Day 70: She was crazy that way.

Once, when we were younger, she had a twenty minute conversation with a taxi driver about the fact that daffodils were far too overrated and overused in popular culture.

She was crazy that way.

She decided that eating was odd, an unfamiliar sensation to process food through her mouth, crushing and grinding it down before her body pulled it down to the seething pool of acid waiting in her stomach. Then she decided that actually she wanted to eat everything.

She was crazy that way.

She ran away once. Actually joined the circus. Learnt a lot about acrobatics and juggling, becoming an incredibly important part of the entire show.

She was crazy that way.

She decided that the letter H didn’t exist. Refused to use it in spelling, avoided it in speech as much as she could.

She was crazy that way.

She would frolic, frolicking being the only way to describe it, through the streets. Playing up the manic pixie dream girl persona to the best of her ability.

She was crazy that way.

She’d say no, every time I suggested that we go for a drink together, or a coffee, or a meal. She’d always make sure there were people with us if we went anywhere.

She was crazy that way.

She screamed through the door, ridiculous things like ‘Let me out.’ and ‘I need to eat.’ She kept pounding on the thin wood, trying to break through. It was as if she didn’t know about the steel backing. She scrabbled at the wood, like a frightened dog.

She was crazy that way.

She went quiet for a very long time.

She was crazy that way.

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 69: Who people think you are, compared to who you know you are

‘You know, you’re alright. I think you’ll be alright.’ The stranger told me. In an hour, he could see through me. ‘You see, like, I think you’d be great. You’re nice, you’re calm. You’ve got a great personality.’ He grinned at me, teeth bright against his dark skin. ‘There’s nothing to stop you.’

I could feel my self shrinking. Why would this stranger compliment me? What was I, really? I was nothing. I’d chugged my way through university, a champion at drinking and I couldn’t even place at actually learning. Surely he was wrong. He certainly couldn’t be right. No, clearly he is talking about the barmaid. She’s much more on top of things than me. I am just choking down the bitter taste of a job that I don’t enjoy.

‘See, we’re just on a path. We’ve all got to go through the problem periods to become who we are.’ He doesn’t speak like a hippy, though I could see his words being misconstrued as some New Age bullshit. But it wasn’t. He believed it. He was happy in himself and all he wanted to do was see that happiness in others.

‘See, you say that you’re punching above your weight.’ The barmaid places a glass down on the dark wood of the bar. I feel myself getting swept up in their words, caught in the maelstrom of good feeling that emanates from this conversation with two strangers. How is it that in an hour of conversation with people I have just met, they seem to understand, to connect? How can a stranger see me better than my family?

That’s when it hits me. They see the person I am. They have no preconceptions. They haven’t seen me running around in a nappy. They haven’t seen me falling asleep in my spaghetti bolognese. All they can see is the me I am. There is no persona to project. There is just a man, sitting at a bar in a hotel while on work business, conversing with strangers. These strangers see me. I have had no time to lie. I have had no time to create an image. They just see me, another human being schlepping his way through life. The man, another traveller, is older than me. He speaks from experience, but not in the condescending way of the old. It is all from the heart, things that he believes from his very soul. All he wants is to help people.

The barmaid, as much as her job is to keep the drinks coming, joins in. We are the only people in the bar, except for the occasional person travelling to the restaurant below. We talk. We talk some more. There is no attraction between any of us, none of the usual reasons of conversation. Fate has rolled her dice and brought us all to this point.

The barmaid has been talking. I have caught glimpses of words through the shadow, ‘you’re not’ and ‘something to offer’. What could I possibly have to offer? She’s smarter, she’s more attractive, she’s more than likely going to earn more. What can I bring to this relationship?

‘Your personality! Clearly you have one.’ The other guest tells me, his hand connecting solidly with my shoulder blade. ‘We’ve all got something to give. The person that we are, not who we think we are.’

So, this is based on a genuine conversation that took place while I was away with work. An hour and a half flashed by, simply because I was enjoying the joy of conversation. Go, anyone who reads this blog. Go and talk to a stranger. They may have more insight than you know. 

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 68: A missing body part.

Oooo, I recognise these people!

