The University of the Bleeding Obvious vol 02

The University of the Bleeding Obvious Volume Two

Paul Farnsworth

The University of the Bleeding Obvious Volume Two Copyright © Paul Farnsworth 2011 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission. All characters, companies and organisations are fictitious, and any similarity to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Published 2011 www.bleeding-obvious.co.uk

Part One

Contents

Invitation to a Monk’s Tea Party Stopping Distances Caught by the Fuzz Piffin Pig, Devil The Bubble Bloke Professional Scarer Dr Bongo’s Moles Mountain Rescue Tattoo, Ants, Gravy Shave the Moon! Quickfire Questions Sofas are from Venus… Cut Price Chips History of Rock: The Beatles Not Funny *@%£!, Zebras Auras by Post There and Back Again by Elastic Motorcycle Display Teams Skydiving Jez Moonbeam Invents… Dog Poo with Wheels Fats Porker Oven Chimps The Thoroughfare of Success Butterfly Yeti Makeover Occuloid Laserprobe First Annual Bleeding Obvious Award… Jaggedy Louse, Spiders, Mars The Trivial Accident Group Rob Hammond’s Essential Guide to Buddhism A Very Local Paper Jez Moonbeam Invents… Wind Powered Spoon Appliances Maisy Donnington’s Guide to Perking Yourself Up Exploding Dinners

9 16 18 22 26 27 34 39 43 45 46 50 52 55 56 60 69 70 71 73 80 82 84 93 94 98 103 109 110 116 117 118 120 125 127 129 135 139

Lunch Project Scooby Sandwiches Through the Ages The Sandwich Advisor Cold Fusion Sandwiches

145 152 154 159

Part Two Fatquake Teaching Carrots to Fly Jez Moonbeam Invents… Wing Mirrors for Fish Optimum Leaning Angles Brick II Did Man Really Go to Belgium? Wind Tunnel Technician Global Moistening Cobblers, 1965 Jez Moonbeam Invents… Egg Umbrella Barker Harris Amateur Stamp Collector Collector Nobby Wentworth’s Pet Surgery History of Rock: Elvis Gravy Boat, Chip-Writer Jazz Bomb Jez Moonbeam Invents… Sneeze Wheel Fish Olympics Official Apologies A Tall Order What Is It? Flyover, DIY Olympics Springboard to the Stars Jez Moonbeam Invents… Pogo Ejector Seat Pirates Sir Barnaby Tonk Shines a Light New Horizons in Business Management Montreux Clinic for Aural Readjustment Mozart’s Parrot Polishers, Monsters Barney’s Magic Number Show Jez Moonbeam Invents… Headlights for Sheep Traditional Wisdom Grand Theft Equine Perfect Circle, Rungs The Henderson Foundation For Recently Bereaved Herrings Lobster Facts Dr Bongo – A Day in the Life Skippy’s Opera Transatlantic Gardening

165 168 173 175 178 179 185 188 194 195 197 201 202 209 213 214 220 222 225 230 234 236 237 239 241 243 247 250 251 253 254 257 259 263 266 267 269 271 274 277

Part One

Invitation to a Monks' Tea Party On the Tuesday before last I was fortunate enough to receive the very great honour of being invited to attend the famous 'Monks' Tea Party' in the grounds of the magnificent Rumpleford Abbey in Oxfordshire. I should point out that whilst there are many who have witnessed this extraordinary occasion for themselves, few outsiders have ever been asked to participate. I therefore found myself in great anticipation of the event, and the subject of much envy by my colleagues. Rumpleford Abbey, founded in 1506, is one of the few to have survived Henry VIII's dissolution of the monasteries and is dedicated to St Jemima of the Holy Rock, the patron saint of gravel. Architecturally, it is quite a remarkable example of medieval craftsmanship, and new visitors to the site are inevitably awed by its extensively carved vaulted halls and the wide sweeping arches that threaten to enclose the sky itself. But there's something else about the place that takes the breath away; something elusive and unseen, yet undeniable. Possibly, it's the feeling of history one gets when standing in the shadow of its great walls. Or maybe it's the sense of godliness, of sanctity, of an unshakeable belief so strong that even the most secular of visitors can feel it emanating from the very ground. Whatever the explanation, Rumpleford Abbey is steeped in an atmosphere that is derived from more than just bricks and mortar. Monastic life has always followed a slow and steady pace here, and a careful study of the history of the abbey will reveal little by way of drama or incident. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the number of monks living here swelled to somewhere in the region of two hundred, but since then the order has steadily dwindled. In 1977 the brotherhood was down to twelve and the possibility of Rumpleford Abbey being forced to close was a very 9

real one. Had it not been for the foresight of the Abbot at that time, Father Robert Grass, this secluded island of pastoral calm may have been buried beneath some ghastly out-of-town retail park. Its terraced allotments and delicately tended rose gardens may have been consumed by an arid Tarmacadam playa with bays marked out for eight hundred cars. Its cool, shaded cloisters, echoing to the timeless drip, drip, drip of water on ancient stone, may have been engulfed by a family theme pub with a fake mahogany bar and a play area for the kids. And its chapel - ah, the Chapel! The very heart of the abbey, where the air itself seems steeped in faith as if generations of prayer are clinging to the warm motes of dust that float in the fusty air - well, that could so easily have been devoured by the sound and vision section of a major electrical retailer. Father Grass saw all these things as distinct possibilities, and realised that if the abbey's proximity to the A329 could be advantageous to a potential developer, it could also be of service to the brotherhood. He was aware that attempts at raising revenue had been made at many similar locations by capitalising on the tourist and day-tripper market - discretely and tastefully, of course. But Father Grass realised that it would take more than picture postcards, souvenir plates and novelty pop-up prayer books to really make a difference. Oh no, he was determined to go about it properly. Father Grass spent the next year and a half working out every detail of his plan. He spent many long hours in consultation with all sorts of experts and advisors - engineers, financiers, marketing people, management consultants... hell, even the odd bishop. He spent months touring Europe looking for investors with the vision to back his ambitious scheme. Eventually his ideas came together and coalesced into a solid, workable project, and in the spring of 1979 'Monkworld' finally opened its gates to the public. There was, inevitably, much criticism surrounding Father Grass's decision to turn Rumpleford Abbey into a theme park. Some thought that the hall of mirrors, the Ferris wheel and the pirate ship would prove damaging to the dignity of the institution, and be at odds with the quiet, contemplative existence traditionally pursued by the monks. Father Grass responded to such objections by pointing out that the monks were loving it and that, anyway, many of the rides were instructive, indicating clear religious themes. The roller coaster, for instance, was a very obvious metaphor for life: 10

full of ups and downs, but reminding us that whenever we are at our lowest, God is always there to pull us up to the next peak. And then there was the log flume, of course - if that wasn't the perfect illustration of the significance of baptism, then Father Grass really didn't know what was. That said, Grass was sensitive to the need for some sort of religious dimension to the day-to-day routine of the monastery. He saw Monkworld not just as an opportunity to make money, but also to educate the public about life within the order. He wanted to public to be able to come in and see monks in their natural habitat, going about their everyday tasks, and to this end he instigated the Monks' Tea Party. Now, some twenty-five years later, the daily Monks' Tea Party is what Rumpleford Abbey is best known for; not just locally, but all over the world. Monkworld has spent millions on providing the very latest, state-of-the-art rides and attractions. It has sacrificed several acres of its grounds to provide extensive parking for the visitors that throng here each summer. It can boast the most diverse selection of restaurants and family theme pubs of any attraction in Europe. But it is images of the Monks' Tea Party that adorn the mugs, the T-shirts, the key rings and the baseball caps that are sold in the gift shop in the abbey's chapel. Father Grass's untimely death in 1983, beneath the hooves of a rampaging wildebeest from the abbey's petting zoo, prevented him from seeing his vision reach its maximum potential. But I think he would have been proud. I know that I'm feeling quite proud as, in the company of seven other monks, I walk out into the main quadrangle and seat myself at the table that has been erected in the central enclosure. The crowd is already gathered around the perimeter, segregated from the monks by sturdy wire netting. A huge round of applause goes up, and I feel simultaneously elated and slightly self-conscious. It's been like this for years now: every afternoon, at four o'clock precisely, the monks come out to take tea, and every afternoon an eager congregation is waiting for them. In thirty years the Monks' Tea Party has only ever been cancelled twice - once, as a mark of respect on the occasion of Father Grass's funeral, and then again in 1995 when Brother Maynard was unexpectedly struck by lightning whilst reaching out for a chocolate digestive. There seems no possibility of inclement weather upsetting 11

today's proceedings. It's a particularly warm and pleasant afternoon as the china cups are passed around the table. Brother Kneddley, sitting beside me, kindly pours the Earl Grey from a large, earthenware teapot. Orange squash and fizzy pop are also available, and I notice that most of the monks favour the latter choice. Brother Kneddley, I should mention, is a relative newcomer to the tea party. Most of the other monks have been participants in this charming ritual since its instigation, but up until last June Brother Kneddley was an operator on the 'Pilates of the Caribbean' - an interesting ride which takes as its premise the highly speculative idea that the descendants of the Roman procurator Pontius Pilate were all bloodthirsty buccaneers who hung out in the West Indies. Brother Kneddley told me that he had gained his promotion to the tea party through 'dead man's shoes'. Quite literally in fact - a vacancy had arisen after an elderly monk had expired, mid-sitting, and fallen face first into a Victoria cream sandwich. Competition for the position was fierce, and when Brother Kneddley was told that he had been successful, he was over the moon. He was also delighted to learn that his predecessor's footwear came as part of the deal, and he took great delight in showing me his battered leather sandals under the table. This sort of friendly banter exemplifies the spirit of the occasion, but then the food starts to arrive and the conversation is reduced to a glimmer as we eye the large mounds of sandwiches that are piled up in the centre of the table. Once the paper plates have been handed around, we begin to tuck in. The egg and cress is pleasant, the salmon and cucumber is acceptable but I have been advised to avoid the tinned ham. There are sausage rolls and crisps of various denominations, but when I mention that all we are lacking is the cheese and pineapple on sticks, I am met with a moment of stunned silence, followed by a low voice at my elbow explaining that 'cheese is the devil's work'. I am a little unnerved by the effect of my faux pas. I'm also slightly unsettled by the crowds that surround us, chattering amongst themselves, pointing and clicking away with cameras at every mouthful. I ask Brother Kneddley if he ever feels intimidated by being on display like this. Sometimes he does, he tells me. But he explains that he is a born performer - to him, being in front of a crowd like this is his food and drink. I try to divert my attention from the spectators with a steadfast 12

examination of the buildings on the edge of our enclosure. Walls are set like ragged teeth against the darkening sky; broken rooftops and smashed towers suggest a history of violence, but I am assured that the damage is recent and that the impression is false. These scars are not the result of cannon fire or catapult, but of wrecking ball and pneumatic drill - the abbey has been deliberately distressed to imply a much more dramatic past than it can realistically lay claim to. As I meditate on this I am suddenly distracted by a corned beef and pickle sandwich that hurtles through the air, just three inches shy of the end of my nose. It lands with a damp 'plop' on Brother Kneddley's shoulder and he, with impeccable timing, slowly cranks his head to peer at it with disdain. I cannot help but suppress a giggle, and this quickly metamorphoses into a guffaw as a scotch egg comes careering down from the other end of the table, bounces twice then buries itself deep in a bowl of salt and vinegar flavoured Pringles. There is also much laughter from the crowd, followed by a spontaneous round of applause. They've come from miles around to witness the anarchic antics of these mischievous monks, and they're not going to go home disappointed. The table erupts into a frantic flurry of performance as food ricochets back and forth. Peanut butter sandwiches are smeared across faces, beakers of Ribena are upended over heads. It's impossible not to get involved, and as soon as I am caught in the crossfire I retaliate by launching a furious fusillade of vol-au-vents across the battlefield that had once been merely a table. And then, just as it seems that all the ammunition is spent, the jelly and the ice cream arrive and the whole thing kicks off again. One poor man's face is pushed into a trifle the moment it is set upon the table. Another finds himself struggling to prevent the greater portion of a blancmange from being rammed down his cassock, but still manages to get in a good retaliatory swing at his attackers with a treacle tart, in spite of his discomfort. By the time our little tea party is over, the table and its immediate vicinity are awash with confectionery, making it treacherous underfoot as we get up to leave. The applause is deafening, the crowd are ecstatic. It appears that each of the monks has their share of supporters in the crowd, for I notice waving banners bearing legends like “Give 'em Hell, Brother Redmond” 13

and “Watch out for the pretzels, Brother King”. There is a good spirit amongst the monks as we all pile into the communal showers to rinse the coleslaw from our shoulders and wash the jelly from our necks. Everyone agrees that it was a good show, and there's even some playful flicking of towels as we climb back into fresh vestments. The sun is setting as I emerge from the shower block and Monkworld is beginning to close for the evening. For the visitors, and for myself, there is a brief opportunity for one last go on the Tower of Babel Helter Skelter or Ezekiel's Flying Saucer ride, and maybe a quick visit to the gift shop to pick up a novelty revolving friar. Then it's time to leave. I'm sad to go, but it has been an amazing day: one that has left me with many happy memories and a deeper understanding of monastic life. But I'm worried that my experience has also left me with a sizeable chunk of pork pie wedged in my left ear, so as I pull out onto the main road and point the car in the direction of home, I make a mental note to book an appointment with my doctor in the morning.

14

15

Stopping Distances Being a brief illumination of the vexed question of how close a Gentleman should get to a Lady? One of the most important aspects of social intercourse concerns the tricky issue of proximity. In other words, how close should a gentleman, fellow or 'bloke' get to a lady, and what sort of behaviour is appropriate at particular distances? The following paragraphs will help you to decide upon the correct etiquette to adopt at most social events - although it must be noted that this is only a rough guide, and must be modified according to different circumstances, e.g. depending on the formality of the occasion, the relationship of the individual parties, and how wet it is.

Over Half a mile At this sort of range any k ind of social intercourse is extremely trick y. Many people consider shouting over such distances, but this is not only a strain on the vocal chords, it is also considered impolite by most modern social commentators. If there is a clear line of sight then a system of semaphore may be employed, but only if the two parties have been formally introduced.

Half a mile - 100 feet This is still quite a distance over which to carry out anything but the most perfunctory of conversations. A wave of the hand is usually all that I would recommend, although it is quite acceptable to converse on such general topics as the weather or the lavishness of the venue, by means of hand signals, pointing and exaggerated facial expressions.

16

100 - 10 feet We're look ing now at the possibility of sustaining a viable level of polite conversation. Suitable topics may include the flat racing season, the Royal Family or the k eeping of tropical fish. Enquiries after the health of the lady's family are considered polite, but a gentleman should avoid entering into too much detail regarding embarrassing boils, dietary conditions and congenital defects.

10 - 5 feet Conversation at these sorts of ranges can cover subjects of a more personal nature. A gentleman might, for instance, choose to compliment a lady on the suitability of her hat, the bouquet of her perfume or the size of her tits. Some ogling and embarrassed giggling is also allowed, but drooling should be k ept to a minimum.

5 - 1 feet Oh yes! Nearly there. We are now in a region where actual physical contact is a distinct possibility - the ideal distance, in fact, for some formal strok ing to tak e place. Tak e heed, however, that downstairs contact is not necessarily a given and a gentleman must remember that this is also the ideal distance for the administration of retaliatory slappage.

0 feet Ground Zero - wheyheyhey! At this range the exchange of bodily fluids would seem almost inevitable. However, there is always the danger that by the time the gentleman has reached this point, the lady will have already left. Hey ho, such is life.

