it was inscribed with the same phrase: “Your heart’s desire…”. At first I thought it was just the Amazon driver messing up again. When I picked up the box it fitted perfectly into my palm —felt like it belonged there—so I ended up taking it inside with me. If it was actually for next door I was pretty sure I’d hear about it soon enough. I went to put some eggs on for breakfast, but as I lit the gas, the knob came off in my hand, fell to the floor, bounced off my slipper and rolled somewhere—I couldn’t immediately see where. I wish I knew where that went, I said to myself. That very instant the image of the oven knob lying six inches under the vegetable rack popped into my head. I looked down at the box that was still in my hand. The inscription on one side of the cube had disappeared, leaving the surface blank. Well, I’ll be…I thought. The next six months were the best of my life. I was careful and pragmatic with my remaining wishes, making sure to avoid all the traditional pitfalls, and so quickly attained a level of unshowy, comfortable, sustainable wealth and success that would not be easily lost. As a further precaution, I even used my last wish on something entirely unselfish—that everyone else would be as happy as I was. The minute I made that wish, the last inscription disappeared from the cube. However, a new one now appeared, an unexpected continuation of the previous phrase, “...for your soul’s damnation.” The screams of the tortured and wretched are as endless as they are unbearable. Each time a new rusted hook tears into my shredded flesh I hear my cry echoed a thousandfold from those around me. Each morning my eyes regrow so that I can see their agonies, before being pecked out once more by the dark winged things that gather always above me. I still wonder if that box was meant for next door.

#52: Knob

A screenshot of a Guardian headline for a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads "I wanted an oven with a knob. Instead I got a world of pain."

The box arrived on my doorstep one morning completely out of nowhere. It was a cube, about 4 inches square, made from a very dark wood and each face of it was inscribed with the same phrase: “Your heart’s desire…”. At first I thought it was just the Amazon driver messing up again. When I picked up the box it fitted perfectly into my palm —felt like it belonged there—so I ended up taking it inside with me. If it was actually for next door I was pretty sure I’d hear about it soon enough. I went to put some eggs on for breakfast, but as I lit the gas, the knob came off in my hand, fell to the floor, bounced off my slipper and rolled somewhere—I couldn’t immediately see where. I wish I knew where that went, I said to myself. That very instant the image of the oven knob lying six inches under the vegetable rack popped into my head. I looked down at the box that was still in my hand. The inscription on one side of the cube had disappeared, leaving the surface blank. Well, I’ll be…I thought. The next six months were the best of my life. I was careful and pragmatic with my remaining wishes, making sure to avoid all the traditional pitfalls, and so quickly attained a level of unshowy, comfortable, sustainable wealth and success that would not be easily lost. As a further precaution, I even used my last wish on something entirely unselfish—that everyone else would be as happy as I was. The minute I made that wish, the last inscription disappeared from the cube. However, a new one now appeared, an unexpected continuation of the previous phrase, “...for your soul’s damnation.” The screams of the tortured and wretched are as endless as they are unbearable. Each time a new rusted hook tears into my shredded flesh I hear my cry echoed a thousandfold from those around me. Each morning my eyes regrow so that I can see their agonies, before being pecked out once more by the dark winged things that gather always above me. I still wonder if that box was meant for next door.

#52: Knob

A screengrab of a Guardian headline for a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'My breakdown cover was extortionate - and that taught me an important lesson'.

After 18 full cycles spent stranded, the ship’s hull barely holding together from the damage sustained during our ill-fated sojourn through the meteor storm, and with life support systems perilously close to falling, I made the call I hoped I would never have to make. My deal with with the Balthargians had been the standard shakedown expected for those transporting illicit cargo between the Confederation worlds and the wilds of Free Space—in return for accessing the cloaking tech necessary to avoid the roaming border patrols, they demanded not only a steep fee, but also that if repair or rescue were needed then they would be the ones to provide it, on terms only made explicit at the point of need. On making the deal I had been bullish about our chances of making the trip unscathed—the Myrmidon was a Delta Class Cargo Cruiser, storm-weathered and nimble—but I was soon to find myself, to some cost, proved wrong. When the Balthargain repair shuttle arrived and the terms for their services were outlined, there was nothing I could do but agree. I had long known that humans had been considered a rare and succulent delicacy on Baltharg and so in handing over half of our cargo—two hundred pilgrims from Earth bound for the colony world of New Boston, being transported in stasis—I had no illusions as to what might be their fate. What I didn’t expect was for the Balthargians to insist—on pain of death—that I join them in a celebratory meal before they left the Myrmidon, a table of delicacies cooked up by an expert Balthargian chef—spiced manflank; filet of humanchild with a brain-shavings jus; lungs a l’orange, all to be washed down with an exquisite bloodwine. All I can do is smile, pick up my cutlery and play along. The repairs are now completed, the Balthargians departed. My belly sits full, my tastebuds stimulated beyond all expectations, and I have learnt an important lesson: with 200 pilgrims still aboard, I need not now stop for food supplies for many a long month.

#51: Breakdown

A screengrab of a Guardian headline for a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'My breakdown cover was extortionate - and that taught me an important lesson'.

After 18 full cycles spent stranded, the ship’s hull barely holding together from the damage sustained during our ill-fated sojourn through the meteor storm, and with life support systems perilously close to falling, I made the call I hoped I would never have to make. My deal with with the Balthargians had been the standard shakedown expected for those transporting illicit cargo between the Confederation worlds and the wilds of Free Space—in return for accessing the cloaking tech necessary to avoid the roaming border patrols, they demanded not only a steep fee, but also that if repair or rescue were needed then they would be the ones to provide it, on terms only made explicit at the point of need. On making the deal I had been bullish about our chances of making the trip unscathed—the Myrmidon was a Delta Class Cargo Cruiser, storm-weathered and nimble—but I was soon to find myself, to some cost, proved wrong. When the Balthargain repair shuttle arrived and the terms for their services were outlined, there was nothing I could do but agree. I had long known that humans had been considered a rare and succulent delicacy on Baltharg and so in handing over half of our cargo—two hundred pilgrims from Earth bound for the colony world of New Boston, being transported in stasis—I had no illusions as to what might be their fate. What I didn’t expect was for the Balthargians to insist—on pain of death—that I join them in a celebratory meal before they left the Myrmidon, a table of delicacies cooked up by an expert Balthargian chef—spiced manflank; filet of humanchild with a brain-shavings jus; lungs a l’orange, all to be washed down with an exquisite bloodwine. All I can do is smile, pick up my cutlery and play along. The repairs are now completed, the Balthargians departed. My belly sits full, my tastebuds stimulated beyond all expectations, and I have learnt an important lesson: with 200 pilgrims still aboard, I need not now stop for food supplies for many a long month.

