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Superman Returns. Or is it Piers from the Chron?

As Superman Returns to cinemas, Piers Meyler, the Essex Chronicle’s own caped crusader, put his underpants over his trousers to see whether the people of Chelmsford still need a hero.


At least Superman can count on the Daily Planet’s Lois Lane as his number one fan.

Garbed head-to-foot in latex rubber but sweltering under blistering skies, I thought the Chronicle’s ace female journalist would be equally impressed when I transformed from my secret identity as a mild-mannered reporter into the Man of Steel.

“I’ll fly you away,” I said to her, half meaning it.

“You look so hot,” she said, struggling to avoid falling off her chair in fits. Clark Kent didn’t have to put up with this did he?

Bursting out of a telephone box was as an appropriate place as anywhere to start my quest to discover whether the world still needs a hero.

I was ready to offer my super powers to those in need in Chelmsford High Street but many just gazed past this Last Son of Krypton me like I wasn’t even there.

I’m just here to show you humans the way. Strong, reliable, fearless with a world view. Maybe romantic, but with a definite sense of good over evil. There’s a superhuman in everyone.

And then a woman in her 40s, laden down with shopping on the baking streets, saw the light.

“I wish you could be my hero for the day,” Nicky Harrington gushed. I felt I was overdosing on Kryptonite. I was wilting faster than a speeding bullet.

“Will you take me with you?” Nicky said. “Superheroes are few and far between these days.”

A friendly crowd of pensioners shouted across to Nicky: “Hurry up love, he looks like he’s about to pass out.”

Of course heroes still have a place in this sceptical world. These Earthlings need to learn that fact soon, and keep people like Superman from early retirement.

Shoppers need help with their bags and mothers need help with their prams. And somewhere down the line everyone needs a rock and a shoulder to lean on.

But it was inevitable Chelmsford’s version of Lex Luthor would be lurking somewhere. It was just a matter of time.

“Want to buy a phone?” he asked sardonically.

Does Superman look like he needs a mobile phone? This isn’t Mission Impossible mate. Superman comes from a planet where they use chunks of the finest crystal to communicate.

I wish I could have flown off at that point or zapped him with my heat vision. That would have taught him the ultimate intergalactic lesson of his life.

But ultimately it didn’t matter. In my primary-coloured costume, cape blowing behind me, I felt like the Man of Tomorrow himself. Bring on the Portuguese football team again. Put me up front with Wayne Rooney, I’ll tear through those European upstarts.

It wasn’t long before I came crashing back to Earth again, as the girls in Barratts shoe shop obviously came from the same place as the Chronicle’s Lois Lane-wannabe.

“My feet are killing me. Do you have anything for superheroes?” I asked one assistant.

“Not dressed like that,” she said, before nearly collapsing on the floor in hysterics.

I should have told her she had beautiful bone structure. OK, I admit it, I used the old X-ray vision. Couldn’t help it, I’ve been on Planet Earth too long, and it’s terribly corrupting.

And then there was another shopper who took it too far.

“Ooh, nice pecs. I heard it was mother-in-law’s birthday.” Did she think I was a male stripper?

I decided you had to catch them early in this game if you were going to leave a lasting impression.

“Look, it’s Spider-Man,” said one awe-struck three-year-old to his grandmother in High Chelmer Shopping Centre.

“Wrong hero, kid. I’m Superman,” I said. “Who’s your favourite superhero now?”

“Superman!” Liam shouted.

One saved. A million more to go.