Jam and the apocalypse and camping with bees. Yes. That is now a sentence that exists.

I am reading a book about Jam.
It’s called Jam.
It’s about the apocalypse.
Only with jam.
The apocalypse, if caused by Jam.
Jam. In the Australian city of Brisbane. All eating people and shit.
It’s by a man who reviews video games very quickly on the internet.
It is, disappointingly, not very good.
It has, however, made me belly laugh a couple of times. So there’s that.
The main premise of the thing is, as mentioned, the jam apocalypse. I’ve spent longer than I care to mention trying to combine those two words. Jamocalypse. It sounds silly. I shall discontinue my attempts. Jam. The Jam apocalypse. Ahem.
The main point, however, is that the apocalypse event happened during rush hour. As the author comments (rather hypocritically, seeing as the man works from home), this does quite a good job of eating all of the useful people. Literally eating. Eaten. By Jam. The Jam apocalypse. This leaves only slackers, students, people who use the word ‘irony’ incorrectly and consistently, and, apparently, a single confused night worker who seems ever so slightly obsessed about his latest project.
And two soldiers who cleverly crashed a helicopter into the area and DEFINITELY WOULDN’T KNOW ANYTHING AT ALL ABOUT ALL THIS, HAHA, WHY WOULD YOU EVEN ASK US SUCH A THING?
And a spider. A giant, bird eating spider. Possibly because Jam just isn’t scary. Even in the apocalypse. The Jam Apocalypse.
All of the characters are intensely unlike-able. I hate them all.
Save one. All of the other character hate this one. Because of course they do. Why wouldn’t they. He has common sense, and people hate and fear what they do not understand.
Oh, yeah – then there’s the first person narrator. I’m not entirely sure where he fits in because he has so little personality I at first thought the author was being clever and portraying him with shock. I am beginning to realise that he simply has the personality of a particularly damp tea towel.

Anyway, what the author is trying to do is show how various ‘internet age’ groups might act in an apocalypse, even if it is jam. The Jam apocalypse. With Jam.
I am unsure he has succeeded.
Seriously though, laughing about an ‘ironic’ plastic bag wearing murder cult was only funny the first time. After the 50th page I was a tad bored and wanted to go back to the Jam.

I’ve, er, actually exhausted my point here. I was going to use this as a jumping board to talking about how people might react to an apocalypse, but instead I’ve started talking about jam.
I don’t really like jam. I fear this might make me slightly abnormal. I used to eat it quite a lot, but that was mainly when I was small and squishy and I’m not sure it’s because I was particularly fond of the stuff or simply because I ate what was in front of me like a good little crying/shitting machine.

The idea of sweet sandwiches has always struck me as kind of odd, anyway. It’s a savoury. Don’t go confusing me by sticking sweet things in there, please. I’m ginger. That means my head is very hot and my brain can overheat very quickly.
I got stung by a bee once. I’m not sure if it was because of jam or not, but I’ve decided it might as well be because bees like sweet things and jam is that. Also because I still have like 200 words to go.

I was about 2, or something. I was on a camping holiday in the New Forest, in a really nice camp site where I think I would later learn to swim. This was a different visit and a different story involving action man dolls and stuffed dolphins, rampant bribery and forced idolatry of fictional characters and I will not go into it now. I also returned some time later and a boy choked on one of those little rubber dart things and died. I wasn’t there. Well, I was at the camp site at the time, but I wasn’t there. You know what I mean. There is no story there. It was very tragic and my mum had a right panic because I had once owned toys that fired the same little dart things. I am yet to choke on one.
Anyway, this particular visit I was about 2 and I got stung by a bee. I was eating breakfast. We had a very nice camping table that folded into a briefcase. It was blue. it’s fate was to get stolen by some knob in Devon 16 years later. My fate was to get stung by a bee while eating a boiled egg. With soldiers. Off a plastic little kids plate. It had an egg holder built into it and everythink. It was blue, and had a picture of Humpty Dumpty. I believe we still own it, but it hasn’t seen service in a long time. Possibly due to traumatic bee association, but more likely because I am no longer 2.
The bee, who may or may not have been attracted by the jam I or my parents may or may not have been eating, stung me. I have absolutely no idea why. It is likely I antagonised it in some way. I was 2. It hurt and I made a great deal of fuss over very little, compared to bee, which made very little fuss over a very great deal, dying quietly and with no great aplomb. We gave it no funeral. We gave no notice of its demise to its fellow bees so that they might properly mourn and move on from their loss with a full sense of closure. We were, in fact, downright inconsiderate.
I have never been stung by a bee since. I have, however, been stung by wasps. Many, many wasps. This is because I am convinced that wasps are inherently evil.

I have a story about camping right on top of/around/in-the-far-too-similar-vicinity-of-an entire nest full of wasps. For several days. It isn’t one of the times I was stung though. For that weekend, I was the wasp-whisperer. All they said were butt jokes. I shall not go into it here. I apparently have many camping stories.

The book, by the way, is Jam, by Ben ‘Yahtzee’ Croshaw. I wouldn’t be too interested, if I were you. The characters really are odious. And the premise is an apocalypse caused by jam. The Jam Apocalypse. I really cannot stress that enough.

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