#51: Breakdown

A screenshot of a Guardian headline to a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'At the age of 58, I've bought my first drill. Can it make me a new man?'

After the fire and the funeral, and when the inquest had been satisfactorily concluded, I found myself, nearing sixty, moving in with my older brother Stanley. I anticipated that it would only take a few months for the details of the estate to be settled, at which point I could begin a new chapter in my life, perhaps abroad, but with my former brother-in-law Marcus as sole executor—a man who had, despite my best efforts, never remotely warmed to me—things seemed to slow to a snail’s pace, leaving me marooned indefinitely in fraternal co-habitation. If I had found my marriage to be a trial of perseverance, a regular gauntlet of annoyances to be endured, then life with Stanley was a whole new magnitude of ordeal. The man’s habits were simply unbearable; from his daily pre-dawn exercise routine—fifty army-style press-ups on the living-room rug, each accompanied by an agricultural-sounding grunt—to his diet of the most anemic and flavourless vegetables—”best for a healthy bowel”—to his doting over the flea-laden, slack-jawed, rodent-faced canine—’Miss Pennywhistle’—with whom he shared his bed, everything he did seemed designed to pluck at my already taut nerves. I began to think that I might once again have to resort to the most drastic of actions, until I stumbled across a documentary on one of the lesser-known television channels, detailing the practice and efficacy of the ancient art of trepanning, how, by the careful placement of holes in the skull, the trepanee might find his behaviours and even personality permanently corrected. The very next day I ordered a brand new Black & Decker Cordless, with battery and ten-piece drill bit set—my first ever foray into the world of do-it-yourself—and began to make a plan. In a few hours Stanley and Miss Pennywhistle will settle down for the night and I—having honed my aim on Stanely’s decorative phrenology bust—will get to work on adjusting him, drillhole by drillhole. By morning I’m hoping he’ll be a brand new man.

#50: Drill

The headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'Surely potholes were never this bad before?'

In all the old tales of these woods they were known as Scuttlefolk. To my Grandmother, they were Scarryns. To me, they are nothing less than vermin. When my father died last month and I became sole inheritor of the family home, I believed that it was the beginning of a brand new chapter in my life. It couldn’t have happened at a better time—I was being pursued by a number of angry and violently-disposed creditors, and so a remote bolt-hole seemed ideal. How wrong I was. For the first few weeks I busied myself by making a careful inventory of the house’s contents, sorting out any things which might prove of value. Amongst these I was delighted to discover a first edition double volume of Ratclyffe’s Folk Tales Of The Lower Downs, which a quick internet search revealed to be worth thousands. I went to bed happy that night, but was woken past 3am by a sound from the library. On investigation I found one of those cursed miniatures, a scarryn, sat upon the first volume of the Ratclyffe, its clawed hands ripping apart the pages and feeding them between its yellowed, pointed teeth to fatten its grotesque, almost transparently white bulbous belly. Enraged, I grabbed what was closest to hand—a hefty 1926 tome—and squashed the creature dead. Luckily, the subsequent mess left at least one volume of the Ratcliffe intact and I planned the next day to venture into town to make a sale. As I went to start the car that morning however, I found the driveway a pockmarked, cratered, impassable mess, its surface riddled with potholes large and small, from within which came the wittering of the rest of the scarryn brood, a dawn chorus of tiny, gnashing teeth. That was a week ago. My every attempt to leave the grounds since then has been stymied, new holes appearing at pace, my feet subject to vicious attack should I attempt a crossing. Food supplies are low but my determination remains resolute. In the battle between man and miniature, I shall prove myself the victor or die trying.

#49: Potholes

A screenshot of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'I'm not fooled by the sun poppin ou t - it's the season of miserable greay'

I know their game. They think that they can lure me out of my hiding place by pretending that things have gone back to the way they were before. But I’m smarter than that.That’s the reason I’ve been able to survive for this long. Right now there’s a circle of light on the floor of the cave, bright summer light, the way it used to be before The Great Cloud descended and covered the earth in a layer of fog so viscous and thick that it clogged up all the systems of living that we had in place, rendering our civilizations at a single touch devastated. The circle is the first sign of light that I’ve had in seven months, the first suggestion that the nightmare might be over. I know that I can’t trust it. With the fog and the ensuing chaos came The Greys. Indistinct forms, a little larger in size than a man, but with the hunched stature of a vulture, they were natives of the fog, brought with it down from the sunless sky, distributed in their thousands across the country. Like vultures, they were scavengers, falling on the bodies of the dead and dying and hungrily consuming them where they lay, their cries, desolate and mournful, ringing out across the misted earth all day and all night, a maddening cacophony. I have only been able to survive by finding this cave, in the woods close to my home, the depths of which the fog cannot penetrate. I leave for just an hour each day, to gather the remnants of corpses on which to feed. Sometimes, standing by my small fire, cooking a discarded leg or arm, I look at my own shadow on the wall and wonder if I’m any better—or any different—from The Greys themselves. But that way of thinking leads only to madness. They seek me, I know that. Sometimes I hear their conspiratorial mutterings through the murk. The sunlight can only be a trap, a way to tempt me from my cave, bring me out into the open where they can rip my body to shreds. I won’t bite. I turn away from the circle, towards the fire, and try to ignore what might be behind me.

