Awhile the fiddledod fugswuddled,

And the enterblatch egsbalated,

The frindled fanterswall festooned.

The thanderstot thundered,

And upon the ugsboll’s urgrent,

The goddleswatter gambled.

Amid the ensuing entroviss,

The rendorotter rumbled,

And the himmopato hurgled.

So the windiwyter whistled,

And the lollilotter lumbled,

But the zillizotterzamma was ulzulted.

I just can't stop thinking,

'Cause you're stuck inside my brain.

I think you're so lovley,

But do I really know you?

If you'd even notice me

We could have a proper chat.

First off, I have to say that I'm not a particularly hardcore fan of anything. But this is a list of some of my favorite stuff:

The Edge Chronicles, by Paul Stewart and Chris Riddell

Most of J.R.R. Tolkien's work

xkcd and other stuff by Randall Munroe

Historical novels by G.A. Henty

Star Wars

Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy (the books)

Tintin (the comic books particularly)

And some others that I like a lot, but don't exhibit any fan symptoms:

Old Tom and Jerry cartoons (a lot of the newer ones are trash)

C.S. Lewis' works

Gerald Durrell's autobiographies

Septimus Heap books

Any books I've read by Geoffrey Archer or Jeffrey Archer

Bjorn woke up with a throbbing head-ache. The blurry figure that kept poking him seemed to be saying something about the cow. Probably that it needed milking. Which meant it was somewhere about the sixth hour of the morning. Heck, he’d only stumbled back to his hut a few hours after midnight.

He closed his eyes again. He was back in the longhouse, the fires roaring, and his drinking horn full of spiced mead. He took a deep swig and proceeded to tell the man seated next to him a dirty joke about the chieftain’s daughter, evoking raucous laughter all around. Spirits were high, the chief and his warriors had just returned from their latest raid on the coastlines further south. The spoils had been rich and bountiful. He’d returned with more gold, silver, and fine garments than most men could dream of, as well as enough costly gems and jewellery to keep most of the womenfolk happy. But the best part of the spoils was the food: smoked hams, fine European wines, and barrels of salted cabbage, among others. Bjorn wasn’t so keen on the cabbage, the chief could keep that, but he wasn’t going to miss his share of the other delicacies. Somehow, though, it wasn’t the fine food that Bjorn enjoyed most, but the traditional Viking feast that came after. Juicy, spit-roast boars and partridge, cooked over the open flame, and as much mulled, spicy mead as a man could possibly drink. A little tipsy after so much fine drink, Bjorn had grabbed a whole leg of boar and begun to devour it ravenously.

Here his memory slipped, what had happened next? He couldn’t remember. The next thing he recalled was a scene of drunken chaos. Even the chief had had too much to drink and lost all sense of reality. The womenfolk had long since left the longhouse, the men became dangerous when they got like this. Bjorn and a couple of his comrades that had been seated next to him had got up on the long table in the middle of the hut and were dancing a drunken jig, while loudly singing a song with little or no regard for their neighbours. Numerous similar scenes were in progress along the length of the hut. There were puddles of spilt mead and piles of carelessly discarded meat scraps everywhere. The village dogs were having a feast of their own under the tables, and every once in a while there would be a painful shout as a drunken reveller stepped on a tail and got bitten for his pains. Eventually, the party broke up, the men drifting back to their family huts in twos and threes. By Thor and Odin, what a night!

And now for the cow. “The cow? What was the point in a cow anyway?” he wondered as he drifted off again, “Cheese would be so much nicer if it were made with mead….”

Butcher's knives, builder's knives, clasp knives, pocketknives, even a few machetes and blunt table knives. The room bristled with knives. They weren’t supposed to have knives, but they did. Lifted, pinched, and pilfered from wherever they could lay hands on them. The tall kid in the corner was haranguing a small group of devoted followers, while the rest milled about uneasily, waiting to see what would happen. Whispered rumours moved to and fro, leaping from huddle to huddle. Today, something was different. Maybe the bossy kid was going to let them do something. They hoped so. They were sick of pretending, sick of waiting. They wanted out, done, free. But the bossy kid and his gang were not to be messed with, if they said wait, you waited.

The huddle in the corner broke up and the kids spread out across the room, going from group to group whispering instructions. “Hide the knives.” “Pretend nothing’s different.” Silently, the knives disappeared. The room looked normal. Footsteps sounded in the hallway. The bossy kid sniggered and grinned. “Do it.” Quickly, the individual huddles merged into one big one facing the door. The bossy kid stayed right at the back, but no one noticed. From the other side, a key was thrust into the lock and turned. The door opened. A white-clothed nurse entered, carrying a large pot of oaty porridge. As she set it down in the middle of the room, the huddle closed behind her. There was a glint of metal and a rush. The scream came too late and the bossy kid laughed maniacally as he grabbed her keys and led the rush down the hallway to freedom.

I am a little mouse.

I live in a field

and eat up all

the farmer's

precious

grain.

Hungry eagle am I.

I prowl in the sky

searching the ground,

looking for

dinner,

mouse!

I am a little mouse.

I live in a barn.

The field is too

dangerous

for small

mice.

Hungry eagle am I.

I sit in a tree

waiting for that

silly mouse

to come

out.

I am a little mouse.

That eagle took my

brother and ate

him for tea.

But not

me!