I hereby present the first exciting chapter of my autobiography.

 I was born in a humble village. Life was hard for my parents, Mammooo and Dad. We were strafed daily by enemy fighters. Dad would often rush out to unleash a stream of poorly aimed automatic weapons fire at them. Yet Dad was blind and only succeeded in gunning down local cats. Yet Dad was a simple fellow and he used to still joyfully set fire to them and then march round our cul-de-sac with their heads on sticks.

 When I was one I was told that I was “a man” now. This confused me. Yet it was soon revealed that this basically meant it was time for me to take over slapping Mammooo and calling her a “hysterical bitch”. It was hard at first, but soon I had no qualms about shoving her out of the house to sprint across the heavily-mined herb garden in pursuit of Red Cross packages.

 Yet this happy time was not to last. Mammooo and Dad were killed when one of the cats turned out to be armoured. In the end I had no choice but to make soup.

 And so I was forced to go and live with my Aunt, Auntmammoo. She was married to the local blacksmith. They were very kind to me. They looked after me and I was soon an apprentice. Sadly this was not to last as they stopped speaking to me as I denounced them as communists on my second birthday.

 The next few years were hard. I was fostered by a series of killer robots from the future. Yet they could never express the love I needed. Instead they would chase me around various metal-working facilities. It broke my little heart every time I had to crush them or melt them. They gave me a succession of teddy bears that tried to eat my face.

 By the time I was five I had matured. I was both abnormally tall for my size, and absurdly well-hung. I was now living on the moon. Due to the lack of oxygen I was forced to make-do with quickly cupping and inhaling my own gaseous emissions. Food was also hard to come by. I got round this by finding a way to eat my own poverty.

 Back on Earth I found that the world had taken over by angry accountants. It was soon revealed that they had found a way of writing-off the entire world as a particularly long lunch with Gary from Marketing. There was nothing the UN could do when presented with a receipt.

 Feral secretaries roamed everywhere, released now they were no longer needed. The development of a form of filing that used a scalextric track rendered all adult assistants redundant. Now the gigantic mega-domes echoed to the sound of violently competitive ten year olds. To escape this noise all the accountants took to living in special spheres, suspended on a complex lattice-work of rods.

 I joined the Resistance. We would make daring night-time raids. We braved hails of gunfire, losing many of our numbers, yet every so often we succeeded in withdrawing one of the rods. As we lay dying we would take solace in the pitiful screams of the shattered accountants below.

 Of course, by my seventh birthday we had finally overthrown them. Once their secretaries had been drawn away by the allure of poorly-animated pretend racing cars they no longer had interest in the limitations of such things. The accountants withered and died on their vines. We could barely walk through the street without stepping on one of their bloated, maggot-filled bodies.

 But during that year society had other problems. Cleanliness, while next to godliness, is nowhere near as much of a priority. Yes, as you recall the god Quazetskykettle manifested himself during the Ideal Home Exhibition at Alexandra Palace that year and proceeded to claim dominion over all he saw. The numerous blood sacrifices are why Barman have found that there are no seventeen year olds alive today.

 Of course, we turned to the accountants. If anyone knew how to take down an ancient bloodgod it would be them. Yet, too late, we realized our mistake. Several people attempted to write primitive computer programs to calculate their own tax deductions. Yet, after months of work, the only strategies these programs could come up with were to ricochet the god from paddle to paddle in the hope of making Russia miss and thus “make it their problem.”

  It was on my eighth birthday that I discovered that I possessed of amazing powers. Yet it was unfortunately too late to fight the god. I had been classed as “too pour” and sent to a workhouse. I was beaten five times a day and forced to stitch sacks. They made sure to tell me the sacks were for drowning kittens and puppies. I tried to sabotage the sacks but they soon caught on. They cut my rations from not giving me food to me giving them food. Thus I was forced to cultivate the left side of my face to grow corn. I would cry at night as I ploughed my cheek, only to be set upon by seagulls craving the seed I planted there. To make matters worse I had my newfound powers stolen from me by one of the bigger boys along with a small model car made from my own gangrenous leg.

  When I was nine I was told I was too poor even for the workhouse. I was now forced to pay the workhouse to refuse to accept me. In a desperate attempt to earn money I took to selling matches on a snowy pavement. Yet the competition was fierce as the boy with the pitch next to me was selling forty lighters for a pound. In desperation I tried a promotional offer to undercut him. Yet giving a 150% discount on my matches led to me being forced into terrible debt. I was allowed to pay this debt in matches. Yet I did not realize that every time I scraped together payment I was only making things worse.

 Aged ten I owed every single customer ten million pounds. Yet I struck lucky when a kindly Professor decided to take me in and make me “a proper lady”. The next few months were a lot of hard work. I struggled very hard to master correct diction, and to walk straight and tall. I learnt to sing, and how to stop talking like common scum.

 On my eleventh birthday I was told it was time for “my operation”. As I had more cancers than blood cells I was delighted by this. It was only later I learned that I was not going to be receiving the treatment I wanted.
 Instead I found a strange man in a cape and big hat attempting to slice off my dearest parts. I had to protest at length. Yet, finally, he was won over when I showed him I could sing and dance and do a backflip. Instead he only cut my face and violated me in an alleyway.  I lay there for a few weeks, slowly wasting away, until one of the rats decided to take pity on me and began breast-feeding me.

 I suckled on that tiny teet right up until my twelfth birthday. The gnarled husk of my ratmother finally told me my purpose that day. I was told that I must build a city along with my brother. I told her I had no brother. She then pointed to what I had previously thought to be one of my many tumours. I looked down and saw that it had both arms and legs. She made a silent rat noise and many other rats came and began gnawing at the base of the tumour. Finally it fell to the ground beside me and began scuttling like some kind of fleshcrab.
 I had to take a lot of care of my brother as he had no head and thus required regular injections of a strange purple liquid to continue to live and kill. Together we built what, today, is modern day London. Yet, on its completion, he turned on me and clubbed me to death with a bit of wood. It would not be the last time I must rise from the dead.

In Part Two: I learn the meaning of my birthmark and battle Hitler.