Remembrance From A Quiet Afternoon in the Pub. - Transcribed from A5 paper written shakily on a bar. 21:21 02/04/09

As a child, I grew up on a steady diet of fantasy. From The Hobbit and The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe being read to me as a young boy, I was engrossed. Here was a window out of a mundane, repetitive childhood.

A magical, bright land of quests, nobility, monsters, and best of all - it was believable. I recast the protagonist as myself, and it became a common sight in my infant school playground to see me hunched over a battered copy of The Lord of The Rings, seemingly unaware of the sunshine, or the other children, playing happily at their own game, their own escape routes.

I devoured any piece of fiction I could. Soon, I began reading horror, sneaking through my father's collection of that which previously were too daunting to consider. I read cover to cover the collected works of Stephen King, Ray Bradbury, Edgar Allen Poe and H.P. Lovecraft.

I was thrust into a world of alien landscapes, shapeless, grinning malevolent entities, possessed houses, and good men corrupted by the atrocities they had witnessed. I started to lie awake by a small lamp until early in the morning, then sleep in discomfort with over-used eyes, a creak in the neck from the angle of my bedside reading, and terrifying dreams in which I faced down countless terrors, dreamt themselves by a fevered imagination.

I began to both love and hate this early period of my life, my night-terrors now seeping over into my days. I shut myself even more away, turning my bedroom into a makeshift study. I noticed my father's occult texts then, and began to style myself after Aliester Crowley, as countless other people have before, and since.

Teachers became worried. I stood in direct contrast to the other children, who talked about Superman, or their favourite footballer. I talked about invocations in Egypt, of hideously powerful demons kicking sand over protective circles, and destroying men's minds. Parents were called in, and I started to rebel at this creative restriction.

For my next project I was assigned, I deliberately tried to offend. Entitled Infamous Murderers, I wrote in lurid detail about the crimes of such twisted personalities as Charles Manson, The Moors Murderers, Peter Kurten (The Vampire of Dusseldorf), and The Son of Sam.

My teacher, despite despising the subject choice was impressed by my analytical skill. I had drawn comparisons between motive and parental abuse. Unknown to me at the time, my suppositions were keeping in line with accepted criminal psychology at the time.

Grudgingly accepting to change the title to Infamous People, I had my photo taken for the front cover, and my project was forced to be hung alongside such masterworks as My Weekend, and Things I Like.

I still possess this early writing, and stare at my face on the cover whenever I wonder how I ended up this way.