WatchCrime

"Come on Ebbs," I say as we get off the bus from birmingham and hurry towards the bus station. I really don't want to go on the Brownhills West circular bus, not that I don't enjoy a pointless bus ride, I do, I'm probably three quarters of the reason why both my kids like them so much, buses were ingrained into their systems as toddlers the same as acceptance for other people's differences. I just want to be respectful for Manjo, who's riding a different way home with the ever-fickle Mortimer who insists on us riding separately, I think he enjoys the race. Manjo wants us to be home by a certain time so she can get ready to go out with her mate Leanne. 

I maybe walk a bit too quickly for Ebbie's shuffling 13 year old legs to keep up with but I know he has the secret stores of energy that he keeps in reserve for emergency cake or chicken retrieval.

We get to stand J and I say before I see the times, "if we have to wait longer than five minutes we're not going on the bus." The round trip's about fifty minutes in total and then we have to get another bus from town home. Ten minutes to wait. "Nah, we can't do it's there's not enough time." I keep walking, he pulls on my rucksack sending a twinge up my fucked neck. I turn around putting on the act of the sulky teenager, Kevin and Perry's best mate Matty-Bob, I know how it amuses Ebbie to pretend to swap roles.

"No," he scolds me like the angry parent from behind his red and black overflowing fringe. I flop my arms about tutting and sighing. "Oh my God, it's so unfaiirrr!"

Play time over Ebbie shrinks back into his shoe-gazing, hunchbacked pose. There are other people, teenagers especially, about you see, not just me and him and this little bubble of happiness is over. One like Ebbie has to clam up, battern down all shutters and doors and retreat in front of people his age as they're the ones who ruined his life, ruined his change at a mainstream education with their poison-tipped slurs. Angry, angry at the situation, angry at the majority, at the world, me not him. Angry that my once-happy, friendly, overexcited, well-articulated, toddler has turned back into this shuffling Neanderthal communicating in the quietest of grunts, headphones turned up higher, just by the mere presence of other people his age. I stubbornly refuse to let them win and try desperately to cling on to the silliness we only moments before had, I pug, mope and try to annoy him out of his insult-proof shell with soft belly and shoulder pokes, blowing at his floppy fringe, a slow-motion featherpunch to his belly of what the normal response is usually a return sock to the face, sometimes a literal stinking sock with foot included, all with the timing and dialogue of the worst of stuntmen but his refusal is concrete so I switch tactics. I lean in close so the dreaded teenagers can't hear and offer quiet words of encouragement, telling him not to give a fuck about other people, they're all vaping twats who's only ambition is to get pregnant before they leave high school so they don't have to go to work. Ebbie's stuck in lockdown and I know it'll likely last until we get home. I move slightly away, forgetting, ever forgetting that anymore than two feet in public is a no-go and he grabs at my arm and mutters a, "No, Daddy."

From out of nowhere pops up a ferrety little weasel in a light blue tracksuit, he has sly eyes and the type of beard that's there purely because he hasn't been arsed to shave, his missing a front tooth, a land-pirate if ever I saw one. Those eyes bore into mine and he asks, immediately aggressive, "is she okay?"

I'm polite, confused as fuck but polite. "Yeah, he's okay, thank you." I don't even put an emphasis on Ebbie's gender, try as he does he still looks like the gender he was assigned at birth. Weasel pops back to his girlfriend and toddler in the pram but I can see his face still staring in the refection behind Ebbie. "Mate," I say to Ebbie, once again with the conspiratorial lean-in, we don't want people to hear after all, "you need to stop standing like a little prawn, all hunched up. It makes you look like you're being abused and I really don't want you to grow up with a shit neck like I have."

"I like staring at my shoes."

"Yeah, I know, but unfortunately we have to worry about how we appear to other people."

Weasel is still looking.

The bus arrives and we walk back as far as we can, we can't go too far as there are teenagers the the back. Weasel sits his girlfriend and baby in the pram section at the front, a few words are shared before he walks towards me. "Are you sure she's alright?"

Second time he's got it wrong, I totally get it but want to prove to Ebbie that I support his decisions. "He. He's fine. Thank you."

Weasel looks at my child. "That's a boy?"

I nod.

"That's a boy?"

"Yes," I affirm verbally as maybe my nod wasn't obvious enough.

"Well you don't treat him good."

"Oh really."

