And now, in time for Hallowe'en, a reworking of one of Michael Jackson's most celebrated hits: Thriller.

It's close to teatime, and something evil's lurking on the path

Near 'ooh nasty' time, you hear a grunt that almost stops your heart

You try to scream, but Treguard tells you not to be so noisy

You start to freeze, as squalor looks you right between the horns

Then he just yawns

'Cause it's Fatilla, Fatilla right

And who is gonna save you from the brute about to strike?

You know Fatilla, Fatilla right

You're questing for your life beside a big Fatilla tonight

Your three advisors are wondering just what he's gonna do

You sense the large club, and wonder if you'll get to Level Two

You close your eyes and wonder why his name's so very corny

But all the while you fear that he will turn you into chops

With blips and blops

'Cause it's Fatilla, Fatilla right

There ain't no seventh chance against the thing of enormous size

You know Fatilla, Fatilla right

You're questing to survive beside a big Fatilla tonight

He's Michael Cule and when he's not Fatilla he's Brother Mace

All of the teams will escape the barbarian each time

It's so easy it's a crime

He will not like you, he wants to stop you climbing in the well

But his low IQ will help you get away with lies you tell

This is the day to use your wits or items... or there's Pickle

So many ways of getting past the hulking hungry hun

You'll find it fun

'Cause it's Fatilla, Fatilla right

And he won't chill you more than any ghost who would dare to try

You know Fatilla, Fatilla right

So seek to be a knight and pass a filler, diller, swiller

Fatilla - he's not light...

[...And so on.

And now for the Vincent Price 'rap'. Which isn't all that different from Treguard's rhyming recaps, when you think about it...]

Teatime falls across the land

The Knightmare hour is close at hand

Children watch with curtains drawn

With family, friends, or all forlorn

And whomsoever there might be

That dares to flick to BBC

Shall have a Friday dull as hell

And freeze along with time-out bell

The foulest stench is in the air

A hun who hasn't washed for years

And, dumb as when he left the womb

He's standing guard at Fort of Doom

And though you're fighting not to laugh

Your lip will start to quiver

For no mere mortal can resist

The humour of Fatilla