Diary of 2001

January 1st 2001

A new year has been ushered in, the first after the turn of the
millenium for us, the turn of the millenium for those weirdos who
insisted that 2001 was the real millenium. But as far as we're all
concerned, last year was the big one, mainly because a gargantuan
blancmange was erected by the Thames. Today it seems a lifetime ago
that we watched Tony Blair doing the Auld Langs Syne handshake thing,
and the queen not really knowing how one would go about shaking two
hands at the same time, one under the other. They'd watched the grand
opening ceromony, that thousands missed due to rail trouble they'd
said. Maybe they didn't want to hurt Peter Mandlesons feelings.
I somehow managed to supress a rendtion of the
Dum...Dum...Dum...DumDum! 2001 a Space Odessy theme at our Millenium
party. I tried it in London Zoo the other day, next to the Gorrilla
compound. They got a bit narked at the reminder, there seemed to be a
definate message of "We've moved on! We're technologically advanced,"
in their wailings. They seemed to disown one of their kind that sat in
the corner banging stones together. They took on an air of superiority
when walking past him. "Retard," they seemed to whisper. Or maybe they
just didn't like the monkeys that represented their ancestors. Lets
face it, most of them did look like they'd been beaten with a very
large ugly stick. Or maybe they were advanced now, and had got bored
with the slowness of the film by the time their ancestors had started
bashing bones. I know I did.
Still, at least it sounds like a good year. 2001. Sounds very...new.
Brave. Like the beginning of something big...
But, as ever, we have failed the the people of the past by not having
made colonies in space yet. We didn't live up to George Orwell's hopes
of Newspeak, but we did manage Big Brother. But the sight of Craig in a
jacuzzi wasn't quite as dramatic as an entire country demaciated by a
cruel regime.
We let down the entire cast and crew of the TV series Space 1999,
although I feel they were asking a bit much of us to have been living
in space by 1999. Anyhow, even if we had managed inter-stellar
transportation, we couldn't have explored the universe in 1999. We had
the millenium party to organise. And the Dome to criticise. We had
enough on our plates that year without worrying about forging a
relationship with beings from another world.
And we have fallen short of a space oddessy in 2001. The nearest we
came was MIR, although I feel if you'd told the world of the 1920's
that, they'd feel a tad disappointed that we weren't living on the moon
yet.
"What? Your not living in space capsuals on the dusty surface of the
moon? We've already had that idea, what have you been doing for the
last 81 years?"
Building the Dome, I fear...

Jan 2nd 2001

When I woke up this morning, I was very tired, due to the fact that it
was the day after New Year's Day, and you're supposed to be tired
around this time. I had something swimming around my head. A forgotten
resolution?
An unusual smell hit me as I opened my bedroom door. It appeared to be
a cooked breakfast, but then I corrected myself as the last time the
words 'cooked breakfast' had been said in this house, the year was
1979, and Dad's porridge had been left in the micowave too long.
But when I got downstairs, I found it that it was indeed a cooked
breakfast. I put it down to the fact that Mum was probably in one of
her 'Start as we mean to go on' phases. I hoped that this was her new
years resolution, to make me a cooked breakfast every morning, but I
knew a phrase like 'Start as we probably won't be bothered to go on'
would nicely fit the scenario.
"Good Morning," she said out of habit. I returned the sentiment, but I
didn't quite know why. Was I stating that it was a good morning? Was I
wishing that she would have a good morning? Either way, we were both
properly greeted to our day.
As I ate my very well done sausages, I heard the TV in the other room.
My Dad was watching Kilroy. He always did, somehow. I never quite
figured out how he managed to be here all day, and yet appear to have a
job at the same time. My Mum called 'Relaxed' what other people would
call down-right lazy.
The silver haired host from St. Helens was holding a debate about fat
old people who are proud to be fat, feel young, and wear too much
make-up for their own good. I never could work out why fat people chose
to wear the skimpiest of garments. Not only does it have the effect of
ramming your fingers down the back of your throat, it also seems
slightly illogical. Maybe the shop had special mirrors that made them
look thin, and when they got the clothes home, they just thought they'd
might as well wear them. Have to be pretty big mirrors though.
When I'd finished my eggs, and the bacon had slid too far down the ph
scale to be healthy, I told my Mum that I'd go back to bed, as I was
still feeling tired. When I got back to bed though, I felt like I could
go to sleep, but my stomach seemed to be hinting that if I became
unconscious in the next few minutes, and wake up to find my bedclothes
coloured in bacon, sausage and egg coloured stains, then it wasn't to
blame.
So I went to the toilet, and decided to go watch Breakfast with Frost.
I always find that he can send me to sleep. Not that he or the show is
boring, it's his voice. His voice is for insomniacs what a laxative is
for a constapationist.

Jan 3rd 2001

This morning, I decided to start writing my first novel. I'm quite a
good writer, so I'm hopeful. I decided that whatever it would be about,
I'd call it Sliced Bread. I'd love to read the review of my next book:
" His best thing since Sliced Bread." I'm not quite sure what the story
could be about. Maybe a northener called Wheatsheaf could invent sliced
bread. I've just had a brainwave. Maybe it could be about a couple who
get divorced. It would slice their bread winnings right down the
middle.