"Yeah, you treat him like shit."

"I'm just talk to my son how I normally talk to him."

"He's your son? You were treating her like shit."

"He's a teenager, I generally speak to him how he speaks to me. We know how each other works."

"I love my son, he's down there. I wouldn't treat him like that."

"Well that's you and unless I'm mistaken your son isn't a teenager. Teenagers aren't exactly the most respectable of people and my son is no exception."

"Yeah well if I see you again I'll knock you the fuck out!"

I'm understandably livid and having spent the first twenty or so years of my life being a lesser socially awkward version of Ebbie have refused to be bullied since I finally grew a set. I learnt that the festering rot of keeping quiet lasts a lot longer than any cuts or bruises. "Just fuck off and mind your own fucking business. How I am with my kid is nothing to do with you."

His girlfriend tells him to leave it and he backs off down the bus and purposefully sits so he can face me the whole trip. As he sits he looks at all the lone mothers with their young children, at the teenage girls and smiles sweetly, well as sweetly as one can missing a front tooth and insists that he's sorry for all the bad language, he just hates seeing people be cruel to kids. Smiles of admiration are beamed at him, wary side-eyed glances at me. The journey, which has barely started, continues, I refuse to let the experience show on my face,I carry on as normal, pointing out the doggos and other sights through the bus window. Ebbie is further withdrawn but I persevere.

Weasel is down the front being the good father, making memories with his little boy, video calling some other blonde to goo and gush over her child too, being doubly the nice, loving, guy that he is. As the bus nears his stop he comes our way again. "If I ever see you again I'm gonna knock you the fuck out."

I laugh, "You do that you stupid fucking knobhead. By the way all this violent talk is really setting a good example in front of your own child."

"I'm the knobhead? Me?"

"Yes. Now fuck off and mind your own business."

He laughs and looks around at his captive audience, talking to them as he knows he can't threaten me, "we'll be seeing him on bloody WatchCrime or something."

They smirk.

"Crimewatch, actually." I correct picturing Nick Ross announcing the upcoming reenactment of my dastardly deeds, I hope they get a flattering actor to play me and I know Ebbie will flip if they get a girl to play him.

"Either that or on Facebook on Paedohunters," he adds to his fans.

"I can mess about with my thirteen year old son however we want."

He nears the bus door, ushered by his spouse. "Messing about with thirteen year olds?" He twists my words. "There's a word for people like you. Maybe you should go to America they get away with it more there." 

I have no response as I really don't understand what Americans and America has got to do with anything. I send him off with a two-fingered wave and another "fuck off."

He points at his eyes and then at me through the bus window. I give him two thumbs up and gurn stupidly whilst putting an arm around Ebbie. "Actually," I say pressing the stop button repeatedly before the driver pulls away, "I want to know exactly what it was that he saw."

Ebbie claws on to me and refuses to let me get off the bus.

The bus rolls on, mothers cast me with suspicion, move their darlings away from us and risk looks at the scary man with the big tuft of red hair at the back of the bus. We ride the rest of the circular trip and I try to explain to Ebbie what happened as another layer of shit gets added to the shell of her social anxiety and hardens in the abnormal October sunshine, how our outwards appearances and mannerisms matter to other people, that the man wasn't necessarily wrong, I could've been the nonce trying to abduct a seemingly teenage girl, my behaviour, his behaviour could be interpreted the wrong way, just because we know how we are doesn't mean others do. People don't see the daft extrovert, who numerous adults have said is scary-looking with his tattoos, weird clothes and loud hair, who isn't afraid of embarrassing himself in front of anyone wildly gesticulating, fannying about with not just his kid but one of his best fucking friends who he treats like his best fucking friend, who, since birth, has treated like his best fucking friend, through thick and thin, through years of talking to teachers about bullying, five years of being a single father due to his own stupid paranoia, through years of coming to terms with a second child who is severely autistic, COVID, lockdowns, and having two kids who refuse to go to school, through gender-awakenings, through decisions to homeschool when they have little to zero faith in their ability to do so and their child's ability to have the patience to endure their parents and their little autistic brother twenty-four-seven, through money issues, house moves, separations and rejoinings. 

