History

Brought to you by Soo Reams is the pointless backstory that nobody cares about. I don't know why I'm typing this because nobody will every read it. I'll stop. Starting from now. Seriously.

It was a dark night in the summer of ‘36, and something was stirring in the underpants of Mr Steve T. Rockafella. He leant into the wind and wrapped his scarf around his neck as tightly as he could bear. His head bowed, he continued to push through the frigid darkness on his journey home. He hoped to make it back before The Goats came out to play.

Steve had first heard about The Goats from a sailor with three wooden legs, while on a cruise in the Arctic. As they passed a pod of whales, the sailor had leant over and asked gently, “do you know The Goats?” Steve knew at once that The Goats must be capitalised and respected at all costs. Now he was back home in rural Sussex, but the horrors of the sea had not left him. Once midnight struck, The Goats would seep from every pore of the landscape, smothering him with a blanket of caprine terror.

He could see his house from here and he felt great reassured. If The Goats came now, he could surely outrun them; those hooves were made for dancing, not running. At worst they might butt him in the buttocks as he fled. He had worn his best blue Dennis The Menace bra-and-panties combination for just this eventuality. Sure enough, as he forced himself to glance nervously at the grubby fob watch his beloved mother had given him, the little hand swung round and struck midnight.

Almost at once, Steve heard the braying of The Goats, and his nostrils were filled with their putrid bestial scent. Trying not to draw attention to himself, he started to walk more quickly, but his nerve could not hold, and soon he broke into a run. His feet struck the ground with incredible force - this was the fastest he had ever moved, but already he felt the feint breath of The Goats on his neck. They must smell his fear. It was another fifty yards to the house and, for the first time, he began to fear that he might not make it. He counted the paces.

One.

Two.

He felt the first horn strike his back. He had escaped from this before but panic began to grasp at his throat.

Three.

More horns clattered against his delicate rear end.

Four.

Now he was being buffeted from all sides, and The Goats started to overwhelm him.

Five.

One of the blows hit him square in the small of his back, and he fell to the ground. As he lay prostrate, the mud began to flow into his mouth and choke him. He felt The Goats stepping victoriously over his body, and blacked out.

When he awoke, a Goat with silver fur stood before him. He had never seen one in such proximity before, and had to admit that it was beautiful. The Goat leant down to his face; the stench of garlic was almost unbearable. With garlic being the ambrosia of The Goats, this must be a most senior Goat before him. The Goat’s lips moved softly, and while he heard nothing, vivid words appeared in his mind like pages from a book.

“You will devise a great game,” it seemed to say. Steve tried to reply, “What, Barbie Detective 2?” but his lips would not move. The Goat seemed to snort at this thought, but then continued. “It will be named Goatdown,” it explained. “You will gather eight of the noblest mortals and challenge them to a tournament. The winner will be crowned King Of The Goats and enter the Great Underpantheon for eternity.” Steve started to see the rules of the game coming together in his mind at once, but The Goat must have detected their similarity to Naked Twister and curled back its top lip, bearing its ferocious teeth. Steve tried to purge the image from his mind and, somewhere in his consciousness, a nine round game of words and numbers with a final Goatundrum began to take shape . The Goat nodded gently and was quiet for a time.

By the time it spoke again, Steve had planned the game in all its detail. “Good,” said The Goat, “you may return.” Steve felt as if he was slipping into a pool of warm water, which he later realised was Goat urine, and sleep overcame him once more.

When he awoke, he was naked and laying on his own doorstep. A small Goat dropping was the only reminder of his experience. Thoroughly shaken, he entered the house and sat quietly for hours, contemplating it all. He placed the Goat dropping carefully on the mantelpiece so that he could not forget it.

Many years later, Steve became a producer on popular Channel 4 game show Countdown. Realising that this was his chance to fulfil his destiny, he proposed the Goatdown tournament and selected his eight mortals. They gathered together by the wonder of the Internet, and the tournament began.

Some names have been changed to protect the innocent