Jan 4th 2001

As it is a new year, my Mum decided she wants a new car, to go with
her new look. I told her that she'd have quite a job to give herself a
spoiler. Well, she's already got one really - my Dad.
So we all had to go out car shopping. Me, Mum, Dad, and my brother
Daniel. I quite like cars, as long as I'm in one going 50 mph, and not
walking in front of one going 50 mph. The car salesman was a greasy
man, he seemed intent on selling us a Mercades, although he wouldn't
let us near one. Probably because of my little brother. He seems to
emanate trouble. And I'm sure it's not healthy to always be rolling
around in the mud. The dog, called Lassie, on account of the fact that
it's the same dog that's in Lassie, gets rather put out by this, and
spends most of her time watching the TV. Her name is just about the
only trait that she shares with the wonder dog. If there was a fire in
our house, she probably wouldn't even bother getting out of bed, never
mind coming to tell us in a language we'd understand. Tut. Dogs
today.

Jan 5th 2001

As none of us could agree on the same car, we took a brochure home,
and told the grease merchant that we'd think it over, at which point
I'm sure I heard him mutter "Don't try too hard."
So there we were this morning, all camped around the dining table - I
feel this name is a little upmarket for the way we utilise it. The word
'dining' for me throws up visions of glamorous 19th century ball gowns,
sipping of wine, and pigs with apples in their mouths.
Which is, in Geography terms, about as far away as the North Pole is
from the South Pole, for how we use it. It is a rare occurance if we
are all seated at the same time, and my brother is like Niagra Falls
the way he always spills drinks. Arguements fly across the Corn Beef
Hash like Concordes, and we're all shocked if Dad doesn't say the
food's about as appetizing as a sweaty armpit, and if my Mother doesn't
run off crying.
"I like the car we've got!" complains Dad, who is about as akin to
change as a Penguin is to flying.
"It's an old banger!" says Mum, who is the only person who drives it
in the family. She drives us to school in it, and I'm sure I can see
the road between my feet. So I point out that I like the Ford Ka, and
she agrees. Worryingly, so does my brother, and terrifyingly, so does
Dad, who's a spitting image of an erratic radio tuner. He never seems
to be on the same wavelength as everyone else.

Jan 6th 2001

I remembered something today - I made a New Year's resolution before
the clock struck midnight! But I can't really remember what it was.
Hmm. I'm sure it'll come to me. My Mum's decided to make her own mind
up about the new car. She says we sqaubble too much. I think she'd like
us to be a family like the Waltons, although without the effort. And
someone called Jez.
She acted as though she'd be putting the whole thing on hold, although
she did leave with the brochure, so I think we might be in for a shock
when she gets back. I won't care if she comes bak with a Lada. As long
as I won't be able to involuntarily leave the car mid-journey any more,
I'll be delighted.

Jan 7th 2001

Started work on Sliced Bread today. I've decided to go with Mr.
Wheatsheaf, as I feel I've enough experience of a harsh, northern
background to write twenty books. I thought I'd best do some research
into my main subject matter - Bread. Sliced. I always thought it was a
rather obvious idea. Take a knife, cut it into individual portions, and
then...eat it. My Dad says that people were slower back then, and when
I got over the hipocracy of this statement coming from him, I also
realised that he was wrong. How can people who thought of living on the
moon 81 years before we did be slow?
So I went to the fridge, and pulled out the handy sliced version of
baked yeast. My Mum never bought proper loaves. She's worried that Dad
might find the prospect of bread that isn't sliced slightly taxing. So
I stared at it. I turned it around to look at the other side. It wasn't
very inspiring for a novel. Still, it tasted it very nice...

Jan 8th 2001

I was right about the car situation. We were all slightly unerved by
the fact that a horrible screeching noise didn't come hurtling down the
road at about 5 like it usually does. We never even heard it coming. So
when we heard the bell ring, and I went to answer it, we didn't think
it'd be Mum. But it was. And when I looked past her, I saw the new car.
It was bright yellow...with black spots.
"What do you think?" she'd asked.
"It's...it's...nice." Anyone sharper would've seen past my shaky
exterior, and realised that I was none too happy with having a bumble
bee for a car. My Dad said he loved it, mainly because he couldn't be
bothered getting out of his seat for anything but 1) The Queen walking
down the road 2) Robet Kilroy-Silk walking down the road, or 3) The
Four horsemen of the Apocalypse riding down the road, and so he trusted
my Mother's judgement.
And my brother didn't care as long as the interior could still be
ruined by a muddy jacket. I pleaded with her to put it in the garage,
and not leave it out in the road, where human eyes could see it. I said
a car like that deserves to be pampered. Put it in the garage, I
said.
"No. I want the world to see it!" she replied. I wanted to cry.