They don't see the thirteen year old who has had to learn from a young age that people, other kids especially, are cruel, cruel to you if you have eczema, cruel to you if you have parents with tattoos and bright coloured hair, cruel to you if you don't like the same thhbgs as they do, kids that tease you for your father losing weight, for your love of reading, 'books are stupid'. Cruel to you if you don't respond when they call you fat, or ugly, or if the bag or coat you chose in the summer holidays is something your mum or your dad would wear. Cruel to you for just being you. They don't see the frightened boy who wants nothing else in the world but for everyone else but their mum, dad and brother, to just fuck off and stop existing purely so they can hold their head up and see their own way. They see a huge scary overbearing ogre looming over a poor, obviously-abused, maybe even sexually, shrunken little 'girl.'

All weekend Weasel's words have haunted me, have hunted me, why? Because part of me believes every word. I've never seen myself as a good father, most of what people see as me being a wonderful dad is simply endurance through no other choice. Endless hours in the cold and rain watching traffic or riding on scum-riddled buses with people who verbally, and quite often threaten physically attack you because you refuse to not bite back when you are bitten. Most of the things I do for my children are done because I love them, I want to make them happy, mostly because I can't be arsed to fight, to argue as I know with every No I give them the guilt overwhelms and I feel like shit. I'm not a good dad, I swear, shout, confiscate phones for disobedience, make silly threats that I never ever keep. I let them eat whatever they want as life really is too short and the last thing I want to do is bestow my horrendous eating habits on them. I slack as a homeschool parent, leave it all to my disabled wife and go to the gym, I know my kids are learning stuff off their own backs, we have a sarcastic little no it all emo who knows everything there is to know about the things he's interested, has the same mood swings and gift for original insults as his dad and our little baby eleven year old who could literally take us all over England without anyone else needing to consult a timetable, who watches his programs in several different languages with English subtitles and quite often will communicate in bursts of Spanish or German. I know I'm not a good dad. I'm not even a good husband. I'm a teaser, a wind-up merchant, a dickhead, an antisocial reclusive, a reader, a writer, a daydreaming pervert who occasionally looks at people half his age and wonders where the hell the time has gone. But I love my children, have fought for them, often verbally, sometimes almost physically, almost ripped people to shreds for even questioning mine or my wife's parenting. We are all corners of the same square, there is no room for anyone else. Our friends, pets, relatives are inside that shielded perimeter and even though at times we may appear to be unstable we hold firm despite our crumbling foundations.

I tried to carry on as normal this weekend phrases from that man's torrent have replayed on a persistent loop. "We'll be seeing him on WatchCrime or something."

"You're cruel to her."

"You don't treat her right."

"Either that or on Facebook on Paedohunters."

I can't, those words continued to taunt, to play over and over until they effected my usual routine. On the way to the gym I told myself if I saw a person in a red coat I'd go straight to the pub. I turned left and saw a woman in a red anorak and laughed 'no, I create my own fate.' I switched directions away from the Wetherspoons and nearly bumped into another woman in another red coat, this one a fleece, and continue towards the gym, tears in my eyes still hearing his words. I know I need to get this out of my system and begin writing as soon as I've changed in the gym, tears welling I begin my self-exorcism, trying to purge the demons this weaselly cunt has inspired to writhe inside of me. Someone invades my personal space, maybe I'm not using the gym equipment enough for them, and I have to stop myself from growling verbal abuse at them. I can't gym, can't lift weights when there's so much already on my sagging shoulders. Hell, I can't even subtly perv as usual on the exquisite alternative Indian woman with the silver piercings and long pink hair. Nothing else matters, I need to pass this like - for a moment I can't spell the words I'm looking for and Google it the only way I can think of how it's spelt which gives me a great synonym that I'll be sure to use instead of my intended correct spelling, given the situation that caused this it's far more appropriate too- I need to pass these ghoulstones, piss this stinking, painful filth out of me so I can give myself back to the people who want and deserve the real me and not allow mindless non-beings to waste anymore space in my head. I'll seal them in a storage container and ship it to the outer regions of Weaseltown were it can rot until its blue tracksuit is black with its own filth and the rest of its teeth have gone the same way as that missing front one.

