Every Superhero Has A Flaw

Lying in the air ambulance I’m having a think. They took one look at The Pharoah as I’ve decided to call him, and agreed to his coming along despite the lack of room. He said he’d never been in a Whirly before; I think the crew just wanted some fun with him. I’m surprised he would trust such a modern contraption. People are increasingly risk averse these days and sometimes I can see why. I like to believe that only the lucky deserve to live. I say send your kids out to play all day, all night, let them climb trees, play football in the street, own flick-knives, experiment with fireworks and see how a car works. Only the luckiest will come back alive. If yours doesn’t, that’s bad luck; they’d have probably never made it through the decade anyway.

I only have three lives left. I think I can almost certainly count my latest escapade as a life lost. If cats have nine lives I think it’s safe to say that human beings have substantially less since we are not noted for our death defying agility. Take Eval Knieval, the closest any human ever came to becoming superhuman if you discount Christopher Reeve. Eval had a machine, and broke every bone in his body twice a year. I can’t imagine Spiderman would be in tremendous shape if he were to actually exist. You’re going to pull a hamstring occasionally aren’t you?

There is a theory that whatever hurts us makes us stronger. This is backed up in superhero tales and stories of folklore and legend. Take Hercules; was he a battling hero or just really unlucky to be mixed up in all that fighting? Superheroes don’t have it easy since their origins are usually either rough or painful. Was Catwoman a junkie hooker or a socialite, I can never remember? Of course in any tale of bravado, the hero has to reach their lowest point before they can rise again.

The first time I was almost unduly erased, I was too young to remember. On Christmas day I was a tot stolen from an unattended hospital cot by animal activists of all people. Frankly, given the choice I’d have plumped for a large lady in her late thirties with Munchausen’s By Proxy but to this day my kidnappers were never traced. A note was sent to the Times suggesting that as some sort of ridiculous retaliatory gesture, experiments would be performed on me as they were on animals. To everyone’s surprise, two weeks later I was returned in a blanketed Mother’s Pride bread basket to my parents apparently unharmed although I still have nightmares about men in white coats pouring anti-dandruff shampoo in my eyes.

The second time my life was in any sort of danger, I was helpless and in Denmark. Quite simply I’d stepped out into the road, an unthinking ten year old. I turned to face my nemesis; a gazillion ton juggernaut bearing down on my like a fast bowler. My feet had been invisibly nailgunned to the asphalt. I hope I’m never sat in that cab, looking down at the face of a child I’m about to make two feet wider thinking shall I just accelerate just to make it less painless? As it happened a long paternal arm reached out and grabbed me by the collar yanking me back onto the kerb. I felt he really hadn’t captured the severity of the incident when he said, “Watch what you’re doing will you?” and lit a cigarette.

The third time it was my big mouth that nearly got me dead. A day trip to London ended with me finding myself swept along in a large crowd of Chelsea football fans marching clan-like as they chanted “Chelsea, Chelsea,” with increasing volume and aggression down the King’s Road. I vaguely pondered the ridiculousness of the mantra and wondered how stupid they would sound shouting about Knightsbridge or Putney. Perhaps it was just the fact I was in London, an unusual event for me anyway but then my mind looped Chelsea, London, Knightsbridge, Stamford Bridge - (where Chelsea play), Chelsea, London, Knightsbridge, Stamford Bridge.

And then for no reason other than the fact that these things do, some words popped into my head. The words were childish, simplistic but I sang them loud in a gap between the “Chelsea,” chants. “Stamford Bridge is falling down, falling down…” To my surprise everyone started singing around me, and loudly. Had they not listened to the words? I’d inadvertently fooled a bunch of Chelsea football supporters into singing a song about their spiritual home being burned to the floor. As our group of approximately 100 Chelsea fans turned the corner onto Sloane Square we bumped smack into another group of a hundred Chelsea fans who had turned the corner at exactly the same time in the opposite direction. They apparently had been silent and lying in wait for the large group of Millwall fans who they’d heard in the distance singing about the death of Stamford Bridge. Since the colours of the two teams are the same, blue and white, a devastating pre-emptive strike was launched. My injuries were consistent with someone being kicked in the head by a horse.

If I was to suggest the best possible way to be run over, I’d suggest it would be drunk. Sober and the chances are you will end up like you’ve been covering paternity leave for Eval Knieval. As everyone knows, all car accidents are directed by John Woo in the slowest of motion.

“Noooooooooooooooooooo,” the bouncer makes a lazy attempt to sling a leg of pork across my chest to stop me running out into the road. Belatedly I hear his cry and stop in the middle of the narrow street. It is only then that I realize the danger I am in. His eyes move to the car and mine follow like tracer bullets to the driver of the car. The driver of the car is a face I recognize instantly. It’s Billy’s sister Jacky. I kissed Jacky once when I was thirteen. I think she thought that was us together, forever; I had other ideas as I’m prone to. Jacky had been upset, fat and powerful but somehow I avoided any sort of punishment beating. Her revenge is now upon me. Subconsciously I jump and her bumper flips my legs forcing the back of my head into a romantic kiss with her windshield which merely blushes. I spin backwards like a karate star on a wire and think this is gonna hurt real soon. I remembered that roads are actually really very hard surfaces indeed just as I come to rest – on my backside. Two policemen walking down the street are polite enough to ask me if I am alright. I stand up, dust myself off and reply that I am. They continue on their way. Still stood in the middle of the street, I look up and the Jacky I remember has seemingly gone forever. Fat and powerful has been replaced with slim and beautiful and she is striding model-like down the street towards me. I swear all she needs is a whip.

“You OK?” She seems quite cool.

“Yeah sorry, my fault totally, I just ran out.”

“Looks like we’ve been here before haven’t we?” Jacky punches me in the face, knocking me out flat onto the cold hard road.