Jan 9th 2001

Sliced Bread. Chapter 1.
It was a cold, cold winter, that winter. In the winter. The wind
howled like a wolf, and the lake froze over like...an ice cube. The
birds and other wildlife tried to keep warm. But they didn't have
fires. Like me.
I was 12 that year, and I worked for me Father in the bakery shop. We
didn't have luxuries like other families. We never had fires, or food,
or windows. They was what other families had. We was happy if there was
one slice o' bread on us table come Sunday, and a few pennies in us
Dad's pocket. Enough to go t' market next day and get ingredients for
week 'head. I started working in t' bakery when I was 11. I didn't get
paid. Paid was what other people got. I was happy if I could sleep on a
mattress at nights. Me Dad were an alcaholic, and me Mam were a...bingo
player. We didn't get love. Love was summet other families 'ad. You'll
hear lots 'bout my life over the next few pages of this here book. But
believe me when I tell you: You were lucky. This is my story, of 'ow I
became worlds most famous baker. The story of summet I like to
call...Sliced Bread.

Jan 10th 2001

As you will have noticed from my last entry, Sliced Bread is off to a
flyer. I am quietly confident of a publication deal within 2 years. The
only notable thing that happened today was when Daniel crawled in front
of the TV, just when Dad's favourite team were about to shoot. He went
mad for about five minutes, and he hit Daniel and threw him
outside.
He doesn't subscribe to being a good, honest human being, my Father.
He thinks there's a subscription fee.

Jan 11th 2001

Today, when I was sat at the computer, writing Sliced Bread, I heard
some people walking along the road. They seemed to stop when they got
outside our house. I looked out of the window and saw them staring at
the car. I dashed back to my desk in shame. I'm sure I heard them
throwing up on the pavement. Or maybe that was my imagination. If
they'd have thrown up on the car, it might have made it look marginally
better.

Jan 12th 2001

This new year's resolution thing is really starting to bug me. What
was it? Stop biting my finger-nails? Nope. I haven't done that since my
Dad painted them with Creosote to stop me doing it. It worked, by the
way.
As my Mum continues her 'New Life' phase, which I'm sure she got out
of Hello magazine, she today announced that should be a family of the
21st century. I asked 'Shall we get a colour TV then?' but she ignored
me, and went on to say,
"We are going online!" So later on, the men came round to do whatever
they have to do to install the internet, and by tonight, we were
surfing the web. I haven't been able to get on it much, as Daniel's
been hogging it, but it seems quite good. To continue my research, I'm
going to look at www.howtowriteabookaboutbread.com/thatissliced

Jan 13th 2001

To my extreme shock and delight, I woke up this morning to find our
world covered in snow! We've been totally snowed in, so Mum can't go to
work, Dad doesn't have to make a new excuse, and as an extra bonus, the
car's been completely covered! It could be a normal car! Yes! What a
day!

Jan 14th 2001

The snow has continued through to today, and it was even heavier last
night! So we're all still housebound, and Daniel is yet to come off the
internet. He's fascinated by it. He doesn't normally speak too much
anyway, but now he's totally gone. He has a dazed look on his face, and
he doesn't come down for dinner any more, we just slip it under the
door.
I love snow. I love watching it fall, and I love seeing the entire
landscape covered in white. But it never snows on Christmas day. Why's
that? It could snow for 364 days of the year, but it will not snow on
the 25th. Unbelievable. My Dad says that Father Christmas doesn't want
it to snow, because he's to get round the world, and he doesn't need
any delays. I think he's probably right. But I've just been struck by a
thought. Maybe my Dad's Father Christmas! It would explain why he
doesn't do anything for 364 days of the year! But where would he keep
the reindeer? Maye in the garage, I've never been in the there...I'll
try and find out more.

Jan 15th 2001

A sad day. Our old postman has died. He's delivered the bills that
sent my Dad into a manic depression for the last ten years. They
awarded him the Best Postman Award in a Feature Length Career. My Dad
says now he's a Posthumous Postman.

Jan 16th 2001

I've decided in my wisdom to turn Sliced Bread into a northern soap
program. The first chapter can be the introductory voiceover, and now
I'm writing the script. I am hopeful of a TV deal within two years.
It'll be a great rival with Corrie, and will circle mainly around the
Wheatsheaf family, and their village. Here is a brief extract:

Mr. Wheatsheaf: What do you mean, you don't love me any more, you've
run off with another man, you've set up a french bakery in Southend,
you've got two kids called Jean-Yves and Pierre?
That's all for now. I'll keep you posted.

Jan 17th 2001

Waking this morning to a cry of 'Wake up you lazy beggar!' (although I
feel this cry was directed at my Dad), I tried to figure out what the
new years resolution that I made was. Call my grandparents on the phone
every week? No, it couldn't be that - Dad removed all their phone
numbers, and cut the line, to stop them calling us.
Today I played football for my team 'Return of the Rovers'. I'm not
what you would call a classy player. I may not even be what you would
call a half decent player. The only people who'd call me a classy
player are women (sorry, no offence implied. Well, maybe a bit), and
people who have eyesight to rival a wooden gatepost. But at least the
home crowd are taking to me - I'm starting to pick up a nickname. But
somehow I don't think
"Get off the pitch you stinking rat!" is an affectionate term. We won
4-1, and I got the last goal. Unfortunately, I scored it for the other
team, but you can't have it all.