I leave the gym, ignore my usual greeters, eyes down, newly shaven head sweating, anxiety threatening to spew onto the just mopped floors and end up at the pub, not to drink alcohol, I gave that up five plus years ago so my family could have the real me instead of the irresponsible knobhead booze inspired, and after three, or four, coffees I have a slight headache from sitting facing the sun, neck ache from leaning over my phone and not doing my usual stretch at the gym, but the weight on my shoulders, for now, until next time, as there is almost always a next time, has lessened considerably and the tears in my eyes are from feverish stream on conscience writing, only pausing to refill a coffee cup and allowing blood to circulate back into my forearms and hands. I feel just about ready to go home, and be me again.

The Glut

Pre-binge.

Frantic searches through secret stashes that people have made all the more alluring by hanging in plain sight and saying no too. Graising on second rate tidbits until you find the holy grail. Once you spot the Cadburys purple you take without caring who it belongs to. It's under your roof so it's not stealing. 

You eat as fast as you can. No matter how big the pack you know you won't crack. The first one couple taste amazing but are eaten far too quickly, the next are savoured momentarily whilst you think of inventive ways of disposing of the wrapping. The rest, if there's any, are scoffed with robotic lethargy as the post-binge self-hatred begins to materialise and you tell yourself you'll never do it again. You blame everyone else because you don't buy these things yourself, they're never bought for you but just the fact that they're there during your weak moments is enough. You dream of times when you could control this, when it didn't matter what you were surrounded by you could still resist.

The taste of chocolate that lingers at the back of your throat is symbolic with thoughts of guilt, worry and regret. Of all the night's dark undoings of the hard day time work at trying to achieve some semblance of health. 

You write all this down in hope you'll look back and learn, that your future self will pick up this essay instead of another nail in your ever-expanding coffin but you also hold zero faith that once you're in that frame of mind anything will be able to convince you to stop. 

You're a junk food junkie, stealing the food from your babies mouths and replacing it with stuff you know you'll not use, well, unless you're desperate.

You let your lifelong nemesis win. You coax him out of his shell. Leave trinkets there as sacrifices rather than keeping him bound and restrained. Mr Hide will always return, he's more resilient than you'll ever be, feels no remorse, only ever takes.

He is the demon of gluttony, dipping his greasy fingers into the minds of the weak and making them quit. 

Krackerjack & the showbiz career of Diddy Dave Diamond

Day 2:

This bozo is one of my most best selling characters. He was created when I wanted to write something vile and disgusting and I don't think I'll ever be able to get rid of him. 

Krackerjack

http://hyperurl.co/bkd7pj

Krackerjack 2

http://hyperurl.co/yzvwp1

Pinprick

In a bid to shamelessly promote myself and raise money for them animals I'm gonna showcase one of my books each day. 

Day 1: PINPRICK 

This was the second book I wrote but officially my first novel. I always wanted to set a horror novel in the village I grew up in, I hated the countryside when I lived there, the small-mindedness and tedium and how nothing ever changed. I've always been a fan of rural settings for books especially if they dip their toes into the murky depths of the weird. Folk horror and masterpieces like The Wicker Man are one of my favourite horror tropes. 

I originally wrote this in 2006 but it underwent a major rewrite a few years later and grew up a lot. The actual main idea comes from a single image I had in a dream but to tell you what that was would be to give some of the secrets away. I hope you find the time to enjoy it for yourselves.

Let me know what you think 

Matty-Bob 

Xxx

SYNOPSIS:

All villages have their secrets Brantham is no different.

Twenty years ago after foolish risk taking turned into tragedy Shane left the rural community under a cloud of suspicion and rumour. Events from that night remained unexplained, memories erased, questions unanswered.

Now a notorious politician, he returns to his birthplace when the offer from a property developer is too good to decline. With big plans to haul Brantham into the 21st century, the developers have already made a devastating impact on the once quaint village.

But then the headaches begin, followed by the nightmarish visions.

Soon Shane wishes he had never returned as Brantham reveals its ugly secret.

#BURDIZZOFAMILY #BURDIZZOBARDS #BURDIZZOBOOKS #MATTHEWCASH #HELPTHEKOALAS

Here it is, it's good, buy it and you'll help bushfire survivors! 

http://hyperurl.co/zb4du8

Words From Inside My Head

So I've decided to open up the blog to the world 🌍
There will be, no doubt, a hefty old bag of bollocks on here from days long gone,  snippets of ancient unfinished works, maybe even thoughts on becoming a father for the first time.
I may or may not add stuff to this regularly, but as I use this app all the time for writing (obviously leaving all the good stuff unpublished) I may update it more than I think.
Today I have been shopping amongst the citizens of this fair town, eaten my body weight in bakery produce and even written a scene for my FUR story.
I don't know what to make of FUR at the moment, my wonderful Editor likes it, says my writing has grown up a lot, (it hasn't, it's just not my usual bums and tits, dicks and clits malarkey- it isn't necessary for this particular story) I don't know whether this will be a novel, novella or used purely for toilet paper, the story has a lot to say and I am merely the catalyst to convert it to paper... Like always I'm just going to write what comes from my mind and see what unfolds.