17

Caught by the Fuzz New Recruitment Initiatives within the UK Police Force

So, imagine this: you're sitting quietly in a pub one afternoon, perhaps reading the paper or having a spot of lunch, when suddenly you feel this almighty thud across the back of your skull. Thwack! All the lights go out and it's goodnight Vienna. Next thing you know, you're sitting in a police car by the side of the M5, eating chips out of a bag and listening to the football on the radio. Sound unlikely? Well that's exactly what happened last year to an increasing number unsuspecting civilians throughout the UK who found themselves press-ganged into joining the police force. Of course, the police haven't always taken such a proactive approach to enlistment, hitherto being able to rely on certain groups within society to produce suitably eager recruits. For instance, the socially or intellectually inept are traditionally enticed into the force by the prospect of exercising the kind of authority that they would be too effete and ineffectual to wield in civilian life. The criminal fraternity is also attracted to the profession, as it offers countless opportunities for extortion, blackmail and fraud without the attendant risks of being on the 'wrong side' of the law. Then there's the boots and the shiny helmets - the very thing for the insecure neo-Nazi who wishes to compensate for his lack of identity by immersing himself within a paramilitary organisation. And let us not forget that the police can also offer opportunities for the many witless retards who are much too slow to secure useful employment in real jobs. Nevertheless, recruitment is still a problem for the police, and there remains a good measure of concern amongst Chief Constables, who feel seriously disadvantaged by the fact that they are still considerably outnumbered by the general public. This is why it was decided to charge Chief Inspector Roland Dolt with the task of reviewing and co-ordinating the police force's national 18

recruitment strategy. We were recently fortunate enough to be invited to his headquarters, where we had the opportunity to talk to him about his radical new initiative. “There is no doubt about it,” he proclaims with the self-assured swagger of a man who can have you done over with the snap of his fingers. “The press-gang is both a more effective and more economical method of encouraging youngsters to join the police force.” The Chief Inspector cracks his knuckles in a way that suggests he's daring us to contradict him. He seems disappointed when we don't. “Oh, I know there's a lot of liberal, namby-pamby bleeding hearts who oppose such methods,” he continues in a low snarl. “And I'm prepared to lend a sympathetic ear to their complaints, of course I am - but these people ultimately have no influence over us. We could have 'em any day. After all, we're the bastard police, and we've got a job to do. Fair enough, there are a few differences of opinion about what that job is, but that's not going to stop us doing it. Oh no, I should say not. No chance. Not one bit of it. And you can quote me on that, oh yes...” The Chief Inspector looks momentarily confused and we have to remind him what he was talking about. “Press-gangs!” he blurts out. “Yes, very good, I'll make a note of it.” He takes out his diary and scribbles furtively before continuing. “You see, the problem is, we simply can't afford to bugger about. We're understaffed as it is, and we're unlikely to win the battle against spiralling crime rate s unless we do something radical. And the fact of the matter is that since the introduction of the press-gangs there has been a three hundred percent rise in the numbers of new recruits entering the police service. It's a damn sight better than the way we used to go about it.” The way that they used to go about it was decidedly less confrontational. Throughout the eighties and nineties, professional advertising agencies were employed to 'sell' the police force. So what, according to the advertising campaigns, would a prospective police officer come to expect? Well at 'cadet school', young officers would be able to learn new skills, such as advanced driving, forensics and rope climbing. They would receive intensive tuition on the most effective way of swinging truncheons, extracting confessions or breaking ribs. And for those who were interested, there would be inter-divisional netball tournaments, orienteering expeditions and after-hours buggery. They even offered a short 19

course in dog handling, for those cadets whose sexual preferences tended towards the more exotic. The cadet schools, so the recruitment posters told us, boasted excellent catering facilities, and their canteens provided the best jam roly-poly in the world. What's more, on Friday afternoons cadets were excused uniforms and could take in their own games. On special days they were even allowed to play in the police helicopter. But the one thing that previous campaigns have stressed more than anything are the many opportunities that life in the police service can deliver. Opportunities, for instance, like helping yourself to impounded counterfeit goods. Opportunities for tearing up and down motorways like a real mental, and getting off Scot free just by flashing your warrant card. And of course, the opportunity to harass and intimidate law-abiding members of the public just because you feel like it. But, as Chief Inspector Dolt points out, that approach belongs firmly in the past. “Fluff!” he says suddenly, stabbing his pencil wildly through the air like a blind man fishing for eyeballs. “Fluff and mollycoddle, that's all those recruitment drives amounted to,” he continues to rant. “I said to 'em when they gave me this job - I told 'em straight - I said, if we're going to get anywhere then we need to get out there and kick a few arses, and slap a few heads. Well someone's got to do it, haven't they? People won't beat themselves up. People won't issue themselves with speeding tickets. Someone's got to hang around 24-hour petrol stations, reading slap mags and helping themselves to Mars bars and Toffee Crisps.” He pauses to take a breath. There are a number of questions we would like to put to the Chief Inspector, and this would seem like the ideal opportunity. But he looks at us keenly through the narrowed slits of his eyes, and we decide that it would be prudent to allow him to continue his rant. “And then, of course, there's your actual crime,” he says, seemingly as an afterthought. “Did you know that it's the police force's responsibility to deal with crime? Oh yes, it is - as if we don't have enough to do! People come up to me and say, 'Oy, Chief Inspector', they say, 'What are you going to do about the soaring crime rate?' And do you know what my response is? I'll tell you - I knee them in the stomach. Then a swift uppercut to the chin soon sorts them out. These people are troublemakers, you see. These whinging little bleeders are causing unrest and undermining 20

my authority, and I'm afraid we can't have that, now can we? Yes, we do have a crime problem, but for God's sake let's not keep going on about it.” We nod in agreement. The Chief Inspector is becoming more excitable now, and we're agreed that it would be wise not to provoke him. Actually, the wisest course of action would seem to be terminating the interview at this point, and so we rise and thank him for his valuable time. He's still talking at us as we awkwardly back out of the room. “People say to me, 'Crime isn't going to go away just because you ignore it.'“ he calls after us. “Well what I say to them is: have you tried ignoring it? Because if you haven't actually tried ignoring it, then you're in no position to say whether it goes away or not. So, in my opinion, we should just try our best to ignore it and then see what happens. Then the police can be free to get on with what they do best... whatever that is. Issuing speeding tickets, probably. Yes, yes, we're quite good at that. Don't you think? Hello? Going so soon...?” And then we're gone. Once we reach our car we find that the tyres have been slashed, the windscreen's been caved in and the stereo is missing. There are a group of policemen hanging around outside, but apparently they didn't see anything. Never mind. There's a tube station not far from here, and the walk will do us good. We set off, trying hard to ignore the constable trailing several paces behind us, casually swinging the cosh.

21

Piffin A Mediterranean Paradise.

Our roving travel writer Roly Coconut visits this increasingly popular holiday destination, and wishes he hadn't.

If you're looking for clear blue skies, golden sands, spectacular scenery and a thriving nightlife, then you could do worse than come to the tiny Mediterranean island of Piffin - but not much. Still relatively untainted by tacky gift shops, sleazy clubs and fancy modern notions of sanitation, Piffin's unspoilt charm and simple, backward inhabitants are rapidly making it a favourite destination for many holidaymakers who simply don't know any better. Only a plane ride away... You will find that many agents are currently offering package deals to the island. If your budget is limited, then you may wish to do what I did and book through Clive's Cash-Up-Front Happytrips, who operate out of a rusty caravan round the back of a multi-storey car park in Reading. The flight will usually take no longer than three hours, although in my case the plane had to divert to Stockholm to pick up a consignment of condemned poultry, which added an extra few hours to the journey. Piffin is far too small to have an airport of its own - apparently they did once experiment with the idea, but the planes just kept falling off the end - so your flight will terminate on nearby Menorca. From here you can catch a ferry to Piffin. They sail every half-hour, and the journey takes about ten minutes, although the fares can be quite expensive during the height of the season. A cheaper alternative is to book passage on one of the many trawlers that regularly make the crossing. Passengers should be aware that the trawlers take, on average, one and a half hours to make the same trip, as they go the long way 22

round. Conditions are cramped and smelly, and you may have to share your cabin with several tons of rotting fish; but it's not entirely intolerable, and the crew are always at pains to ensure that enough buckets are provided. Where to stay... You will find that accommodation on the island is limited. I chose to stay at the Al Hambra, which was just as well, since this is the island's only hotel. At the time of my visit it was hosting a conference of Italian scooter manufacturers, and the corridors were chock-full of sales executives zipping up and down on Vespas. This led to a number of near misses and misunderstandings over rights of way, and it was not unusual to go down to breakfast in the morning to find myself sitting opposite someone with a face full of livid tyre marks. On the subject of food, it seems that the local custom is to begin the day with a light meal, and accordingly each morning the guests are provided with an egg. Tradition notwithstanding, one egg between three hundred people seems hardly sufficient, and it is really no surprise that so many vicious skirmishes break out over the breakfast table as everybody fights to secure their share. The evening meal is usually more generous, with a typical offering consisting of three sausages, a couple of roast potatoes and a Spam fritter. Even so it's really not enough to go around, and there's usually quite a struggle for possession of the fritter. Holidaymakers are therefore best advised to secure either an alternative source of nourishment, or a stick small enough to be carried in their hand luggage, yet sturdy enough to be used as a cudgel. Lots to see and do... Of course, the thing that most people want to do when they arrive on the island is to check out its famous golden sands. This is available in small glass bottles from the hotel foyer. Sadly the beaches consist mostly of thick mud strewn with poisonous jellyfish, and are thus considered unsuitable for sunbathing by all but the most bloody-minded of tourists. Nevertheless, because of the unique currents and topography of the island, Piffin's coastline is awash with an extraordinary accumulation of flotsam and jetsam, 23

ranging from condoms and sanitary towels to larger items such as fridge-freezers, dead farm animals and the occasional beached oil tanker. It offers a unique opportunity for those whose passion lies in sifting through detritus, ordure and junk - and it's surprising just how many people are into that sort of thing. But there's more to Piffin than its beaches - there's one of Europe's largest landfills as well. Three hundred tons of waste from Spain, Italy and France are shipped here every day, and it truly is a remarkable sight to watch the huge flocks of seagulls wheeling and swooping overhead as the mountains of garbage are slowly bulldozed into the earth. A Rich History... It may be that such modern attractions aren't really your thing, in which case you can always check out the local Roman ruin - his name is Mario and he runs the late night bar down in the old town. I can personally recommend his fine selection of illegally homebrewed spirits, with which I became most intimate during the course of my stay. Hard liquor isn't everything, of course, although it has to be acknowledged that it's a bloody good start. It may be genuine history and heritage that you're after. Well good luck to you. A brief glance at any reputable guidebook will tell you that the Ancient Greeks passed this way in 526BC, and kept on going. The Crusaders also dropped in on their way to Palestine, with the intention of liberating the island from its Godless inhabitants. They spent two hours here, decided that its Godless inhabitants were welcome to the place, then pushed off again. The island was then happily ignored until the Napoleonic wars, when Lord Piffin of Marlboro claimed it for England and modestly named it after himself. Twenty years later, sovereignty was ceded to the Spanish, who handed it over to the French shortly afterwards. Down the years it has variously come under the jurisdiction of England, Spain, France, Italy, Portugal, France again, Sweden, the Netherlands and Tonga. In short, its political history resembles a game of pass the parcel, but with the distinction that none of the players particularly want to end up with the prize. Notably, the island did play an important role during World War II - mainly as a target, succumbing to heavy bombardment from 24

both the Germans and the Allies. Even the Chinese sent a gunboat to take a few pot shots at it. There is presently no nation on the planet that wishes to lay claim to the place, and even the inhabitants want precious little to do with it. Ask a typical islander what he thinks of the notion of independence and he will tell you bluntly that he doesn't really have an opinion, as he's planning on leaving soon anyway. A Sad Farewell... And it was soon time for me to leave as well - though not nearly soon enough. Piffin does indeed have much to offer the average tourist, although the average tourist would be best advised to leave it well alone. Nevertheless, I am happy to go on record as saying that my trip was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I would suggest that most travellers could benefit from a stay on the island. After Piffin, nowhere else seems all that bad.

25

PIG

episode there are now serious doubts about next year's event. Organisers are still keen to go ahead, but concede that they may have to forgo the pig and use a duck instead - if they can find one sturdy enough.

Tragedy struck this year's 'Shoving Things Up a Pig Competion' in St Ives, Cornwall. The event, popular with tourists, can trace its history back to the middle ages, when it was then known as the barely comprehensible 'Ye Shoving Thingees Oop a Pigge Competition'. The basic idea of the contest is pretty much as implied by its title contestants have ten minutes to shove as many things up a standard-gauge competitionsized pig as possible, and the one who gets the most stuff up there is declared the winner. In addition to the main prize, a spot prize is given to the contestant who can shove the most interesting object up his pig. Winning objects in the past have included such diverse items as a trombone, a lawnmower, a space hopper, a sofa, a china tea service and another pig. However, the foolish attempt by a competitor at this year's event to shove a speedboat up his pig resulted in an explosion that took out three rows of spectators and a brass band, and covered the nearby town hall in a thin film of ham. Following this horrific

DEVIL The devil makes work for idle hands, or so the saying goes, but exactly what kind of work is this and does it make a significant difference to the jobless totals? A survey by the CBI has revealed that Satanrelated employment has moved away from the traditional areas of basket weaving and macrame, and is now concentrated in more lucrative industries, such as the manufacture of electronics and advanced composite materials. In fact, Old Nick Enterprises PLC currently employs over two million people in Europe alone, and a highly attractive medical package, pension plan and other fringe benefits have demonstrated once and for all that the wages of sin can't be all that bad.

26

The Bubble Bloke

The horse brasses that adorn the soot-blackened chimneybreast of The Weighbridge public house in Darley Dale shine with a dull, polished gleam. The fire is lit - it's not the kind of raging inferno that would see off the worst of winter, but then this is spring, and the softly glowing embers are purely for effect. It's comforting. Just like the solid mahogany bar, the chunky oak tables, the faded pictures on the walls and the roughly hewn beams that lie exposed along the ceiling. It suggests an establishment with a long history of service to the working man, a comforting reminder of times past of families brought up amongst smoke and steam; of an empire forged in a blazing furnace, or torn from the living rock, miles underground. It's false, of course. The Weighbridge was built in 1982 and the photographs, the fittings and the tattered rustic charm were all supplied to order by a company in Nottingham. Even the short length of canal that snakes alongside the building was dug in the early eighties, and isn't deep enough to be navigated. It's phoney; it's all phoney. The place is choc-full of incongruous reminders of a time when people used to be able to point at things they had 'made' or 'built'; rather than returning home with nothing more satisfying than the vague notion that certain obscure matters had been 'resolved' or 'actioned'. There's a picture of a smelting works on the wall beside the specials board; beside it sit a gaggle of girls from a nearby call centre, picking over the greasy remains of their battered chicken wings. On the wall opposite the main entrance is a tattered illustration of the workings of a cotton mill; nearby are a group of salesmen from a Volkswagen dealership, talking about commission and complaining about their lasagne. And then, behind the jukebox, beside the window, beneath the 27

sign pointing the way to the traditional baby changing facilities, I spot the man that I have come here to meet. In fact, it's difficult to miss him: he seems so out of place here. He's a man of some eighty years, thick set with a certain 'solidness' about him that suggests it is as much a character trait as a physical attribute. He still has a thick head of silver hair, neatly back-combed. Dark eyes beneath serious eyebrows stare unflinchingly out into the car park. There is an unmistakable air of patience about him, and his quiet, assured demeanour instantly make him a still point amongst the bustle of egos and inanity that surround him. This is Albert Scroggs, and his rough hands and weather-beaten face are a far more telling indicator of the area's industrial heritage than any number of sepia photographs. He seems rooted here, and there is no doubt that his connections with this region go back a long way. “I can remember when this place were old Hopkins' farm,” he tells me as I sit down. He ignores my outstretched hand and forgoes any kind of formal introduction. “We used to play here as lads,” he continues. “Changed a bit now.” He finishes his pint and deliberately sets the empty glass down on the table before me. “Can't say as I really hold with this sort of thing,” he says, glancing around him. In the spirit of conversation I ask him if he's ever been here before. It's small talk, but I hope it will get us off on the right foot. “Nope,” he replies emphatically. “Full of wankers,” he adds, then inches his glass towards me. “You gettin' 'em in, or what?” Apologising for my lack of manners, I pick up his glass and make for the bar. This is my first meeting with Mr Scroggs, but I'm not unprepared. People I have spoken to have warned me that he's a bit of a character. He's also notoriously reluctant to speak to strangers, so I consider myself most fortunate to have secured this interview. Albert Scroggs, you see, is one of the last surviving bubble makers in the world today - that is, he spent his working life manufacturing the bubbles that go into fizzy drinks. And back in his day it was all done by hand. “Course, it's all automated now,” he tells me as I return to the table, and I detect a note of regret beneath his gruffness. “Mass production, see. All done by computers and stuff. It's what they call progress, but it's a funny sort of progress that puts thousands of skilled craftsmen out of work, if you ask me.” He takes a sip from 28

his pint, seems quite satisfied then suddenly looks daggers at me. “What, no nuts?” The outburst takes me by surprise, and all I can offer by way of a stammering reply is a confused flurry of random consonants. “Peanuts, lad,” he says impatiently, his rough tones slicing emphatically through my feeble and incoherent babble. “Didn't you get any peanuts?” I lapse into silence and shrug helplessly, hoping that this will suffice for an apology. He mumbles something beneath his breath and shoots me a black look, but I quickly prompt him to tell me about the art of making bubbles. Encouragingly, he seems pleased by my choice of wording. “Art?” he repeats. “Aye, you've hit upon the right word there lad. It's an art, all right. I was a skilled craftsman, me. Each bubble was made individually by hand. And we'd take pride in our work, as well. Proper bubbles for a proper fizzy drink. Done properly, the traditional way.” It's a tradition that goes back a long way. The method of putting bubbles into fizzy drinks has remained largely unchanged since it was first developed by the Persians around 300BC. Each bubble is first formed in a furnace by being blown, in the same way that a glass blower makes a bowl. This rough outline is then rapidly cooled and worked by hand or with a lathe until a perfect bubble shape is produced. This can take many, many hours of meticulous and detailed work, but it is essential that the final product is flawless. Only then can it be forcibly injected into the finished drink, using bellows. Obviously, working on something so small, in a field which demands such precision, is not an easy task. A bubble maker will, of necessity, have spent many years perfecting his skills before being allowed to work unsupervised as a master craftsman. “I spent seven years as an apprentice,” Albert tells me in a low growl. “Not the sort of commitment you see nowadays, is it? Most of these little pricks...” He indicates our fellow customers with a contemptuous jerk of the head. “...Well, they spend two and a half hours sitting in some breeze block eyesore in the middle of an industrial estate and suddenly they think they know bleeding everything. “Tossers, every last one of 'em,” Albert adds. He coughs up something unpleasant and hides it beneath his beer mat, then stares 29

out of the window. “Look at that dirty cow,” he barks with disgust. I look, but I can see no one. Albert makes to continue. “Anyways,” he says, then stops when he realises that I'm still looking out of the window. “Oi! I'm not boring you am I?” he snaps. I apologise and implore him to continue. He does so, but seems wary. “Making bubbles is a tough business, real man's work,” he says. “And a dangerous business as well. Now this lot -” Another nod to the other occupants of the bar. “All they do is sit on their fat arses, eating custard creams all day, poking and prodding at their keyboards and pretending to be working, when all they're doing is surfing the internet for lady porn and Star Trek.” Albert twists around and, quite unabashed, spits on the floor. The middle-aged woman tucking into the seafood platter at the table next to us is genuinely horrified, but Albert simply hisses at her and she turns away. “Computers, eh?” Albert says with disgust. “Fax machines, mobile phones, photocopiers...pah! What kind of life is that?” I begin to wonder whether Albert's real gripe is with the technology, rather than the people. Then again, on second thoughts, he seems to have enough hatred welling up inside him to serve both. “I mean, where's the danger in computers?” he persists. I nod as sympathetically as I can muster, then, realising that Albert's question is not a rhetorical one, I awkwardly stammer something about electric shocks, or the danger of accidentally swallowing a keyboard. Albert asks me if I'm trying to be funny. I reply, apologetically, that I am. He calls me a twat and tells me not to do it again. “Now see here, this is good,” Albert says approvingly as he indicates the notepad I am using. “Good, old fashioned paper and pencil. None of yer pansy electronic howsyafathers. And a sharp pencil too - you could have someone's eye out with that. And I respect you for that, lad. It's the only thing I do respect you for, though, so don't let it go to yer 'ead.” He leans over to the woman beside us and pinches a couple of chips from her plate. She is startled, but doesn't protest and simply keeps her gaze averted. “Of course, dangerous though yer average pencil is,” Albert says, pointing at me with a fat, yellow stub of fried potato, “it's nursery stuff compared to bubbles. Let me tell you - one bad decision with a chisel, one slip with a file and... BANG! The next thing you know 30

you're picking yerself up off the floor with half yer face hanging off. That's why bubble making was such a rare skill - not many youngsters managed to survive their apprenticeships. The 'Dreaded Explosions', that's what we used to call them. I lost a lot of good friends like that. Many's the time I would be carefully hammering away in the workshop when suddenly there'd be this almighty pop, the whole room 'ud shudder and shake, and I'd instinctively know that there would be one more empty place in the canteen that lunchtime.” But through a combination of skill and good fortune, Albert survived the Dreaded Explosions and became a fully-fledged craftsman. His experiences took their toll however, and Albert became a lonely and solitary man. Just knowing that one of your best friends could be wiped out by the Explosions at any moment was enough to dissuade most bubble makers from forming emotional attachments. That's not to say that Albert lacks any sense of fulfilment, and he remains very keen to remind people of his many achievements. “It's been estimated that in all my career I must have made about two and half million bubbles,” he says with obvious pride. “Two and a half million! Not bad, eh? And out of all them bubbles, there weren't a single dud. I started out making bubbles for lemonade, mostly, but as soon as my talents were recognised I were promoted to Champagne. And the proper stuff, mind - none of yer cheap rubbish. I was making bubbles by appointment to the King. Oh aye, people knew that if they were drinking Albert Scroggs' bubbles, they were in for some guaranteed fizz. Got to be quite a celebrity, too. Folks would come to watch demonstrations of bubble making. After the war I even did a theatre tour. It were a sell out!” It was during this tour, in Coventry in fact, that Albert managed to create the world's largest bubble. With a diameter in excess of fourteen feet, the record still stands today. Experts estimated that had it burst it would have had enough explosive power to flatten everything within a radius of six miles of the city centre. And if the prevailing winds had been unfavourable it could have seriously distressed a sizeable area of the countryside that lay beyond. But Albert had had too much experience in his trade to allow that to happen: the demonstration went without a hitch, Albert received three standing ovations, and the bubble was later safely deflated by the Royal Marines Pop Disposal Squad. 31

