Some people think Nob Mouse is not real.  To these people, I say: “Hahahahahaha!  You poor, deluded souls.”

I was talking to Nob about this just the other day, when I popped by Café Nob for one of my regular visits.  It’s a nice place, I’d recommend it to anyone.  Nob is a most courteous host and we enjoy one-another’s company very much.  He is, as one would expect, the inspiration for this strip and some of his anecdotes are the direct basis of what you read here.  He’s taller than he looks on paper, by the way.

On my last visit, we discussed our various adventures since our last meeting.  I told him about my adventures in studentdom, writing articles on whatever springs to mind at the time, and experimenting with new flavours of tea.  He, in turn, told me about his trip to see the Indescribable Beast of Dulton; who goes by the name of Steve Bradley Jr.

“How was he?” I asked.

“Indescribable,” said Nob.

I would turn that anecdote into a comic, for it was truly the most fascinating of stories, but unfortunately it would be too difficult to do justice in comic form.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Nob.

‘Oh?’ I asked.  ‘About what?’

‘About how globes are a silly idea for living on.’

He sipped his tea through a twirly straw, as was his usual choice.  I took mine straight from the mug but he said the straw added a certain hint of something one can’t quite put one’s finger on, to the taste.  I can’t say I noticed any different, although the straw did tend to sag a little from the heat after a while.

‘Do do on,’ I urged.

‘Well, the way I see it, you need to sit very still on top of a ball and you can’t sit on the bottom of a ball at all because then the ball is, effectively, sitting on you.  Anyone on the sides would just slide off, too.  Seems like an awful waste of space.’

‘You’re forgetting about gravity,’ I said.  ‘Gravity hold people on to a globe, so you can live anywhere and not fall off.’

He looked at me like I had said something fundamentally wrong.  ‘Live anywhere, you say?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘Even rivers?’

‘Well okay, not rivers.  Or the sea for that matter.’

He nodded sagely.  ‘Probably a bit too wet.’

I once asked Nob Mouse about currency.  I was interested in how Blobland managed to survive without a true currency of any sort.

‘What’s a currency?’ asked Nob.  ‘It sounds like some kind of raisin.’

‘You’re thinking about currants, aren’t you?’ I said.

‘Yes.  That’s right, isn’t it?  You give one-another currants in exchange for what you want, and you don’t get it until you show you’ve got the goods?  Hence ‘currant-see’.’

‘No, not quite.  The idea is there, but the material is different.’

‘I did wonder about that, yes,’ said Nob.  ‘I was going to ask you about how you kept the money fresh.’

‘You’d dry it, I suppose,’ said I.  I admit I was getting a little side tracked.  ‘What I was meaning to ask is whether you use anything like that here?’

Nob shook his head.  ‘Nah.  It’s too much effort.  Favours are better.  I give Zigg a pie because I know that if I need a lift anywhere, he’ll take me in his car.  I don’t need a currant to remind me of that.’

‘And that works?’

‘Yes.  Doesn’t it work for you?’ he asked.  He seemed surprised at first, but then realisation dawned.  ‘Oh, of course it won’t.  There are too many of you, aren’t there?  You’d all forget who owed what to whom.’

Sipping his tea, he smiled and looked self-assured.  ‘You probably need all those currants to keep track of everything.  I’d just use a piece of paper though.  Easier to write the names and things on.’

It had been a while since I had visited Café Nob but when I finally had the time to go back, I jumped at the chance.  Nob was there, of course, and he seemed pleased to see me.  I ordered my usual – a plate of home-fried chips and a big mug of tea – and soon we were chatting like old friends do.

‘So, what’s this obbsession with pies all about?’ I asked.

Nob seemed to have no idea what I was talking about, and said as much.

‘Every time I visit I see the same thing: your customers tucking in to pies.  It’s as if that’s all they eat.’

Nob shrugged.  To be honest, I was amazed he could achieve such a feat without arms, or shoulders.  Okay, perhaps it was not a shrug really but it gave the same impression.

‘They just like pies,’ he said.  ‘You eat a lot of chips.  Are you obsessed with them?’

Yes, I thought, but not in a must-have-chips sense.

‘Well,’ I said.  ‘No, not exactly.  I like chips but I can give them up any time I want.’

Nob nodded.  ‘We are the same.  We are not obsessed with pies, and sometimes we don’t eat them.’

‘Fair enough,’ I conceeded.

‘In fact,’ said Nob.  ‘Just last week, I had a bun.’