Zeebeebies part 8

The first blow caught Sonny Tumble in the centre of his forehead. He growled and spat another mouthful of Grandad's duffel coat out. It was enough of a distraction for Grandad to slip out of Sonny's grasp. Cowering behind his grandson he said, “go on the boy,hit him harder!"
Mr Tumble swung the conker round above his head like a slingshot,his tongue sticking oit the side of his mouth comically. “uh oh."
“what's wrong Mr Tumble?" Anna asked as Mr Tumble looked sad.
“ive lost the conker." he held the string up and pulled a sad face.
Grandad was already slowly running towards his garden shed on the spotty lawn. He moved surprisingly swiftly for a pensioner,leaping over a folded garden chair and shutting himself in the little wooden hut.
Mr Tumble screamed high pitched as Sonny snapped his teeth at him and ran to join his grandad in the shed.
The door wouldn't open,Grandad had locked it. Mr Tumble knocked repeatedly on the door crying loudly. “Grandad Grandad let me in!"
Sonny staggered across the lawn, fingers clawing at Mr Tumble prematurely as if he had no perception of distance.
;“ Mr Tumble Mr Tumble!" shouted Anna, “You have to do something."
Mr Tumble eyed the salivating hungry snapping teeth of Sonny Tumble and picked up the only thing to hand,the collapsible garden chair.
“Now's not the time for sitting down Mr Tumble!" Anna shrieked as Sonny got closer and closer.
Mr Tumble rolled his eyes and tutted. He shoved the folded chair's wooden stand towards Sonny's face and laughed as Sonny clamped his teeth down. For a few seconds Sonny seemed confused and then outraged when he realised he couldn't get his teeth out of the chair. He thrashed himself around furiously trying to pull the chair out of his mouth almost knocking Mr Tumble over in the process.
As Sonny stumbled past Mr Tumble he booted him in the backside and waved as Sonny wandered towards the edge of the garden. Beside the garden was a lake and as Sonny reached the  bank he fell,dislodged the chair and went headfirst into the water.
Mr Tumble cheered, “woo hoo!"
“mr Tumble," Anna said as the sound of splashing ceased and growling commenced. “Sonny's back."
Soaked through,green with algae,missing his two front teeth,Sonny looked angrier than ever and started towards the meat he craved. Mr Tumble screamed and was about to bang on the shed door when from out of the shed came the sound of a motor starting up.
Mr Tumble frowned, “What's that noise?"
“its Grandad Tumble," said Anna gleefully, “he's got a chainsaw and his going to make Zombie Tumble dead."
“Stand back!" shouted a voice from the shed and Mr Tumble leapt out of the way as Grandad Tumble kicked the door open revving the motor of the thing in his hands. It wasn't a chainsaw,it was a leaf blower. He thrust the cylindrical blower forwards towards Sonny and shouted to his grandson “Get to the boat."
Mr Tumble sidestepped Sonny as Grandad shoved the blower into his face,and ran to the water's edge to the little row boat that floated there.
As the air rushed into Sonny's face his stomach began to balloon lie something out of a cartoon,the buttons on his shirt pinged off in every direction as his belly extended. Grandad pushed him towards the boat and called to his grandson. “Use the oars,the boy,the oars!"
Mr Tumble thrust the oars into the river and started to row frantically away.
“no,I meant to hit him with!" Grandad shouted as Sonny snatched the leaf blower off him and threw it away with inhuman strength. Grandad kicked Sonny's bloated belly and ignoring the massive fart that erupted out of him,ran towards the water. Luckily for Grandad Mr Tumble wasn't as mature,and upon hearing the fantastical flatulence was rolling on his back laughing. Grandad dived headfirst into the boat. By the time Mr Tumble had recovered from the fart noise Grandad was rowing as fast ss he could muttering something about rowing for Cambridge.
Sonny paid no attention to the water and just stepped into the water and vanished. A few bubbles popped up to the surface and then nothing. The two Tumbles in the boat hugged each other and cheered triumphantly.
“ well done Grandad Tumble and Mr Tumble." Anna said but not in a congratulatory manner.
“what's wrong?" asked Mr Tumble worriedly.
Anna was silent for a few moments. “Mr Tumble Sonny's in the water."
Mr Tumble laughed and made a pop pop goldfish face. “yes,I know."
“The water is a reservoir Mr Tumble." Anna said calmly.
Realisation dawned on Grandad's face but Mr Tumble just shrugged.
The reservoir provided drinking water for the whole of CBeebiesland!