But Albert's celebrity was not set to last. The introduction of automation throughout the fifties and sixties meant that bubble makers like Albert Scroggs were becoming increasingly redundant. Albert managed to hang on for a little while - working mainly in the luxury end of the market, where hand-tooled bubbles were still in demand. But eventually, Albert had to bow to inevitability. “We just couldn't compete,” he reflects bitterly. “Of course, we didn't think there was any real threat at first. The first automatic bubble makers were very unreliable. Admittedly, they were fast, but the quality of the bubbles they produced was very poor. There were a lot of accidents, an’ all. All it takes is one bad bubble to get caught up in the mechanism and the whole thing would jam up. And when that happened it was only a matter of time before the pressure would build up and the bubble would crack, setting off a chain reaction that would reduce the machine and everything around it to a pile of mangled metal. Quite often they would take all the operators with it. It was tragic, of course, but then these lads were not skilled craftsmen like us, so we couldn't help but laugh.” But improvements were quickly made and the industry eventually became completely automated. Today's industrial bubble making units can make upwards of five thousand bubbles an hour, in a multitude of different sizes, colours and even shapes. What's more, hardly anyone ever gets exploded. Albert, meanwhile, has hung up his apron, sheathed his chisel, and the only bubbles he makes nowadays are in the bath. Nevertheless, he still finds himself yearning for the values of a bygone age. “Look at that,” he says as he holds his half-empty glass up to the light. The froth clings to the sides as I watch Albert's distorted face through the golden liquid. “Now take a look at all the people in here - over by the bar, sitting at those tables, grouped around the fruit machine. Filth, retards and slappers - every last one of 'em. Do you think they give a toss about the time and effort it took to put all the bubbles into the drinks that they keep throwing down their necks? No, course they don't. And do you want to know why?” Albert brings my attention back to the glass he is still holding up before me. “This is why,” he says. “Look at the bubbles. Perfect, aren't they? Every one of them. But there's no character, no life, no joy. 32

No one has sweated and struggled to make those bubbles. No one has put their life on the line. No wonder no one cares. No wonder I don't care.” He sighs. “It's sad,” he says mournfully. He tilts the glass back and drains it, slamming it down on the table between us as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yes, it's very, very sad,” he reiterates. Then he belches loudly, looks pointedly at the glass... then at me... then back at the glass. “I expect,” he says, staring straight at me as if daring me to contradict him, “that you'll be wanting to buy me another?” And I agree that that is exactly what I'll be wanting to do.

33

Interesting Jobs No 419 Professional Scarer

We go back to the studio now, where presenter Jerry Crevice is about to interview his latest guest… CREVICE: Good evening and expenses. I have with me here in the studio tonight Mr Harry Crabs of Northampton. Mr Crabs, hello. CRABS: Hello matey. CREVICE: Now Mr Crabs, is it all right if I call you Harry? CRABS: No. CREVICE: I beg your pardon? CRABS: No, it is not all right. I would like you to call me Mrs Ada Fang of 42 The Mews, Tyne and Wear. CREVICE: Mrs Ada Fang? CRABS:

Yes, of 42 The Mews.

CREVICE: I see. Any particular reason? CRABS: Err yes, any particular reason - but mostly in order to preserve my anonymity. Hush, hush. Know what I mean? 'They' might be watching. CREVICE: I see, so, to preserve your anonymity. And who are 'they'? 34

CRABS: I don't know, but it's best to take precautions. Hush, hush. CREVICE: Very well. I have with me here in the studio tonight Mrs Ada Fang of 42 The Mews, Tyne and Wear. Now, Mr Crabs... CRABS:

Hello, yes?

CREVICE: I believe you are what is known in the trade as a 'professional scarer'. CRABS: Yes, that is what I am known as in the trade. I am also known as that in the Hope and Anchor on Bridge Street. Also in the British Legion, and many other local hostelries. But in Tyne and Wear I am mostly known as Mrs Ada Fang of 42 The Mews. CREVICE: I see. And perhaps you can tell us just exactly what it is that a 'professional scarer' does? CRABS: GRRRRRRRRR! AAARRGGGH! what I does, mostly.

GRRRRR!... That's

CREVICE: I see. So what you do, in essence, is scare people? CRABS: Yes. Yes. That is what I do, in essence. I also do it in the Hope and Anchor on Bridge Street, and also occasionally at the British Legion. But in Tyne and Wear I try to keep a low profile. CREVICE: I see. CRABS: But... and this is me saying 'but'... But, the important difference is that I do it 'professionally'. CREVICE: When you say you do it professionally, what exactly do you mean?” CRABS: I mean, exactly, that I does it for a living. Also, I don't muck about, matey. Let me explain. 35

CREVICE: I'll let you explain. CRABS: Yeah, you do that. You let me explain. You see, the local tourist board, they do these ghost walks. They takes all these people round the town, showing them the old buildings and telling them strange tales of spooky goings on, and stuff. CREVICE: I see - to entertain them with eerie tales of the supernatural. CRABS: Yes. And to scare the doings out of them. Well, I am employed to give it what you might call that extra air of authenticity. I waits in this dark cellar, dressed as a ghostly monk, and when they comes round, I leaps out and goes GRRRRRR! AAAAARRRRGH! GRRRR! CREVICE:

You go GRRRRRR! AAAAARRRRGH! GRRRR!

CRABS: Yes, and... I didn't scare you then, did I? Only it can be a bit strong for people of a nervous disposition. CREVICE: No, I'm quite all right. CRABS: Ah, good. Well, as I say, it's my job to put the willies up 'em by going GRRRRRR! AAAAARRRRGH! GRRRR! Cor blimey. CREVICE: I see. You go 'GRRRRRR! GRRRR! Cor blimey'?

AAAAARRRRGH!

CRABS: No, I don't go 'cor blimey'. I went 'cor blimey' just then because I think I may have ruptured something. It's an occupational hazard. Occasionally I goes a bit overboard with me 'GRRRRRR!' and I put something out. Sometimes I even overreach myself in the 'AAAAARRRRRGH!” department, and when that happens I usually have to take the week off. But, of course, all that's gone up the spout now, since I became unemployed. CREVICE: Ah yes. And I believe you are suing the local tourist authority for loss of earnings. 36

CRABS: No! No! I am suing the local tourist authority for loss of teeth. Also for twenty thousand quid. CREVICE: I see. And how did you manage to lose these teeth? CRABS: I managed it very well, thank you very much. I was going about my job. CREVICE: You were going about your job? CRABS: Yes, yes, I was going about it, in an Easterly direction. I was hiding in the cellar, just waiting for my cue. Anyways, all the tourists come along. And the guide, he says to them that this cellar is the mysterious location of a mysterious haunting by a mysterious monk. And that's my cue, so out I leaps and 'GRRRRRRR!' I goes. And 'AAAAARRGGGH!' I goes. And 'GRRRRRRR!' again. And this woman, she belts me in the cake hole CREVICE: She belts you in the cake hole. CRABS: say.

Yes, she... 'Ere, now you're just repeating everything I

CREVICE: I see, repeating everything you say. CRABS: Yer, well... anyway. She punches me in the snout, and I hit 'er with me rosary, an' the whole thing starts to get ugly, and then 'er sister joins in, an' she was pretty ugly to start with, and the police are called, and to cut a long story short, here I am. CREVICE: Here you are. CRABS: And now I'm unemployed. And there's not much work about for a professional scarer. I've tried working in the post office, but every time some old biddy steps up to collect her pension, I go 'GRRRRRRR!' and she wets herself and falls over. And, of course, the real tragedy of it was that I had quite good prospects with the tourist board. I was about to be promoted. 37

CREVICE: You were about to be promoted. CRABS: Was I? Well, it was about time. I wasn't intending to be a ghostly monk forever, you know. Oh, no, no, no! I was just one small step away from being promoted to a werewolf. And it's good money as a werewolf, plus you get free dog biscuits and a flea collar. And it wouldn't have stopped there - I had my eye set on Head Vampire. It's a crying shame. I've still got it, you know. Still got the old magic touch. CREVICE: Well thank you Mr Crabs. CRABS: GRRRRRR! AAAAARRRRGH! GRRRR! See, I'm not washed up yet. CREVICE: Indeed not. Folks, I'm afraid that's all we've got time for. CRABS: I'll be washed up next Wednesday. Or, if wet, Thursday afternoon. CREVICE: Well there you have it... CRABS:

I haven't had it.

CREVICE: Scarer... CRABS:

...Mr Harry Crabs of Northampton, Professional

I'm not likely to get it either, at this rate.

CREVICE: ...Next week we'll be meeting a Mr Terrence Milligna of Lewisham who has the world's largest collection of dust... CRABS:

Is that my bit over with then?

CREVICE: ...So until next time... CRABS:

Can I have it in cash?

CREVICE: ...This is Gerry Crevice saying goodnight... Goodnight. 38

Dr Adolphous Bongo Discusses Moles Parasites - whipworm, ringworm, tapeworm... those horrible spiny things that swim up your thingy when you're pissing in the Amazon. It is a well known scientific fact that such parasites ordinarily affect common, lower class people who live amongst their own shit and have no concept of the use of soap. Basically, parasites affect dole scroungers and layabouts, so there's irony for you. Hello there. My name is Dr Adolphous Bongo, five times winner of the Golden Stethoscope for Medical Excellence, so you might just want to save yourself the trouble of a smack in the mouth and pay attention to me when I'm talking. I say 'five times' winner, but following an embarrassing incident at this year's Royal Physicians Society Awards, the most recent prize has yet to be confirmed. I was all set to take the podium to make my characteristically modest acceptance speech, when the nth-list celebrity who had been hired to hand me the prize inadvertently read out somebody else's name. A certain Dr Reg Downey rose from his seat to what a gentleman from the press later described as a 'thunderous ovation', but which to my highly trained medical ears was rather more like a faintly bemused ripple of embarrassed muttering. And quite rightly so - Dr Downey is an arse. I got up to take the stage regardless, and felt quite sorry for old Dr Downey as I pushed him aside and proceeded to make my speech. Anyway, this is by the bye. We were talking about parasites, weren't we? Most parasites, whilst being unpleasant, are relatively harmless. There are one or two that are capable of sucking your body inside out overnight, but there's really no point worrying about these, because by the time you know anything about it, you've already got your legs tucked up your back passage and are breathing through the back of your neck. They are extremely rare, anyway. 39

What are becoming more common, however, are moles. These nasty little creatures can burrow into the body practically unnoticed, then cause horrific outbreaks of unsightly molehills on the surface of the skin. What's more, if they are allowed to spread, their tunnels will eventually undermine the physiological integrity of the human frame and cause the patient to collapse in on himself. This is extremely nasty. There is a sophisticated surgical procedure that can reverse the process, but it is dangerous, expensive and involves the painful insertion of sterilised scaffolding. More often than not, we find it simpler and more cost-effective to just scoop the patient up, pour him into a bucket and leave him outside in the car park. Coincidentally, this is very similar to what I promised to do to the head of the Royal Physicians Society judging panel. The irritating little pustule took to phoning me up two or three times a day, claiming that the award was not mine and demanding that I return it forthwith. Ha! I thought it was a done deal: I made the speech, I collected the trophy. I even managed to get a standing ovation out of the crowd, after a little bit of playful coaxing. But this tit that kept telephoning me insisted that the rightful winner was Dr Downey. I explained to him several times that they had made an awful mistake, but the panel persisted in their ridiculous fantasy. What can you do with these kinds of people? Well, I'll tell you what I did: I explained to them that if they continued to pester me in this fashion, I would personally visit each of the panel in turn and boil their first-born children. These people are insects, worms, and deserve to be treated as such. Which brings me back to the subject of parasites. You're probably anxious enough by now to wonder how it is possible to contract moles. At this point it is traditional for doctors to tell you not to worry, and reassure you that the chances of catching moles are very slim. Thankfully, I am not a traditional doctor, and I am happy to tell you that the odds of catching moles are extremely high - in fact, the chances are you've got them already. And it is with something approaching childlike glee that I add, for your information, that this is an extremely painful condition, and that there is very little hope of a cure. The process of infiltration is a long and arduous one - for the mole, at least. Most moles grow on trees in Cyprus and parts of Turkey. They drop off in the autumn and make their way across Europe, strapped to the undersides of dogs. They reach Great 40

Britain by late January, where they smuggle themselves through customs disguised as Bosnians. You might expect them to burrow into the first person that they see, but this is not the case. Not any more, anyway. There was a time when a mole would just crawl up your arse when you weren't looking, and you'd be none the wiser. These days, however, most moles are a good deal wilier and because of the abundance of fast food in their native homelands - a good deal fatter. Trust me, if one of those things tried to invade your nether regions, you'd at least suspect something was going on. No, the first thing they do is lie low until the heat is off. Often they will take menial jobs and rent apartments in less fashionable parts of town. In order to do this, they have become masters of disguise. You may even have passed one in the street without knowing. Next time you see a short feller in a big hat and a raincoat with a turned-up collar, don't just walk on by without a second glance. Take a closer look and see how hairy his face is. It may just be a mole waiting to strike. Of course, when they do decide to strike, you probably won't know anything about it until it's too late. Relatively speaking, moles' brains are roughly equivalent in size to that of a sales rep, or someone who works in retail management. Whilst this means that they will never be capable of rational thought as we understand it, it has nevertheless enabled them to evolve a number of schemes for invading the human body. One favourite is to disguise themselves as doughnuts. Moles, it must be said, do not make very convincing doughnuts, even when they go to the trouble of sprinkling themselves with sugar and oozing jam. Nevertheless, their victims rarely prove to be all that fussy. Other tricks include abseiling down the back of the victim's throat whilst he's asleep, burrowing into the ear and firing themselves up the nostrils from a circus cannon. The last one is seldom ever a successful means of penetration, but it can be a spectacular sight if you're lucky enough to witness it. I once had one woman - let's call her 'Mrs Brown' - who came to see me, claiming that moles had entered her using a cunningly constructed glider, fashioned from balsa wood, hairy string and a pair of her old curtains. Of course, I refused to believe her ridiculous cock-and-bull story, but she started wailing and crying and creating all sorts of fuss, so I sent her for an x-ray just to shut her up. Amazingly, when the results came back, she did appear to have a large glider lodged in her small intestine. She also had a 41

submarine in her stomach and a double-decker bus wedged up her colon. There was, however, no sign of moles, so I can only conclude that they had moved out when Mrs Brown became too congested. I should imagine that if she had gone to Dr Downey, the doddering old twat would have just given her a couple of aspirin and told her to lie down for a bit. The man isn't fit to be practising and yet they - his friends at the Royal Physicians Society - they want to give him a bloody award. What would he want with it? He doesn't know where he is, half the time. They wheel him around in a chair and he shits in a bag. What about my mole research, eh? Up until now, it was thought that if you suffered from moles it was incurable. Oh yes, they've tried tempting them out with sponge fingers and fishcakes, and in a few isolated cases the moles have taken the bait - but, by and large, your average mole is happy to stay where it is. My experiments are working towards providing a reliable, effective and permanent cure. Admittedly, I haven't been successful yet, but the work is progressing well. First, with a help of a couple of sacks and a cosh, I selected a group of random 'volunteers' and deliberately infected them with moles. Then I confined them to a small, padded room and blasted them with loud music to drive the moles out. The results so far have not been promising. After three weeks of constant audio bombardment, three of my volunteers have collapsed and the remainder are suffering from perforated eardrums. As yet there is no sign of the moles leaving their hosts, but I think I'll give it another fortnight before I write the idea off completely. I'm more confident about my second experiment. I have selected one of my more heavily infested volunteers - again, purely at random - and sent in a pack of hounds to chase the moles out. It wasn't easy, but I thought it rather ingenious, and it does seem to be proving effective. However, the man is clearly in great pain and I have grave doubts that he will survive the treatment. I'm pretty sure that the moles have gone, but I'm very much afraid that he is now suffering from bad case of 'dogs'. Still, serves the bastard right for demanding my Golden Stethoscope back.

