Fuse on the Moon

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"One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind". So said Neil Armstrong as he descended onto the lunar surface back in 1954. Or did he? There are many who dispute the assertion that the Apollo programme ever took place, and the questions remain: Why aren't these people given the proper medication, and for what reason do they sing on public transport? These issues aside, there are some who retain doubts as to the reality of space exploration. Let me put their minds at rest, at least until new tranquillisers are made available. I can attest to the actuality of the lunar missions - for I was there.

It was in December of 1965 that NASA first suggested I lead an expedition to the moon. I was pottering about at Fuse Manor, adorning the Christmas tree with tinsel and highly inflammable, cheap Japanese decorations, when the telephone rang. On the line was Commander 'Zinc' Jupiter, head of spaceships at Houston. I'd known Zinc since our days at Harvard together, when we both were involved in research into astrophysics and ran the same whelk stall. Zinc had been the one who first got me interested in astronomy, after selling me a telescope he'd bought from a Superman comic. It was a marvellous instrument. On a clear day, if you focused carefully and the air quality was good, you could see the fake cardboard galaxy he'd glued over the lens. Zinc wasted no time in getting to the point: "Wal? Could you lend me twenty dollars? In addition, do you want to be the first human on the moon?" My dreams had finally taken one step closer to fruition.

Training was hard. To simulate the lunar landscape, we'd hired a disused car park in Chicago. It was owned by Luigi 'The Owner Of The Disused Car Park' Giovetti, a small-time hoodlum and mobster. Luigi had an unnerving habit of looking at you through screwed-up eyes, and an even more bizarre tendency to look at you through his ears. However, as long as we ignored the mass graves, he waived the rent to the park. Having finally secured a plot of land, we arranged for truckloads of rocks to be brought in from a nearby quarry, in order to re-create the moonscape. We had to dig out some of Luigi's victims from the rubble, but he said that his mother ran a kebab shop, and we mustn't worry. By painting the rocks grey, covering the entire car park with black polythene and getting a local to play 'Also Sprach Zarathustra' on his accordion, we achieved a reasonable facsimile of the moon's surface. Luigi occasionally interrupted proceedings with his kebab van, but generally things ran smoothly.

After several months of hard, grinding work, we'd honed the operation to perfection. Apart from the wheels, the Apollo craft was ready to launch and was transported to Mission Control, Houston in one of Luigi's kebab vans. What a great day that was, when we finally positioned the moon lander on top of the giant Saturn Five rocket. The launch towers loomed into the night sky, their floodlights casting shadows over the crowds of reporters below. The liquid nitrogen vapour steamed out of the booster rockets, and, inside the nerve centre we'd nicknamed 'The Turnip Shed' - since it was, in fact, a turnip shed - the boffins and eggheads waited for countdown. "Commence initialisation of anti-positron quantum delocalisation", boomed a voice. "Who the hell's that?", boomed another - "get that idiot out of the building". Lights flashed. Computer banks lit up. Trousers were soiled, then the huge bulk lifted itself into the air...

In part two: Moonbase Alpha, and the green thing with tentacles.