#48: Miserable

A screenshot of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'I'm not fooled by the sun poppin ou t - it's the season of miserable greay'

I know their game. They think that they can lure me out of my hiding place by pretending that things have gone back to the way they were before. But I’m smarter than that.That’s the reason I’ve been able to survive for this long. Right now there’s a circle of light on the floor of the cave, bright summer light, the way it used to be before The Great Cloud descended and covered the earth in a layer of fog so viscous and thick that it clogged up all the systems of living that we had in place, rendering our civilizations at a single touch devastated. The circle is the first sign of light that I’ve had in seven months, the first suggestion that the nightmare might be over. I know that I can’t trust it. With the fog and the ensuing chaos came The Greys. Indistinct forms, a little larger in size than a man, but with the hunched stature of a vulture, they were natives of the fog, brought with it down from the sunless sky, distributed in their thousands across the country. Like vultures, they were scavengers, falling on the bodies of the dead and dying and hungrily consuming them where they lay, their cries, desolate and mournful, ringing out across the misted earth all day and all night, a maddening cacophony. I have only been able to survive by finding this cave, in the woods close to my home, the depths of which the fog cannot penetrate. I leave for just an hour each day, to gather the remnants of corpses on which to feed. Sometimes, standing by my small fire, cooking a discarded leg or arm, I look at my own shadow on the wall and wonder if I’m any better—or any different—from The Greys themselves. But that way of thinking leads only to madness. They seek me, I know that. Sometimes I hear their conspiratorial mutterings through the murk. The sunlight can only be a trap, a way to tempt me from my cave, bring me out into the open where they can rip my body to shreds. I won’t bite. I turn away from the circle, towards the fire, and try to ignore what might be behind me.

#48: Miserable

A screengrab of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'Things reek, stink and pong - but why are there no verbs for describing a delightful odour?'

Come closer. Closer still. Even closer. That’s it. Now shut your eyes and inhale deeply. Let the fragrance I present to you rush into your nostrils, let it flow through you, seeping deep into every cell while I tell you my story. Five years. Five long years I spent apprenticed to the so-called ‘Great Perfumier of Paris’, M. Duran. In that time I created a whole library of fragrances for him; the soft, the sharp, the delicate, the pungent; every type of scent for every type of occasion. And what did I get for my efforts? Nothing but the harshest criticism. “This reeks, begin again.” “What a stench! Work harder.” “Such a stink as I have never before encountered—are you trying to poison me?”, and other such cruel disparagements. And when I succeeded, as each time I did? Durand would take the sole credit, bolstering his already bloated reputation, parading his triumph to the world like a pompous peacock. He was growing rich on the back of my talent. I began to despise him. When at last frustrated by his lack of acknowledgement, I asked to be given the merest appreciation for my work, Durand’s response was one of contempt. “The stinkmonger desires a pat on the back? Pah! You are nothing without Durand, and never will be.” With that I was removed from my position, thrown out of Durand’s workshop and lodgings, left homeless and penniless on the streets, a wretch. Revenge began to burn in me. With ingredients stolen from Durand’s laboratories, I started work on my greatest creation, a perfume so powerful, so intense that it would render those who smell it entirely subject to my will. It would not stink, nor reek, but induce such delights as to wholly intoxicate. It would be such an aroma as to be practically indescribable. So breathe deeply my friend, let this nameless aroma take over you. And let your hand grip tight on the hilt of this knife. Tonight you go to visit Durand, to open him up from belly to throat. Let us see who is the stinkmonger then.

#47: Stink

A screengrab of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'Things reek, stink and pong - but why are there no verbs for describing a delightful odour?'

Come closer. Closer still. Even closer. That’s it. Now shut your eyes and inhale deeply. Let the fragrance I present to you rush into your nostrils, let it flow through you, seeping deep into every cell while I tell you my story. Five years. Five long years I spent apprenticed to the so-called ‘Great Perfumier of Paris’, M. Duran. In that time I created a whole library of fragrances for him; the soft, the sharp, the delicate, the pungent; every type of scent for every type of occasion. And what did I get for my efforts? Nothing but the harshest criticism. “This reeks, begin again.” “What a stench! Work harder.” “Such a stink as I have never before encountered—are you trying to poison me?”, and other such cruel disparagements. And when I succeeded, as each time I did? Durand would take the sole credit, bolstering his already bloated reputation, parading his triumph to the world like a pompous peacock. He was growing rich on the back of my talent. I began to despise him. When at last frustrated by his lack of acknowledgement, I asked to be given the merest appreciation for my work, Durand’s response was one of contempt. “The stinkmonger desires a pat on the back? Pah! You are nothing without Durand, and never will be.” With that I was removed from my position, thrown out of Durand’s workshop and lodgings, left homeless and penniless on the streets, a wretch. Revenge began to burn in me. With ingredients stolen from Durand’s laboratories, I started work on my greatest creation, a perfume so powerful, so intense that it would render those who smell it entirely subject to my will. It would not stink, nor reek, but induce such delights as to wholly intoxicate. It would be such an aroma as to be practically indescribable. So breathe deeply my friend, let this nameless aroma take over you. And let your hand grip tight on the hilt of this knife. Tonight you go to visit Durand, to open him up from belly to throat. Let us see who is the stinkmonger then.

#47: Stink

A screenshot of the headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads: I visited Runcorn for the first time this week and was blown away by its magic

My Dearest Peterson If you are reading this letter, it means that I have failed and am most likely either dead or consigned to that hellish realm of half-existence for which the Black Mage has appointed himself gaoler. Do not mourn too long for me—I knew that in confronting Professor Deacon in person I was taking a terrible risk, but I had hoped that in applying all that we have learned about the source of his dark powers I might be able to find a way to defeat him. Alas, it seems that I was mistaken. I write to you from The Prospect Inn, a hostelry in the small town of Runcorn, where I have been residing these past two nights since I departed from our London apartments. Though it pained me immeasurably to leave you, still so wounded and unwell from our last battle with Deacon’s sorcerous acolytes, I knew that I must—word reached me from one of my students that Deacon had moved north and was preparing to carry out a supernatural assault on one of the great industrial cities, a demonstration of his Dark Magics far beyond what either of us have seen before. I knew that this might be our only chance to stop him, a chance which, with all that is at stake, I could not spurn. The moon is now high in the dark winter sky. I will leave this letter with instructions to the landlord to deliver it to you should I not return by morning. I can already feel the inky tendrils of Deacon’s sorcery reaching out through the night to find me and I fear that in the face of his enormous eldritch power my faith and reason may not be enough to survive. I can only hope to take him unawares and destroy his physical body before he should take possession of my soul. I hope you will forgive my leaving, and will understand why I take this risk. Know that I am forever your friend. May God be with us both. A