42

An Appeal on Behalf of

Mountaian Rescue Hello there, My name is Grampion Strangely and no one knows better than me just how much the mountains of our planet need your help. Trust me, mountains are my life. I've been a mountaineer for over fifty years. I live, sleep and breathe mountains. I was born up a mountain, I've lived all my life up a mountain and I fully expect to die up one. In fact, on the rare occasions that I have to come down from the mountain, perhaps to buy more crampons or pick up my copy of Mountaineering Weekly, I get all panicky and have trouble breathing, and often I just have to sit down in the middle of the street until total strangers come along and help me. Sometimes I just have to find the nearest stepladder and stand at the top of it for a while until I can get my breath back. It's a living nightmare and no mistake. Anyhow, the point I'm trying to make is that I'm pretty hot on the whole subject, so you should definitely take my word for it when I tell you that some of these mountains are crying out for your help. Yes, you heard me right. It's hard to believe, I know, but the fact is that these mountains really do need your help. We tend to think of them as being old enough and big enough to look after themselves, don't we? Surely mountains are dirty great shit hard lumpy things - how can they possibly need our help? Well let me tell you, just because you can blast a tunnel through something, it doesn't mean it can't have feelings. Just ask my Aunt Ethel.

43

That's why I'm making an appeal to you now. We're not asking for much. Just a handful of loose change can make all the difference, helping to pay for essential counselling, physiotherapy and cable cars. And if we manage to reach our target, then this year we'll be able to send mount Kilimannjaro on a muchneeded holiday to the Isle of Wight. Please send your donations to:

Note: Some of your contributions may be used to help dried up river valleys who have lost their families.

44

TATTOO

quite close up. Elephants, however, really are that big.

A company in Perth, Australia is now offering a unique 'Tattoo by Post' service. You can send off for their catalogue, consisting of sixty flaps of loosely bound skin samples, decorated with over two hundred different designs. You choose the one you want, fill in an order form and send it off, along with you arm, thigh, buttock or whichever area of your body you want tattooing. They will then return the freshly tattooed body part to you within twenty-eight days. The company also does piercings, but they suggest that if you intend to send your cock through the post, you should use registered mail.

GRAVY Greatwater College of Industry and Technology is currently offering a Master's Degree in Gravy to aspiring chefs. Culinary hopefuls can also learn how to weld peas and construct box girder radishes. This time last year the future of the college was in grave jeopardy when a flan exploded and destroyed the main kitchen block. Thankfully, sponsorship from local businesses and a lottery grant meant that facilities were rebuilt. Indeed, enough money was raised to allow for the construction of a thirty foot high pastry gantry, which means that the college now has to potential to construct the largest pork pies in Europe.

ANTS A forthcoming BBC documentary is set to reveal the astounding fact that ants are not really as small as we thought they were - they're just quite far away. Whales, on the other hand, are actually a lot smaller than we had previously surmised - a mistake that has arisen because we tend to view them 45

Shave the Moon! “I believe the nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before the decade is out, of landing a man on the moon, shaving it, and returning him safely to Earth.” President John F Kennedy

With those words, delivered to congress on the 25th May 1961, JFK launched one of the most ambitious and fantastical endeavours in human history, finally realising a dream that has been with us ever since ancient man first looked up at the night sky and wondered what the big glowing round thing was. Our attitude towards our nearest neighbour in space may have differed from century to century, and from culture to culture - to many it has been an allpowerful deity to be worshipped and honoured, to others an unattainable paradise, to some a big ball of cheese hanging in the sky, and to a former flatmate of mine it was a big woman called Doris who would take in his ironing at weekends. But, laundry arrangements notwithstanding, the one thing that unites us all is the desire to reach out and touch our mystical lunar cousin. Science and technology have, of course, come on in leaps and bounds, and we are now able to dismiss all those old misconceptions and say for certain that the Moon is made out of asbestos and covered with a thick layer of coarse, wiry hair. Arthur C Clarke, who knew a lot about this sort of stuff, quite correctly pointed out that if we ever wanted to colonise the Moon we would first have to embark upon an extensive campaign of depilation. This was something that the early pioneers at NASA were not slow to realise when they first set about turning President Kennedy's promise into a reality. Luckily the timing was just right. In the late fifties and early sixties, huge advances had been made in the twin sciences of 46

rocketry and shaving, and those initial test runs with high-altitude razors were extremely encouraging. But of course, there are significant differences between trimming a moustache at twentythousand feet, and shaving a whole planet. Even if it is a relatively small one. The most obvious distinction is a matter of scale. NASA technicians calculated that in order to complete the task they would need a razor blade over twelve hundred feet in length. This blade would have to be forged from steel strong enough shave the entire surface of the Moon without buckling, light enough to be carried into orbit aboard a conventional rocket, and sturdy enough to survive multiple meteorite strikes without shattering. Initially, several such blades were planned, in case the first was unable to complete its mission without giving the Moon razor burn. But then astronomers revealed some good news, in the shape of a newly-discovered asteroid, which could be used as an emergency whetstone in case the space razor became blunted. And so a launch date was set. The rocket was ready. The razor was ready. The eyes of the world were watching, but there was still one more problem to be overcome: how to achieve an effective method of shaving foam deployment. Foam was to be vital to the success of the project, as without it the razor ran the risk of becoming snagged on craters, or even snapping completely on some of the taller crags. Several major brands of shaving foam had already been tried, but had been judged inadequate after being used to shave test patches in the Nevada desert. Eventually, technicians managed to find one that was up to the job: it was effective, cheap enough to produce in great quantities, and had a pleasant musky aroma, which would leave the moon smelling fragrant and feeling refreshed. They now faced the problem of how to deliver it to the target area. Primary experimentation investigated methods of firing it at the Moon from the surface of the Earth using giant, strategically placed space cannons. This idea was rapidly abandoned, for two reasons. Firstly, they couldn't guarantee the integrity of the 'foam stream' over such a long distance, and feared it would diffuse in the vacuum of space and end up coating other planets, such as Mars or Jupiter. There were also suggestions that some might spill onto the surface of the sun, resulting in widespread environmental damage, and ruining everybody's holidays. 47

Secondly, the unpredictability of weather conditions here on Earth could cause the foam to go astray. This possibility became a reality when sudden wind changes during an experimental test firing caused two hundred thousand gallons of foam to drift over the North American city of Jamestown. The city was buried for three days before fire fighters managed to get the foam under control. The tragedy left two hundred people seriously damp, and thirty more unaccounted for. This event prompted engineers to consider an orbital delivery system, but work on a giant, three hundred metre tall deep-space aerosol can was halted after it was realised that the idea was mental. Development switched to a system of smaller satellites, which were designed to be manoeuvred into orbit around the Moon and programmed to deliver their payload at a given signal. This work, however, was both costly and time consuming, and caused considerable delay, and launch windows came and went whilst the space razor rusted in its hangar. Meanwhile, others had designs on the Moon. The Russians had not been idle and in 1968 they launched their own test probe, which successfully used depilatory cream to remove hair from a three mile wide square on the dark side of the Moon. The news caused panic at NASA, who realised that they could not afford to wait any longer. The space razor was clearly a non-starter, and so they had to fall back on their secondary plan - a manned mission to the Moon by astronauts equipped with lawn mowers. But what would be the best sort of mower to use on the lunar surface? Experts pondered over this question for weeks, and specialist astro-gardeners were brought in to consider all the options. Electric mowers would require heavy fuel cells, which would take up valuable space in the lunar module. Using the oldfashioned, manual 'push-pull' sort of mower would solve that problem - and it would leave a nice stripy pattern on the Moon's surface - but it would perhaps be unreasonable to expect two men to shave the whole of the Moon using this method. Eventually, a solution was decided upon and in 1969 Apollo 11, it's three man crew and two lawnmowers blasted off to the Moon. Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, both being keen gardeners, had been selected to go down onto the surface and do the mowing, whilst the other one who no one remembers would remain in orbit in the command capsule and let them know if they'd missed any 48

bits. That was the theory, anyhow. There has been much discussion over the years about exactly what went wrong. No doubt, whoever was responsible for providing the astronauts with hover mowers believed that they would soon make short work of the task in hand, but in retrospect we can question the wisdom of sending equipment that works by floating on a cushion of air to a place with no atmosphere. When the astronauts returned they were given a hero's welcome, but in fact their mission had been a failure. Subsequent attempts to tackle our hirsute neighbour, carried out in the shadow of this defeat, fared little better. For the Apollo 12 mission, scythes were used to reduce a small area of the Oceanus Procellarum to stubble, but astronomers reported that it quickly grew back again. For the Apollo 13 mission, NASA planned to use a specially converted combine harvester, but an accident en route meant that they had to jettison the cab and drift back home in the bailer. The remaining missions saw a shift away from cutting, and towards waxing, but the results were no more impressive. When the Apollo programme was finally discontinued there was a terrible atmosphere of defeat. Despite all the money and ingenuity that had been poured into the project, the Moon was still as hairy as it had ever been. NASA's efforts had been in vain, and all it had to show for itself was a bunch of rocks. Since then, the whole idea of shaving the Moon has been more or less forgotten about. Ideas are occasionally put forward, but are usually met with apathy or derision. In the late eighties, for example, it was suggested that laser technology developed for the Strategic Defense Initiative could be used to burn bald patches on the surface of the Moon, but the notion was rapidly dismissed as unfeasible. Maybe at some point in the future, when we're more careful and more responsible, we will finally return to the Moon. Recently a Japanese electronics company has suggested that nanotechnology may provide the answer. Thousands of microscopic robots armed with tiny tweezers could pluck the Moon bare in a matter of weeks. Such technology is a long way off at the moment, but not so far that we can't see the possibilities. Who knows, maybe one day in the future our children's children may be the first to look up into the night sky and see a hairless Moon? Now that's something to think about, isn't it? 49

Quickfire Questions

Host: ...and remember kids, don't you go trying that at home. Okay then, it's time once again for that part of the show that we call 'Quickfire Questions' in which we quiz a famous celebrity for a minute about their latest project. This week's guest is the renowned novelist Brendan Kitts. A big hand please! Hello Brendan. Brendan Kitts: Hello. Host: And Brendan's going to be telling us all about his new book. So if you're ready Brendan, your minute starts... Now! Okay, so your latest book 'A Rocketful of Stardust' is described as a scathing attack on popular media. Am I right? Brendan Kitts: Stardust'.

Yes, it's... it's actually called 'A Pocketful of

Host: Wonderful. So it's a sci-fi novel, huh, Brendan? And are there many rockets featured in the book? Brendan Kitts: No, no, you've got it wrong. It's called 'A Pocketful of Stardust', you see. It's about the modern cult of celebrity and, and Host: Fantastic. I love sci-fi. I'd rather watch a movie, but books are okay. Tell me, are there any pictures in the book, Brendan? Brendan Kitts: - and the audience's gradual lack of attachment to, um - to, um - to modern media. Host: Great. And monsters, Brendan? I bet there are some really 50

horrible monsters, yes? Brendan Kitts: What? No, no... It's not a sci-fi novel. There are no monsters. Host: Oh, but I love monsters. There must be bad guys. You can't write a sci-fi book without bad guys. Brendan Kitts: No! No! It's not a... There are no monsters - not unless you count the media executives who constantly brainwash us with, with, with a diet of trivia and nonsense and pointless ephemera. Host: Whoa! Brainwashing - great! So, these aliens have come to Earth to brainwash us and turn us into mindless simpletons. Cool! Brendan Kitts: There are no aliens! The point I'm making is that we're already mindless simpletons, unable to digest anything more challenging than soundbites, slogans and reality television. My book is about the way in which our literary and dramatic traditions have been eroded in order to Host: Okay then, that's just wonderful. Well, your minute's almost up, Brendan. Just time for one last word from you. Brendan Kitts: What? Host: That'll do. So folks, Brendan's new book 'A Rocketful of Stardust' is out next Monday. Should be a damn good read, and if you're like me you'll be looking forward to the film version. Okay, so time for my next guest. You may know her from Celebrity Abattoir, and Eat Shit, I'm A Celebrity - here to promote her latest dancercise DVD, it's...

51

Sofas are From Mars, Dressing Tables are From Venus A new space race is on following the announcement by furniture giant Ez.Pine that they intend to put a sofa on the surface of Mars by the end of the decade. Ez.Pine - which in the last few years has risen to become one of the leading suppliers of traditional earthbound home furnishings has already achieved the enviable goal of being the first retailer to put furniture in space when it recently launched an armchair into a geo-stationary orbit over Tanzania. The chair, a traditional paisleypatterned recliner, spent two months in orbit before causing a spectacular display as it returned to earth, burning up on re-entry and hitting a postman in Dulwich. Nevertheless, putting furniture on Mars is a rather more ambitious project and so Ez.Pine have enlisted top scientific know-how in the form of TV science show front man James Burke and maths guru Carol Vorderman. “This drastically improves our chances of success,” says Brian Harvey, ex-lead singer with teen sensation East 17 and currently Ez.Pine’s Aeronautics expert and Head of Kitchen Fittings. To infinity and beyond: “We now have a powerhouse team Ez.Pine's first attempt to put a kitchen chair in behind our effort. Carol has been busy space, EZ1,ended in working out the various fuel to weight tragedy when it ratios and navigational vectors necessary exploded on the launch pad. to get a sofa from Earth to Mars, and enable it to touch down safely, whilst James has designed the cushions.” There has been much speculation about exactly why Ez.Pine should want to land a sofa on Mars. Most analysts agree that they would be better to invest in increasing their market share here on 52

Earth before expanding into an extra-terrestrial arena. However, Ez.Pine are keen to emphasise that this is not a purely commercial decision. “We see it as a means to expand the International Space frontiers of science and make an Furniture invaluable contribution to the further One of the most exciting exploration of our solar system,” projects currently Harvey explains. “It is inconceivable underway involves the that the human race will forever be construction of a massive permanent confined to this tiny planet we call manned station in Earth. One day - perhaps in the not too space. Exciting not only distant future - man will finally set foot because it will be constructed entirely of on Mars. It will be an incredible self-assembly furniture, undertaking, a monumental but also because it achievement. The journey will be a involves the coof a number a difficult one, fraught with danger. The operation different nations. astronauts will have to spend months The main body of the inside a cramped capsule, living on station, where the protein supplements and constantly astronauts will live and exposed to cosmic radiation. We want work, is to be of a special to make sure that when they finally constructed heat-resistant plywood touch down on that strange alien world and based on a Swedish and step out for the first time onto the wardrobe design. Three Martian soil, they will have somewhere aluminium coffee tables from the US will comfy to sit down.” generate the solar power More cynical commentators might necessary to operate the claim that this is nothing more than a station and a decorative headboard from publicity ploy. There is certainly no Germany has been doubt that Ez.Pine's profile has suffered added to provide orbital no harm from the announcement, its stability. shares having tripled in value since the Meanwhile China, which news broke. The confidence of the has recently stepped up its own space firm's investors seems well placed if programme, is planning Ez.Pine's past record is anything to go to launch its own facility, by. Their previous projects have seen which will boast twice capacity, a nuclear them successfully airlift a kitchen the powered death ray and cabinet to Cuba, drag a desk to the stronger glue. North Pole and balance an ottoman on Mount Everest. However, this time Ez.Pine may find that their efforts are in 53

danger of being eclipsed by rival retailer IFM, who are pouring all their resources into sending a dressing table to Venus. “We think we have an excellent chance of success,” says press officer Luke Goss, who first rose to fame in the '80s with his band 'Bros'. “The dressing table will be launched as a flat-pack from a secret nuclear powered underwater facility somewhere in the Indian Ocean. Once it reaches the outer atmosphere it will jettison its outer packaging and two photoelectric mirrors will unfold. These mirrors will provide electrical power for its journey to Venus, which should take no more than 28 days.” So far, IFM have already signed up 70s children's presenter Johnny Ball to mastermind their project, and are currently in negotiation with TV gardening person Charlie Dimmock, whom they hope will give them an important edge over their competition. “There are strong indications,” Goss tells us, “that we could find free flowing water on the surface of Venus. This being the case, a water feature is a distinct possibility.” Water feature or not, it looks like IFM's attempt might stand the better chance, if the rumours are anything to go by. The word from the stock exchange is that IFM's team comprises several ex-members of the NASA team The Russian Soyuz 4 freestanding wardrobe who worked on the Strategic Defense has spent a recordInitiative. SDI, or 'Star Wars' as it is breaking 182 months in better known, was the American space, comes in three military's attempt to place a network of different finishes and can be assembled in a furniture in orbit which would be matter of minutes using capable of intercepting foreign missile just a Phillips attacks. The scheme was only a partial screwdriver. success, with only a handful of ionpowered dining chairs and a fission-drive wardrobe being launched. Whilst these could easily destroy an incoming bookcase or dining table before it had chance to do any harm, they could offer no defence against a fleet of laser-guided coffee tables. Nevertheless, the technology would be invaluable to IFM and could well make all the difference. Right now, it's too close to call. What we can say for certain is that the benefits to the successful company will be considerable. And whoever wins, we will never look at self-assembly furniture in the same light again. 54

55

The History of Rock The Beatles

The Beatles may have become the biggest band in the world, but John, Paul, George and Ringo started out as four travelling fishmongers from the sleepy fishing town of Liverpool on England's North West coast. Collectively they travelled the length and breadth of the UK, dispensing the freshest cod, whitebait and haddock to grateful housewives from the back of their colourfully painted Magical Mystery Van. But it wasn't just fish they supplied. Oh no. They did cockles and whelks as well. Oh yes, and they also did Rock and Roll! Influenced by the latest sounds from America, the 'Rollmop Tops', as they came to be known, rearranged, reinterpreted and eventually pioneered a whole new beat. Soon fans were flocking to see them as they toured the country, won over by their boyish good looks, their cheeky Liverpudlian humour, and their excellently priced plaice. It was only a matter of time before they were given the opportunity to make a record, and their first album, Please Please Me, was a top notch poperoony smash - thanks in no small measure to the free portion of hake given away with the first two thousand copies. Subsequent albums were promoted with similar offers: pilchards in brine came free with Beatles for Sale; a selection of prawns were shrink-wrapped to the cover of Help!; and Sergeant Pepper had crabs. The Beatles became regular residents of EMI's Abbey Road Studios, where the smell of creativity was always in the air. Not just creativity, in fact. Other artists always knew that whenever the stale odour of fish swept through the building, it meant that the Beatles were once more pushing back the barriers of rock and roll fishmongering in studio two. 56

