April 3, 2007

My friend - previously known in these parts as TLT, but let's leave that alone - has a four-year-old son, F.

On Sunday, after we'd watched the Egg Run (which TLT and F missed because she was too busy deciding what to dress him and herself in) we sat and had a few beers in the sunshine.

My tipple was Black Soup. F's was Ribena Apple.

Somehow, and from somewhere, our conversation turned to the topic of superheroes.

Now, regular readers will know that I have something of an obsession with all things Superman.

I mean, you don't become a four-eyed weakling reporter without wanting to don tights, fly dead fast and screw the living daylights out of Lois Lane (New Adventures Of Superman, if you don't mind).

But on hearing that F was going to be Superman when he grows up, leaving me with the admittedly better toyed but still unflying Batman role, I started to get a bit pissed off.

So I lied to him.

"Superman," I declared, "is not all good, actually."

"Weally?" said F.

"Weally. He's only ever good when he's making a film."

[Higher pitch]: "Weally?"

"Weally. Normally, he's a bad boy. Gets drunk, sleeps with loose women, doesn't wash his tights, never rescues anyone. Kills women, mugs pensioners, dips his fingers in the company till, likes sprouts and, more than likely, votes Conservative."

"WEALLY?"

"Weally. No, honestly - I mean it: weally. He's badder than bad."

"Shudstin?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ashk you shomething?"

"Yesh?"

"Are you lying?"

"Um..."

"Becaush my mum said you're very clever but shometimesh you're just being shilly."

"Did she now? The lovely, lovely thing! I must remember not to buy her dinner again today!"

"I want another Ribena now..."

In other news, my colleague has found a Superman suit for F on eBay this afternoon.

In further other news, I think I'll be going to Superhero Hell.

Yep - I'll be sharing eternity with Condorman.