Mike Hike
Manager
4,000 years ago, when I was a small demon, I asked my mother what shall I be, and she said "RRRAAAAAAAGGHHH!!!!". I remember thinking "what sort of advice is that to live a life by?", but through the years I mulled it over and over, until I realised I had simply caught her just after she'd stubbed her toe on the nose of the Sphinx.
I could never check with her as sadly she died when Socrates collapsed on a jelly he'd just invented, which my mother had taken to inhabiting in order to keep cool. Incidentally, the secret to jelly making was lost for some centuries as a result of this accident, and people had to make do with marmalade and whimsy in its absence.
Outside of the office I like to enjoy a spot of cookery, squash, fulfilling my duties as a Principal Lord of Chaos, and playing the concertina - don't confuse this with the accordian in my company, or I will visit upon you a plague of chickens of astounding proportions - just like I did with that Colonel Sanders chap in 1930
Max Hooter
Marketing
With my gorgeous silky hair, stunningly smooth complexion and astounding nose, people often mistake me for a hallucination, scream, and bite their own chin off. For this reason, I carry bags of prosthetic chins around with me at all times, which handily double up as shoe trees as necessary.
It should have come as no surprise that after I scored the winning goal if the FA Cup (well, I say the FA cup final - it was in fact only the first round and I was only watching; well, I say watching - the match was happening in a nearby county), I was prime material for a modelling contract (well, I say contract - it was just a quick photo session; well, I say session - I was elbowed into a photo booth by a jealous youth). I was really quite pleased (well, I say quite pleased, in fact I was over the moon), not least because I could use this opportunity as a spring board for further sport modelling work (well, I say further sport modelling work; in fact, more in the line of a stuntman; well I say a stuntman - I've been pushed out of plane without a parachute). The only way is up! (well, I say up - I mean down)
Methuselah Hoskins
Lighting
I am a subscriber to the theory that time is a consequence of increasing entropy. I developed this theory when I realised that the reason my satnav kept getting me lost was because the satellites themselves, being in space, are in an environment where there is little entropy change, so the comms with them always suffered a time lag. I also noticed that cups of tea cool down more quickly when hot because in their high entropy state time passes more quickly, slowing down as they cool into a low entropy state.
Because of this, I have taken to not moving whenever possibly in order to extend my lifespan. I have also taken to putting my brain into a low entropy and therefore slow-time state by wearing an ice-pack on my head. The success of this gambit unfortunately means that my head is now 12 seconds behind the rest of my body, which takes advantage of this freedom by wandering off on its own, usually to public houses or adult cinemas. I've tried explaining this to my wife, but according to her solicitor she doesn't 100% believe me, even though she has a Physics GCSE.
Mocca-locca-docca-pocca Hill
Engineer
I have tried to live my life by the Proverbs, believing them to be a distillate of ancient wisdom. So when I heard the phrase "2 heads are better than 1", why, I went to get myself a new head. In fact, they came in 4-packs, so I ended up with 5 heads in total. One of them I sadly lost when I tried to follow the wisdom of:
"Kiss a shark if it looks snappy, and all day long you'll make it happy!"
In a way this was true - it looked very pleased with itself just after it bit my head off, so pleased in fact that it tried to bite off my other heads. Thankfully I got them all away safely, but it led me to develop a wise saying of my own:
"Keep a spare head in a drawer, or somewhere else that's safe, in case all your other heads get bitten off in a shark-kissing exercise"
Remember kids - proverb equals wisdom; if advice doesn't come in the form of a proverb, put it in a bin, put the bin on a Viking longboat, set fire to the boat, torpedo the bits that remain, blow up the planet this is occurring on.
I am composed entirely of parsnip; I am also left-handed - want to make something of it?
I hate the number 6; it is the most stupid number there is, weak and indecisive. It starts off OK with a definite point, before getting all confused and turning around in a circle before PAM!! - running into itself again.
I motion that we should replace it with number 5 - strong, sturdy, independent. We could do with more number 5's. In fact, let's make them all number 5's. Grrr.
Matthew Higgins
Accounts
Master Ham
Catering
How to boil an egg:
1 - Remove egg from packaging, except the shell. It is important to leave the shell intact during the cooking stage
2 - place in a pan of water
3 - bring to the boil
4 - boil until the egg achieves the desired consistency. I can't be sure how long this will take as I don't know you or your preferences. This stage also depends on your altitude, how hungry you may be, and whether your house is on fire.
It is important to note that this recipe contains eggs. Do not attempt it if you have a deep-rooted fear of eggs.
Maureen Hagfish
Administrator
From the sea I came, to the sea I shall return - in the meantime, I shall wear a succession of hats; yesterday it was a fez, tomorrow it may be a sombrero - who knows where the muse may take me.
Hats don't work well underwater, which is why you'll never see a trout in a trilby. This usually goes for all head accessories, though I did once see a shark wearing shades - the other fish assumed he was just trying to look cool, but it was in fact to cover his eyes being shut whilst he had a quick snooze, which is of course contrary to shark law.