‘Do you miss it, Rico?’ Grint had asked, kindly. ‘Your hand?’ He stepped slowly around the shaking figure in the chair, blood dripping slowly from the stump where his hand had been hours before. ‘Can you feel those phantom fingers twitching in pain? Do you remember that blade against your skin?’ He chuckled. ‘Sorry if I seem callous, Rico, but we had to have an example. Besides, you fared rather better than your compatriots. Though that does remind me…’ He pushed a button on his desk. ‘Carol, please push recruitment. I want candidates from Major General Stanley and Captain Corcoran by 1800.’ Wood panels in the wall drew back to reveal a large screen, harsh light blazing through the dim basement. ‘Tell me, Rico, what do you think of your colleagues now? Seeing as they botched my operation, I botched their execution.’

Rico just emitted a soft groan. He’d passed out four times. He wasn’t strong enough any more to form words. Grint was right though.

He could still feel the fingers on his left hand, twisting, flexing, clawing as the serrated blade had eaten easily through the skin. That’s when he’d passed out the first time. The blood had trickled between his fingers, spurting from the wound and pooling on the floor below and he’d screamed. Oh how he’d screamed.


‘As I told you before you left, I do not take failure lightly. What were the parameters?’

Nothing but a scream.

‘No, Rico, that’s not it. I told you to come back with Erica Weiss or at least that damned Abbott. I didn’t even stipulate that they had to be alive.’ Grint pinched Rico’s lips shut, stifling the screams to a whimper. He motioned with his other hand to the hulk holding the saw. The hulk stopped, wordlessly. Unsurprisingly, as Grint had his tongue cut out.

‘See, Rico. You have promise. You have in your heart the makings of a true believer.’ Grint smiled down at the sobbing figure below him in a parental fashion. ‘I can make you into better than you are. You already showed that when you brought me back the fools who ruined my mission and attempted to bring me Mr Elgar. Not either of the two I sent you to get,’ Grint sighed, a very deliberate action that flowed through his entire body. ‘But it’s a start. A solid effort. A passing grade, some might say.’

Rico wondered, hovering around the edges of the pain, where this was going. Grint was known for his grandiose speeches. That and his thirst for blood.

‘Unfortunately, Rico, you did fail me. And so, I find the need to make an example of you. Hulk, continue.’ The massive man began to saw again, Rico’s screams fighting their way around Grint’s elegant fingers. ‘Will you serve, Rico? The New Order is coming. I have a space at my left hand. Will you serve?’


‘Well, Rico. I think you’ve had some time to ponder now.’ Grint strode through the room, stopping before the broken figure in the chair. Rico, flexing those missing fingers, watching the tendons in his arm for motion and getting nothing, stared at the stump. The Hulk had put a bandage over the wound, nubs of bone barely visible protrusions through the thick white material.

Slender fingers gripped Rico’s chin, hard, dragging his eyes to meet Grint’s. ‘I need an answer, my friend. Will you serve? Serve me, be faithful and true and you will see the honours I can bestow. I can see the seeds of power growing behind your eyes. True power.’ Grint was putting on his propaganda voice. Rico had seen it before, but never experienced it first hand. He felt the words washing over him, distracting him from the pain of his stump. ‘I can give you a hand like none you’ve ever seen. A new left hand, for my new left hand.’ Grint smiled.

‘How do you fancy finding hunting down that bitch and bringing her back to me?’

The Idiot in Tin Foil



Day 67: Write a song

I actually feel like this one wasn’t working. In my head, this is a world in which music has been outlawed, thus driving it underground. Hence my creation of Reggie. I’ve also got it in my head that it’s not just music, but lots of creativity. I reckon this one does need some work, but I might be onto something. 

Walk Away

The Understated Strawberries

Walk away, never looking back

You’re in that situation, you don’t know how to act

He gives you that look, you act ashamed

You turn around, You walk away

He chases after you, apologises to you

He never wants to see you cry, again

He knows its too late

I guess we’re facing fate


You say ‘I’ve got nothing left to find

I know that, I’m gonna leave it all behind

I wanted to, Say goodbye just one last time

So now you know, I’m leaving you.’


Reggie looked up from the yellow legal pad in front of him. He pondered. Ponder was the only word to describe what he was doing, rolling words around his mouth, feeling them moulding around his teeth, flowing with the rhythm in his head. He could feel the song  shaping, moulding into the full-fledged hit that the future holds.

