Can you love when your heart doesn’t beat?



Today is Valentine’s Day, and I’m feeling romantic. But since my heart doesn’t beat (and thus can’t skip a beat), I find myself reflecting on the true nature of love.

I suppose it’s all of the heart-shaped paraphernalia and merchandise being pushed on the living by zombie-like supermarket workers; but this Valentine’s Day just doesn’t feel the same now that I’m the walking (and blogging) dead.

I took Brenda this weekend to see that new romantic comedy, Warm Bodies, and she walked out half way through because of the guts and gore. But I thought at least here’s Hollywood trying to make an effort, showing us undead as having feelings and emotions (unlike the mindless hoards in that upcoming WWZ film…I’m looking at your Brad Pitt!).  

This morning, after a long walk through the local graveyard (what little David now calls, “Daddy’s other bedroom”), I picked up some flowers that no one will miss and came home to make my beloved Brenda a cooked breakfast in bed.

She may be disgusted by me, sometimes physically ill at the mere sight of my flesh peeling off in the shower (I can recommend Mr. Muscle to unblock rotting skin from the drain…and no, I’m not being paid for that endorsement), and gets cross when I leave the loo seat up, but that’s just marriage.

We’re in it together, sickness and health, and I’m pretty sure “life or death” was part of the ceremony too.  

I still love you Brenda with all of my decomposing heart.



Spoiler Alert: Les Miserables is a zombie film

One of the (few) great things about being an unemployable zombie is that I get to go to the cinema during day when it’s a lot cheaper.

Zombies at the Barricade

Zombies at the Barricade

The other day I went to a matinee of the film version of Les Miserables.  I was very excited to see Russell Crowe sing (I always though Gladiator would’ve been better as a musical) and really looking forward to the fact that Marvel and DC Comics finally put Wolverine and the Catwoman in the same movie.

I was delighted when I walked into the theatre and everyone rushed out screaming, giving me my pick of the best seats.

Of course, like everyone in London, I’d seen the stage musical years ago in what both the doctors and John Cougar Mellencamp call my “living years,” and thoroughly enjoyed watching people a lot poorer than myself sing for their supper. The only thing that always stuck me as odd was that these miserable people were complaining about how bad life was in France, but they were doing it in Britain. It’d be like me going over to Paris to whine about David Cameron taking away my unemployment benefits because I’m “deceased.”  It’s not only barking up the wrong tree, but it’s a bit impolite to bother people with your country’s dirty laundry.  But, that’s the French I suppose.

The film version was set in France, which made much more sense, and I marveled at how everyone in 19th century France could sing so well.

I missed most of the film, however, because the instructions at the beginning clearly told me to “look down” and to not “look them in the eye.”  After I got such a bad crick in my neck from looking down for three hours, I finally snapped my head into place and looked back to the screen for the final scenes.

It struck me that Les Miserables is essentially a zombie tale.  The old Jean Valjean dies at the end and then comes back to life. In the last scene of the film, he joins the resurrected student revolutionaries, and the Catwoman, on the barricade that brings about the French Revolution.  It was wonderful to see so much flag-waving liberté, égalité, and fraternité among the undead.

In conclusion, it was refreshing to see a zombie film where the undead were the champions of democracy, and not the just undoing of society.

I’m sure there’ll be enough of the latter in World War Z.

My After-Life On Film

So it’s begun.  The film of my afterlife is now online, for the world to see.  I suppose I should share it with you here before you see it someplace else:



Graveyards, not just for free flowers

Autumn is a lovely time of year.  The weather has turned brisk and the trees are turning.  I know a lot of people prefer Spring, when young men’s minds turn to….what is it, shagging I think, or football, or both, anyway, I prefer Autumn.

Some mornings, I like to walk back through the graveyard (yes, that one) after dropping little David off at nursery (where the staff are terrified, but the lil’ ones have really taken to me).

First of all, there’s such a great selection of flowers to choose from, and Brenna really likes a bouquet in the sitting room to sniff when she comes back from a long day selling loos.

And second, and this is important, I like to keep tabs on the graves.  The others are coming, it’s just a matter of time, and despite all of the flippant jokes about zombie preparedness and this and that, let me be the first to tell you that the world is not at all prepared for a zombie uprising.  Just imagine how angry your walking dead parents or grandparents are going to be when they realise you’ve sold their house.  Do you want them moving back in with you?  Think about it people.