ZeeBeeBees 7

Sonny Tumble clutched his stomach and spat out his lollipop in Grandad Tumble's proffered hankie.
''This is how it begins!'' Anna warned.
Sonny was looking extremely peaky. Mr Tumble picked up the massive conker Sonny had dropped and started swinging it round by it's string,completely oblivious to Sonny.
Sonny didn't feel very well at all. ''i feel poorly'' he said pouting.
Grandad Tumble gently tugged at Mr Tumble's shirt sleeve and pulled him into the hallway. Together they watched as Sonny bent double and clutched his stomach.
''Come on The Boy,'' Grandad whispered to the conker-twirling Mr Tumble,''let's get out of here.''
''WAIT!'' Demanded Anna. ''you can't leave him,he may spread the infection!''
''urgh!'' said Mr Tumble pulling a disgusted face.''well what do we do?''
Sonny collapsed to the floor face down and started shaking violently before making a sickly choking noise and finally becoming still.
''You must either seperate his brain stem from his body or destroy his brain.'' Anna instructed.
Grandad gasped in horror.
Mr Tumble screwed his face up, ''destroy his brain?''
''Yes Mr Tumble,destroy his brain.'' Anna confirmed.
'Go on The Boy,break his head.'' Grandad patted Mr Tumble on the shoulder and gently shoved him towards the two corpses on the floor.
For a few moments Mr Tumble stood rooted to the spot unsure what to do,then Sonny slowly began to get up. Mr Tumble squealed and ran back to Grandad Tumble. They trembled with terror and hid their faces in their hands.
Sonny Tumble turned in jolts and starts like something from a video played on a slow computer. As he faced them they noticed a dramatic transformation had taken place. Sonny's eyes were totally red and he snapped his mouth open and growled like an angry dog.

Grandad screamed and ran as fast as his old legs could carry him,Mr Tumble follwed suit.
''Wait!'' Screamed Anna as the Tumbles bolted for the front door and were busy fighting to get out. Grandad pointed over Mr Tumble's shoulder, ''look,there's Cliff Tumble!''
Mr Tumble momentarily forgot the danger he was in and turned to look for his favourite singer with a beaming grin, ''Where?''
Taking this opportunity Grandad fumbled at the latch on the front door.
Sonny staggered up the hallway snarling and dribbling dark red blood from his mouth.
''Eyyy!'' Yelled Mr Tumble when he realised Grandad had duped him and yanked Grandad's flatcap down over his eyes and grabbed the waistband of Grandad's long-johns. Mr Tumble pulled upwards and gave Grandad a wedgie that almost drew blood.
Mr Tumble was out of the door before Grandad knew what had happened and raced down the path and into the garden.
Grandad screamed when he felt his duffel coat snagged in Sonny's fingers. ''Help me!''
Mr Tumble stopped running and turned back to Grandad.
Sonny was behind Grandad biting his shoulder. Sonny spat out a chunk of Grandad's coat and lunged for him again.
Mr Tumble had to do something.
''Do something Mr Tumble! You MUST help Grandad Tumble!'' Ordered Anna hysterically inside his head.
Mr Tumble thought about what Anna and Grandad had said, ''Destroy his brain. Break his head!''
Mr Tumble closed his eyes and imagined he was his favourite wrestler Rumble Tumble. He rolled his shirt sleeves up and noticed he still had Sonny's conker in his hand. It really was a big one.
''Ah ha!'' Said Mr Tumble and pointed a finger in the idea as the imaginary lightbulb of an idea flashed above his head. Swinging the conker on it's string like a slingshot he ran towards Grandad and Sonny shouting the war cry, ''Anyone for conkers?!''