‘This all you got?’ He asked, quizzically. ‘Very… What’s the word… unfinished.’

‘No, I think the word you’re looking for is raw. It’s powerful. It’s from a time in my life that…’ Ali drew up short as Reggie gave him the look. Everyone in this business knew Reggie’s look. If you got the look, you’d made a mistake. Ali hoped it was just a minor one.

‘We’ll start with the band name. It’s not happening. It needs to be snappier, shorter and really hit the audience. Second… I need more. I need to know what’s happening with verse two. You got a middle eight? I need it.’ He smiled, teeth bright and white in his mouth. ‘But, I also need this song, boy. Come back with the rest. Tomorrow.’ He relaxed, lighting up a cigar. ‘This is going to be a hit with the masses…’

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 66: Write a survival guide for a character: Ten things to do in an emergency

Execute Order 66. (Palpatine laughter.)

What’s that? The living dead are trying to smash through your door? There’s a huge tidal wave about to crash into your house even though you live in one of the most landlocked places in the world? We’re all good, just follow my ten simple steps to survival.

Step One: Contact

As long as you haven’t been living under a rock, you’ll catch this catastrophe before it has a chance to destroy the phones. Call people! In my case, I’d call my family. Not because I love them but because they’re far better prepared to deal with most emergencies than I am. (Hey, do as I say, not as I do.) That’s right. Call whichever family member you feel would be most useful in a situation, maybe run them up against how close they are to produce a graph. If y is usefulness and x is a function of distance. Below the line is good, as they are either useful or close. Above the line is bad, as they are useless or too far away. Sorry Grandma Gday, while I have no doubt you’d be amazing at killing zombies, you’re in Australia. Tough shout.

Step 2: Compose yourself

What good is panic? Does it help anyone at all? If the answer to either of those questions was yes then you a) didn’t read the question, b) are probably already panicking and c) are already into step 2. Composing yourself, taking a moment to be calm about the situation, is the best thing to do.

Think, Shania Twain. So the living dead are at the door? That don’t impress me much. So there looks like there’s a giant wave coming up the streets? That don’t impress me much. Cool, calm and collected, the three Cs of survival.

Step 3: Immediate action

Barricades. Get to higher ground. Appropriate immediate action drills should be in place for whichever catastrophe is happening.

Zombies: Barricades.

Tidal waves: Higher ground.

Earthquakes: Doorframes.

You’re currently reading my survival guide, which means you’re alreaady planning. This is good. Don’t focus on one form of disaster. It doesn’t matter if your mum’s best mate’s brother’s sixth cousin once removed’s landlord’s daughter’s friend from work says that a zombie apocalypse is going to happen, nuclear war could break out before that. Be prepared for all eventualities and have immediate action drills in place.

Step 4: Response

Once the initial danger has passed, you can begin to survey the wreckage. Hopefully, your contacts have come through and you are not alone. If you are, now is the time to group. Safety is in numbers, but vigilance is key. See step 5 below.

Step 5: Plan

Do not just rush from where you are without a firm plan in place. This is the number one mistake made by all people in films and yet we continue to see the trope continued in everything. Loved ones are important, hence step 1. But now, in the immediate aftermath of whichever disaster has decided to take a swing at humanity/the earth, you have to concentrate on yourself. Because in this initial moment, you have one option. Focus on yourself, or die.

Step 6: Arm yourself

People will be desperate. People will be afraid. If it’s zombies, people will be members of the living dead who want to eat your brains or your flesh or even just straight up murderdeathkill you. You need to be prepared.

Now, hands up if you want a chainsaw? You’ve all seen in the films where there’s the person with the chainsaw and blood goes everywhere.

THIS IS A HORRIBLE PLAN! Is there a virus turning people into crazed psycho killers? Or a bacteria, a parasite or something else entirely that lives in the blood. If you’ve got a chainsaw, where does that blood go? That’s right, all over you. So the only time you want a chainsaw is if you’ve got a hazmat suit and a decontamination shower handy.

So who wants a gun? Hands in the air, raise them high? ALSO A HORRIBLE PLAN! You want to move silently through this post disaster world, so let’s get a gun. Noisy McNoisy, holla at ya boy. Advertising your location throughout our disaster-torn world is possibly not the best plan. At least until everything dies down. No, you want range and simplicity. If you can get a crossbow, probably not a bad shout. Otherwise, you want quick and sharp. But only if you’re prepared to use it. Otherwise, see step 7.

