The Valley of the Walking Dead

In which The Author really can’t see the point

Of the many and varied science fiction/fantasy/horror sub-genres which have grown up over the past fifty years or so, only one leaves me completely cold. Before I come to that one, I’ll get the obvious contenders out of the way first.

If it’s done with intelligence and wit, a reworking of the age-old alien encounter/invasion plot can be a worthwhile diversion from normal life.

I’m perfectly comfortable with the Mad Max-style scenario of every heavily armed man (or woman) for themselves. In fact, my recent proofreading assignment – Gavin G. Smith’s latest novel, coming to a bookshop near you early next year – includes just such a storyline. It’s executed with flair and humour, and makes a nice change from the relentless shoot-’em-ups of much of the sub-genre.

I enjoy having my mind stretched by bizarre time travel adventures, such as the ones Steven Moffat – at his witty and imaginative best – writes for Doctor Who.

The recent crop of superhero movies (with a couple of exceptions) have done a decent job of reviving the characters for a new tech-savvy generation. We’d all like to believe that the guy or girl next door has amazing powers, other than the incredible ability to start a DIY project at 8.30 on a Sunday morning and continue until the sun goes down. (But I digress …)

The war of humanity against the machines has been done to death (no pun intended) over the last nine decades, often with mixed results, but the basic idea stands the test of time. When it’s treated well, as in the original Terminator and Matrix films, there’s nothing better in the cinema.

Even vampires and werewolves, if they’re executed with style (as in the BBC’s original Being Human series), are interesting and tragically flawed characters. Who can’t help feeling sorry for Russell Tovey as George, doomed to change and unleash havoc every time there’s a full moon?

When it comes to heroic fantasy, I still hold to my opinion that nobody – but nobody – will ever hold a candle to J. R. R. Tolkien. All the other massive sagas of fantasy realms are just the book world’s equivalent of tribute bands – decent enough efforts, but nowhere near as good as the real thing. (Incidentally, the Wizards of Middle Earth didn’t become redundant when Sauron was defeated. They just experienced staff cutbacks.)

There have been other clever ideas, too, that promised more than they actually delivered. The brilliant FlashForward, based on an ingenious plot device, was cancelled after one series. That decision raised more questions than it answered – mainly about the wisdom of the studio executives.

The one aspect of the unreal world that I can’t come to terms with is the idea of the zombie apocalypse.

I simply haven’t been able to cotton on to the idea of the dead rising from their graves to feast on the rest of us. George A. Romero’s movies may be regarded as classics of the schlock horror genre these days, but they (and all the variations on the theme) have failed to make any impact on me.

I know The Walking Dead is cult viewing among many of my friends. It’s never appealed to me in the slightest. In Waterstones we used to sell lots of copies of a guide to the zombie apocalypse, a tie-in to something called World War Z. That was another frequent flyer, now I come to think of it; it often used to turn up among the books on World War 2, or in the Reference section, or – worst of all – in the Popular Science section. (Yes, boys and girls, there really were people working in a bookshop who actually believed that the dead would one day walk the Earth.)

With Hallowe’en on the horizon (unless you’re reading this in New Zealand, of course, where it’s already under way), I thought it was a good time to declare my utter scepticism in the face of the doomsayers. In my opinion, the only decent voodoo storyline in a film is in Live and Let Die, where the whole thing is faked anyway. I simply can’t take the idea seriously. I absolutely refuse to read any book featuring zombies, watch a film about zombies, or take an interest in any TV show involving zombies.

And you won’t change my mind on this. I don’t care about the enormous critical acclaim heaped on The Walking Dead. I will never waste a minute of my life on such trash.

After all, why should I bother? If I wanted to see a steady parade of shuffling, moaning, toothless, decaying, barely conscious individuals threatening the peace of the local community, I could just sit in Commercial Street in Aberdare on a Friday afternoon and watch the smackheads going into Boots for their methadone fixes.

A few years ago I started writing a short story called ‘The Valley of the Walking Dead’, which I was going to publish online. I abandoned work on it after a couple of weeks, when truth started to become stranger than fiction.

With all this out of my system, I think it’s timely to mention something I saw on Facebook earlier today. (I hope it’s a spoof. You never can tell these days.) It purported to be a sign at the Pentagon, giving useful advice to follow in the event of a zombie attack.

A few years ago my friend Ian H. did a solo zombie walk through the new shopping centre in Cardiff. He and I were hoping to rope a few people in, and make a bit of a political statement. Unfortunately I couldn’t make it as I had a late lecture. I don’t know what happened to the others, but Ian did it by himself.

Ian’s plan was for us to walk through the new consumer heartland of the capital city. I suggested a neat twist for the climax of the walk. My idea was for us to start off at different points in town and converge on the precinct outside St David’s Centre, where we’d stare blankly at the huge TV screen which shows the BBC rolling news 24/7. I honestly don’t know how many people would have got the message, though.

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Knock, Knock

In which The Author has an answer to cold callers

For no apparent reason, a few of my Facebook friends have embarked on a discussion about evangelists tonight. Maybe the Jehovah’s Witnesses are on the prowl in Aberdare. I’m safe, as I’ve been in the pub since midday. Unlike the Sally Army, the Jovies will never cross the threshold of a pub in case they get sucked into the morass of vice and sin.

Having said that, I know a number of ex-Witnesses who have descended deep into the depths of beer, drugs, sex, music, and other unsavoury pursuits. I met most of them in the Carpenters Arms in Aberdare, which was not a place you’d expect to find your average God botherer.

As I told you in Meet the Parents, my own relationship with organised religion has been sketchy at best since I was in primary school. Go back a generation and things changed radically. Dad, Uncle Pat, Auntie Josie and Cousin Denis were stalwarts of St Joseph’s RC Church in Aberdare. Mother was raised in the Pentecostal chapel in Hirwaun. I came out of this bizarre melting pot as an atheist at best.

But Dad never broke free of the indoctrination he was subjected to as a youngster. I was privileged to witness his final assault on the God-botherers. Very late in his life, Dad was in the kitchen, getting ready to plate up his Sunday dinner. Through the kitchen window he spotted some Jovies doing the rounds of our little estate in Llwydcoed. He probably wouldn’t have mentioned it, but they used to come around every single week. Dad lived in a first floor flat, so it wasn’t convenient for him to plod downstairs to every random caller. The same was true for most people who lived in Penyard. At least they could opt out of junk mail. Following Dad’s tip-off, I virtually counted down the seconds until the God-botherers knocked on the door.

Dad charged downstairs and thrust open the front door. In front of him were two teenagers, a boy and a girl, each immaculately dressed and holding a handful of tracts.

‘Hello,’ said the boy, ‘We’d like to talk to you about the Bible.’

‘Really?’ said Dad. ‘Let’s talk about my favourite piece of scripture, shall we? Matthew, Chapter four, verse four.’

Without a hiccup, the young man said, ‘Man shall not live by bread alone—’

‘That’s the one,’ Dad said sharply. ‘Now, I’m just about to take a leg of lamb out of the oven – so fuck off!’