Bravo.co.uk ran a competition in early 2007 to write an entry for their delightfully silly Adult Swim news blog. First prize was a trip to New York City, so I entered. I didn’t win, but many folk on the forum thought I should have (I think I should have as well).

Anyway, I won a box full of tat from the Bravo offices, and I’m sure you’ll agree that, in a way, a “Bendy Bully” Bullseye figure is better than a trip to the best city in the world.

I can’t link to the article, but I reproduce it over the page for your reading pleasure.

De-invent the Heelys

I wish to bring to the attention of probably nobody the problem of people wearing Heelys trainers – the ones with wheels in the heels. If anybody should be allowed to be wear them, it should be people who are the exact opposite of living children. So dead old people, I suppose.

The wheel-escents worry me. But then I suppose at least now when they knife you in your hot guts and steal your iPod they won’t hang around to laugh horridly into your gushing wounds. They’ll be off round the corner to the next victim, flinging the footage into an internet as they go.

Those over hobbit height may already have experienced youthlings zipping round the corners of aisles in Tesco before smashing their heads into their beloved scrotii / vaginii. Were it adults on wheels, of course, the result of a torso-to-torso aisle-clash would be either a good lot of proper fighting, or some spontaneous public sexing. But the nippers, their heads always seems to be in exact line with the adult genitaliums, which means just popping in for a paper and some gum can leave innocent shoppers in agonised convulsions amongst the baskets. And this is accidental carnage – imagine what it’ll be like when the rollerbrats get hip to the crime benefits of having wheels on their feet. It is about time The Daily Mail stood up to this menace on its big powerful legs of paper and outrage.

There is an element of jealousy of course. It’s not hard to spot envious grown-ups gazing longingly at freewheeling kiddies. And then being stunned and battered by vigilantes because their drooling mouths make them look a bit paedo. Is there not a part of all of us (in our brains, perhaps) that longs to see businessmen taking important calls on their Treoberries while coasting along the pavement in patent leather wheelie-motion? If each kick of new momentum could be vocalised, all the better: “Yeah, so we’re going to consolidate our assets in that area before – wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!! – tackling the Tokyo rationalisation project.”

It was only a matter of time before they went and created adult versions. But of course, it’s trainers rather than shoes that get the upgrade. The implications for binge-drink Britain boggle the mind stupid, Stupid. We’re going to have liquored-up, scarlet-faced boy heel-racers, forced outside their beloved discopubs by the smoking ban, racing in the streets before vomiting their 15 bottles of WKD into the unassuming faces of

passing librarians and nuns. Provincial wheelie-trainers are going to get customised, possibly with engines and ultraviolet lighting and sound systems (and guns?), until it reaches the point where they aren’t even trainers anymore, they’re cars for your feet. Feetomobiles.

Imagine it now, and tell me you don’t see some urban, Lynx-fragranced, boozecrime version of that scene in “Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em”, which had endearing numbskull Frank Spencer wildly out of control on rollerskates. Only in the noughties version Frank doesn’t finish by hilariously upending himself into a cot in a department store. Instead he crashes his sauce-riddled body through the window of a nail bar with his pants down, before bleeding and urinating in the lacquer and then stealing all the chemicals so can sell them to his local meth lab. And belching the footage into his crimeblog as he goes.