They were driven by a sort of restless energy. That same verve and vigour that had once urged them to sell slightly dodgy wet fish to unsuspecting middle-aged housewives from the back of a van, was now leading them in new and more exciting musical directions. From the very outset it had been obvious that they were different from the majority of their peers in the retail trade - even the man in the butcher's had said so - but now their creativity was bursting at the seams. The pressures of running a fish van was becoming too much, and so, during a tour of the US, they decided to call it a day. Their last pitch was outside Candlestick Park in San Francisco, where they sold three turbots to a man called Barry. Returning home, the Beatles sold their van to invest in a new fish restaurant in Soho. It was a bold new direction for the group, but ultimately it was doomed to failure, as Paul McCartney explains: "What we wanted to do was open a new kind of fish restaurant. A restaurant founded on the ideals of the sixties - community, opportunity, brotherhood and a wide selection of exotic sauces. But we were very naïve. Oh, we knew all about fish, there's no doubting that. John knew more about bream than any man of his generation, and what George couldn't tell you about salmon simply wasn't worth knowing. As for Ringo, his tuna impressions made him an overnight star, and are still talked about today in parts of Finland, where the nights are long and they haven't got cable. But we weren't really businessmen. Sure, we knew all about pocketing change, and understood the value of a well placed thumb on a scale, but when it came to managing a restaurant we were all at sea. The trouble is, when people see you floundering like that - no pun intended - well, they're quick to nip in and take advantage. And we were taken advantage of something rotten. People would just come in, order fish, then leave without paying for it. Usually they'd take the cutlery as well, sometimes the salt and pepper, occasionally the tables, the chairs and even the pictures off the wall. We were gutted. Literally." The Beatles suddenly found that their company was haemorrhaging money at an alarming rate. Drastic measures were needed to remedy the situation, so business managers were called in. They decided that the best way of preventing property and cash from going missing was to nail the doors shut. However, the pilferers were not to be deterred, and built an elaborate network of tunnels beneath the restaurant so that stolen goods could be spirited 57

away without anyone even realising it. The group finally recognised that something had to be done when Ringo was stolen. Police were alerted and a nation-wide manhunt ensued. George Harrison eventually found him at a jumble sale in Cambridge. The big nosed drummer was hungry, confused, but relatively unscathed, and a snip at only 11s 4d. Controversially, the decision was taken to abandon the fish restaurant and turn it into a laundrette. Although it was seen as a risky move at the time, it turned out to be a tremendous success, and 'Beatleclean' is still in business today. But if the group failed to make ripples in the business world, their music more than made up for it. Perhaps characteristically, their most influential and experimental work came as a result of adverse circumstances. For some time, musicians and technicians at Abbey Road had complained of the overpowering stench of fish from the Beatles' studio. EMI bosses were under pressure to remedy the situation, but didn't want to offend their most lucrative artists. And so, for a while, they got into the habit of dropping hints wherever and whenever they could: hanging air fresheners in corridors, leaving deodorant in the studio, and so on. The Beatles, however, failed to get the message until one young executive, driven to desperation by the pong, forsook any attempt at tact and told John Lennon that he stank like a trawlerman's butt crack. And so the Beatles reluctantly agreed that, henceforth, they would record on the roof. Happily, once they were out in the open, they felt a sense of freedom, and were better able to experiment with their music. Most of the Beatles' later psychedelic output was recorded on various rooftops in and around London, as they battled with gales, downpours, hailstorms and the terrifying and everpresent threat of pigeon shit bombardment. Indeed, they felt so at home up there, that they rarely ever came down. They had a network of walkways built, leading from rooftop to rooftop, so they could wander the length and breadth of the capital, without ever having to set foot on the pavements below. But whilst it was undoubtedly their most creative time, it was also the beginning of the end for the Beatles. Cut off from the rest of the world, the inevitable tension inside the group began to grow, spiralling out of control. Their final album (Abbey Road, initial copies of which came with a free commemorative mahogany lobster) was recorded on top of the Beatleclean building in just ten 58

minutes, and subsequently elongated in the studio by physically stretching the tape. The Beatles went their separate ways. John Lennon forgot all about fish and moved to New York where he surrounded himself with small mammals and the occasional lizard. Paul McCartney went on to have a very successful solo career as a heating engineer, regularly fixing boilers in front of capacity crowds in stadiums all over the world. George Harrison stayed on the rooftops, singing ancient European sea shanties for lost mariners. And Ringo currently runs a jellied eel stall in Camberwell, where he does a roaring trade at the weekends. None of this is true, by the way.

59

Not Funny

Where does a joke come from? Is it the finely crafted synthesis of opposing ideas, set in motion by a divine spark of insight? Is it the outlandish juxtaposition of the unfamiliar with the commonplace; the absurd with the everyday? Or is it just some crap about bouncing sheep? Well, according to Professor Jez Moonbeam, comedy is something that occurs spontaneously all around us at a sub-atomic level. Professor Moonbeam is a curious character. Whilst he is well known within his immediate neighbourhood for being 'a bit of a crank', in wider scientific circles he has made no impression at all. The lack of evidence in support of his claims of academic honours have led unkind critics to conclude that his qualifications are purely the result of his own highly active imagination, rather than a distinguished career on the frontiers of science. During the sixties his pioneering pharmaceutical research briefly brought him to the attention of the general public. Unfortunately, it also brought him to the attention of the police, who confiscated many of his 'experiments' and persuaded him to pursue more acceptable avenues of study. Since that time he has worked alone on a number of increasingly bizarre and disappointingly unsuccessful projects. Nevertheless, when he wrote and invited us to a demonstration of his new machine for measuring 'Spontaneous Joke Formation' we were too intrigued to turn him down. Our first surprise came when we realised that the address Professor Moonbeam had given us was not some high-tech lab or busy workshop, but a small semi-detached house on the outskirts of Walsall. And it wasn't easy to find. Once we had reached the 'Maple Leaf Estate' we were quickly swallowed up amongst a confusion of apparently identical streets, cul-de-sacs and 'crescents', in which every broken streetlight, vandalised phone box and burnt60

out litter bin looked much the same as the next. With a crudely drawn map - hastily copied from the Yellow Pages onto the back of an envelope - we did our best to zero in on our destination, but after passing the same dog turd for the fourth time (we knew it was the same one because of the distinctive flourish at the trailing end) we finally swallowed our pride and stopped to ask for directions. It was getting dark by the time we parked up under the big oak tree at the end of 'Yew Tree Drive' and the natives were beginning to look at us with a ravenous gleam in their eyes. Professor Moonbeam's residence managed to appear even more distressed than the other houses in the row, and when he answered the door we were amused to find him wearing slippers and a lab coat flecked with three months' worth of TV dinners. He glanced distractedly up and down the street, as if concerned that he was being observed, then bid us enter and asked us to be as quiet as possible, because his mother was asleep in the front room and she didn't approve of visitors. Being cautious to avoid the creaking boards on the staircase, we followed the Professor up to his bedroom, which apparently also doubled as his laboratory. “Comedy!” he exclaimed, eyes sparkling with excitement as he gently closed his bedroom door behind us. He motioned us to take a seat. The room was small, fusty and every available space appeared to be cluttered up with books, magazines, records and strange items of scientific and electronic paraphernalia. The only chair present was piled high with copies of New Scientist, so we cleared a space on the bed and tried to ignore the clamminess of the sheets. “What is comedy?” the Professor asked us, eyes wide and bubbling with barely concealed excitement. He nudged aside a stack of Hawkwind LPs and perched himself precariously on top of a small table. “It's indefinable,” he answered, making grand, theatrical sweeping gestures with his arms. “Transient, intangible, and yet somehow it binds us all in one great big cosmic joke.” At this point he leaned forward slightly and studied us with a wry, knowing twinkle in his eye. “Hey, you guys know just where I'm coming from, don't you?” We nodded. We knew exactly where he came from. He came from Walsall and we felt that this explained an awful lot. He smiled, and at this point he somehow felt it was necessary to wink. “Beautiful,” he said and, having leaned forward just a little 61

too far, he slipped from the table and hit the floorboards with a heavy thump. Unfazed, he stood up and continued as if nothing had happened. “But just think,” he said in hushed, conspiratorial tones, “what if we could really understand comedy? What if we could define it, quantify it, harness it?” He stabbed dramatically at the air and his pointed finger dislodged the bookshelf above him. He waited sombrely for the waterfall of Terry Pratchet novels to stop splashing down, and then continued. “Well,” he said, doing his best to imbue his voice with some measure of gravitas, “I have done just that.” He suddenly sank to his knees. We thought he had fallen again, but then he dived under the bed and started to rummage around. He emerged even more dishevelled than before and he was holding the most remarkable contraption. To our untrained eyes it looked like an explosion of pipes and cables covered in fluff. “This, gentlemen,” he announced, “is how I did it - behold, the Moonbeam Virtual Joke Engine.” A gasp travelled around the room, like an audio version of a Mexican wave. Not, I'm afraid, occasioned by the sight of his extraordinary device, but by the fact that this was the first time we had ever heard anyone use the word 'behold' without being ironic. “Beautiful, isn't it?” Professor Moonbeam said and, had we paused at that moment to dim the lights, I felt sure we should have seen him literally glowing with pride. As it was, the dirty brown illumination of the room's grimy sixty-watt light bulb was sufficient to reveal that the Professor's 'Joke Engine' fell somewhat short of 'beautiful'. On arrival we had been open to the possibility that the fundamental laws of physics might indeed be shattered in the back bedroom of a rundown semi in the Midlands. But when we saw that machine, cobbled together from what appeared to be cardboard, parcel tape and various other items of domestic refuse, these hopes began to wane. “Hey, I know what you're thinking,” the Professor said, still beaming, and we couldn't help but notice that he appeared to have jam in his hair. “You're wondering how it works.” Close. We were wondering if it worked. We were also wondering if we could still get home in time for the football. “Well, it's very simple,” Professor Moonbeam said. He carefully set his machine down on the table, then sat on it. “It all came about as a result of my research into the mechanics of humour,” he 62

explained. He stood up again to brush bits of his Joke Engine off his backside. He didn't seem too perturbed but then, by the look of it, we guessed that the machine had been sat on rather a lot. “The first thing I did,” he continued as he endeavoured to reassemble the crumpled device, “was to break down a joke into its component parts - premise, tag line, etcetera. Then I took these individual joke sections and split them up into smaller pieces. And I continued to separate the segments until I arrived at the smallest, indivisible unit - the joke particle, the very building blocks of all humour.” It was at this point that we became truly fascinated. The Professor's notion of a 'joke particle' was wonderfully beguiling, but we were considerably more intrigued by his attempts to incorporate a peanut butter sandwich into his reassembled machine. The sandwich had not originally been one of its components, but we simply didn't have the heart to tell him. “And this particle,” the Professor maintained, “the 'jokon particle', as I call it, is present in every single joke in the world. Even some of Bob Hope's gags have been known to contain it. Amazing, huh?” We were amazed to the point of incredulity. We were also quite disappointed when Professor Moonbeam gave up with the sandwich and started to eat it. “Quite, but it's not as amazing as my second discovery,” the Professor continued excitedly, spitting breadcrumbs at us. “I found out that these jokon particles are constantly being created all around us, but they exist for only a fraction of a nanosecond before they disappear. They are, if you like, just little bubbles of possibility in the fabric of space -time; virtual one-liners that writhe and seethe in a sea of quantum probability. The universe is like a giant comedy Jacuzzi, just waiting to be tapped.” Professor Moonbeam finished his sandwich and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Then he wiped his sleeve on his trouser leg. “And that is exactly what the Joke Engine does.” He proudly flung out his arm to gesture to his machine and simultaneously swept a vase off the top of the adjacent chest of drawers, straight into the waste paper bin. “It captures these virtual jokons at the moment they are created and funnels them into the joke reservoir. The more jokons you collect, the funnier the joke. Gather round and I shall demonstrate.” We jumped off the bed and moved forward. Professor 63

Moonbeam walked around to the other side of the machine, got his feet entwined in the rug and fell, his chin ricocheting off the edge of the table as he went down. After a brief pause he climbed shakily to his feet, one hand massaging his bruised jaw, the other probing the livid gash that had appeared above his left eye. He searched around for something to mop up the blood, and found a newspaper from which he tore a fragment and pressed it to his forehead. “Now, I must warn you,” he said, in quiet, slightly stunned tones, “this machine produces raw, untreated, primordial comedy. It may not be quite what you're used to.” Professor Moonbeam removed the newspaper from his cut, leaving tattered shreds still clinging to the congealed blood, and we couldn't help but notice the unmistakable impression of the word 'shocker' written backwards across his forehead in newsprint. He moved to perform one last check of his machine and inadvertently caught the pocket of his lab coat on the corner of the table. It tore open and an assortment of paperclips, drawing pins and individually wrapped sherbet lemons rained down onto the floor. Unconcerned, Professor Moonbeam satisfied himself that everything was in order, then reached down and flicked a switch - which came away in his hand. There followed a colossal gurgling noise. This, it turned out, came from the central heating system, which had coincidentally chosen this moment to turn itself on. As for the Joke Engine, it just sort of fizzled faintly and there was the suggestion of a weak glow from somewhere within. Nevertheless, Professor Moonbeam seemed quite pleased with it. “What the machine does is to create powerful electromagnetic forces within the vacuum chamber here,” the Professor explained. He took a pen from his top pocket and used it to point out the relevant component, which looked remarkably like an old marmalade jar. “And if you look over here,” he moved, slipped on some of the sherbet lemons underfoot and down he went again. This time he took a little longer to resurface and when he did he 64

was sporting another cut. This one was above his right eye and together with the original injury it gave him the impression of having two devilishly arched blood-red eyebrows. He groaned to himself as he rubbed his throbbing skull and, when he removed his hand, the smudged newsprint now appeared to read the word 'snooker'. It had also acquired an exclamation mark, formed by the fortuitous arrangement of a series of drawing pins embedded in his forehead. “What?” the Professor said faintly and he twisted around, searching the empty space behind him, a bewildered look upon his face. When we asked if he was okay to proceed, he seemed to notice us for the first time. “Oh yes!” he replied, and then with increasing excitement. “Oh yes, yes, of course! Yes, no problem! Oh blimey, I should say so, yes, yes!” There was a brief pause. Professor Moonbeam looked as though he was about to fall and we decided that we would let him, since the floor was so obviously the best place for him. But then he suddenly shivered, like a wet dog shaking itself dry, and he seemed to return to his senses. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Now where were we? Where am I? What's going on here?” We pointed to the machine, and he seemed to need no further prompting. “Oh good grief, yes, and no mistake!” He searched around for his pen, which he had lost during the fall, and finally found it embedded deep in the soft tissue of his inner arm. He pulled it out with a horrible sucking noise and used the bloodied tip to point to the central core of his machine. “Now this, you see is the main power unit of the machine. It needs to generate terrifically powerful magnetic fields, and so it requires a very high voltage. It's very important, for your own safety, that you keep clear of it.” We were all surprised when the metal cap suddenly flew off the top of Professor Moonbeam's pen and lodged itself within the machine. The Professor carefully reached in to retrieve it... and he had almost got it as well, when the trailing sleeve of his coat brushed against a bare connection. There was a bang and a flash, and once the smoke had cleared we saw that the Professor was wearing an extremely rueful expression on his face. The entire left side of his body was blackened with soot. “Yes, well,” he said, “maybe I'll get it later.” He blinked a couple of times and shook his head. “Can anybody else hear a 65

ringing noise?” he asked. We couldn't. The Professor, however, seemed to be totally distracted. His eyes flickered briefly, like butterfly wings, and a soft, barely perceptible mutter came from his lips. After a few moments we realised that he was gently singing the chorus from 'Silver Machine' to himself. We nudged him and he came back to us with a sudden start. “Hindquarters!” He suddenly looked distinctly puzzled. “I'm sorry about that,” he said. “I seem to have just said the word 'hindquarters' for no good reason. Anyway, it's very, very, very, very, very important that you make sure you keep clear. I don't believe I can stress that strongly enough.” He gestured to the machine again, although this time he did it from a distance of about three feet. “Now,” he said, raising his voice to a shout. “These powerful electromagnetic lemons grab hold of the particles and splodge them apart. Whoosh!” Lemons? We queried his usage of the word, but the Professor brushed our questions aside. “Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, without a...well, probably,” he continued. “Just as these virtual particles form, it all goes whoosh, bang, splatsky! It's like a... like a... like a... It's like tempting a little mousey with a piece of cheese. Here little mousey! Here little mousey! Look at this lovely piece of cheese.” Much to our concern, the Professor then squatted down on all fours and proceeded to make plaintive squeaking noises. We were even more concerned when we noticed that his sleeve was smouldering, but he was oblivious to all our efforts to warn him. “Squeak, squeak, squeaky squeak squeak,” said the Professor, quite matter-of-factly. The he stood up suddenly. “Of course, this only ever happens on Wednesdays. Now, if we take the next turn on the left we soon find we come to a swampy region of North Wales that was inhabited by Mrs Edna Womble as recently as the late Triassic period.” By now, thick black smoke was pouring from Professor Moonbeam's sleeve. The first flickers of flame started to lick at the grimy material as we watched on with dread. Then a fierce hammering on the bedroom door made us almost jump out of our skin. 66

“Jeremy!” came a harsh woman's voice from outside. “Jeremy! Have you got people in there?” Professor Moonbeam seemed oblivious to the voice. Indeed, Professor Moonbeam seemed oblivious to everything, not least of which being the fact that he was now on fire. “Some of them don't make it, of course,” he babbled on, regardless. “Best thing to do with them is put 'em on sticks and use them to prop open the fire exits. I've never been to Kenya myself. Funny that.” He suddenly stopped and sniffed the air curiously. “Can anyone smell burning?” Suddenly the door burst inwards and the harsh woman appeared in person. “Well, I never!” she cried, looking horrified. “How many times have I told? If you want to set fire to yourself, go out in the garden and do it. It ruins the curtains and the smoke lingers for weeks.” She turned her attention on us, and there was a look of pure malice in her eyes. “And I suppose you put him up to it, yes?” This, we thought, was our cue to leave. We made our apologies, squeezed past her and almost ran to the car. As we drove past the house we caught our last glimpse of the Professor, standing in the front garden, looking extremely glum as the flames licked around his ears. All in all, we were really quite glad to be on our way. Professor Moonbeam has written to us since. He was quite apologetic and hoped that we didn't feel our visit had been a complete waste of time. Furthermore, he explained that he had made a number of important adjustments to his machine and that it was now performing better than ever. He very kindly extended the invitation of a return visit to witness his new improved Joke Engine in its full glory, possibly on a Thursday evening when his mother would be out playing bingo. We have yet to reply.