#46: Magic

A screenshot of the headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads: I visited Runcorn for the first time this week and was blown away by its magic

My Dearest Peterson If you are reading this letter, it means that I have failed and am most likely either dead or consigned to that hellish realm of half-existence for which the Black Mage has appointed himself gaoler. Do not mourn too long for me—I knew that in confronting Professor Deacon in person I was taking a terrible risk, but I had hoped that in applying all that we have learned about the source of his dark powers I might be able to find a way to defeat him. Alas, it seems that I was mistaken. I write to you from The Prospect Inn, a hostelry in the small town of Runcorn, where I have been residing these past two nights since I departed from our London apartments. Though it pained me immeasurably to leave you, still so wounded and unwell from our last battle with Deacon’s sorcerous acolytes, I knew that I must—word reached me from one of my students that Deacon had moved north and was preparing to carry out a supernatural assault on one of the great industrial cities, a demonstration of his Dark Magics far beyond what either of us have seen before. I knew that this might be our only chance to stop him, a chance which, with all that is at stake, I could not spurn. The moon is now high in the dark winter sky. I will leave this letter with instructions to the landlord to deliver it to you should I not return by morning. I can already feel the inky tendrils of Deacon’s sorcery reaching out through the night to find me and I fear that in the face of his enormous eldritch power my faith and reason may not be enough to survive. I can only hope to take him unawares and destroy his physical body before he should take possession of my soul. I hope you will forgive my leaving, and will understand why I take this risk. Know that I am forever your friend. May God be with us both. A

#46: Magic

A screenshot of a Guardian headline to a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads: 'I went back to school for a day - and discovered some very unsettling facts about learning.'

I had not set foot on the grounds of Oakland Academy for five years, and walking through the gates I felt a shudder of apprehension. My days as a History teacher at the school had been fraught and, ultimately, debilitating; the children that attended Oakland were a rowdy, rebellious and often violent lot and my mental health had suffered terribly as a result, leading to me taking an extended temporary leave of absence which over time became permanent. The call a week ago from my friend and former colleague Alan—Maths teacher and now Deputy Head of the school—had however piqued my interest. He told me that the school had been taken over by a new Academy Trust and the environment had, as a result, undergone a radical change, especially in terms of behaviour. “I think there’s a role for you here,” he had said. As Alan led me cheerily through the familiar corridors, I could only marvel at the difference to my time there. Students walked silently, in neat lines from classroom to classroom; there were no smartphones, no talking back to teachers.The same was true for the classrooms themselves; each pupil sat fully to attention, listening to the teacher, fully absorbed in the lesson. We walked on. “How is it done?” I asked, “How do you make them so receptive?” “It’s quite simple really,” said Alan, “The boffins who run the Trust discovered that if you want to create model pupils out of feral children, you simply have to find a way to indulge their wild side too. It’s give and take.” “Indulge their wild side?” “Allow them a little violence as a regular treat.” He turned a corner, opened the door to a classroom to allow me to enter. I walked in, and Alan closed the door behind me. I heard the lock click. Too late I saw who populated the room—30 children, cricket bats and bricks in hand, their faces flush with anticipation at the sight of me, their mouths curling in untamed savagery. “Better out than in,” I heard Alan shout as he walked away and the children set upon me.

#45: Learning

A screenshot of a Guardian headline to a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads: 'I went back to school for a day - and discovered some very unsettling facts about learning.'

I had not set foot on the grounds of Oakland Academy for five years, and walking through the gates I felt a shudder of apprehension. My days as a History teacher at the school had been fraught and, ultimately, debilitating; the children that attended Oakland were a rowdy, rebellious and often violent lot and my mental health had suffered terribly as a result, leading to me taking an extended temporary leave of absence which over time became permanent. The call a week ago from my friend and former colleague Alan—Maths teacher and now Deputy Head of the school—had however piqued my interest. He told me that the school had been taken over by a new Academy Trust and the environment had, as a result, undergone a radical change, especially in terms of behaviour. “I think there’s a role for you here,” he had said. As Alan led me cheerily through the familiar corridors, I could only marvel at the difference to my time there. Students walked silently, in neat lines from classroom to classroom; there were no smartphones, no talking back to teachers.The same was true for the classrooms themselves; each pupil sat fully to attention, listening to the teacher, fully absorbed in the lesson. We walked on. “How is it done?” I asked, “How do you make them so receptive?” “It’s quite simple really,” said Alan, “The boffins who run the Trust discovered that if you want to create model pupils out of feral children, you simply have to find a way to indulge their wild side too. It’s give and take.” “Indulge their wild side?” “Allow them a little violence as a regular treat.” He turned a corner, opened the door to a classroom to allow me to enter. I walked in, and Alan closed the door behind me. I heard the lock click. Too late I saw who populated the room—30 children, cricket bats and bricks in hand, their faces flush with anticipation at the sight of me, their mouths curling in untamed savagery. “Better out than in,” I heard Alan shout as he walked away and the children set upon me.

#45: Learning

A screengrab of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. The headline reads: 'I had an eye-opening experience in the queue for a pub toilet.'

When my headlights flashed upon the sign for The Exham Arms, on that freezing early January night, I felt a huge wave of relief pass over me. The journey to my late father’s house was a long and tedious one, and I badly needed a break before continuing my lonesome trek; more pressing than that, I required, as a matter of the utmost urgency, to find a lavatory. I found the place close to empty—one ancient sunken-eyed barman, gave an near-imperceptible nod as I entered. I passed a few other lone drinkers on my way privy-wards; all men, all sallow-skinned and all, I noted with some surprise, with the same sunken-eyed countenance as the barman. Each man looked as though he were seeing in his pint glass the very image of his own demise. When I neared the Men’s Bathroom there was a short queue for entry. One man stood before me, a short fellow clad in layers of wool and tweed. With my bladder crying out in rebellion, I took my place in the line behind him. As I stood there, my discomfort growing by the second, I heard a faint sound from nearby, like the screeching of a bird. At the same time my eye was drawn to a hole in the wall beside the lavatory door, beyond which seemed to cavort a kind of purplish light. Excusing myself to the man in front, I stepped out from the queue and found myself placing a single eye to the hole. A thousand acoustic perversions assaulted my hearing, sounds beyond the ability of any man to conjure. Simultaneously, in front of my eyes I beheld a grotesque and blasphemous landscape, populated by ghastly phantasies and presided over by an immense and awful visage, the countenance of some being, both ancient and malevolent, its very image a psychic assault I could not withstand. My pint glass now sits before me and within it I see all the horror of this world, and those beyond. My father’s house is forgotten. All that remains, burned onto my retinas, for now and forever, is the inhuman face of that unbelievable, unthinkable, unmentionable thing.