Step 7: Stay off the road!

No, seriously. Earthquakes are going to render the roads unusable. Fast acting plagues and nuclear weapons are going to fill the roads with crashes and vehicles that won’t start anymore. EMP, yey!

Even if it isn’t directly related, there’s going to be the issue of panic. People flocking in their droves to the cities to see loved ones and out of the city to escape the terror.

You need to travel? Get a bicycle. Absolutely the way forward. And nobody seems to think of it in films…

Step 8: Feed me Seymour.

That’s right. You’ve found family and friends, ruthlessly culling the suspicious ones, those with mysterious cuts or crazy shifts in personality. You’ve travelled, but where to? The answer is somewhere with food.

You need to get to somewhere you can hold up for a while. Post-disaster world is a marathon, not a sprint. You need stuff that’s going to last. Fresh is going to go out quickly, so make the most of lettuce. Tins are the way forward here people.

Step 9: Get some rest.

This is a serious one. You’ve had days of panic in this world. You’ve been running non-stop, full of adrenaline and probably very little sleep. It’s time for you to rest. Put on some classical music, roll out the futon and sleep.

Step 10: The Future

That’s right, the disaster has happened. Nothing is going to change that. Now you have to work with the people around you to create the future. You need to locate the other survivors. Rebuild a system, work on laws, farming. Create a defence, find the structures that are safe to live in. You need to move on. The old world is dead. Welcome to the Future.

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 65: A road trip with your sister

For Lindsey

‘Come on, get in! Road trip! Road trip!’ She’s chanting at me like a football fan and I’m the opposing team, grinning at me like a loon. I’m still shuffling around the house, trying to find all of the various electronic gizmos and gadgets. We were supposed to leave two hours ago but, being the people we are, have been distracted by:

  • Ignoring alarm clocks. That one was me. What can I say, I like sleep? She with her soldier’s demeanour was up at seven, pretending to be ready to go.
  • Breakfast. Food is important and breakfast, as they say, is the most important meal of the day.
  • I reached a really interesting part of my book.
  • She decided that she had the plague, due to some mysterious black spot on her hand. Turns out, it was a spot of black paint that she’d leaned on. ‘Blind Pew has come a calling. What are you guilty of?’ I call from my room, searching hurriedly for another pair of matching socks. I could have sworn that I had a pair of matching ones somewhere.
  • I reached another really interesting part of my book. I may have lied about the searching for socks.
  • We had to WebMD the black spot on her hand. ‘It might not be paint!’ If it doesn’t come off when she washes it, she’s got the plague or cancer.

We finally, after much deliberation, forcible removal of the book from my grasping fingers, a scourer to her hand but we are finally ready to go. Ish.

Three minutes down the road, we’ve turned around. ‘I forgot my toothbrush.’ She says, guiltily squeezing past our parents to get the offending article. She slinks back to the car, where I have just been fiddling with the radio. Radio 4 all the way!

‘No.’ She glares at me, an intense blue eyed stare. I never understood how genes have worked. I’m tall, dark-haired and handsome with green, brown, blue…. A variety of eye colours. Well, I’d say I’m handosme. . She’s short, blonde and… No idea how I’m finishing that sentence without offending somebody. But we’re very different in looks. Our demeanour however, couldn’t be more similar.

By which I mean that another five minutes have passed and we’re in a shouting match. ‘I’m driving, I get to choose the music!’

‘I have to sit here! Why can’t I choose?’ I figured she’d cave.

We’ve been driving in silence for the last twenty minutes. She didn’t cave. ‘You were supposed to take a left there.’ She tells me to shut up as she indicates left at the next set of traffic lights. Her blonde bob swishes from side to side as she checks her mirrors, blind spots, everything rigorously checked and rechecked. Of course I only catch this out the corner of my eye as I’m nose deep in a book.

‘Any good?’ She’s more into classics, I’m more sci-fi. ‘Shit, was I taking the M18?’

‘You might have been, I wouldn’t.’

‘Roger, roger.’ She says, mimicking the droid from star wars. Now the accents start. Russian (badly), Arabic (badly), Irish (surprisingly good from me)… A whole host of them in fact. ‘Why are we even going to Scarborough anyway?’