67

The Advanced Comedy Modulation Emitter

In addition to his Joke Engine, Professor Moonbeam has extended the principal of spontaneous joke formation to the creation of a revolutionary new 'non-lethal' weapon. Together with his close friend and associate, Lazlo Windchime-Monkeybush, he has developed what can best be described as a 'comedy ray gun'. The Advanced Comedy Modulation Emitter is effective up to a range of twenty yards and according to the Professor it can literally paralyse the subject with bouts of laughter lasting up to an hour. “This is the realisation of a lifelong dream for me,” the Professor said. “Hey, I remember when I was at school back in the sixties we would often sit around in the common room and talk about how war was really bad and how it would be really great if we could invent some kind of 'love gun'. Well, now I think I've gone and done the next best thing.” It's a nice idea, but after taking a closer look we weren't too sure. Firstly, the drawing lacks a certain amount of technical detail. Secondly, the patent is registered under the name ‘Wile E Coyote’, which suggests that the Professor's mind may have been elsewhere. But, most damningly, what really throws doubt over the project is its title. Whilst 'Advanced Comedy Modulation Emitter' may be a concise and accurate description of the device, we were not filled with confidence when we realised that the acronym appeared to be 'ACME'.

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*@%£!

try looking up 'twatty flaps' in your spellchecker and see what you get. Trust me, we won't succeed at producing real machine intelligence until we finally come up with a toaster that can tell you to piss off."

What is the difference between man and machine? What separates human intelligence from the mechanical logic of the computerised mind? What, if anything, makes human consciousness unique within the infinite universe? Is it the ability to think intuitively, to make random and apparently irrational decisions? Is it the imagination that allows us to bridge the gap between the commonplace and the possible? Is it the ability to love, to feel compassion, or any of that Star Trek stuff? Well, according to Professor Brinkley Tramlines, the difference between man and mechanism can be defined very easily - it's the ability to swear.

ZEBRAS Wildlife experts in Kenya have come up with a barcode scanner that can read zebras, and hope that this will prove to be of great assistance in their ongoing programme of conservation. The equipment has been leased from a company that supplies a leading supermarket chain, and technicians are currently working to adapt the software to its new use. The project has been proceeding well, but there remain one or two technical hiccups; most of the zebras read fine, but there are still a few stubborn animals that scan through as 'Freshly Tinned Garden Peas - Half Price'.

"Too fucking right," says Professor Tramlines. "These bastard computers don't know crap about the real world. They're all locked up safely in twatting laboratories, working out frigging chess problems. Arseholes! They haven't got a sodding clue about the kind of shit that real people have put up with. And they say that one day computers will run the world - Ha! Bollocks to that. You 69

Aura realignment by post? Yes, it's true! Now you can have your personal aura re-tuned by our professional aura management team, without having to leave the comfort of your own home! We've all experienced days when we feel low, sluggish and irritable. All too often we simply put it down to a virus, lack of sleep or gastroenteritis. But the chances are that it's probably the result of a tainted or misfiring aura. Well help is on hand at last. Our new Rainbow Brite® replenishment therapy is guaranteed to rejuvenate and reinvigorate tired and fading auras, often restoring up to 80% of their original lustre. Interested? Well, it couldn't be simpler. If your aura is out of whack, simply pop it into a padded envelope*, enclose your address and a cheque for £29.99, and send it to: Auras By Post PO Box 77G45 Birmingham Yes, Birmingham UK Ask about some of our other services: Chakras repositioned (first 3 chakras free) Egos rinsed and fluffed Astrological sign exchange service Astral travel planner - how to avoid the holiday traffic Crystal healing - send us your broken crystals We also have a spirit redirection service for lost souls.

*Registered m ail is recommended. We cannot accept responsibility for any auras lost, dam aged or cursed w hilst in transit. Important Note: Rainbow Brite® process can cause som e shrinkage. Not suitable for pe ts.

70

There and Back Again by Elastic

Our deepest sympathies to Mr Rodney Tarzan after failing in his gallant attempt to go around the world and back again on elastic. Mr Tarzan, a self-made industrialist from Tyne and Wear is the CEO of Tarzan Elastics, and it was in order to demonstrate the remarkable properties of his company's product that he arranged this extraordinary scheme. Over a period of eighteen months, Mr Tarzan's company produced a single piece of elastic measuring twelve thousand miles long. Mr Tarzan was confident that his elastic would stretch to a length of at least twenty-six thousand miles - more than enough to allow him to encircle the globe. Well, that was the theory. And indeed, his journey began quite well. With one end of the elastic tethered to a tree in Middlesborough, the other firmly anchored to his belt, Mr Tarzan set off amidst much pomp and ceremony as local well-wishers gathered to send him on his way. The first leg of his trip took him by ferry to Rotterdam. From then on it was a simple enough matter to travel down through Europe to Istanbul, then on through the Middle East. He encountered one or two bureaucratic hurdles in Pakistan, but once the relevant paperwork had been completed, he was able to proceed quite speedily through China, finally reaching Japan. By this time Mr Tarzan was starting to feel the strain - quite literally. The elastic was beginning to tighten and progress was becoming measurably more difficult as each day went by. Nevertheless, Mr Tarzan was still in high spirits as he boarded a liner bound for the Americas. It was not to be a pleasant trip for him. The constant tugging of the elastic day and night was beginning to wear him down. By the time the boat was midway across the Pacific, he found that he had to spend all day clinging 71

tightly to the ship's rail to prevent himself being snatched backwards. Eventually, the vessel reached Hawaii for a planned stopover, and it was here that disaster struck. As he was going ashore, Mr Tarzan slipped on the wet walkway and was plucked from his feet. He banged his head several times on the ship's keel before being dragged back across the ocean at gathering speed. By the time he reached Tokyo it is estimated he was doing something like eight hundred miles an hour. Reports of him streaking, missilelike, through China made international headlines and caused the Chinese authorities to scramble three fighter jets. At this point Mr Tarzan blacked out and only remembers brief snippets of the remainder of his journey, including scuffing his knees on the Alps and getting vast tracts of the Black Forest lodged in his undergarments. He was tracked by radar crossing into British airspace in the early hours of the morning, heading back to his starting point in Middlesborough. Unfortunately, he didn't stop there but kept on going. In fact, it looked as if there would be no stopping him, but then as luck would have it his flight was arrested when he collided with a gannet over the North Atlantic. He was picked up by a fishing trawler shortly afterwards, just off the Icelandic coast. It wasn't the most successful of ventures, but plucky Mr Tarzan is keen to make another attempt. He is quite convinced that the journey is possible, that his calculations are correct and that his elastic is up to the job. However, he does concede that next time he will need to invest in some better shoes.

72

Motorcycle Display Teams

Motorcycle display teams - the finest example of skill, precision and discipline to which the human race can aspire? Or just a bunch of blokes, with nothing better to do, twatting about on bikes? Whilst there is no shortage of evidence for the latter, the fact remains that the motorcycle display team is a tradition which stretches back many, many years, having its origins amidst the horrors of the First World War. When Ferdinand Von Zeppelin built the first motorbike back in 1884, using a complex system of levers and pulleys, he could have had no idea how his invention would revolutionise the world of transport. In fact, history records that he said as much to his neighbour. Apparently he emerged excitedly from his garage, leaned over the garden fence and shouted joyously, “Here, Mr Johnson - I've just invented the motorbike! …Although, to be honest with you, I've absolutely no idea how it's going to revolutionise the world of transport.” But it was, and it did, irrevocably... By which I mean that it revolutionised the world of transport. Whereas, at one time, a trip from Hamburg to Leipzig would have taken six days on horseback, those same horses could now make the journey in a tenth of the time, thanks to the new motorcycle. Indeed, on the highways and byways around the Rhine Valley it became quite a common sight to see horses grinning stupidly as they bombed along at speeds in excess of sixty miles an hour, with the wind in their manes and flies in their teeth. Pretty soon, however, those horses started to become a bit of a nuisance. It was clear that they had scant regard for the safety of other road users and tore about with wild abandon, causing mayhem and chaos wherever they went. Arrogant and abusive, they displayed total contempt for authority and when challenged would 73

simply extend a hoof and whinny a string of profanities. It was when they began to get together in gangs that the powers-that-be realised they had a serious problem on their hands. Going under dubious names like 'The Black Ponies' and 'Hell's Donkeys', they would congregate at the weekend in popular coastal resorts to smash up park benches, harass decent folk and blatantly not wear crash helmets. Something had to be done. Something was done. A commission was set up to look at the problem and, after carefully considering a number of options to regulate and control the equine use of motorcycles, they eventually settled on a vigorous campaign of shooting and hanging. The horses soon got the message and started to behave themselves. Many of them took up roller hockey - a strange hobby for a horse to adopt, as they rarely prove to be any good at it, but we needn't let that concern us right now. Elsewhere in the world, horses were banned from riding bikes altogether and the new machines were being put to more novel uses. In Hungary motorbikes were used to great effect to drive textile mills - replacing hovercraft, which had been used with varying results up until that point. In Canada, bikes were mashed up and fed to small children, providing a surprisingly protein-rich substitute for traditional baby foods. And in Australia they were used to play table tennis. In Britain, the motorbike gradually became a familiar part of everyday life. It wasn't long before every household had one, even if no one was entirely certain what to do with them. But all that was to change in 1914 when the dark cloud of conflict settled over Europe. War! What is it good for? Even in Scrabble it will rarely earn enough points to turn the tide of a game. Nevertheless, when Prime Minister Harold Macmillan returned from Reykjavik - after negotiations with Mussolini had fallen through - and announced that Great Britain was now at war with Portugal, it set in motion a series of events that would change the way we looked at motorbikes forever. Once war had been declared, the War Ministry wasted no time in commandeering every tractor they could find, organising the mass manufacture of pointy sticks and recalling as many motorbikes as possible so that they could be melted down and turned into commandos. Most people were quite glad to see them go, as they never really saw the point of having the noisy, smelly things 74

cluttering up their houses in the first place. However, as the bikes were being stockpiled, ready to be tossed into the furnaces, one bright young spark from Scotland called Alexander Graham Bell phoned the ministry to tell them that he thought the motorbike could prove to be a valuable weapon if used properly. The bigwigs in Whitehall were so impressed by his accent that they invited him down to London to put his plan into action. And so Bell and his team spent the next few months fitting bayonets to all the bikes and shipping them out to the troops. However, the motorbikes proved to be much too unwieldy and cumbersome to be used for hand-tohand fighting and were soon ditched in favour of scooters, which could be more easily stowed away in kit bags. Alexander Graham Bell was subsequently ridiculed by the press, stripped of his position and then shot. Out in France the troops struggled on, utilising the bikes as best they could - principally by catapulting them at their adversaries. Although this didn't inflict many casualties, enemy combatants were so perplexed by the constant barrage of machinery raining down on them that their morale was seriously undermined. Then a lowly cabin boy called Jim Kitchener hit upon a much better use. Young Jim had been a cabin boy for over fifty years and he was well used to the unforgiving ocean currents, the coarse talk of sailors and the feel of the captain's iron heel upon his backside. When he arrived in France he found a distinct shortage of decks to swab, keels to haul and mainbraces to splice, so he put his talents to work for the catering corps and quickly rose to the rank of Lieutenant Spud-Peeler. In this capacity, Jim was more aware than most of the desperate supply situation. Many of the regular routes were impassable and as winter drew near their predicament was getting worse. Jim realised that, whilst trucks and vans were unable to make the journey through woodland and across the churned up fields, motorcycles could cope with such difficult terrain without any problem at all. Jim set about collecting up all the motorbikes that hadn't already been fired at the enemy and arranged convoys to bring in fresh supplies. At first people openly ridiculed Jim and some of them poked him with sticks. Motorbikes, they said, were no way for a man to travel, they were fit only for horses. But then, as the supply situation improved, they began to see the wisdom of Jim's scheme and some of them even stopped spitting in his breakfast. 75

But this situation was not destined to last. One night, when the British were looking the other way, the enemy advanced. Jim and his unit woke the next morning to find themselves besieged. They were in dire trouble. The head cook tried something desperate with a couple of spoons, but it was doomed to failure. Then someone suggested that they took the bikes and tried to make a run for it. If they were lucky, some of them might manage to break through the enemy lines and live to tell the tale. The trouble was they only had five working bikes in their possession - and there were fifteen of them in the unit. Some of them would have to stay behind. Then Jim had an idea how they could all make it... It was ingenious, it was daring, but above all it was such an elegant solution that it simply could not fail. Forming a human pyramid straddling the motorcycles, Jim and his comrades tore across the frozen ground to the tune of five growling engines and a chorus of battlecries, fifteen strong. What the enemy thought as they saw that strange, inhuman shape emerging from the swirling mists, its banshee-like wail splitting the icy air asunder, we can only guess at. What we do know is that many of them dropped their weapons and fled in terror. The few that stood their ground managed to loose off a few rounds, but their shots went wildly astray. The pyramid sailed straight through their startled ranks and kept on going, only stopping when it reached friendly territory. News of this remarkable event spread far and wide. When the Duke of Wellington heard about it, he stopped his game of bowls and proclaimed, “This is our finest hour.” He immediately ordered the formation of fourteen more squadrons of Motorcycle Attack Teams, then went off to Wimbledon where he beat Fred Perry in the third over, by a technical knock out. By the time the First World War finished in 1945, the motorcycle was poised to enjoy a resurgence in popularity. No longer was it a dowdy, functional piece of domestic hardware. To the hip and trendy teenagers of the sixties - and later the fifties - the motorbike was the very epitome of 'cool'. All the youngsters wanted to own one, so that they could belong to one of the motorbike gangs made famous by hip and trendy film stars like Marlon Brandy, Dennis Hooper and Bette Davis. Some of these gangs got quite a reputation for causing trouble and at weekends they would gather in popular coastal resorts, smash up horses, harass old folk and blatantly run over park benches. 76

Today, the importance of the motorbike in recent history is still remembered at fetes and carnivals, where motorcycle display teams from the armed forces, the police or even enthusiastic amateurs pay homage to the ingenuity of young Jim Kitchener. So the next time you are fortunate to witness such a display, try to remember that what you are watching is a remarkable demonstration of skill and a touching tribute to a select group of brave men who laughed in the face of atrocity and secured freedom for the generations to come not just a bunch of tossers who really wanted to be fighter pilots.

77

The International Motorcycle Display Team Chart of Standard Formations Whilst new and innovative displays are being created all the time, they are all variations of the six basic motorcycle formations. The following chart will help you to recognise these formations as you encounter them in and around your local neighbourhood. Formation 1: Classic Kitchener Formation Based on the original WWI formation, this structure offers the greatest stability and is often used to support bridges and monuments. Formation 2: The Reverse Kitchener Used towards the end of the war, when a reversal of fortunes led to shortage of men and a surfeit of bikes. Formation 3: Motorbike Juggling A highly specialised skill, requiring great strength, timing and a sturdy helmet. Skilled jugglers can often handle up to nine bikes at a time. In 1957, legendary Russian bike juggler, Gregor Ivitchovitch managed a record-breaking sixteen, before being killed by a falling Suzuki. 78

Formation 4: The Sleeping Mongoose Based on a traditional yak formation employed by the Chinese during the Pang dynasty. Requires some degree of levitation. Formation 5: Stealth Formation Currently employed by the Royal Artillery. The top section is detachable and is effectively invisible to radar. Formation 6: Elephant Pyramid This formation has no military or strategic value and is rarely used in shows as it is cumbersome, ungainly and causes significant damage to both men and machinery. It is, however, a fairly effective way of transporting elephants across reasonably short distances.

79

Skydiving Following a number of tragic accidents that have befallen innocent holidaymakers on so called 'adventure holidays', the government has ordered an inquiry into standards of safety employed by tour operators. One of the worse offenders has been Ramrod Adventure Holidays. We secured an exclusive interview with the company's founder Milton Ramrod, in which he proved to be remarkably unrepentant.

Milton Ramrod, your company promises 'a skydiving holiday with a difference'. Is that correct? It certainly is. At Ramrod Adventure Holidays we are very proud of the fact that all our package holidays offer something a little different. Our skydiving holiday is one that we are particularly pleased with, and it has proven to be very popular. I believe that the main difference between yours and similar skydiving holidays is that you don't offer parachutes? Essentially, yes. It's skydiving without the parachute - rather a novel twist, don't you think? We provide flippers, facemasks, breathing apparatus - in fact all the safety equipment usually required by divers. Then we take these people up in an aeroplane and push them out. I see. Is it dangerous at all? Dangerous? Good grief no! I've been running this holiday for over fifteen years and I've never been hurt once. Yes, but then you're not the one jumping out of an aeroplane without a parachute, are you? Isn't it dangerous for the people actually doing it?

