Noel Edmonds, waking in a dank maze. He stumbles down passages lined with brine-rusted rivets, groping in the half-light for a way out, but finding only rough iron. A shape emerges ahead; a battered steel toilet seat, bearing the numeral '1'. With trembling hands, he lifts it.
The scent of pink custard blasts Edmonds' face, hot & dense as a sick dog's breath. Blinking the fug away, he sees an image swim into focus: a victorian butcher, beaming behind a barrow of hams & turkeys. But the meat doesn't look right. It's pink & foamy, with broad yellow spots
Edmonds slams the lid shut, panting in shock. As a sickly pink light builds to his right, he turns his head, already cringing in expectation. Indeed, there they are: a row of 23 more toilet lids, each offering a feverish glimpse at an aspect of Blobby, his thrall & tormentor.
Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to steel himself, Noel grips the toilet lid marked '2' & lifts it with exaggerated care, as if trying not to wake an unseen presence. A cold wind licks his face from the beneath, carrying the scent of snowy pines. Noel opens his eyes.
A great shaggy elk, weak and hollow-ribbed, hauls itself through deep snow. Its face, somehow, is Noel Edmonds', furrowed with fear. In the treeline's shadows, rangy pink creatures pad on all fours, waiting for the beast to falter. Their tongues loll beneath spinning green eyes.
The vision bursts in shreds of white mist and Noel staggers, off balance as the corridor tilts. Somewhere far above the low ceiling, iron groans under pressure. Fighting off nausea, Noel staggers to the next toilet lid, with '3' daubed on it in pink gunge, and slaps it open.
A plush, firelit lounge. Noel Edmonds, face riven with profound exhaustion, leans forward in his chair to place the needle on a vinyl of 'Clair de Lune'. As the first notes ring out, we notice Blobby at the door, grinning, with a pink plastic saxophone. Edmonds weeps silently.
Shutting the lid briskly in disgust, Noel banishes the vision and wades on down the dingy passage, towards the next toilet. Steadying himself for the ordeal ahead, Edmonds lifts the grimy steel lid marked ‘4’, and peers stoically into the depths.
Teal aprons, mirrored steel & medical beeps. Noel squints in the glare of the theatre lights, huffing from the anaesthetist’s mask. Too late, he notices one of the surgeons is bigger & pinker than the rest, fumbling a scalpel in huge puffy hands. Noel tries to scream, but can’t.
Noel comes to his senses with a spasming bark, and glances around himself in a panic. How much time has passed? Where is he? Then he remembers the toilet seats. The next one along, number 5, is rumbling softly. Like a bouffant-sporting Sisyphus, he trudges towards his task.
A globular shape coalesces from the heat-shimmer over the arena floor. Blobby, his fist wrapped around a luger, with his mirthless grin. Noel looks down at his hands: they hold a child's toy net & a tinfoil trident. From the imperial box high above, Cheggers offers a thumbs down.
Noel drags himself from the floor with a miserable groan. The iron dungeon around him is rumbling now, pink lights throbbing as if signalling an alert. He must escape. But to do that, he must ram his head into 19 more haunted toilets. Growling, he lurches towards seat number 6.
Noel Edmonds, all smiles as he ushers Blobby into the gunge tank for old times' sake. But as the lock clunks shut, Noel turns to camera, face hard and imperious. The gunge pipe rumbles to life: as the petrol spews out, Blobby's chortles turn to screams. Noel strikes a match.
Face flushed with power, Noel powers out of the vision and sprints straight to toilet number 7. Teeth grinding, he grips the seat of the enchanted receptacle and rips it clear away. Mist blasts from below, and Noel gulps it in like smoke.
The last of the morning mist rises from no-man's land. Down the ragged line of the trench, thousands of Blobbies shiver in tin helmets, waiting for the signal. Smirking to nobody in particular, Noel blasts on a whistle, and the pink tide erupts. The guns open up immediately.