And now third, at this time of year, the leaves are turning and the colours are lovely.  A restful stroll through the non-zombie-uprising graveyard is simply a great start to the day and a little reminder of all that’s beautiful in this world.

And the flowers are free.   (They’re six quid at the Tesco, I mean, do the maths).

Absence makes the heart grow fonder (even when your heart doesn’t beat)

Last night was the first time Brenna and I were apart since the day we know refer to as “surprise day,” and it really made me miss her.

It’s not that a night off from the reminders of changing my bandages every hour (I mean, really, what’s the point, if the guts are going to spill out, they’re going to spill out), but it’s the little things like her muttering about the Kitchen & Bath store, enjoying David’s newest words together, or like the other day, she returned from the charity shop with one of my favourite jumpers (I can’t believe it didn’t sell!) just in time for Autumn.

David missed her too.  He woke up with night terrors, shouting “zombie zombie!”, which for me was confusing because he’s switched from calling me “dadda” to zombie (it’s a good sign of verbal development when a young one can work on the “z” sound!) and so in the middle of the night, I didn’t know if he was calling for me, was dreaming about zombies, or if the zombie uprising had actually started and the undead were clawing at his window.

I checked in on him and he wasn’t that fussed to see me, there were no corpses at the window (always a good day!) and so I figured he lad a little night terror, which made me sad.

Even sadder, however, was when I brought him into “our” bed (I say our because I’m still sleeping in the guest room until Brenna can get used to the scent of my decomposing flesh — Old Spice is not enough) and gave me a cuddle.  Cheeky of me, I know, to decamp to the good bed when she’s away, but I figure she’s off having fun at the Kitchen & Bath convention, and since she never reads these posts anyway, a quick load of laundry will erase all traces of my bed theft.  Anyway, little David kept asking for mama, mama, mama.

So, we cuddled together, both missing Brenna.  Hopefully tonight when she gets home she’ll let me get closer than the “one pillow” rule typically allows so I can give her a hug.

Sticks and Stones….and Stereotypes

I remember a playground saying from my youth, “sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”  Kids are really stupid, aren’t they?

Sticks and stones in small amounts, and at low velocity, really don’t hurt that much.  Take it from me, I often get pelted with a lot worst just walking down the street, taking out the rubbish, or even collecting David from nursery (“oh my God!  the ravenous zombie’s stolen a baby!” and then people hurl both sticks and stones at me, but I keep on walking because if I don’t get David home for dinner, he becomes the ravenous one).  In large quantities, however, yes, I admit that both sticks, and especially stones hurt.

But words, they hurt even more.  And not just words, images.  And put the two together, and call it media, and that’s like a stake to a fictional vampire’s heart.

So, you can imagine I’m feeling pretty hurt this week.

First, that US “drama” show, THE WALKING DEAD, is back for another season.  It’s a gore fest of zombie bashing and zombie hating.

Are we the last, acceptable minority to bash?  Could you imagine a show celebrating the killing  of people that stutter (like that King who gave the Speech?, he wouldn’t have stood a chance)?

And now, to add insult to hurt, even FedEx has jumped on the anti-zombie bandwagon with their latest commercial.

Words hurt.  And if it’s okay to preach hate towards the undead, then what chance does any minority stand?  Why do people need an outlet for hate?

If people are so consumed with the concept of a zombie apocalypse, perhaps they should be less concerned with flesh-eating zombie maniacs, and more worried about the kind of television we’d make once zombies take over.  When the living are the minority, they may find out that words hurt just as much as sticks, stones, and cannibalistic zombies.

I feel less alone.

One of the worst things about the only walking corpse in the neighbourhood is, well there are a lot pretty bad things, but I’m in a good mood today, so I’m not going to be negative and list them, but one of the things that stands out is, well, loneliness.

It’s just me.  Walking around, my arm half falling off, scaring children and puppies.

You can imagine my delight when I discovered the good people at, a group that appears to be dedicated to speaking out for the rights of the undead and making fancy t-shirts.

I hope you’ll drop in on them and lend them your support.