#44: Queue

A screengrab of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads: 'After all these years, I still hate wearing specs'

When the alien ships first landed back in ‘26, their vast spaceships shimmering into view above London on a cold Autumn morning, it became quickly apparent that their plans for invasion, colonisation and enslavement of the entire human race had hit a snag. Something about the appearance of the aliens was so repulsive to our human eyes that it caused every one of us to instantly spew our guts up at the sight of them, a state which persisted as long as they were in our vision. As it is impossible to properly command a permanently vomiting slave army to carry out your will, a quick and effective solution had to be found. And so, with the assistance of a team of human scientists—who had their eyes first torn out in preparation, and were forced to help on pain of death—the first Spex were invented. When donned, the Spex—wraparound glasses which fill every part of a wearer’s vision—create a visual overlay which gives each alien a new, more human appearance. Typically, this takes the form of a friendly-looking, slightly balding guy in his 40s in a short-sleeved shirt—the kind of man who might be your father’s best friend. Harmless, reliable, sound. Quickly rolled out and made mandatory wearing worldwide, the Spex ushered in the state of being that has been with us these last ten years. The aliens now arrange and manage their human workforce with relative ease and without the fear of being vomited on. Put to work in their vast warpshipyards, constructing vessels to aid in the next round of planet-conquering, we are kept fed and housed and healthy, but with every other freedom curtailed. It makes no difference that the boot that pushes our necks to the ground belongs to a guy who looks like he would be a good laugh on a stag do; oppression is still oppression, no matter what its face. And so we plan our revolution—developing in secret the powerful antiemetics which allow us, one day soon, to rip off our hated Spex and fight our enemy, face to loathsome, sickening face.

#43: Specs

A screengrab of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads: 'After all these years, I still hate wearing specs'

When the alien ships first landed back in ‘26, their vast spaceships shimmering into view above London on a cold Autumn morning, it became quickly apparent that their plans for invasion, colonisation and enslavement of the entire human race had hit a snag. Something about the appearance of the aliens was so repulsive to our human eyes that it caused every one of us to instantly spew our guts up at the sight of them, a state which persisted as long as they were in our vision. As it is impossible to properly command a permanently vomiting slave army to carry out your will, a quick and effective solution had to be found. And so, with the assistance of a team of human scientists—who had their eyes first torn out in preparation, and were forced to help on pain of death—the first Spex were invented. When donned, the Spex—wraparound glasses which fill every part of a wearer’s vision—create a visual overlay which gives each alien a new, more human appearance. Typically, this takes the form of a friendly-looking, slightly balding guy in his 40s in a short-sleeved shirt—the kind of man who might be your father’s best friend. Harmless, reliable, sound. Quickly rolled out and made mandatory wearing worldwide, the Spex ushered in the state of being that has been with us these last ten years. The aliens now arrange and manage their human workforce with relative ease and without the fear of being vomited on. Put to work in their vast warpshipyards, constructing vessels to aid in the next round of planet-conquering, we are kept fed and housed and healthy, but with every other freedom curtailed. It makes no difference that the boot that pushes our necks to the ground belongs to a guy who looks like he would be a good laugh on a stag do; oppression is still oppression, no matter what its face. And so we plan our revolution—developing in secret the powerful antiemetics which allow us, one day soon, to rip off our hated Spex and fight our enemy, face to loathsome, sickening face.

#43: Specs

A screenshot of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. The headline reads: 'I've been thinking a lot about dog poo'

If anyone should find these writings please know that I did what I did to escape my weird predicament out of pure, unadulterated desperation. We entered the laboratory six days ago—myself, Hammond and his pet terrier Matheson—our search to perfect the miniaturization process having entered its crucial final stage. Hammond was like a man possessed; the quest to seek the means by which to shrink organic matter had become an obsession for him, blinding him to all the attendant risks of our experiments. So it should not have come as a surprise to me when, in the midst of stress-testing the latest example of our formula, corners were cut. One moment I was watching my tablet screen to monitor our progress, and the next an explosion rocked the room and I was rendered unconscious. When I awoke, hours later, the very world around me had changed. Pulling myself up to stand, I found that the chair on which I had been sitting now towered over me like a skyscraper. I quickly calculated that my height was now less than four inches. The formula had worked—but at what cost? On the other side of the room lay the body of Hammond—killed by the explosion. Next to him, tied by his lead to the radiator pipe was Matheson, who now appeared to me like some kind of Godzilla or Kong, a monstrous giant. My first thought was to alert the authorities, to find an escape. I have spent the past six days in pursuit of this same end. I am shrinking more every day, becoming smaller, lighter, more vulnerable. The only way out of this room that I can see is the heating vent that sits on the wall, too high now for me to reach unaided. Three hours ago Matheson desposited a large pile of excrement directly below this vent. If my calculations are right, I should now be light enough in bodyweight to climb this faecal Everest and make my way to the outside world and find help. If I am wrong, the implications do not bear thinking about. Let these words stand as my epitaph: I dared to try.

