Goth Girls' Detective Club

There are many scary things about childhood; almost everything else is bigger than you for a start, that’s very scary, and then you’ve got strangers, parked cars (according to Dave Prowse), maths, impending acne, and the fact that seemingly every other week you are taken to the doctor to be jabbed with needles to guard against an endless variety of terrible diseases that are apparently constantly trying to kill you. And, as if that wasn’t enough, sometimes, people, with absolutely no thought to future consequences to the innocent children who are, indeed, our future, make the illogical decision to insert the most terrifying characters and imagery into seemingly harmless pieces of co-called children’s entertainment. A prime example of this is Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’s The Child Catcher. I mean really, who thought this was a good idea? Eeep Like the unholy offspring of a spider and an undead funeral director, The Chid Catcher stalked onto our screens 43 years ago and has filled

No, not 1973 horror classic starring lovely Michael Gough and seventies love machine Robin Askwith, no, it’s all about me! Though Horror Hospital would have been better and more fun, sorry, for letting you down there. I’m off this afternoon to get my stupid foot injected with steroids. Yay! I’m getting myself through this horrific trauma by partially hoping that it is going to turn me into some manner of freaky footed superhero, probably one with one massive foot that is very good at kicking things but mainly spends the rest of the time running round in a small, tight circle. This is probably not going to happen. Stupid foot I’m fairly certain that my tolerance for pain is quite high. I've sat and been tattooed for five hours straight, for Perlman’s sake, not to mention the fact that I wandered round with this agonising foot fiasco for a good eight months saying ‘it’ll be fine’ through gritted teeth before I finally relented and sought medical attention. However, medica

‘When rural Ohio college professor Peter Mellor dies in an automobile accident during a zombie outbreak, he is reborn as a highly intelligent (yet somewhat amnesiac) member of the living dead. With society crumbling around him and violence escalating into daily life, Peter quickly learns that being a zombie isn’t all fun and brains. Humans—unsympathetic, generally, to his new proclivities—try to kill him at nearly every opportunity. His old friends are loath to associate with him. And he finds himself inconveniently addicted to the gooey stuff inside of people’s heads. As if all this weren’t bad enough, Peter soon learns that his automobile accident was no accident at all. Faced with the harrowing mystery of his death, Peter resolves to use his strange zombie “afterlife” to solve his own murder.’ Surprising as this may sound; I’ve never read a zombie book. There, I’ve said it; I’ve never read a zombie book. I do own a collection of zombie short stories, but I don’t think that c