Mr Blobby, unshaven for three weeks, sits glowering on a park bench at dawn. On the end of a grubby string, Noel Edmonds looks glumly up at the joggers as they hurry past
Noel Edmonds, trembling as he fixes the last tiny spar to an intricate model galleon. As the door to his study creaks open and a jolly roar sounds from the hall, he doesn't even look round; just mouths the word 'no' and begins to weep.
Blobby and Edmonds, staring daggers at each other across a squalid bedsit. Realising it's 11pm & they've spent all evening arguing about which pub to go to, Edmonds throws a blanket over himself and extinguishes the flickering gas lantern. Blobby drinks pink custard in the dark.
Noel Edmonds awakes with a gasp of horror, chained to a mountainside under a blazing sky. Lumbering up the crag, his lungs making ghastly accordion sounds as he labours, comes Blobby, his daily punishment from Zeus.
Noel Edmonds inspects himself in a looking glass; despite his two centuries, his skin is flawless as a fresh-plucked peach. Nailed to a wall behind him, the shrivelled face of Blobby gazes furiously from the battered cover of an ancient VHS box.
Noel Edmonds glances anxiously around a gloomy study, assuring himself he is alone. Sweat streams from his brows; he can hear it again. A rhythmic, foamy boinging sound from beneath the floorboards, bearing jaunty witness to his sin.
Noel takes a deep breath and checks his pockets; the passport, the tickets, are still there. The flight leaves in an hour, and he will be free. He relaxes into the taxi's seat, then freezes as he catches sight of the driver's spinning green eyes in the rear view mirror.
Blobby staggers into the dim saloon, pockets heavy from the day's prospecting. Behind the bar, an immaculately dressed Edmonds smirks and uncaps a bottle of pink custard, ready to sink him back into the penury that keeps him trapped in this godawful frontier town.
Beneath the blazing suns of an alien sky, the arena thunders with inhuman cheers. Out on the bloodstained sand, Blobby and Edmonds lift their rusty maces and offer each other a bitter nod as they prepare to do battle again.
"I am returned" cries Noel, thrusting his chipped sword into the sky as he returns, weatherbeaten and scarred, to his hall. On the dais at its head, Blobby turns from feeding grapes to Edmonds' queen and offers him a long, silent sneer.
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The boson, eyes red from scurvy, pleads Edmonds to retire from the wheel, but the captain just scowls. Though they are 2000 miles from land & down to the last barrel of salt gunge, he won't turn back, eyes obsessively scanning the horizon for the pink hump that heralds revenge.
Edmonds guns the engine of the vast truck, eyes wild with the dream of escaping with its cargo of stolen gunge. Far behind him, riding ahead of a wall of dust, a globular silhouette stands atop a bladed war machine and hollers with merry rage.
"What the hell are you doing?" screams Idris Elba into his headset, as downtown Vancouver is obliterated by monsters. "I'm doing my best!" comes Edmonds' tinny voice in reply. Four miles out to sea, a rotund pink war mech flails uselessly and makes booming fart sounds.
Edmonds bristles with rage as Blobby reveals himself at the theatre's rear balcony: how does he pull off that illusion? Behind the stage curtain, a mound of sightless pink bodies lie as witnesses to the magician's terrible secret.
As the last crackles of lightning ground themselves, Noel dusts himself off and breathes in the spring air. The timeline is restored. Behind him, the towering stone visage of Blobby gazes down from the Lincoln Memorial, waiting for Edmonds to notice.
Noel crouches behind a broken wall, clutching his rifle as the bricks splinter under a hail of bullets. To continue the charge now would be madness, but Blobby, grinning mirthlessly beneath the brim of his officer's cap, simply waves his pistol at the enemy lines. A whistle blows