#42: Dog Poo

A screenshot of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. The headline reads: 'I've been thinking a lot about dog poo'

If anyone should find these writings please know that I did what I did to escape my weird predicament out of pure, unadulterated desperation. We entered the laboratory six days ago—myself, Hammond and his pet terrier Matheson—our search to perfect the miniaturization process having entered its crucial final stage. Hammond was like a man possessed; the quest to seek the means by which to shrink organic matter had become an obsession for him, blinding him to all the attendant risks of our experiments. So it should not have come as a surprise to me when, in the midst of stress-testing the latest example of our formula, corners were cut. One moment I was watching my tablet screen to monitor our progress, and the next an explosion rocked the room and I was rendered unconscious. When I awoke, hours later, the very world around me had changed. Pulling myself up to stand, I found that the chair on which I had been sitting now towered over me like a skyscraper. I quickly calculated that my height was now less than four inches. The formula had worked—but at what cost? On the other side of the room lay the body of Hammond—killed by the explosion. Next to him, tied by his lead to the radiator pipe was Matheson, who now appeared to me like some kind of Godzilla or Kong, a monstrous giant. My first thought was to alert the authorities, to find an escape. I have spent the past six days in pursuit of this same end. I am shrinking more every day, becoming smaller, lighter, more vulnerable. The only way out of this room that I can see is the heating vent that sits on the wall, too high now for me to reach unaided. Three hours ago Matheson desposited a large pile of excrement directly below this vent. If my calculations are right, I should now be light enough in bodyweight to climb this faecal Everest and make my way to the outside world and find help. If I am wrong, the implications do not bear thinking about. Let these words stand as my epitaph: I dared to try.

#42: Dog Poo

A screenshot of a headline from a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads: 'Standing in my boxers, blindfolded and full of shame, I remembered why I hate getting dressed up.'

I had been passing by a local charity shop when the trousers caught my eye. They were a thick brown corduroy, easy on the thigh, but narrow on the calves, just the way I like them. When I first got them home and tried them on, it was like meeting an old friend - as though they had been made for me. The first blackout happened later that night. I woke with a start, finding myself clad only in my underwear, surrounded by blood and battered bodies in a room I had never visited before. The trousers hung from the doorknob, pristine. Fearful for what I had done, I grabbed them and ran. What followed was weeks of the same nightmare; I would step out for the night in my fine brown corduroys only to enter some kind of fugue state, awakening hours later in some strange and bloody room, having clearly, in the interim, carried out acts of unspeakable violence and depravity. Each time I would see the trousers hanging somewhere apart from me, their zipper fly leering at me like a satyr, the black button above a single voyeur’s eye. I knew I should rid myself of the garment, that continuing to wear the trousers would only lead me into ever darker acts, but I could not bring myself to do it. The desire to feel the warm corduroy against my skin outweighed all shame. I was like an addict, and they were my drug. I tried what I could to mitigate the problem; each night, after putting on the trousers I donned a blindfold, and handcuffed myself to a chair, reasoning that if I could neither move nor see, the trousers could not pilot me to their preferred destination. At first it seemed to work, I would rouse from my blackout state and find myself still at home. I thought I had found my solution. Until tonight. I stand now in a room whose smells and sounds tell of disembowelments and decapitations. My naked legs are spattered with warm blood. When I remove my blindfold I know I will see that same jagged-tooth grin and button eye looking back at me. I hate myself for what I have become.

#41: Shame

A screengrab of a Guardian headline to a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'I know just what I want for Christmas - but I'm not sure it's legal'

Technically, it doesn’t count as murder. For it to count as murder, I’d have to have killed a human being and I can tell you now, the thing that I confronted last evening was not human, not by a long shot. I arrived here a week ago on the 18th. Josh, my agent, had said that it would be the perfect place to finish the new book—secluded, remote, no distractions. And that first evening at the cottage, with a fire blazing in the hearth, a bottle of wine by my side, my laptop open, and the words flowing, I thought with certainty that I’d be done by Christmas. It was 4am before I went to bed, just as the first flakes of snow were falling. By 10 the next morning when I awoke, the whole place was snowed in. It was then that I discovered that I’d left behind the box of supplies I’d meant to bring along, and not only that, but that my car battery was dead. The road back to town was treacherous, impassable. No signal could reach my phone. I was stranded For six long days, as the snow continued to fall, I lived off the few scraps I could find, but my hunger soon turned ravenous. Thoughts of food became all-consuming. Then, late into last evening, almost delirious with starvation, I heard a sound on the roof, a scuffling of some kind of beast. Next thing I knew, the sound was in the chimney and descending fast. Another creature, I thought, desperate for food, and me as its prey. As I saw its black hooves appear above the fire embers I grabbed a poker in readiness. It took me ten long minutes to kill the beast, and several hours to strip the red and white fur from its flesh. Its face—bearded like a billy-goat, with one long red and white horn like a unicorn—had a humanoid look, but I knew it was no human. So, if now, as dawn breaks, I butcher and cook the meat of this beast, who’s to say that it’s wrong? Surely no jury would convict me of a crime? After all, given the circumstances, what kind of person would begrudge another a simple plate of Christmas dinner?

#40: Christmas

A screengrab of a Guardian headline to a column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'I know just what I want for Christmas - but I'm not sure it's legal'

Technically, it doesn’t count as murder. For it to count as murder, I’d have to have killed a human being and I can tell you now, the thing that I confronted last evening was not human, not by a long shot. I arrived here a week ago on the 18th. Josh, my agent, had said that it would be the perfect place to finish the new book—secluded, remote, no distractions. And that first evening at the cottage, with a fire blazing in the hearth, a bottle of wine by my side, my laptop open, and the words flowing, I thought with certainty that I’d be done by Christmas. It was 4am before I went to bed, just as the first flakes of snow were falling. By 10 the next morning when I awoke, the whole place was snowed in. It was then that I discovered that I’d left behind the box of supplies I’d meant to bring along, and not only that, but that my car battery was dead. The road back to town was treacherous, impassable. No signal could reach my phone. I was stranded For six long days, as the snow continued to fall, I lived off the few scraps I could find, but my hunger soon turned ravenous. Thoughts of food became all-consuming. Then, late into last evening, almost delirious with starvation, I heard a sound on the roof, a scuffling of some kind of beast. Next thing I knew, the sound was in the chimney and descending fast. Another creature, I thought, desperate for food, and me as its prey. As I saw its black hooves appear above the fire embers I grabbed a poker in readiness. It took me ten long minutes to kill the beast, and several hours to strip the red and white fur from its flesh. Its face—bearded like a billy-goat, with one long red and white horn like a unicorn—had a humanoid look, but I knew it was no human. So, if now, as dawn breaks, I butcher and cook the meat of this beast, who’s to say that it’s wrong? Surely no jury would convict me of a crime? After all, given the circumstances, what kind of person would begrudge another a simple plate of Christmas dinner?

