The genesis of this particular invention had come about when Norman had purchased a book called The Power of Positive Thought, written by some American woman with big hair and a lot of letters after her name that didn’t seem to spell out anything sensible. Norman had read this book from cover to cover and then tossed it into the fire, where it burned most warmly, which was about the most positive thing it had done since Norman had purchased it.

The book was a load of old New Age toot, but it had set Norman to thinking. What if you could harness the power of negative thought? There was surely a great deal of that in the world just going begging. If you could tune into that you’d surely have a source of almost infinite power. Because everyone, it seemed to Norman, was almost always in a bad mood about something.

Norman had been mulling this concept over in his mind whilst he drove along in his old Austin A40 van. In fact, he’d been mulling it over when the van did as it so often did – stuttered from life and rattled to a halt in the middle of busy traffic. Norman swore wildly at his van, bashing at its steering wheel with his fists. He got into a very bad temper. There was a lot of negative energy buzzing about in that van.

And so was born the Hartnel Grumpiness Hyper-Drive. Fuelled, if you like, upon road rage.

Norman had pushed the van back to the lock-up and broken out the Meccano set.

So far things had not been going quite as the scientific shopkeeper might have hoped with the Hartnel Grumpiness Hyper-Drive. But then, thought Norman, that was the problem. He shouldn’t be hopeful about this project. Hope was positive. He should be gloomy, taciturn, without hope, he should begrudge every moment that he spent on the project. He should hate every moment, build up so much negative energy that the van would run for fifty years without requiring further shouting at.

Norman climbed into the driving seat and placed upon his head a helmet constructed from Meccano and Christmas-tree lights. Many wires ran out of the helmet and away to vanish beneath the dashboard where many complicated (and, many cynics might claim, ludicrous) electronic doodads of Norman’s design and construction were linked to the mechanical gubbins that were the Austin’s engine parts.

Norman keyed the ignition.

Nothing whatever happened.

Norman keyed the ignition again.

The result was identical.

“Start, you swine!” cried Norman. “You useless, stupid van! Start, will you!”

The engine caught and brmm brmm brmmed.

“Brilliant,” said Norman. “Good boy.”

The engine died.

“No,” shouted Norman. “I didn’t mean brilliant. I meant start, you pathetic …”

“Brmm brmm brmm,” went the engine. Norman swore and scowled and backed the van out of the lock-up garage.

In the past, if Norman had been going anywhere by van he would have taken great pains to plot his course in advance upon a London A-Z. Not so now. Now, if Norman had a destination in mind, he purposely drove in the wrong direction with the intention of losing himself. Losing himself made Norman angry, and the van ran so much better when he was angry.

As Norman drove up the Ealing Road he was quite surprised to see an ambulance parked before The Flying Swan and a bit of a crowd gathered about it. Norman took a right into the area where the blocks of flats stood because it was a really tricky place to drive through. You could get quite upset by all the speed ramps and one-way systems.

Norman’s van brmmed away.

Norman growled at the speed ramps and the Christmas-tree lights on his Meccano helmet glowed brightly.

Norman was late for his appointment.

“Bloody van!” he explained upon his arrival.

The fellow with whom Norman had this appointment did rollings of the eyes, which Norman found most alarming.

“Do you want these computer parts, or what?” the fellow asked.

“I certainly do,” said Norman. “Where are they?”

Norman and the fellow stood beneath the shadow of railway arches. These railway arches were on the border of Chiswick, which Norman also found most alarming as they were relatively near to where his wide-loaded wife would be having her weekly meeting.

“They’re in here.” The fellow, a small, squat fellow with an overlarge head and curious smell, fumbled a key into an antique padlock. “I’ve just inherited these premises and all this old gear is stored inside. I just want it all cleared out. You can take as much as you want – all of it, if you want, I won’t charge you.”

“That’s most generous,” said Norman.

“It’s not,” said the fellow, “because it’s all junk.”

“One man’s junk is another man’s treasure,” said Norman.

“Not in this case.” The fellow forced open the door, which creaked and groaned upon its hinges.

Norman peered into the all-but-darkness. “Who did this place belong to?” he asked.

“My granddad,” said the fellow. “The stuff belonged to him, I suppose.”

“Computer parts?”

“They’re very old computer parts.”

Norman’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark. He peered into the gloom. Inside there were many crates, many Victorian-looking crates. Many of these Victorian-looking crates had been prised open. They all appeared to contain—

“Computer parts?” said Norman once more. “These look more like old wireless parts. They’re all valves and—” Norman took a couple of steps into the gloom of the archway and lifted up bits and bobs for perusal. “Mostly valves.”

“It says ‘computer parts’ on the crates,” said the fellow. “See.” He pointed through the gloom. There, on the side: Computer Components. Babbage Nineteen-Hundred Series.

“Babbage,” said Norman, thoughtfully. “The only Babbage I’ve ever heard of who has a connection with computers is Charles Babbage. He invented the Difference Engine in 1832. It was considered to be the world’s first computer.”

“There you go, then,” said the fellow. “They’re all museum pieces, aren’t they?”

“I don’t think they’re exactly what I was looking for,” said Norman. “I was hoping for something a little more ‘state of the art’.”

“For free?”

“Well, there’s no harm in hoping. Hope springs eternal and the language of truth is simplicity.”

“And my dog’s arse smells of margarine,” said the fellow. “Do you want this gear or not? Because if you don’t, I’ll get a skip down here tomorrow and bin the lot.”

“No,” said Norman. “I’ll take it. I’ll take it all.” He peered all around and about. There were a lot of crates. “It will take a few journeys, though. I will get very angry if my van doesn’t work properly.”

It was seven o’clock in the evening before Norman had the last of the crates installed in his lock-up. There was now no room for his van.

“Damn it!” swore Norman.

His van brmmed its engine.

“Not now,” Norman told it. “Nice van, be quiet now.”

The van switched off its engine.

Norman locked up the garage, locked up the van and took himself off for a pint of Large at The Flying Swan.

He entered the saloon bar to find Neville engaged in conversation with two young policemen from the local constabulary. Norman recognised these two to be none other than Constables Russell Meek and Arthur Mild, regular botherers of Norman.

“It’s not what you think,” Neville was heard to say. “And I won’t be pressing charges.”

“Pressing charges?” Constables Meek and Mild did ho-ho-ho-ings in the manner of the now legendary Laughing Policeman.

“It’s hardly a matter of you pressing charges, now is it, sir?” said Constable Meek.

“I’m the injured party,” Neville protested.

“Not quite so injured as your two victims, who even now lie recovering from concussion in the Cottage Hospital.”