Jan 18th 2001

Mum came home from work today (always a good sign) with armfuls (can
you have armfuls? She did) of Home Decorating magazines. According to
the front covers, this seasons 'In Look' was long, red drapes for the
sofas, white, fluffy rugs in front of warm, inviting fires, whilst
sitting happily as a family on the sofa, playing 'Unspecified Board
Game'. I don't think we'd quite manage it. The decorating would be
fine, but getting us all around the table playing 'Unspecified Board
Game' would be an impossibilty.

Jan 19th 2001

So, today Mum started her 'Home Improvement' phase. She took
everything out of the lounge (the hardest thing to move was my Dad),
and then sat in there for half an hour. Apart from making the TV harder
to watch (it was somewhere in the attic) this didn't seem to do very
much. She kept asking for coffee. I asked her what kind she
wanted.
" Caf!" she cried, " Very, very caf!" I left her alone after that. Dad
says we should leave her alone for a while, but I told him I didn't
think running away to the bahamas would be a very good idea. He agreed,
observing, " Who'd make us our dinner?".

Jan 20th 2001

After setting up a lounge in the attic, me, Dad and Daniel (and Lassie
of course, he instinctively follows the TV set where ever it goes) sat
down to watch This is Your Life. I imagined me on the show in later
life, being congratulated on writing the best soap ever in Sliced
Bread. Most of the cast came on, but I didn't recognise any of their
voices, that's how high-flying I was.
Dad's show would briefly consisted of 'Landlord from the Local',
'Reluctant Wife' and 'Man who once bought a rowing machine off
him'.
Dad did actually have a rowing machine once. It got used just about as
much as an umbrella under the sea, and so we labelled it extinct.
Apperantly, he once had dreams of rowing for Cambridge, but this dream
was tragically shattered when he was a victim of circumstances. He
didn't get any A-Levels.

Jan 21st 2001

A new scene from Sliced Bread:
Mr. Wheatsheaf: Come in 'ere son, and see me make sum bread.

Son: What's bread Dad?

Mr. Wheatsheaf: It's like an artform, son. You craft it, an' you mould
it, and you tenderly nurture it, until it grows into a beautiful
artform.

Son: Can you eat it, Dad?

Mr. Wheatsheaf: Yeah. 'Ere, pound this bread.

Son: Don't you think it'd be better if it were sliced?

Mr. Wheatsheaf: What?

Son: Don't you think it would be better if it were sliced? Cos then
you'd sell more cos people appreaciate convenience in their everyday
lives, don't they?

Mr. Wheatsheaf: Ney lad, that's a daft idea.

(Mr. Wheatsheaf goes to corner of room)

Mr. Wheatsheaf: Memo to self: Make bread sliced. And don't tell
kid.

Jan 22nd 2001

I am troubled. This morning, I found Lassie creating a Humpty Dumpty
model, after watching an episode of Blue Peter. It was, I have to say,
a rather infantile attempt - but none-the-less, he'd made a model. I
think he has some how developed a human brain by watching TV
programmes. I found him operating on Jonny the other day, after
watching an episode of ER. The bandage was applied less than
satisfactorially, but the incision he was about to make on Danny's
stomach seemed to be going in at the right angle. I'm hoping that he
never sees an episode of Lassie - he may get longings of his long lost
family. Or something.
Besides, I don't want him to pick up any of that dog language
malarkee. I don't think it would work around here though - there are no
coal mines, and there's no-one called Jed to fall down them. The
closest comparison would be Harry Aswall, who lives one door from me,
falling down his cellar - which he has done several times to date,
earning him the name 'Celler' Harry. (People aren't very imaginative
with names on our street.)

Jan 23rd 2001

The first New Year's resolution was broken today - Mum came home
eating barrelfuls of chocolate. Her excuse was that she'd had a bad day
at work. I considered this a feeble excuse. The only reason that it was
a bad day at work was because they had no work to do. You see, my Mum
works at a chocolate factory, and she'd eaten everything that had come
down the conveyor belt. She said 'All my colleagues were very angry
today.' I told her it was probably because she was stopping them doing
any work - not to mention creating quite a chocolate-coloured mess -
but she felt there must be something wrong at all their homes. By the
way, I still can't figure out what my resolution was. Offer to make
dinner at least once a week? No, it couldn't be - I mainly try to avoid
dinner times at our house.
Anyway, she turns up at home covered in chocolate. I mean covered.
Mouth, clothes, covered. She seemed to take the angle of a victim, that
the mean chocolate had tempted her into it's evil ways.
When I say chocolate factory, people immeadiately think of Willy
Wonka. They think of Charlie Bucket, Oompa-Loompas and lots
imaginatively named chocolate products. But the reality is somewhat
different - instead of squrriels peeling the nuts, the job is maninly
carried out by hard-faced women, who couldn't care less whether it was
properly peeled or not. Instead of hills made of grass-coloured
chocolate, there are mountains of mahines. And there not very
imaginativley named at all. Mum said one was called Z-3 Model 2
Redwood. I would at least have expected Big Bertha Caramel Creator to
the Heavens - but sadly, it wasn't. I tried to comfort her, saying
everyone was allowed a little treat now and then. Dad tried a similiar
tact, explaining that he'd seen a Kilroy episode that morning about
compulsive eaters. He said that they were really nice people - except
for all that fat. I left the room at that point.