#40: Christmas

A screengrab of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. The headline reads: Have I told you about the time I split my trousers?

Mickey had gone for a piss, and it was Rob’s round so he was at the bar, which left me sat on my own at the table. I was just checking my phone when a hand clapped me on my shoulder and spun me round. A not-unfamiliar face looked back at me; aged, battle-scarred, one dark, infected hole where his right eye should be, clothes dirty, blood-streaked and torn. It took me a moment to recognize him. It was —somehow, impossibly—Mickey. He explained to me, quickly, convincingly, that he was from the future—a terrible future, riven by war, where the techno-organic Eradicators roamed the streets, Divine Violators in hand, seeking out the Purefleshes for capture and termination. I have to admit, it was a lot to take in. As these horrific images swam in my mind—already a little woozy from the previous five pints—Future Mickey grabbed my arm, looked into my eyes and said, “Have I told you about the time I split my trousers?” “What?” I said. That’s the moment, he told me, that’s when Rob gets the idea that will lead to the creation of the first prototype of what will eventually become the Eradicator Prime. Something in that conversation sparks his inspiration. I had a hazy memory that Rob worked for some kind of tech start-up so it didn’t seem all that far-fetched to be honest. “You have to stop it.” he told me. “How?” I asked. “By any means necessary,” he said grimly. Then, like a Polaroid photo in reverse, he slowly vanished from sight. I looked up to see both Rob and Mickey heading back to the table. As Rob handed us our pints, Mickey said, “Funny story, happened at the Christmas party this year…” My heart jumped. Before he could get any further, I grabbed my glass and smashed it into his face. As Mickey fell bleeding and howling to the floor, Rob looked at me in horror. “Don’t get any ideas,” I warned him. I think he understood.

#39: Trousers

A screengrab of a headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. The headline reads: Have I told you about the time I split my trousers?

Mickey had gone for a piss, and it was Rob’s round so he was at the bar, which left me sat on my own at the table. I was just checking my phone when a hand clapped me on my shoulder and spun me round. A not-unfamiliar face looked back at me; aged, battle-scarred, one dark, infected hole where his right eye should be, clothes dirty, blood-streaked and torn. It took me a moment to recognize him. It was —somehow, impossibly—Mickey. He explained to me, quickly, convincingly, that he was from the future—a terrible future, riven by war, where the techno-organic Eradicators roamed the streets, Divine Violators in hand, seeking out the Purefleshes for capture and termination. I have to admit, it was a lot to take in. As these horrific images swam in my mind—already a little woozy from the previous five pints—Future Mickey grabbed my arm, looked into my eyes and said, “Have I told you about the time I split my trousers?” “What?” I said. That’s the moment, he told me, that’s when Rob gets the idea that will lead to the creation of the first prototype of what will eventually become the Eradicator Prime. Something in that conversation sparks his inspiration. I had a hazy memory that Rob worked for some kind of tech start-up so it didn’t seem all that far-fetched to be honest. “You have to stop it.” he told me. “How?” I asked. “By any means necessary,” he said grimly. Then, like a Polaroid photo in reverse, he slowly vanished from sight. I looked up to see both Rob and Mickey heading back to the table. As Rob handed us our pints, Mickey said, “Funny story, happened at the Christmas party this year…” My heart jumped. Before he could get any further, I grabbed my glass and smashed it into his face. As Mickey fell bleeding and howling to the floor, Rob looked at me in horror. “Don’t get any ideas,” I warned him. I think he understood.

#39: Trousers

A screenshot of the headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. The headline reads: "What should you do if a cow attacks? I've finally found the answer."

I stumble into the undergrowth and fall to the ground. Inspecting the wound in my side, I find a deep gash in the flesh, blood glistening in the moonlight. I have to end this—fast, while I still have the strength. Somewhere in the field from which I have come roams The Beast Of Goadby Marwood, its horns wet with my blood, its black and white hide sliced open by my knife, its hooves treading my footprints, wet nose close to the ground to sniff out my scent. I scan through the mental index of my previous hunts to search for a clue of how to finish this. The Hampshire Ramitrew (a stoat-like creature with a snake-long body and the tusks of a hog); Gloucester’s Midnight Shrier (a huge and fearsome badger that walked on its hind legs like a man); the Bulwell Big Cat (a Panthera hybrid that stalked the night streets of suburban Nottingham, savaging the drunk and unsuspecting); none of them aid me. And then I remember The Yeery—a goat the size of a horse, savage and terrifying—which nearly ended my life on the island of Bute, one moonlit night—a night much like this—15 years ago. I had almost blocked the incident from my mind, so traumatic was our battle; my shoulder still aches with the splinter of goat-horn that lies embedded in the muscle there. It was a lucky strike that saved me then, my blade finding the Yeery’s left eye as it came down upon me, penetrating through to its brain. I must do the same now. It’s my only hope. I ready my knife and force myself to my knees. As I look out through the leaves I see the brown cow eye of The Beast looking back at me—cold, pitiless, unrelenting. We face each other like true adversaries, each looking into the other’s soul. I see the flash of The Beast’s horn in the instant before I strike, and feel its point penetrate my flesh in the moment after. But my own blade is true, The Beast falls. I live—just—to hunt another day.

#38: Cow

A screenshot of the headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. The headline reads: "What should you do if a cow attacks? I've finally found the answer."