Nob Mouse came to visit me the other day.  This isn’t something that happens a lot, normally I go to visit him, but on occasion he likes to take a little time away from the quiet life at Blob City so he can experience the hustle and bustle of city life here with me.  He usually comes in disguise, of course.  This time the disguise was a big coat, a hat and a false mustache.  I hardly recognised him so it must have worked.

‘My, my,’ he said as he stomped his feet on the doormat.  ‘That’s very cold stuff you’ve got out there.  I don’t remember the ground being white last time I was here.  What happened?’

‘It’s called snow,’ I said.  ‘You’ve seen it before, surely?’

‘Snow?’ he asked, giving it a wary look.  ‘But it’s so cold.  It’s never that cold where I live.  Oh well.  Different cultures and traditions, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ I said.  ‘People expect it to be cold here.  Can I get you some tea.’

‘Please.’

He sat on the sofa while I made a pot of tea.

‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure?’ I asked.

‘Oh, it’s nothing important.  Zigg is having his car mended and I thought I’d come along for the ride.’

‘Is he in disguise too?’

Nob chuckled.  ‘No, no.  He had a better idea.’

‘Oh?’

He sipped his tea and chuckled to himself.  ‘It turns out we don’t need one.  He’s just telling people he’s going to a fancy dress party.’

It was with great sadness that I last visited my old friend Nob Mouse for while in the past I have leaped with joy through the portal under my stairs, keen to partake in his village of strangely saccarine-scented hills and valleys, this time I was unfortunate enough to need somewhere to hide – and fast – because I’d forgotten to pay the latest instalment on my hired buttocks and now the Drumley Green Gentlemens’ Club were after me.

You’ll have to excuse the length of that sentence. I am not one for editing, what with it being bedfellows with effort and the ever-dreaded workplace.  That is not to say I am a skiver by any means, dear fellow.  It’s just that when it comes to work, I prefer to do it outdoors, which is why I am as yet unopposed in my mastery of both the 100 metre free-form hairdressing and the rhythmic balloon blowing competition.

Some people scoff at that but it is usually because they forget that in order to win, one must inflate the balloon and perform a dance with sufficient skill, precision and timing that you can complete five sockets before touching down.  Get it wrong and you’ll have a field in the face; as Charlie Thunkscurton would attest were he still with us.  Sadly, he has gone to Spain for tax reasons and the post office keep returning my mail so it’s impossible to get in touch with him.

Anyway, where was I?  Oh yes.

I arrived at Café Nob on a fine summer’s morning, to discover my generous host was in the middle of building a new form of transport to a distant moon.  He had perfected a complex system of pulleys, levers and reticulated Orvol panniers (which I’ll tell you about another time.  They really are fascinating) that he insisted on calling the net-launch-a-me-do although I think it was too similar to the Johnston System to be fully deserving of this new name.

‘What’s all this about, me lad?’ I asked.

‘Oh it’s really quite simple,’ he assured me.  ‘I want to settle a long-standing argument over whether there is a fresh source of cheese on the seventh moon of Edametrius; which I’m sure you’ve heard all about.’

‘Ah, yes.  The Pungent Planet.  I know it well.  Did my Masters on it, you know.’

‘You did?  I had no idea they had established a collegiate system, never mind a full university!’

I explained that this was not what I meant and after a while, he began talking about his contraption once more.

‘Anyway,’ he said.  ‘I’ve been busy making this thing and now it seems ready, I’m going to test it.  Will you accompany me?’

‘How can I refuse?’ I asked.  ‘You are undoubtedly aware of my situation with the fellows from Drumley Green?’

Before he could answer, the aforementioned gentlemen arrived at the Café.  In the ensuing struggle (during which I was able to demonstrate my immense skills in the art of soundly kicking a man’s backside while tripping over my own feet), our assailants found themselves caught up in the workings of Nob’s machine and before we knew what had hit them, the hot air basket had launched the poor sods into the atmosphere!

My eyes were glued to the fading image of three terrified old men being propelled into space in what looked very much like a bathtub, two springs and a packet of cheap scouring brushes.  Nob did explain to me what those were for but I’m sorry to say I was not paying attention.

‘Was that supposed to happen?’ I asked him.

‘Oh yes,’ he assured me.  ‘Of course, if I had known they were going to leap in there after you set fire to that man’s shoes, I’d have given them the instructions to build a return flight.’

And so, dear readers, the moral of this story is to always plan ahead.