Medusa Halfhat
Infestations Manager
"Hey Medusa, it must be great being bald, but being able to get away with it by having a cobra comb-over!", they all say. Or at least they would do, if they could get past "H . . ." before turning into stone. You may think it's great having the world's largest collection of statues, but quite frankly it's a bit tedious when they all have the same expression of mild surprise.
And to be honest, it's no great fun having snakes instead of hair either; when it comes to skin-sloughing time, even those with terminal dandruff look at me with expressions of pity and mutter "there but for the grace of God . . .", or at least they would do if they weren't too busy being petrified.
Once the snakes on the left hand side of my head got so cross with those on the right that they deployed their nuclear arsenal against them. Half of my head is now a radioactive wasteland. So think on next time you get stressed about your hair being fly-away, greasy or warped - at least you don't have to wear half a lead-lined concrete hat to prevent the meltdown of your local environment.
Major Hysteria
Tour Manager
Sane - that's me! Sanity squared and then some. A fully-adjusted resident of Sane Street, Sane Town, Sane Land. I give lectures in "How To Be Sane" at the University of Sanity and Not Being Bonkers. Or at least I would do, if that weren't such a crazy idea! - HA!
No, but really, they say I'm mad, but I always reply, "No, just mad for it!!", where "it" covers a diverse range of activities such as:
1: covering my face with radiators
2: pursuing herds of cucumber sandwiches across the arid plains of Mars, whilst chanting verse in Esperanto and pointing at anything I expect puffadders reckon would start with the letter "Q", and thinking about radiators
That's it really; I know what I like - what's the point of doing anything else? And if that's not a definition of sanity, I don't know what is
Meredith Harbourmaster
Kitchen Assistant
When I was a Stunt Sausage, I thought there was no finer thing - the money, the kudos, the sausages . . . but then I was approached by Master Ham to work along side him in the MHMusic kitchen, a true world of wonders, equipped with the latest in kitchen technology - plates, an oven, some spoons, a bowl dedicated solely for mixing.
They truly care for you here - Master Ham insists that I rub myself in brown sauce each night, which he says will stop the kitchen heat damaging my skin and preventing it "crisping up nicely before its time", whatever that means. And it's not just special treatment for me - he has also found that a special lotion made of chopped tomatoes, red wine and mixed herbs is more suited to Mabel Hackett, the ex-Mince Model. I believe he is very sad that Mabel hasn't been seen since bolognese night.
Melody Housemeat
Assistant Gizzard Fettler
A bunch of electromagnetic waves of various frequencies and intensities were detected by my eyeballs the other day, and identified by my brain - hey presto, it was the conglomeration of molecules and impulses know as my wife lobbing a frying pan at my head. Certain vibrations in the air setting up resonance in my ear canal enabled me to guess that she was displeased about something, almost certainly me, and most likely something I had failed to do at some unspecified time in the past, or perhaps had done but to a standard not reaching her expectations.
The pan skimmed my right ear. I discerned a baseball bat approaching at marginally subsonic speed towards my left.
Sending electrical signals down the neural pathways of my legs, I made swift retreat to climes more conducive to well-being, where the donning of a welders helmet was not crucial to an ongoing state of awareness. This is how I ended up at MHMusic, a benign environment where a delightful fellow called Master Ham insisted on helping me in my efforts to hide from the remarkable umbrage of my wife by disguising my body inside some rissole skins and stitching my head onto a hen. This did require me to accept the name of the hen as my own, but as I was previously known as "Twitface" this was no great sacrifice.
Micky Horsehead
Human Resources
I used to live in a toilet at an Old Pirates Home - just under the rim of the ancient mariner. It wasn't that bad, though I did wish occasionally that he wouldn't eat such rich food at all the weddings he used to crash.
I wouldn't have left, but he put the rent up one day and I had to move out. Now I live in (insert place name here for comic effect, for example: Dudley if you live to live in Stourbridge; Lower Heyford if you hail from Upper Heyford; Portsmouth).
People often ask me what's going on with my head; well, I've got very pale nostrils - get over it.
Minnie Handlebars
Assorted Functionalities
I used to be a poet, but I had to give it up when I couldn't complete my opus magnus, which was going to be a multi-volume epic based on a dream I had about a meeting of two great civilisations, the resulting glorious exchanging of ideas, a union of hearts and minds, a new renaissance and an outpouring of creativity spawned in the form of strange sciences and arts, an expansion into other realms of philosophy and reasoning, and a wealth of invention; all of this ultimately leading to a resolution of the reason for life and as a direct consequence the dissolution of death and the foundation of a new immortal paradise.
Unfortunately, in my dream one of the races was purple, the other orange, and they both moved about in crafts of silver; it was important to the essence of the dream to retain this in my poem, but I couldn't find anything to rhyme with purple, orange or silver so after 70 years fruitless searching I gave up and died. Unfortunately, I was so moody when I died my soul didn't achieve its rest, so I live on as a ghost. Irritatingly, in the spirit world there are loads of words that rhyme with purple, orange and silver, but my memories of the dream are as ghostly as my ghostly head. Ironic, eh?