I read Ali’s post about her trip to Portsmouth central library the other day with glee – she was let out for a taste of fresh air, the chance to meet her fans, and an up-to-the-minute 1950s hair-do.  However, when I spotted her monster bodyguard behind her in the picture, my blood ran cold…

I know he’s in his human boy guise there, but I’ve seen him before.  He was at one of my events last year.  Take a look for yourself…

As you can tell, he was struggling to maintain his disguise at the time the picture was taken.  It must have been one of the first chances he’d had to slip into the skin suit that was once the real Alex Tilley.  In particular, he appears to be having some trouble controlling the facial expressions.

PLUS – if you mix up the letters in his fake human name, you get Yax Le Letit – the true name of the beast!  I’m afraid it looks as though the monsters have been stalking the eight of us for a very long time, preparing their diabolical plans of kidnap, torture and night-time cuddles.

Can we ever escape?

This morning I found these guys climbing up my leg:

The big one looks a bit surprised, doesn’t he? Not as surprised as I was, especially when I remembered that I’d actually seen something almost identical in a book once. I checked the monster archives, and there it was: FANTASTIC ILLUSTRATIONS OF GRANDVILLE, as published and sold by the wonderful Dover Bookshop. Yep, another book full of amazing, mad things that I’d always assumed were products of the artist’s fevered imagination, but that now, ladies and gentlemen, I have found to be stark, horrifying fact.

Meanwhile, in the outside world, a new species was discovered today. Sorry if this sounds like moaning, but I’ve got to ask: if we authors in here /have/ to have crepuscular creatures creeping up our extremities, why can’t they be charming characters like the Psychedelica Frogfish, eh?

From TBM Guest Blogger, Elizabeth Kay…

There was a lot of snow in Poland when I arrived to pursue my quest, which was to consult another monster about the best way of rescuing the authors trapped in the cave. In fact, it snowed every single day I was there. The monster I went to see lives at the foot of Wawel Castle, in Cracow, and is presumably a distant relative of the dragon that terrorised the countryside and ate a lot of maidens a few hundred years earlier.

That particular dragon was killed by a poor cobbler’s apprentice, who stuffed a sheepskin with sulphur, and left it on the banks of the River Vistula. The dragon devoured the bait and developed a raging thirst, as intended. He could only quench this thirst by drinking half the Vistula dry, which, understandably, inflated him so much that he eventually exploded. Blood and guts and scales and claws everywhere, and a lot of rejoicing by the local peasants. The cobbler’s apprentice then married the king’s daughter, as heroes of old tended to do. It’s unclear whether this was the main impetus for the deed, or prospect of lots of free dragon leather with which to make up-market shoes.

I’d heard that the current dragon still breathed fire – I’d found a photograph on the internet so that I knew what to look for. I made sure I wasn’t wearing anything sewn from sheepskin, which would have given the wrong impression. Actually, it could have been downright dangerous. But when I got to the foot of the castle I was in for a surprise. The dragon had decided it was just too cold, and had gone into hibernation. He was covered with snow. I shouted. I poked him. I shouted again. Nothing.

So yet another dead end. I did read a good book on the plane home, though. The Falconer’s Knot, by Mary Hoffman. It’s a mediaeval murder mystery, set in 14th century Italy, with lots of grisly murders. But I’m no nearer mounting a rescue attempt. There must be someone who can come up with a good plan…

There’s a light at the end of the tunnel! 

However, it really was a train.  Once the monsters had pushed me aside from the track (where I witnessed one of the beasts get hit by the locomotive and turned into instant slimy porridge) we emerged near the pristine lawns of Papplewick School in Ascot.  Evening was falling, and across the car park a pair of headlights flashed – it was all part of the organised handover.  The monsters made the trade with the school Librarian and the assembled Watersones staff (who have been secretly combating these monsters for years) and I was led to safety.

After being fed my first real meal since being imprisoned in the caves, I was ushered before a pack of eager pupils so I could perform for my freedom.  It was a terrific event and I was rewarded with an awesome wall of white noise as they joined in with the interactive quiz.  It brought a tear to my eye, although that could have been a crusty contact lens.

To please the monsters, I signed so many books my hand cramped (and I’m sure my hand also made an attempt to throttle me – are the monsters trying to possess us?).  I bid a fond farewell to the amazing kids, I tried to make a bid for freedom – but was thwarted by a pack (or is it a “gaggle” or a “murder”?) of monsters that had cunningly guarded all the exits.  Now I’m back down here, dreaming of fine dining and daylight – knowing that World Book Day and the madness of March is unleashed on all us authors…

Boy-shaped Monster 'operates' Ali

Oh – I thought I had it all planned. I had hardened my heart and decided. Even if the lives of seven top children’s authors were in the balance, and even if I was in stupid high heeled shoes and dressed up like a maiden aunt from the 1950s – I was going to LEG IT! I’d had enough of living on fungus and dandruff (Barry’s – not mine!) and the book signing visit to Portsmouth Central Library seemed like my best chance of saving myself.

But I should have known better. The monster who accompanied me disguised himself as 11-year-old Alex Tilley (a boy known quite well to me) and then, just as I was planning to fling the tin of SPAM aside and run for it (in spite of the lovely crowd of Frozen In Time, Shapeshifter and Monster Makers fans who had kindly assembled), he reached forward and began to ‘operate’ me like a puppeteer. His monster skewers sprang out from under his ink-stained fingernails, shot into my brain and made me smile nicely and behave properly.