24th Jan 2001

Our new living room is still no where near being started. After my
Mum's tearful episode yesterday, she had the day off today. She said
bravely 'I'm going to put all my effort into it today,' and so she
consequently went out to the garage, and got all the materials she
needed. It's now...9 pm, and she's still sat down there, surrounded by
her decorating materials. I don't know what her fear is of DIY, but she
seems to freeze into an attitude of unadulterated fear when she begins
a task. Maybe she's been hypnotized. I called in earlier. 'Mum?' I said
timidly. I heard nothing in reply except for the slurping of more 'Very
very caf' coffee. Ah well. At least our makeshift living room (or TV
room, as Dad now calls it. Or sometimes he also calls it bedroom), is
still functioning properly as a family room - we can still get channels
1 2 3 4 and unortunately, 5. Although I haven't seen Danny for a few
days. He insists he's ill, but I can hear the computer whirring every
time I walk past his room. The door says 'Keep Out.' And so, like all
pointless signs, I willfully obey it.

25th Jan 2001

Just one nugget of daily life today. A letter came through the door,
and Dad seemed quite excited about it (After Lassie brought it to him,
of course). He asked Lassie to get a pen, and fill out the subscription
form. I only realised the absurdity of this request about two hours
later. I mean, Dad's never subscribed to anything in his life!
I found the envelope tonight, on the kitchen side. It was from
THOTDFTCOPLA: The Head Of The Department For The Creation Of
Pointlessly Long Acronyms.

26th Jan 2001

When Dad was watching TV today (not an uncommon phenomenom), he
remarked how strange it was that all judges seemed to be called
Justice. 'You probably don't get the job unless you're called Justice.'
Am I adopted?

27th Jan 2001

In a vein attempt to help Mum in her endless pursuit of of a better
'living' room, I trekked around several DIY shops today. I picked up
loads of leaflets about getting started on your new room, but
unfortunately they said nothing about emotionally distressed mothers.
Or coffee addiction.
Anyway, not to be perturbed, I picked up a catalogue, and circled all
the things I thought would make our room look just fabulous.
Unfortunately, most of them were out of our price range. Most of them
were also out of our class range. And I couldn't find one 'Unspecified
Board Game' any where. It's disgraceful.
Anyway, not to be intelligent and just give up, I went home to the
garage and tried to create my own Sofa/Settee/BedForDad. Unfortunately
(are you noticing a pattern developing here?), it turns out that I'm
about as useful with a saw as Dad is with....well, as Dad is.

Jan 28th 2001

After not seeing Danny for nigh on four days now (not that I'm
complaining) I disregarded the Law of Pointless Signs and pushed open
his bedroom door a crack. He didn't hear me, but could see him, on the
computer, and on the internet. He was in the process of hacking into
the Closed Security Files of the CIA, and the names of hundreds of
secret agents already lay printed ut, on his bed, next to his teddy
bear. After noting this convinient narrative juxtaposition, I went and
complained to Mum that Danny hacking into security files of national
importance. And that he hadn't tidied his room yet. She just nodded
vaguely, sipped her coffee, and said, 'Tell him not to do it again,
dear.' I am becoming increasingly worried about the state of
my...there's no other word for it...'family.' I went and told Dad, who
said 'What did your mother say?'. I told him. 'She's probably right,
then,' he said, eating the rest of his breakfast. And what a breakfast.
A complete cooked, all-day breakfast. I first of all goggled at the
possibility that Dad had entered the kitchen, but then I saw the
take-away menu lying on the floor. That at least seemed possible, as
Lassie had become very adept at carrying the phone.

Jan 29th 2001

Today I discovered quite a gem of information. Apparently, Woody Allen
(you know, 'I'm paranoid! I'm - I'm - my obsession is my paranoia, but
now I'm paranoid that I'm becoming obsessive!'), is to start filming on
his new movie in a few months time, and they're filming it on my
street! This means 3 things.
1) I will have to hide and/or burn our car.
2) I will have to make sure Danny doesn't get near any of the
equipment.
3) I will have to try and get myself in shot and/or drug Woody Allen's
drinks, kidnapp him, then persuade him kindly/forcibly to let me be in
the film. Well, one out of three ain't bad.
They say Woody Allen is one of the greatest thinkers in the world, and
he probably is. He's definately a better thinker than my Dad. Actually,
most things are better thinkers than my Dad, including: Large rocks,
tumbleweed, strawberry yoghurt. No wait................no, that's
probably right.