I stumble into the undergrowth and fall to the ground. Inspecting the wound in my side, I find a deep gash in the flesh, blood glistening in the moonlight. I have to end this—fast, while I still have the strength. Somewhere in the field from which I have come roams The Beast Of Goadby Marwood, its horns wet with my blood, its black and white hide sliced open by my knife, its hooves treading my footprints, wet nose close to the ground to sniff out my scent. I scan through the mental index of my previous hunts to search for a clue of how to finish this. The Hampshire Ramitrew (a stoat-like creature with a snake-long body and the tusks of a hog); Gloucester’s Midnight Shrier (a huge and fearsome badger that walked on its hind legs like a man); the Bulwell Big Cat (a Panthera hybrid that stalked the night streets of suburban Nottingham, savaging the drunk and unsuspecting); none of them aid me. And then I remember The Yeery—a goat the size of a horse, savage and terrifying—which nearly ended my life on the island of Bute, one moonlit night—a night much like this—15 years ago. I had almost blocked the incident from my mind, so traumatic was our battle; my shoulder still aches with the splinter of goat-horn that lies embedded in the muscle there. It was a lucky strike that saved me then, my blade finding the Yeery’s left eye as it came down upon me, penetrating through to its brain. I must do the same now. It’s my only hope. I ready my knife and force myself to my knees. As I look out through the leaves I see the brown cow eye of The Beast looking back at me—cold, pitiless, unrelenting. We face each other like true adversaries, each looking into the other’s soul. I see the flash of The Beast’s horn in the instant before I strike, and feel its point penetrate my flesh in the moment after. But my own blade is true, The Beast falls. I live—just—to hunt another day.

#38: Cow

A screenshot of the headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'I am the king of the common cold - and I can tell you how to avoid one.'

I am a collector. I seek out, and gather and I hoard. You may have seen me from the corner of your eye as I make my daily rounds, my tongue licking at the handrail of the shopping centre escalator, or caressing the buttons of the lift; you may have sometimes sensed me as I crawl behind you on my hands and knees, and set my hungry mouth to sucking the dirt from the bottom of your shoes as you sit at the stool in the coffee shop. I was not always like this. The first of my collection, my Adam, was the common cold. Before it found me I was—as my strict upbringing had demanded of me —a fastidious man in every aspect of my personal hygiene, with never a day of illness in my life. My body was perfect, pristine, sterile. I had never felt the slightest disturbance in skin, blood or breath. And then I caught the cold. Or perhaps it caught me. What it did to my body, the control it exerted, excited me beyond belief. I had never before known how good it could feel to have my body surprise me. As its presence faded from me, I found myself craving more. Much more. Now I am the king of sickness. Influenza, ringworm, herpes; they all live within me. Live and grow and prosper, alongside others more exotic in nature; fungal infections of the eyes and genitals; infections of the spleen and liver; inflammations of the bone marrow. They are prized subjects all. In my willing body they mingle and thrive. I carry them with me wherever I go. They live in each breath that I expel, each spluttering cough that bursts from me, even in the clammy, mottled skin of my fingertips. Their desire is to colonise; mine to keep them as my own. So, if in the darkness of a cinema you reach for your seat and feel the touch of a tongue against your fingers, my advice is to say nothing and walk away. Wash your hands at the next opportunity. Not everyone can be a king like me.

#37: Cold

A screenshot of the headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. It reads 'I am the king of the common cold - and I can tell you how to avoid one.'

I am a collector. I seek out, and gather and I hoard. You may have seen me from the corner of your eye as I make my daily rounds, my tongue licking at the handrail of the shopping centre escalator, or caressing the buttons of the lift; you may have sometimes sensed me as I crawl behind you on my hands and knees, and set my hungry mouth to sucking the dirt from the bottom of your shoes as you sit at the stool in the coffee shop. I was not always like this. The first of my collection, my Adam, was the common cold. Before it found me I was—as my strict upbringing had demanded of me —a fastidious man in every aspect of my personal hygiene, with never a day of illness in my life. My body was perfect, pristine, sterile. I had never felt the slightest disturbance in skin, blood or breath. And then I caught the cold. Or perhaps it caught me. What it did to my body, the control it exerted, excited me beyond belief. I had never before known how good it could feel to have my body surprise me. As its presence faded from me, I found myself craving more. Much more. Now I am the king of sickness. Influenza, ringworm, herpes; they all live within me. Live and grow and prosper, alongside others more exotic in nature; fungal infections of the eyes and genitals; infections of the spleen and liver; inflammations of the bone marrow. They are prized subjects all. In my willing body they mingle and thrive. I carry them with me wherever I go. They live in each breath that I expel, each spluttering cough that bursts from me, even in the clammy, mottled skin of my fingertips. Their desire is to colonise; mine to keep them as my own. So, if in the darkness of a cinema you reach for your seat and feel the touch of a tongue against your fingers, my advice is to say nothing and walk away. Wash your hands at the next opportunity. Not everyone can be a king like me.

#37: Cold

A screenshot of the headline to a Guardian column by Adrian Chiles. The headline reads" 'London has plenty of posh breakfast options- but give me a greasy spoon any day.'

My invitation went to Peter, Ian, Dinah and James. Food critics all, accustomed to only the finest restaurants in the capital, their words—as they had many times demonstrated—able to make a business, or kill it stone dead. An exclusive launch at dawn of the finest breakfast establishment in Soho, Temptations Cafe. Their faces, when they found not the soft furnishings and genteel ambience to which they were accustomed, but the formica tables and wipe-clean menus of a traditional greasy spoon, were a picture. They didn’t recognise me, their host, at first. Why should they? It was only when I outlined my mission of revenge, when I had explained to them that I had not only arranged for their deaths, but could tell them exactly how they would die, that they began to realise who I was. I began with Peter. He would leave from this place, take the train back to Berkshire. The only sandwich left in the buffet car, ox tongue and mustard, would sicken him, cause him to lean out of the window and be decapitated by a passing express. Ian would go home, critique his long-suffering wife’s preparation of their gourmet supper for the thousandth—and last—time and end up diced and braised as part of the entrée for their invited guests that evening. Dinah would attempt to steal a taste of a forbidden dish, prepared by the world’s greatest chef for a singular wealthy client only, and in the process find herself trapped in a walk-in freezer, her corpse later discovered with her tongue frozen solid to the plate. Finally, James, while escaping the jealous owner of a Turkish restaurant, with whose wife he had been having an affair, would leap from a first floor window and find himself skewered, tail to top, on the railing beneath. They scoffed at me, called me a madman, told me my stories were pure fantasy. But when they went to leave the greasy spoon, the door wouldn’t open, and they realised, too late, that the red light outside was not the coming dawn, but the burning of hellfire.

#36: Breakfast