‘Because I’m a massive nerd and you’re the best sister ever.’

‘That’s right. You need to get a job though.’ She smiles, but with a hint of sadness and worry.

‘Fuck off.’

Roger Roger Droids wallpaper

Image source:

It has a name!!

The Idiot in Tin Foil


Day 64: Rewrite the Gettysbug Address for today’s audience.

For your information, I am apparently using the Bliss copy of the address.

Two score and three years ago, Edward Heath made the decision to bring us into a gathering of prosperity and security. He decided that we were safer, he told us that it will ‘prove of real and lasting benefit, not only to Britain and France, but to Europe as a whole.’ He saw the work of the European Community and thought I want to be part of that.

Now we are engaged in the process of leaving. This is not a war, this is not a conquest. There is no blood to lie forever in foreign fields because of this. We now face the greatest choice of our lives. We can tuck our tails between our legs and run to Canada, to France, to Australia. Or we can stay and fight. We can push for the future to be created for us. They told us they were voting for us, so now we can shape this country.

But, in a larger sense, we must still grieve. We must feel sad for this moment, if only to use that sadness to inspire us to make change happen. Individuals may not be able to do much, but such is the power of democracy that the overwhelming power of the collective can change things. Our country is a great river, diverted by this boulder of referendum, and now we find ourselves on a new course. We will take the reins. We will ensure that the ideals of our people, the youth, the free, will never be subjugated or pushed to the floor. We will stand.

The Idiot in Tin Foil



Day 63: Start a story with “This is what she wants most in the world.”

This is what she wants in the world. She looks down at the flowing white dress through the veil before her eyes. She smiles as she thinks about the proposal.

She was running late of course, but she’d never been on time. It had been a year ago, with him sitting patiently at their table, fingers tapping away as he imagined stink-eye from the waiters and all the horrible things that could have happened to her between the airport and the restaurant.

Then she’d walked in and he’d smiled. He’d always made her feel so special, in a safe way, like nothing could go wrong when she was there with him.

And she smiled right back. And said yes when he’d dropped to one knee. So traditional. She’d phoned her mum to talk about it and Mum had told her all about his visit to the house to ask for Dad’s blessing. My dad, with his Bargain Hunt and tartan slippers, being asked for his blessing. Of course he’d said yes.

A year had gone by so quickly. And deposited both of them here. He was waiting for her just through those double doors.

This is what she wants most in the world.

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 62: Being chased by a killer

I can feel them chasing me.

I’ve been running for days now. I thought I’d lost them back in the woods, but they’re still coming. They’re relentless, like fucking dogs.

I thought it was just one, but every time I’ve caught a glimpse they’ve seemed a little different. Then again, that might be my RAGING PANIC that’s doing the seeing.

I am taking what feels like a hundred breaths a minute, none of which are giving me any of the oxygen that I need. My heart beats as if it’s trying to escape, to break free from my ribcage and run, further, faster than I ever could. It is a cruel mimicry of the feeling when you see someone you love, the pulse, the breaths. I even have the sweats. But nothing remains but the terror.

Was that a twig snapping?

I’m going to kill whoever thought ‘Yeah, let’s go off the grid for the weekend. Let’s just up and go, live free like man’s supposed to.’ Apparently living and dying free are very similar things. I don’t even know where they came from. One minute we’re sat, casually around the fire, the next Spacey has a hole where his face used to be and there was an almighty bang.

No, bang doesn’t do the word justice. Funny how I’m focusing on that. Hope you’re happy Mrs Kipple, primary school English is coming in so handy now! It may be onomatopoeic, but it means nothing. You need a grander word, a larger word, something all consuming and horrible, drilling into your very core.

That was definitely the snap of a twig. I try to still my beating heart, will every cell, every atom of my body to be still, to stay hidden, to not move, to be safe. I can hear them snuffling.

Snuffling, good word. No, stop it. Concentrate. Just stay still. Stay safe.

I can practically hear the sound of the tear rolling down my cheek. My nostrils flare under the strain of not breathing. I’m fighting so hard.

Part of me is considering giving up. Just standing there waving like those dickheads in front of aeroplanes. ‘Here I am, come get me, it’s all good. I just want to die.’