Jan 30th 2001

In light of yesterday's discovery, I have decided to develop my Sliced
Bread script, and present it to Woody Allen when he arrives. I think a
witty mind like his would appreaciate the title and premise. So, here's
the second scene.

Mr. Wheatsheaf: So, my bakery friends, I conclude that what we have
'ere is the makings of the biggest creation since...since...well I
can't think of the correct analogy yet, it 'ant bin invented yet. But
thanks to my noo invention, people all around the world will not only
'ave the convinience of pre-sliced bread, they will have a convinient
analogy for when somefings the best since something else.

(A roar of approval meets Wheatsheaf's presentation at the Convention
of Bakers. A dozen of the world's finest baking minds sit on a long
table in front of the presentation area. A large symbol of a Bread Loaf
shows that this is the Convention of Bakers. Or that somebody went AWOL
with a paint brush and a highly inventive mind.)

No. 1: Very good, number 2. A highly inventive plan. Develop it and
bring it back here by our next meeting. And don't fail me. Number 3!
What plan have you come up with to take over the world with
bread-related products?

(A small, timid man gets out of the third seat.)

No. 3: Thankyou No. 1. Ahem. My plan involves....currants.

No. 1: Currants, number 3?

No. 3: Yes, ahem. I propose we inject each currant with poison, and
sell them all around the world. Ahem.

No.1: Sit down, number 3. Your idea lacks insight, foresight, and web
sight. It does not match with number two's exemplary plot involving
convinience food! People want convinience. And we'll give it to them.
Oh, we'll give it to them. On a plate. But little will they know, that
because number two's excellent brain is in order, the yeast grains that
made the bread, will be bacteria-

No. 4: But, number 1, Sir!

No. 1: What is it that is so important, number four?

No. 4: Just that, well, yeast is bacteria.

No. 1: Sit down, No. 4. Today I am ashamed to be called Leader of the
Baker's Convention. Yeast is not bacteria-

No. 4: But Sir, I learnt it at school, Sir!

No. 1: Shut up, number four! You're spoiling it for the rest of them!
There's always one, isn't there?

No. 4: Sorry Sir.

No. 1: I should think so too. Perhaps you'd like to apologise to the
rest of the convention for wasting their time?

No. 4: Sorry, convention.

No. 1: That's better. Now, as I was saying, yeast is not a bacteria
like the one it will be when it's in sliced bread! This yeast shall
cause diseases, oceans to rise, cities to fall, and in the worst cases,
a four-day bout of diahrroea! Hahahaha HrraaHahaha! Hraahahaha!
Hrahahaha! HRa- Could someone get me a throat sweet?

You might have noticed a slight change the Sliced Bread formula. This
is because I feel it would be better recieved by Woody, and Hollywood,
like this. There might be a slight culture change between harsh,
northen realities, to that of evil men trying to take over the world,
but I'm sure that can be ironed out in pre-production.

Jan 31st 2001

As the first month of the year 2001 draws to a close, I thought I'd
give you a round-up of what's happened so far this year. And then my
friends asked my if I'd liked to play football, so I did that
instead.

Feb 1st 2001

I saw an article in our daily newspaper today, confirming Woody Allens
use of our street in a few months time. This means that I've got to get
on with my Wheatsheaf script. I asked Dad whether he'd ever seen a
Woody Allen film. He said he enjoyed White Men Can't Jump and Cheers
immenslely. I smiled, and left the room to ask Mum. She said she saw
Play it Again, Sam at the local pictures years and years ago. She said
it was silghtly surreal. I asked her how, and she described this weird
thing about a big monster that was chasing her. I asked her if she'd
fell asleep and dreamed this farce during the film. She nodded, and
went back to doing something with the washing.
At a loss, I went to talk to Danny, to see if he'd seen an Allen film.
He said he had, and that it was a tremendous insight into the
surrealistic commentary of the capatilistic domination of Cuba. For the
second time that day, although for a very different reason, I smiled,
and slowly left the room. 'Carry on with your hacking- err... surfing,'
I said, bumbling. I resolved to visit the video shop tomorrow, and rent
out Mum's fabled Play it Again, Sam. I needed to do some background
research on Mr. Allen. I was tempted, as I walked past the attic
ladder, to ask Lassie if he'd seen any Woody Allen films, but I guessed
that evolution could step to model-making in a few days, but that it
couldn't reach speech till about, oh....at least three more days. The
fact that it showed more evolutionary steps than my Father (or normal
steps, for that matter), said something about my Dad. And it seems to
confirm my adoption theory.