Dagnabbit (as they say in the cartoons). Foiled again.

And so… here I am. Back in the caves again. Don’t judge me, guys. I bet you’ve thought about doing the same. On the upside, I am now halfway through Joe’s first Jimmy Coates book and at least I’m not 62% alien…

I also have a lot of Spam with me. Yum yum, boys. Get the tin opener… Oh. Oh dear. I’ve just spotted some alternative tins in the pile. They say SAM, not SPAM. And… oooh dear. ‘FULL OF MEATY AUTHORY GOODNESS’. Mr Enthoven..? Are you there? SAM…?!

I wonder if there is some kind of breeding programme in here?  I shudder at the thought.  I came across dozens of these giant nesting boxes. It can’t be, I thought, until this face suddenly popped out from one of them.

Trapped in a cave by monsters,
I’ve been stuck in here for yonksters,
I doubt I’ll ever taste fresh air again.

I’m feeling flippin’ famished,
Our food supplies have vanished,
These hunger pangs are driving me insane.

Andy’s arms are nice and white,
I might just have one bite,
To see if they’re as tasty as they look.

And if that stops my rumbling belly,
Well that will be just swelly,
Let’s see which of the others I can cook.

I’d eat Mark’s ears as snacks,
There’d be two in every pack,
And they’d come in cheese and onion or in plain.

Joe’s lungs might be too chewy,
And his spleen a little gooey,
I’d probably just feast upon his brain.

I could make a soup from Tommy,
Though it might be quite consommé-y,
I could thicken it with eyes and bits of heart.

Ali’s toes I’d eat in threes,
I’d just chuck them back like peas,
Though like beans I fear they might cause me to fart.

David’s fingers look delicious,
I’d serve them up in little dishes,
They’d crunch each time I bit one clean in two.

Poor Sam I’d just devour,
It’d take me several hours,
After that I’d come and start to chew on YOU!

Oh I hope they bring some food,
For it would be rather rude,
To eat my fellow captives up like pork.

But there’s no-one on the way,
With my dinner on a tray,
Oh well, that’s it, can someone pass the fork?

As a long-standing fan and advocate of Eoin Colfer’s Artemis Fowl series, I was excited to discover a copy of his newest standalone novel, Airman, on the monsters’ shelves.  So, finding myself a comfy pile of something brown and gooey to sit in, I settled down to read.

My first realisation was that Airman is written in a completely different style to the Fowl books or, indeed, any of Colfer’s other superb works (The Supernaturalist, Half-Moon Detective Agency, etc.)  It feels more ‘grown-up’ while not written in a way that would alienate any of his current fans.

The story starts by introducing us to the unusual birth and comfortable childhood of Conor Broekhart – a young lad living on the Saltee Islands who is fascinated by the prospect that one day men might fly.  It isn’t long, however, before Colfer turns our hero’s world – and our expectations – upside down with a pair of murders and a dastardly cover story.

Once the action starts, it doesn’t let up for a second (including a chilling scene in the dungeons where bad guy, Hugo Bonvilain, plays the most audacious double-bluff ever comitted to paper!)  The reader is quickly transported from the relative opulance and happiness on Great Saltee to the diamond mines of Little Saltee – a prison so dreadful it makes our monstrous accommodation seem like a seaside bed and breakfast.

I won’t give any more away as I want you to enjoy this book for the page turner it is.  Clever, heartfelt and inspiring – Airman is great reading at its best.

I was escorted out of the cave at dawn yesterday with a leather bag over my head. After several hours of disorientating movement, it was finally removed and I was horrified to see two things.

First, the leather bag was in fact the scrotal pouch of the monster escorting me. The smell is still burning my sinuses.

Second, I had been led to the lecture theatre of a school and there were hundreds of Year 7 and 8 students in front of me, waiting for me to say something. Possibly waiting for me to explain why I’d turned up holding the hand of a monster and wearing a giant leather scrotal pouch over my head.

It all turned out OK. (Except for the fact that I’m now back in the cave.)

Princethorpe College was most welcoming, and the students came up with some brilliant story ideas, including one that involved the main character being eaten by a zebra.

It struck me that a zebra is a good choice for a villain, and that perhaps in some contexts, a zebra is a monster. In fact, there are loads of animals that were probably thought of as monsters when they were first encountered.

Can you imagine if you’re the first human to see a rhino? Or an elephant?

So I’m now considering whether these monsters that surround us are in fact nothing more sinister than the rhinos and elephants of the future.

Some day, somewhere, someone will be wondering who the first people to see these beasts were. Well, it’s probably us. A bunch of humble, starved and stinking authors.

Such a privilege.

Joe’s post on ‘What is a monster?’ really got me thinking. Where are all the furry happy monsters? All the ones I’ve seen in here have been of the slimey, warty, seriously icky variety – no offence, monsters, but you are! Where are the happy, fluffy monsters that I loved so much as a youngster? I remember when REM found a bunch of them. What have REM got that we haven’t anyway … aside from musical instruments, good singing voices and a whole stack of money!