Don’t be stupid. Just stay quiet. Stay safe.

I miss Spacey. He was an awful guy, so high on god knows what he sounded like Confucius reincarnate, but at least he was someone who wasn’t trying to MURDER ME.

I hate camping. I’m never doing it again. Assuming I live.

Pink ponies, happy sky. I’m sure I can manage that, just distract myself.

I think I can hear a siren in the distance. I can’t be that far from the rest of civilisation.

Wait, was that a twig snapping?

Oh god, I can hear them again. Their footalls, heavy but dancelike. They are contradiction incarnate.

I don’t want to-

A hand breaks through my shelter, grabbing me by the scruff of my neck. I am lifted bodily from the bed of leaves and begin to scream. I shit myself hours ago, fight or flight making em as light as possible, but that didn’t stop them going again.

‘Aw jeez, kid?’ I looked up. It wasn’t them. All I could see was a beard and teeth. A smile. ‘You’re alright kid. What happened?’

I couldn’t manage words. I just held tight to this man, a friendly face after… ‘Hwlog?’ I managed to force out between sobs.

‘If you’re the kid from the news, you’ve been missing about three days. If you’re not, then fuck knows. C’mon, I’ve got some cocoa in the truck.’

We stumbled to his truck, a beaten up, white pickup truck. It had rust stains all over the front, and a fading signage painted onto the side. ‘Hector’s Removals and Tow.’

He deposited me on the tailgate, and moved around to the drivers side door. Heavy footsteps, but dancelike. I rolled my aching body over and saw a shotgun lying next to me.

I started crying even before the axe slammed into my spine.

The Idiot In Tin Foil

Day 61:What’s the worst nightmare you remember?

This always got to me. For a while, it was just a dream. I was enjoying a train ride through a beautiful piece of countryside, rolling green fields, undulating hills, etcetera etcetera. It’s even a steam train. Honestly, it was like I was in the bloody Railway Children.

This is actually one of the most vivid dreams I’ve ever had. I can still hear the train’s whistle, taste the soot in the air. I can feel the wind on my face as I look out of the window, watching those green fields fly by. There are wooden benches in the carriages, with those slight cushions that are far too thin to actually make a difference into how numb your arse gets. And I can actually remember the feeling of my bum losing all feeling as I’m eating a ham and cheese sandwich. That’s right, there’s even a ham and cheese sandwich, cut into triangles. I was thoroughly enjoying the dream, then it happened.

The train, a huge black locomotive, started to pick up speed. You could feel a shift in the acceleration, a small feeling that you’ve been manipulated in some way. At first it’s a rush, as if that machine was trying for a record of some kind.

Then the malevolence invaded. An eerie grey pallor crosses over the whole affair, and the increase in speed becomes threatening. And it doesn’t stop. It just gets worse. The train is now going faster than is possible. The scene becomes a blur, a painter’s pallet when the only available paint is blue, grey and green.

Now I’m afraid. I look out the window, and can see a structure in the distance, a monstrous mouth of shadow encased in steel and glass. The station. But there’s no sign of slowing.

Imagine the river scene from Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. The original, with Gene Wilder. Not the Johnny Depp remake… I still haven’t seen that one. But anyway, you know it. The ominous feeling that bad things are going to happen, the swirling, the rhythm. In my dream, it was just a drumming of wheels on the track. Thudding. A drumbeat, marshalling the troops of my nightmare.

Suddenly, jarringly, my viewpoint changes. I’m no longer in the first person. I’m now floating above a lake, where there are three men fishing in a large boat. The lake is calm. The only sound is a soft cooing of the family of birds in the blackberry bush. The scene pans around and you see a monstrous building of steel and glass, with a huge round window.

Suddenly, the train erupts through the window, the hurtling mass of black metal thudding down onto the fishing boat. One of the men is struck immediately.

I flash to the point of impact, see the wheels still turning as they fall towards him in slow motion.

Now I’m back out, watching the other two men thrown high into the air before thudding heavily into the water. You know in an instant they’re gone.

I see through their eyes. Feel my body thrown through the air, air whistling past my ears as I see a watery death rushing towards me.

I’m left with a single picture. The classic image of the train, dangling from the station. I assume that’s where the entire dream came from, but I still don’t know.

And I still get scared by it.

The Idiot in Tin Foil