2nd Feb 2001

This morning, after last night's evolutionary wonderings, I am coming
to the conclusion that Dad is reversing the course of evolution.
Instead of being a caveman, and turning into a super-intelligent,
super-fit body of health, he seems to be doing the opposite. I keep
expecting him to start bashing rocks together, or at the very least a
few ooh-ooh's.
But then again, will we keep evolving? In the future, how advanced
will we be? Wait a minute, that's a good idea! I have decided to make
some of my entries the insights into possible future life that I have
made that day. I will mark these with 'Future: In the year...'
Here's my first one: Future: In the year 2020, clever scientist blokes
will come up with technology that even women and old people will be
able to use.

Feb 3rd 2001

Whilst watching a 'factual' programme last night, all about UFO's
(it's the only kind of nature programme Dad will watch), Danny said it
was all rubbish. There was no such thing as little green men, they
didn't drive flying saucers and they definitely didn't land in Area 52.
He said that that was just a cover up for a much bigger landing in
Area- And then he said that he'd already said too much, and quietly
left the room.
Wait a minute, Dad's calling me.

" What?" I ask. He says he wants to know where the rowing machine
is.
" Why?" I ask. He says because he wants to rest drinks and crisps on
it while he watches the football.
" Why?" I ask again. He says because he can't find the ironing
board.

Feb 4th

Our team's football season is getting interesting at the moment. We
recently played our biggest rivals, Berryby Athletic, and it was an
awfully violent game. There were punches thrown, verbal abuse was
lashed out and all-out brawls were commonplace. And that was just the
parents.
After a riot eventually put an end to the game, the referee dashed
away into his getaway car which was driven by his wife. Me and a few
others trudged around the pitch after the game. Jonesy, our
centre-forward, said that it was great that the match had been called
off - we were losing 3-0. Scott, our winger, said,
" Nff iff noff!" but that was probably due to his having two teeth
knocked out earlier in the game. The litter was also terrible. We found
crisp packets, orange peels and several teeth. Unfortunately, Scott
couldn't place any of them as his own.

Feb 5th

When I came down for breakfast this morning, Dad looked very happy.
The last time that had happened was in 1992, when me and Daniel went
away to camp. I asked him why, and he told me that he'd taught Lassie a
few tricks. I was immeadiately worried. What could he have taught him?
How to not cook dinner? How to not clean the house? How to ignore the
rest of the family? These worries were quickly quelled however, when I
found out that Dad had taught him to play dead - also one of Dad's
traits.

Feb 6th

I am getting really worried about Lassie after yesterday. Dad's new
trick seems to have had the effect of me mentioning the CIA to Danny -
it's shut him up. Not only that, but he refuses to move. Soon, they'll
no doubt be a patch of dirt where Mum has to vacuum round him, just
like there is for Dad on the couch. You can clearly see what position
he's been lying in - and what he's been eating. Recent brave
excavations by Mum have resulted in the finding of: A baked bean, two
unfinished Pot Noodles, countless nibbled chocolates, and, rather
worryingly, two empty cans of dog food.

Feb 7th

Art has never been my favourite pastime. After being pushed into a
class by my Mum a few years back, I decided to make a fist of it - but
ended up making a mess of it. In the end, the teacher said that it was
the best drawing of a hedgehog she'd ever seen. The only problem was
that I was trying to draw a penguin.
So when I decided to draw pictures of the principal characters in
'Sliced Bread', I delegated the task to Danny, the only member of my
family who has any artistic incline at all (my Dad once decided to
re-decorate the hallway, so he got out all the cans of paint and tried
to paint the walls. In the end, the only thing he managed not to paint
was the walls.)
Little Dan asked me what the characters looked like. I told him. After
a while, he came back and showed me the results. I think he'd used what
is known as 'artistic license' i.e. he'd completely ignored what I'd
described. He said that that was more like what the person who'd
invented sliced bread looked like. When I asked him how he knew, he
scurried away back to his room. Surely that wasn't in the CIA's secret
files. I certainly can't imagine an X-Files episode going deep
undercover to try and investigate the government conspiracy to cover up
the true identity of the man who invented sliced bread. The man who
invented Push-Pops, maybe, for his own safety, but that was surely as
far as it went?

Feb 8th

A new development on the 'Living Room' front today. Mum, due to her
allergic reactions to DIY, called in an 'expert'. Yes, you know the
kind. While other residents on our street hire in the top-notch
professionals, we're that house that has to have a blue robin-reliant
parked outside, with the words 'Dodgy Dave' printed on the side in big
white letters. When he arrived, he seemed to have gained a degree in
tutting, as he strode about the living room, inspecting every nook and
cranny.
" Tut-tut," he said audibly as he made notes. He also whistled in a
'That's gonna cost you' tone from time to time. He was a very brave man
to do this though, with my Mum standing at the doorway watching him.
The last man to tut in her house had ended up in hospital. Trust me, I
saw Dad's scars when he came back.
But this man was obviously trained in the ways of cowboy decorator. He
was the kind who's fuel was mugs of tea, and he was like a Porsche in
that respect - he guzzled the stuff.
" Right love," he said, totalling the cost on his clipboard. " This
place needs a lot of work. S' gonna cost a fair bit." My Mum asked him
how much. He told her. Even trained men make mistakes some times.
Feb 8th

Sliced Bread Scene 4

We are on a dark street in the north of France. Two men stand beneath
a street lamp, their hats covering their faces. The police sirens reign
in he distance, and rain&;#8230;rains in
the&;#8230;middle-distance.

