Well, except of course the army was nowhere near a million strong.
And the Spartans didn't actually destroy them.
And the Spartan army actually had a couple of thousand blokes to begin with, but most of them had to run like fuck when the Persians out-maneouvred them, so the 300 were just prevented it from being a complete slaughter.
Yep, reality can be pretty disappointing.
So, anyway, I did something I felt I'd never have the need to do again: typed a full Chatham story up on the spot into my browser to comment on certain activites on OG involving the smoothe-chested one. Results are duplicated here, as I certain fellow assured me that it was 'blog material'. I can't say I agree but for the sake of postherity (is that the word? Lazy) I place it here, where it can be found alongside my much earlier efforts of capturing the Chatham mis-en-scene...
Nothing Too Serious
(A past-Chatham Adventure, set between the classic stories Rogered by the Borg and The Cronulla Excursion)
Ben Chatham is alone in his Cambridge apartment, sewing name-tags on his David Bowie Fan Club issue condoms, listening to Phillip Glass CDs on loop. Although his addled, vacant eyes give nothing away, his mind can't stop racing - he has become fixated on a Martin Kemp look-a-like on the tube who 'nearly touched him', to the point that he believes the lyrics to James Blunt's You're Beautiful are 'really meaningful'. He then hatches his cunning plan...
"Okay, dirtbag, where are the alien sex slaves?" demands Owen Harper furiously 20 minutes later, his pistol shoved in Ben's face.
Ben laughs, the entertainment value of the moment allowing him to ignore the crippling pain of his arm having been dislocated by the over-dentally endowed inbred chav sitting on his back.
"You fool, you have fallen for my cunning scheme!" crows Ben, like a rooster in a kinda-convincing wig "There are no alien sex slaves at this property at all!"
Owen curses as he realises:
a) His libido caused him to ignore standard Torchwood protocol for the eighteenth time that day.
b) He should have stopped taking text messages seriously a long time ago.
c) It's Ben Chatham
d) The fact that he drove from Cardiff to Cambridge in less than 20 minutes clearly signals this as part of a vague and inconsistent fictional universe that he is trapped in for the foreseeable future.
e) It is FREAKING BEN CHATHAM. And, yes, that is worth two points.
"Orright, pretty boy," Owen slurred, using the term of address he saved for every other male on the planet "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now!"
"Because I need your help!"
"And that's what I'm going to give you - 9mm worth."
"Sorry, did you just admit that your penis is astonishingly small?"
"You what?" Owen's brow furrowed, and then he remembered the existence of the double entendre and Chatham's intellectual vacuum, before giving a world-weary sigh "No, no, no. It's nothing sexual - this time. You see, the gun I have is a Glock, and it has a 9mm calibre. I think. I couldn't be arsed to look it up on wikipedia when I'm trying to be a wise-cracker but it's something like that. So, anyway... sod it. I just realised that we have to account for every bullet we fire since Jack is such a tight-arse (how's that for ironic?) and I'd have to explain what I was doing at your flat."
Owen stood up off of Ben's back, and stretched with the sudden dispirited wallowing of a man whose weariness soaked down into his very bones. Being with Ben did that to a lot of people. Ben, however, clapped his hands gaily and jumped up and down in a refined way.
"Yay! Now you can help me! I need to have sex with a stranger who looks like Joe Absolom."
"Wait, no, sorry, I meant Martin Kemp."
Owen rolled his eyes. "And... you called for me?"
"Well, actually I was hoping to get Captain Jack. We travelled together in the TARDIS. We were great pals. But not in a lower class way. A very refined, chummy, upper-class way."
Owen raised the gun again, not caring about the bullets now.
"You ignorant little pinhead! THAT-NEVER-HAPPENED!"
"But I was THERE!" moaned Ben
"NO YOU WEREN'T!" screamed Owen, a mysterious fire burning in his eyes "YOU NEVER WERE! That was all in an overlong dream sequence!"
"No, it can't have been! Adam Mitchell was there, too. Y'know, the eco terrorist?"
Owen began pulling his hair out in great tufts "YOU PRAT!" he roared "Adam Mitchell is an ex-One agent who double-crossed the Institute and ran off to America. He thinks getting back to nature is putting his iPod down for ten seconds!"
"We had sex!" says Ben, before giggling like a schoolgirl.
At this point, Owen loses it and pulls the trigger. With a mighty discharge (ooh er!) the bullet erupts from the barrel in a way that I'm unable to describe in non-phallic terms, but is fairly laborious. Well, not really but this moment should last a while for reasons of dramatic tension given the hero protagonist main character is about to be shot...
But no! The bullet is zapped in mid-air, with an effect that looks like it was nabbed from Half-Life, and suddenly, in the corner of the room appears MOLOCH, everybody's favourite muppet-like alien from Blake's 7.
With the fury of a thousand irate suns he yells "DON'T TAKE BEN CHATHAM SO SERIOUSLY!"
"Hey!" protests Owen "He started-"
Owen mentally takes time out to come to grips with this increasingly poorly-written and contrived scenario. Ben laughs, claps his hands, jumps, and soils himself in a refined way.
"Yay! Uncle Moloch is here! He's my guardian angel!" he says "Things are fun when he's here!"
Owen desperately tries to escape the room, but Uncle Moloch has used his god-like powers to lock the door.
"You boys will play nice!" proclaims Moloch.
Desperate to escape from this scenario as quickly as possible, Owen throws Ben his alien date-rape spray and jumps out the window. Moloch laughs heartily before dematerialising, and Ben laughs as he plans his means of attack to stalk his beloved Martin Kemp look-a-like, wistfully thinking of the many educational qualifications and Radiohead albums the two of them can share when they live together in a National Trust building without a fire-escape in one of the few alien-free districts of rural England...
But tragically a yellow Morris Minor bursts through his apartment wall and flattens Ben at that moment. As he croaks a death-rattle complaining of the tire-marks on his shirt made of hundred-pound notes, the vehicle reverses into the night, its mission complete...
Once again, if you found this page accidentally while Googling something else my immense apologies.