80

Well I think it stings a bit when they hit the ground. Stings a bit! Mr. Ramrod, I have it on good authority that this activity is extremely dangerous. You might think that. The fact is that while I have been running this offer I've had over four hundred customers and not one single complaint. You've had four hundred and twelve customers to be exact, Mr. Ramrod, and not one of them has survived. Well what do you bloody expect? We take people's money, dress them up like idiots then drop them out of an aeroplane. Of course they're going to die, any fool can see that. But don't you feel any remorse, Mr. Ramrod? Don't you feel guilty about leading innocent members of the public to their deaths? Now look, we've always been very up-front about what we do. In all our advertising literature we make it quite plain that we do not provide a parachute. During training and on several occasions before the final jump we stress this point, and there is ample opportunity for the participants to change their minds. In this event we do, of course, offer a full refund. Well that's as maybe, Mr. Ramrod, but I honestly don't think I'd be tempted to take such a holiday, and I can't see many other people getting involved either. Ah well, you'd be surprised. It's a marvellous way to relax and probably one of the most exhilarating experiences that your money can buy. I'm sure that if you came along to watch one of our 'drops' you'd soon change your mind. I tell you, there's nothing more exciting than the spectacle of forty fully grown men and women plummeting to their deaths at ten metres per second squared, wearing nothing more than a wet suit, a diver's watch and a snorkel. We will be interested to see if the government report adopts a similarly cavalier attitude, and will bring any new developments to you as and when they happen. 81

Professor Jez Moonbeam Invents…

Professor Jez Moonbeam, renowned visionary and part time idiot, brings us the first in a series of innovations designed to make our lives better No 1: Dog Poo with Wheels Dogs are great, oh yeah. And dog poo is great, too. Dog poo is nature's way of emptying dogs, and despite all our advances in science and technology, we still can't come up with a better way of doing it. If it wasn't for dog poo, your dog would just keep getting bigger and bigger until it exploded and showered everyone with shit - and you wouldn't like that, would you? Fido wouldn't exactly be bowled over by the idea, either. Oh yes, dog poo is certainly a beautifully natural and elegant solution to the whole 'dog expansion' problem. But it doesn't half make a mess of your trainers when you stand in it. That's why we are in dire need of an efficient, cost effective dog poo disposal system. To remedy this situation I propose that all dog poo should be fitted with wheels. This will mean that the next time Rover drops one in the street, the natural camber of the road surface will cause it to roll harmlessly into the gutter, where it c an no longer be a hazard to health or an obstruction to traffic. Of course, you can't fit each and every turd with wheels as it emerges from the animal. That would be silly, and I’m not a silly person. So I have come up with an ingenious new food additive, consisting of ball bearings and iron fillings, that will cause the creature's faeces to be ejected with the wheels pre-formed. Ah yes, but - I can hear you asking - what happens when the doggy-do lands on a pavement or a sidewalk, where there is no slope or incline? Won't it just remain where it lands? Well this is the really ingenious bit. I propose a series of powerful electromagnets built into the kerbstones. These will draw the dog mess off the pavement and drop it into the gutter, where it can be 82

safely destroyed. It may seem like an expensive solution to the problem, but I believe that the sight of your local high street alive with little brown missiles scudding backwards and forwards across the walkways is well worth the cost. Trust me, the kids will love it.

83

Fats Porker: Blues Whinger

It was with considerable regret that blues fans learnt yesterday of the sad loss of Fats Porker, who died in the early hours of the morning at his home in Florida. Whilst Fats was never as famous as some of his contemporaries, nor indeed as influential, he was nevertheless reasonably well appreciated by certain sections of the music business and will be missed by several people all around the world. Fats was born Mervyn P Conk in 1926. Like so many other great bluesmen he hailed from one of the deepest parts of the Deep South, a tiny little place called Crappsville. In fact Crappsville was so impoverished and insignificant that it couldn't even claim to be a one-horse town, although the locals did manage to scrape together enough to buy a one eighth share in a pig. Not that this was of any great concern to young Fats. Although much of the surrounding countryside was firmly in the grip of poverty, Fats himself was fortunate enough to be born into one of the largest land-owning families in the state, and spent much of his childhood growing up in a twelve-bedroomed mansion, surrounded by hot and cold flowing money. Such a privileged start in life should have made Fats a very contented child, but this was far from the truth. Fats was always a thoroughly wretched and miserable creature, who rarely gleaned any sort of enjoyment from life. Family friends say that as a baby he wore a perpetual scowl and that he started moaning as soon as he was able to talk. Art Stowe, whose grandmother was a servant for the family during the thirties, recalls that Fats never really wanted for anything. “But in spite of that, old Fats sure was an ornery child,” he says. “He was forever a-moping around the house, moanin' 'bout this, complainin' 'bout that. You could hear his caterwaulin' halfway down the block, wailin' that his egg wasn't done properly, or his 84

bath water was too hot. At that time my folks were living in a burnt out tram fourteen miles from the nearest toilet, and frequently we had nothing else to eat but each other. So, I guess I didn't really have much sympathy for the guy.” At the age of fourteen, doctors finally diagnosed Fats with as having a severe case of the blues. These days such aberrant mental conditions can be cured quite easily by hard drugs or daytime television, but back in those days Ricki Lake hadn't been invented, so instead the family were advised to get young Fats a guitar. Easier said than done, despite the family's wealth. This was the thirties, during the great furniture shortage, and the government had recalled most of the guitars in the country so they could be melted down and turned into sideboards. Nevertheless, Fats' father, Mervyn Conk Snr, learned that a gentleman by the name of Wandering Bill Mulepoker had arrived in Crappsville. Wandering Bill was an itinerant minstrel and spoon bender, who travelled from town to town, earning a few cents by entertaining the local hicks. Conk Snr learned that he was playing down at the Crappsville Spittoon Parlour, and so he got together a bag full of cash and went down there to buy his guitar from him. Unfortunately, Wandering Bill refused to part with the instrument, claiming that it was of sentimental value. Mervyn Conk Snr was not the sort of man who was accustomed to taking no for an answer, and so he went and found a couple of roughnecks and offered the cash to them instead, in return for giving Wandering Bill a sound working over and stealing the guitar. The next morning, Mervyn Conk Snr presented his son with the battered and bloodstained instrument. Fats greeted it with his customary surly indifference. It was, at first glance, a pretty sorry looking item. It only had two strings, the neck was splintered and held together with duct tape, one of the tuning nipples was broken and the sound flaps were riddled with dry rot. Nevertheless, Fats' initial curiosity grew into fascination for the instrument, then finally blossomed into love. He named the guitar 'Mary Lou' and he took it everywhere with him. It became more than just an instrument, it became a friend, a lifelong companion. And with practice, determination and bull-headed obstinacy, Fats somehow learned how to coax something approaching music from this pile of junk. It was during those years that Fats perfected his unique performing style. “I seem to remember,” Art Stowe recalls, “some 85

music industry guy once called Fats' music 'one long heartfelt melancholy sigh'. Now, that sure is a pretty description but I'm guessing that feller had something mighty wrong with his ears, 'cos it certainly don't bring to mind the whining and snivelling that I remember. Fats would take to wanderin' round the house, strumming that old guitar, a-screamin' and a-bawlin' and drivin' his poor folks to distraction. Pretty soon they were wishin' they'd never given him that damn guitar.” With little encouragement from his parents, Fats began to feel more and more solitary and unappreciated, and it drove him to spend more and more time practising with Mary Lou. This isolation was a common theme amongst the songs he began to write at the time. He was lapsing deeper into misery and despair, and soon the luxury and ease of his life began to stifle him. He had no option but to leave the family home and go and live in a swamp. It was a considerable culture shock for young Fats. Life was hard in the swamp. Shelter was scarce, food was damp and he was constantly being bitten in the ass by alligators. But Mary Lou would see him through. Not only did his trusty two-stringed guitar keep him company though those hot, humid nights, but she also provided the means by which Fats could put food on his table. Every day Fats would trudge seven miles to the nearest highway and stand at the crossroads playing the blues for passing farmers. There was no money to be had, but appreciative passers-by would often reward his efforts with gifts of pork bellies, moonshine or grits. He was singing for his supper, and it was his first indication that he might be able to forge himself a career as a bluesman. It was a time of his life that he would remember with great fondness in the song 'Standing at the Crossroads Playing the Blues in Return for Pork Bellies, Moonshine and Grits'. Fats never released the song as a single himself, but it was later made famous when Eric Clapton covered it in the early seventies. Fats adjusted quickly to his new life in the swamp, and although it would be wrong to describe his time there as 'happy', it's fair to say that he would have been content to live out the rest of his days there. Sadly, that was not to be. The economy of the area was beginning to see a distinct upturn and many new industries were moving into the region. The swamp was bought up by a European furniture wholesaler, who drained it and built an open plan warehouse unit. Fats suddenly found himself homeless. 86

Fats had no option but to hit the road. With his faithful Mary Lou by his side, he moved from town to town, getting the odd job here and there, or playing the blues in return for lodgings and food. He was like a one-man wave of misery sweeping across the country, until finally he pitched up in Memphis where he was fortunate enough to land a job pushing broom at a greetings card company. After six months he had pushed it over two hundred miles and when the police finally caught up with him they did him for broom theft. Fats was sentenced to three months in prison - and these turned out to be he happiest three months he'd known since he had left the swamp. He loved the sense of hopelessness, the despondency and the buckets. The experience gave him further inspiration for his music, most apparent in the classic 'Slop Out Blues', which was to become a live favourite. It was also whilst he was in prison that he had his first fortuitous meeting with Buddy Scrote. Scrote was an old lag and had been in and out of prison many times before. He even had his own parking space. When Fats Porker first met him he was doing time for marrying an underage dog. He knew the prison routine - the people to know, the people to avoid, the best places to eat - and he was able to help Fats through his first few difficult months. More importantly, Scrote was a semi-professional musician with contacts in the industry and after their release he took Fats along to a local recording studio called Swampdiscs. Studio boss Elmore 'Rubber' Johnson was not too impressed with Fats' musical talent, but he was considerably more interested in his previous experience as a cleaning operative. He offered Fats a six-month contract and a brush. Basically, the deal was that Fats would be responsible for keeping the studio clean and in return he would be able to utilise the facilities when they weren't being used by other artists. Whilst this seemed like the ideal opportunity, Swampdisc's studio was actually much in demand and the time available to Fats was limited. Nevertheless, in those days recording techniques were simpler and the process of laying down a track was much faster. Fats actually managed to record his first album in just twenty minutes - ten minutes shorter than the actual running time of the record itself. When he finally presented Elmore Johnson with his finished recordings, Johnson was so impressed that he agreed to 87

release the album on his own label entirely for free - in return for one hundred per cent of the proceeds. Fats agreed and his first single, 'Turkey Neck Stomp', was released in March 1957. The record was not a great success, largely due to its limited availability. In fact, only three copies are known to have been pressed. The follow up single, 'Southern Piles', did noticeably better, and it even managed to get some airplay on a number of local radio stations. This meant that by the time the album came out many blues fans were already familiar with the name Fats Porker. What followed was a brief run of moderately successful singles. Fats Porker began to get something of a reputation and quickly came to the attention of company executives at Columbia Records. They were keen to sign up new, easily exploited acts, and they were very impressed when they heard that Fats Porker was not earning a single cent from his records. They approached him with an offer he couldn't refuse, guaranteeing to triple what Swampdiscs were paying and considerably increase his profile in the marketplace. Effectively, they would still pay him nothing, but they would expose his work to a much larger audience. Fats agreed, and so he and the ever-faithful Mary Lou travelled all the way across the street to Columbia Records. His first single for the label, 'Two O'clock Shits' was a disappointing seller, but notorious in that it was banned in fourteen states. It was the follow up that really put Fats on the map. 'I'm Gonna Love You Till You Pop' proved to be the biggest single of his career, and remained on the Billboard Top Ten for over six months, due to a clerical error. It's still the single by which he is best remembered today. It marked the start of Fats Porker's most successful period. More importantly, it was the first time he teamed up with piano player Long John Boogie - so called because of his habit of recording in his underwear. Long John had gone down with an extreme case of boogie-woogie at the age of six, which had left him in a state of 'rhythmic hypertension'. These rhythms would build up in his body and could easily shake him to pieces if he was not able to vent them on a piano keyboard. Unfortunately, over the years his excessive piano playing had taken its toll on his hands and surgeons had been forced to replace the worn ends of his fingers with lead tips. Fats found he had a great deal in common with the legendary piano player. Long John's unique, crisp playing style combined 88

perfectly with Fats' two-stringed guitar, and he featured on many of Fats' recordings. In return, Fats played on many of Long John's records and was much acclaimed for his contribution to the seminal 'Leadfingers' album. It seemed like everything was going well for Fats, but as is sadly so often the case, the success couldn't last forever. For Fats Porker the dream ended very abruptly. Shortly after the release of his 1965 album 'Another Man's Shoes', Fats returned home from a furniture convention to find Long John in bed with Mary Lou. Horrified and dismayed at being betrayed by both his best friend and his beloved guitar, Fats went out and got his shotgun and fired off two cartridges at the frantically protesting Long John. The first shot missed but the second ricocheted off his lead thumb and went straight though Mary Lou's neck. Neighbours raised the alarm, and when police arrived at the scene minutes later they found a distraught Fats Porker cradling the broken guitar. There was nothing that could be done. Mary Lou was gone and at the subsequent trial Fats was sentenced to six years hard labour for guitaricide. When he was eventually released in 1971 the music scene had moved on. There was a new spirit in the air, a mood of upbeat optimism and there was simply no room for the disconsolate whinging of Fats Porker. Nevertheless, Fats bought himself a new guitar, which he christened Jo Beth. He managed to get the odd gig here and there, but it simply wasn't the same and he soon came to realise that he would never again recapture the soulful, almost spiritual tones of his first love. Fats Porker's music had died when Mary Lou got it in the neck. With nothing else to fall back on, Fats had no choice but to persevere and somehow he managed to scrape by. He even enjoyed a brief return to the spotlight in 1975 when a one-off novelty single became his first record to get to number one. But 'Grumpy Stumpy McPumpy' was nothing more than a lewd comedy song, and ultimately did nothing to restore either his fortunes or his reputation. Similarly disappointing was his attempt four years later to cash in on the disco craze, which saw him release his first album of new material in fourteen years. 'Fats Goes Disco!' only served to damage his credibility even further and the single, 'Disco Up My Funk Hole' failed to chart. Fats was sunk. The gigs dried up completely and he was forced 89

to scrape a living by collecting grit for the local highways department. Then one day he got an unexpected phone call inviting him to make a cameo appearance in a new movie called 'The Blues Brothers'. The film was a cult hit and did much to reawaken the public's interest in Fats Porker. His old albums began to sell, he started to get bookings again and he was even asked to guest on a new album by the Rolling Stones. Then, in 1985, his classic single 'I'm Gonna Love You Till You Pop' was used as the soundtrack to a jeans advert. The song was re-released and the quirky animated video - featuring a Plasticine Fats Porker dancing around on a desert island with a group of singing crabs - helped the single become a smash hit all over again. Not only that, but thanks to a renegotiated contract Fats was at last receiving royalties from his songs, and a subsequent greatest hits album earned him some serious cash. With his new wealth, Fats was at last able to do something he had always dreamed of. He moved to Florida, bought himself a big house, tore it down and built a swamp. And it was here that he was to spend the remainder of his life. During the late eighties and nineties he was occasionally coaxed out of retirement to perform the odd gig or appear on the occasional TV show, but for much of the time he was content to just sit and sulk. Acquaintances say that he spent most of his days in mournful reminiscences of his heyday, and in melancholy memories of Mary Lou, his one true love. Gradually he slipped deeper and deeper into unhappiness and selfpity, turning his back on the outside world and shunning friends and family. There was some talk of a return to music in recent months, and it was even suggested that he might record some new material with Eminem, but this was not to be. Doctors were called to his home early yesterday morning, but by the time they got there it was too late. And the cause of death? Perhaps fittingly for a man of such legendary pedigree, Fats Porker's death certificate records that he died of the blues. He is survived by three dressing tables, two wardrobes and a banjo.

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Fats Porker – Discography ALBUMS Sw am pdiscs LP123H

MOANING FATS (1957)

Colum bia DB3115

GET OFF MY DAMN PORCH (1961)

Colum bia DB3284

YOU AIN'T GETTIN' NOTHIN' (1962)

Colum bia DB3302

LIVE AT CRAWFISH FLATS (1962)

Colum bia DB3535

66 DIPS (1963)

Piccadilly NK22405

SOUTHERN PILES (1963)

Colum bia DB3974

ANOTHER MAN'S SHOES (1965)

Colum bia DB5047

FATS LIVE! (1968 - reissue of DB3302)

Tellydiscs TD 50FP-01

LISTEN TO FATS (1975)

Tellydiscs TD 67FP-01

LIVE OUTSIDE SHEA STADIUM (1976)

Vertigo FATS125

FATS GOES DISCO! (1979)

EMI EMC3351

BLUES WHINGER: THE VERY BEST OF FATS PORKER (1986)

Castle 1155-A4

THE SWAMPDISC SESSIONS (1996)

SINGLES Sw am pdiscs F004-122

TURKEY NECK STOMP/BROKEN FRIDGE BLUES (1957)

Sw am pdiscs F004-189 SOUTHERN PILES/LOCKED UP IN MY TRUNK (1957) Sw am pdiscs F004-210 MOANING MARTHA/MOONING MARGARET (1958) Sw am pdiscs F2256

LORD TAKE ME NOW/SOME BASTARD STOLE MY DOG (1958)

Sw am pdiscs F2372

YOU MAKE ME SICK/I SURE MISS MY DOG (1959)

Sw am pdiscs F2410

DEAD DOG CREEK/THE BASTARD HAD IT COMING (1959)

Sw am pdiscs F2501

NOBODY LOVES YOU WHEN YOU'VE GOT RHEUMATOID ARTHRITIS/SOUL PANTS (1959)

Colum bia DB3125

TWO O'CLOCK SHITS/GET OFF MY DAMN PORCH (1961)

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Colum bia DB3187

I'M GONNA LOVE YOU TILL YOU POP/MY FEET ARE KILLING ME (1961)

Colum bia DB3299

TELL THE REPO MAN I'M LONG GONE/THREE SHORT STEPS TO THE SHITHOUSE (1962)

Colum bia DB3325

FAT ASS FREDA/PUT YOUR HANDS DOWN MY PANTS AND WHISTLE DIXIE (1962)

Colum bia DB3414

WHOLE LOTTA NOTHIN' GOIN' ON/CAN'T FIND MY KEYS (1962)

Picaddilly PORK-122

TURKEY NECK STOMP/DEAD DOG CREEK (1963)

Colum bia DB3552

66 DIPS/SHOTGUN FUNERAL (1963)

Colum bia DB3578

I'VE BEEN LOVING YOU SINCE TUESDAY/SOUTHERN PILES (LIVE) (1963)

Colum bia DB3715

TEN MILES IN ANOTHER MAN'S SHOES/TEN MORE MILES IN ANOTHER MAN'S SHOES (1965)

Anchor ANC4071

GRUMPY STUMPY MCPUMPY/HIT IT WITH A STICK (1975)

Vertigo 1265 210

DISCO UP MY FUNK HOLE/FAT FUNK (1979)

EMI 7633

I'M GONNA LOVE YOU TILL YOU POP/FAT ASS FREDA (1985)

EMI 7633-12

I'M GONNA LOVE YOU TILL YOU POP (TNT MIX)/I'M GONNA LOVE YOU TILL YOU POP/FAT ASS FREDA (12” 1985)

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93

Dick Sm idgin is a m otivational keynote speaker whose services have been sought by m any top international com panies. Dick firm ly believes that success in business is purely dow n to positive m ental attitude and his techniques have helped some of the w orld's m ost successful achievers. In this special feature, Dick has taken time out from his busy schedule to provide us with a unique insight into his philosophy and m ethods.

