Nostradamus Ate My Hamster

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This book is dedicated to a very good friend of mine Graham Theakston the now legendary director of Tripods. Let’s see you direct this one, sucker!

It also owes a debt of thanks to Mr Sean O’Reilly, without whose strange dreams it would never have been possible.

Thanks, Sean.

This book contains certain passages that some readers might find deeply disturbing. Due to the questionable sanity of the author and the convoluted nature of the plot, it is advised that it be read at a single sitting and then hidden away on a high shelf.

All along the Ealing Road the snow fell and within The Flying Swan a broad fire roared away in the hearth.

Neville the part-time barman whistled a pre-Celtic ditty as he draped the last tired length of tinsel about the lopsided Christmas tree. Climbing down from his chair, he rooted about in the battered biscuit tin which stood upon the bar counter. Herein lay the musty collection of once-decorations and the wingless fairy that had served The Swan well enough for some fifteen Christmas-times past. Neville considered that the jaded pixie still had plenty of life left in it, should The Swan’s Yuletide revellers be persuaded to keep their malicious mitts off her.

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