Mysterious French Man: So, zey zink zey can make a fool out me,
uh?
Less Mysterious French Man: Zey are trying, Sir.
MFM: But zey vill not vin, I zink?
LMFM: Vell, zey might do.
MFM: Vhat?
LMFM: Vell, you never know, Sir.
MFM: You never know?
LMFM: Never.
MFM: Are you saying that I'm not intelligent?
LMFM:&;#8230;..er&;#8230;..are you saying zat, Sir?
MFM: Shut up! Zey zink zey can make a bread vhich is sliced, eh?
LMFM: Zey can, Sir.
MFM: Vhat?
LMFM: Vell, you said zey zink zey can - but zey can. I saw it on zer
news!
MFM: I know! I vas being mysterious!
LMFM: Ah, vell, zat's me Sir. Never been as mysterious as you-
MFM: Shut up! Sliced bread, eh? Vhy didn't I ever zink of zat?
LMFM: Vhat is 'Zat', Sir.
MFM: Not 'Zat'! Zat!
LMFM: Oh.

Feb 9th

Mum, after cooling down considerably, has finally decided that Dodgy
Dave should do the living room after all. She said that she didn't have
the patience or sanity that DIY required. Dad added 'Or the skills',
but very discreetly.
So, two full hours after the arranged time, Dave pulled up and got to
work. About half an hour later, what he called his team arrived. Pub
team, maybe, but DIY? Most of them were balding with beer bellies the
size of which rivalled small animals, and these, like Dave, had an
unquenchable thirst for tea.
" Make us a brew, love," were words I must have heard about a million
times today. I wondered what they'd do if we ran out of tea bags - go
on strike?
As the noise of hammers still echoes from downstairs, invariably
followed by the sound of falling plaster, which in turn is followed by
a muffled expletive, I sit here and think how ironic the name 'living'
room is in our house. Dad's in there all the time, but you could hardly
call him living.

Feb 10th

As Woody Allen's visit to our little town grows ever closer, I have
tried from time to time to get onto the internet to try and find out
more about him. This is difficult, because Danny rarely leaves the room
unguarded for more than five minutes at a time. His watchful eye has
been especially felt since the Sandwich Incident of '92, when he crept
out of his room to get a tasty snack, only to return to find Mum
cleaning the place. He'd fumed for hours - there was no telling what
damage she could have done.
So today, I strategically planned the operation, using labelled
diagrams. At 12 hundred hours, I silently left my room, and began to
crawl across the carpet, so as not to make any footstep noises. I crept
quietly into his bedroom, and quickly laid the plate of food on his
desk without making a sound. I heard him approaching, so I dived under
his bed, pulling the side of the sheet down to cover me from
view.
After waiting for him to eat the food, I knew it would be a matter of
minutes before he fell asleep. He always liked a doze after a big meal,
and today was no exception. When the first snores met my ears, I
crawled out and turned on the 'net.
Then I realised that I had absolutely no idea how this thing worked -
Danny had always used it, but I had hardly had a look-in. I had planned
this whole thing (I even used labels!), but I didn't know how to use
the 'net. Right, I thought, 'Click Favourites'. So I did.
CIA Headquarters Top Security Clearance XXXX
FBI Secret Agent List
MI6 Operations Schedule. Boring! So it went on. Blah, blah, blah Top
Secret this, blah, blah, blah secret agent that. I thought Danny was
doing something cool with this thing. I decided to search for Woody
Allen.
Sam Allen of the Woody Mountain Nature Trails Homepage
Woody Harrelson's Unofficial Homepage by Allen Lang.
Allen Kemp asks 'Would he be right for the part'. Oh, come on! It just
had to be sitting inside the monitor laughing at me.
I eventually did find something about Woody Allen, and I have drawn up
a few synopsises for films that I think he might be interested in. Sam
Allen of the Woody Mountain Nature Trail was quite a hoot, too.

Feb 11th

The noises of the DDY (Don't Do it Yourself) have driven Lassie up
into the attic, so I went to see how he was after his
Near-Dad-Experience. He looked alright, except for the fact that some
how he managed to look unshaven. Amazing that. I threw his favourite
ball (it's round, it's red - he's not very selective) around the room
to see if he felt like chasing after it. As it bounced off the walls,
he just looked back at me with disapproving eyes. 'If you think it's so
much fun,' he seemed to say, 'Why don't you go and get it?' I felt
maybe he was a bit above the old fetch game, so I got the chess out
instead. It's no great reflection on me that by sniffing at a few
pieces and knocking them over, he managed to win. So I got Monopoly out
- at least I can play Monopoly. Sadly, Lassie seems to have the
megalomaniac skills akin to a slab of concrete, and I won quite
convincingly. He also seemed to take the Free Parking square as an
offer to lie across the board.