The Thoroughfare of Success by Dick Smidgin (BA) - Motivational Keynote Speaker

What do we really mean by targeted motivational short-term direction objectives? It's a straightforward enough question, isn't it? And yet, as I travel the country speaking to different audiences, I am inevitably met by silence whenever I bring it up. So let me put it another way: considering a multi-layered framework of aspirational enablement factors, how far along the attainment scale do we wish to project our multi-phased career resolutions? Be honest with yourself now. Can you really say that you have given the matter serious thought? Certainly, we all want success - we are all, in effect, prospective goal-achievers - but how many of us can claim to have mapped out our future accomplishment nodes in respect of a ratified timescale of empowerment? Very few, I suspect, and yet it is precisely this kind of forethought that separates the successful goal-achievers from the disappointed also-rans. So Dick, people say to me, you're clearly a successful man but how exactly can I formulate my own attainment strategy and realise my unique potential? Well let me tell you - the secret of being a successful goal-achiever is no secret at all! It's simply this - get to know yourself. Have you ever stood in front of a mirror and looked at the person you see there as if you're meeting them for the first time? Have you ever spoken to that person, asked about their state of health or complimented them on their hat? No? Well give it a try, you might be surprised! 94

One of the things that I suggest to the people who come along to my seminars is that they take themselves out for a drink. In the relaxed, comfortable environment of their local bar, many people find that the barriers soon come tumbling down and they are able to really get to know themselves. I know it sounds a bit strange, but give it a go and see what happens! Sometimes it's only by holding a conversation with yourself within a neutralistic social situation that you can discover the real you. And it works! I have literally several examples of people who have benefited from this technique. Many of them have got into the habit of going out with themselves on a regular basis, and some lasting friendships have been formed. For instance, one man told me that after getting into a fascinating conversation with himself one night at the Grosvenor Bar in Weatherby, he discovered to his amazement that he had a passionate interest in trains. Not only did he find this revelation fascinating, but it also helped to explain why he spent so many of his weekends hanging around in railway stations. Once you're confident about who you are, you can start to give serious consideration to your achievement parameters. In particular you can formulate a positive attitude to solution positioning in respect of upgrading your problem-solving capabilities. Sounds like a mammoth task, doesn't it? And yet it is only really a question of conquering your fears. Consider these two choices.

At first glance, the Leopard of Jeopardy appears to be the most problematic obstacle. Its cruel, heartless stare is supremely intimidating, and its sharp teeth suggest a hostile, unilaterally destructive personal interface possibility, with the additional likelihood of dismemberment repercussions. On the other hand, the Rabbit of Opportunity appears to allow for the relatively easy deployment of basic soft-skill negotiating techniques, with the fallback option of a programme of carrot appeasement, should things turn nasty. But look more closely and you will see that the 95

leopard is clearly stuffed and the rabbit has a flick knife. It is in instances like this that fear can cloud solid business sense and cause us to neglect a proper system of eventualization assessment. So, what have we learned? Well, we know who we are. We know we must meet problems head on. But are there any other qualities that we need? There certainly are. No successful goal achiever would be able to maintain peak levels of attainment without knowledge of the twin pillars of Confidence and Adaptability. Or, as I like to express it: Confidence + Adaptability = Confaptability

This is absolutely essential if we are to remain capable of functioning within a constantly fluctuating business environment. Remember - change is here to stay. But is confaptability impactful enough to encompass high-plateau achievement goals? The answer, unfortunately, is no. Would that it was that easy. The successful goal-achiever must call upon something else - Imagination. Put simply, Imagination is our central powerhouse, enabling us to make the commitment to invest sufficient time-energy into our chosen attainment fields. Without Imagination, we're knackered, as Plato once said. And how right he was. After all, if Plato had never had Imagination, would he have been able to do all that clever thinking and stuff? Almost certainly not. Thus we must incorporate imagination into our formula: Confaptability + Imagination = Confaptabination

And this is really the key to successful goal-achieving. If you take nothing else away with you today, at least remember this: if you want to be the best, and you want to beat the rest, then Confaptabination's what you need. Where are we going, indeed? And equally as important: are we nearly there yet? We may know who we are, what we are capable of and we may be equipped with our formula for success, but there is one more important factor to be considered - Orientation. We need to know that we are heading in the right direction, that we have a clear path mapped out in front of us and that we've packed enough sandwiches for the trip. Try looking at it this way. Consider a mountain climber - he may be technically accomplished, resilient and determined, but in order 96

to be truly successful he needs to know in which direction he must climb. By and large, most successful mountain climbers know that in order to reach the top of a mountain by the most direct and efficient way, they need to head in an 'up' direction. Any mountain climber who does not properly consider this before he sets out is likely to go wandering off into a valley or something and make himself look a right tit. And so, in conclusion we must recognise that success is about nothing if not direction. We must decide on our destination, pick out our route and plan for all eventualities. Remember, the Thoroughfare of Success is only a few short streets away from the Avenue of Obscurity. Let's all make sure we study the map. If you w ould like to book Dick Sm idgin for your conference or training seminar, he can currently be contacted at his mum's house - except on Wednesday evenings, because it's his bath night.

97

Butterfly

The flap of a butterfly's wings in Central Park could ultimately cause an earthquake in China. So say the proponents of chaos theory, who use 'the butterfly effect' to describe how simple and apparently straightforward processes can combine and set in motion a chain of events with far-reaching and unpredictable consequences. The butterfly effect has, until now, been cited only as an illustration, but Professor Jim Spanners of the Pennsylvania Institute for Making Stuff Up takes it seriously, and believes that butterflies are directly responsible for most of the world's major problems. He is urging authorities to act swiftly in order to prevent imminent disaster. So far his warnings have been largely dismissed by everyone, except for a select group of people who don't get out much. Recently, in order to underscore his concerns, he published a twelve stage example of exactly how such a catastrophic sequence of events might run: Event One: A butterfly - possibly a cabbage white, or similar variety - spreads itself across a leaf in New York's Central Park. It stretches lazily in the warm sunshine and contentedly flaps its wings. This motion generates a small current of air, barely perceptible, but sufficient enough to divert the course of an airborne spore. The spore lands beside a pathway and begins to germinate. Event Two: One year later and the spore has blossomed into a thriving example of a Patagonian trailing creeper. It spreads its tangled strands out across the adjacent path. An early-morning runner fails to notice it as he is jogging along. He becomes entangled and falls, 98

dropping his doughnuts and fracturing his shin. Event Three: At a nearby hospital, the runner is waiting for the results of his X-ray. He decides that something should be done to prevent others from having similar accidents. As luck would have it, he happens to work for the Mayor's office, where he has some influence. At his request, a program of defoliation is begun to eradicate all traces of Patagonian trailing creeper from Central Park. Event Four: All traces of the troublesome creeper have now been cleared. The creeper was also home to a species of beetle and these too are wiped out - starving the local population of hammerhead gannets, who feed on them. The gannets are forced to find other sources of food and for a while they make a nuisance of themselves by raiding trashcans, harassing hot dog sellers and occasionally carrying off small pets. However, they cannot adapt and they soon begin to die off. Event Five: The hammerhead gannet is a remarkable bird in that it usually expires in the air - rather than on the ground, up a tree or inside a cat like most birds. New York suddenly finds itself plagued by falling birds as the dead gannets plummet from the skies, mid-flap. As their name suggests, the hammerhead gannet has a head shaped like a small mallet and the descending birds do considerable damage to roads, buildings and the occasional unlucky bystander. Sales of crash helmets rise steeply. Event Six: While some crash helmets are made from specially hardened synthetic composites, they are no match for the traditional variety, fashioned from the shell of the Polynesian backflip tortoise. The backflip tortoise is so called because of its fondness for acrobatics. Sadly, despite hours of practice, most backflip tortoises make poor gymnasts, and so they have developed hardened shells to protect them from injury. Because of the increase in demand for crash helmets, their numbers soon begin to decline. 99

Event Seven: The shells of backflip tortoises are also used to make lobster pots. However, with fewer tortoises available, lobster fishermen have to rely on other materials. These new pots are just not up to the job. The lobsters themselves are certainly not impressed and simply gather around them, pointing and laughing contemptuously. Event Eight: The lobster population swells out of control. They become rowdy and boisterous - holding underwater raves, getting high on seaweed and playing Beach Boys records until four o-clock in the morning. The octopuses that live next door start to get really hacked off with it. Octopuses are usually quiet and genial creatures, who are at their happiest when left alone to do word puzzles. But on this occasion they realise that something has to be done, and so they decide to stage a sit-in. Event Nine: Octopuses from all over the world gather in the Atlantic Ocean to protest. Their numbers are so great that they disrupt shipping and cut off the Gulf Stream, the current that supplies warm water to the North Atlantic. Event Ten: With the Gulf Stream disrupted, the world begins to freeze. The arctic ice begins to encroach on Canada, Europe and Northern Asia. Before long the tundra has enveloped Manchester, and the polar bears move in and turn it into a winter resort. Event Eleven: As luck would have it, a syndicate of four million penguins from Antarctica have won a fortune on the lottery and, hearing that the skiing in Manchester is particularly good at this time of year, they decide to blow all their winnings on a vacation. As penguins can't fly, they invest in rocket packs and set off en masse. Event Twelve Passing through Indian airspace, the captain of a Korean airliner is astounded to see four million penguins wearing rocket packs approaching him, directly on his flight path. The penguins are 100

equally surprised and swerve abruptly to miss the plane. Unfortunately, they fly smack into Mount Everest, knocking the top off. The shock wave travels around the world, triggering earthquakes in - amongst other places - California, Japan and China. Professor Spanners is convinced that it is only a matter of time before such a catastrophe takes place, but he stresses that it can be easily avoided. His solution is simple - round up all the butterflies and eradicate them. He suggests employing specialist butterfly death squads to go around armed with big nets and long range rifles. Also, placing a bounty on these dangerous insects would encourage the public to assist in the cull. Above all, Professor Spanners insists that we cannot afford to suffer a single butterfly to live - one careless flap of a wing could mean the end of all life on the planet. Many of Professor Spanners' colleagues have spoken out against this rather extreme viewpoint. In an interview with Newsweek, a former associate claims that Professor Spanners' present militant stance against the butterfly world is the result of childhood trauma, which she traces back to being dive-bombed by a red admiral on a family picnic. One particular critic, Dr Josiah Prodd, has been very vocal in his objections to Spanners' ideas. Prodd - a long-standing friend and colleague until he and Professor Spanners fell out following an argument about a restaurant bill - is keen to stress that nature is inherently symmetrical and that the roles of cause and effect can often be reversed. To demonstrate what he means by this, he gives an example of how an earthquake in China could ultimately cause a butterfly to flap its wings in Central Park. Event One: A massive earthquake hits rural China. Although disruption to the human population is minimal, it displaces a large population of moles, who leave their homeland and set off in search of pastures new. Event Two: The moles arrive in Indonesia and make a new home for themselves. They flourish and before long they take over the whole country, turning it into a giant golf course (moles are keen golfers, although they are terrible cheats - they dig their own holes). The 101

Indonesian economy soars as the country begins to attract the idle rich from all around the world. Event Three: Success has a price, and the Indian Ocean soon starts to fill up with golf balls. This drastically increases the erosion on the coast of India. Eventually, a huge chunk of the country breaks off and floats out to sea. Event Four: This broken off chunk of India - now known as Little India spends several years floating around the world, enjoying some splendid scenery and excellent whether. It becomes a tax haven for teen pop stars. Event Five: Little India's world tour comes to an end when it becomes wedged up against Florida. The teen pop stars decide to buy the state and turn it into a giant swimming pool. A few of the locals manage to find work as pool boys, waiters or bartenders, but the rest have to leave and go in search of work elsewhere. Event Six: The teen pop star invasion of Florida has other consequences. In addition to driving out much of the human population, it also forces out many of the alligators. They are forced to hit the road and end up travelling the length and breadth of America's highways, performing juggling tricks in return for handouts. Event Seven: Some of the alligators band together and form a travelling circus. They go from town to town, performing for the locals - fire eating, tightrope walking, eating clowns and such like. The highlight of the show is Snaps McDougal and his amazing escapology act. Event Eight: One night during a show in Maine, Snaps McDougal is spotted by a promoter who offers him a six month residency in Vegas. Snaps agrees and he becomes a big hit. His fame rapidly spreads across the country. 102

Event Nine: Snaps McDougal is now a household name, and his celebrity does much to raise the profile of alligators everywhere. Talent scouts and agencies start to realise that 'the next big thing' is likely to be about nine foot long and covered in green scales. Producers and directors start searching for alligators to star in their latest movies, and more and more of the animals are offered headlining roles on TV and in Broadway productions. And its not just alligators - crocodiles, monitor lizards and even snakes all experience an upturn in their fortunes. A pair of Polynesian backflip tortoises go down a storm in a remake of Trapeze. Event Ten: Reptiles are now dominating the entertainment industry to such an extent that human performers find it almost impossible to get work. Demonstrations all over the country culminate in a protest march through the streets of New York. Actors, dancers, singers, mime artists and speciality acts bring traffic to a standstill as they wave placards, chant slogans, enact sketches and perform elaborately choreographed musical numbers whilst leaping about on car roofs. Event Eleven: Realising that there is no way that she is going to get to her office on time, a young girl leaves her cab and decides to take a shortcut through Central Park. It's a warm day and the sun is out. There had been a slight drizzle earlier - it had passed quickly but the ground is still damp. As she walks along her arm brushes a nearby bush, shaking a little shower of sparkling raindrops from the wet leaves. She moves on without another thought. Event Twelve: Sheltering beneath the bush is a butterfly - possibly a cabbage white, or similar variety. As the leaves above are disturbed, raindrops smash to the ground around it, covering the insect in diamond shards of moisture. It cautiously inches back, moving deeper under cover. And then, to dry itself, it very gently flaps its wings.

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Yeti Makeover You may have already read of the audacious expedition of the ladies of the Melton Mowbray Rotary Club, who recently announced their intention to journey to the Himalayas, track down a yeti and give it a makeover. So far no word has been received as to their progress, but we are presently able to publish an interview that was conducted with the expedition's leader, Mrs Sheryl Stenchtrouser, shortly before their departure...

UNIVERSITY OF THE BLEEDING OBVIOUS: Mrs Stenchtrouser, many thanks for taking the time to speak to us. I'm sure you're very busy with your preparations at the moment. Any last minute hitches or jitters? MRS STENCHTROUSER: None at all, my dear, none at all. I have an excellent team, you know. We've studied maps and charts for absolutely ages and we've all had a few sessions down at the local leisure centre where they've got a special climbing wall. Some of my ladies can whiz up there in no time, and we've all learned some very interesting knots. UBO: There has been some criticism of your expedition already, hasn't there? A number of professional climbers have gone on record as saying that you're simply not prepared for the rigors of the Himalayan landscape, and they've suggested MRS STENCHTROUSER: Professional climbers! Well really, what kind of profession is that when it's at home? If romping up and down mountains is considered a profession, then frankly my backside might as well be the Albert Hall. Listen young man, when I was a girl there was no such thing as a professional climber. If you wanted to go up a mountain you just pulled on a stout pair of boots and off you went, and there was none of the fuss about it that there is these days. Banking, now that's a profession. Or medicine. 104

Or insurance. Real jobs, you see. It's like I said when our Trisha's boy said he wanted to take up pottery. I said it's all very well, Trisha my dear, I said, but we live in the Tupperware age now. You tell him from me, I don't care how much care and attention he puts into his handcrafted ceramic salad bowl - it won't keep his cucumber fresh for up to six weeks at a time. UBO: Yes, but MRS STENCHTROUSER: Well, it won't though, will it? You can't deny it, Tupperware is a positive boon to the modern picnic. UBO: I'm sure you're right, Mrs Stenchtrouser. But coming back to my point: in spite of all your preparations, there is very real concern that some of your party will not be able to cope with the harsh and often treacherous terrain or the region. MRS STENCHTROUSER: Ah... You're talking about about Mrs Furness, aren't you? UBO: Well, I wasn't referring to anyone in particular. MRS STENCHTROUSER: Well, let me tell you something about Mrs Furness - during her day she was a veritable dynamo, by all accounts. Did you know that before the war she was the North East's Under Fourteens Junior Pole Vault Champion? Oh yes, you wouldn't think it to look at her now, poor dear, but they say at one time you had a hard job to keep her on the ground. Oh, I know she's knocking on a bit now, but she still has that same indomitable air of determination. Admittedly, she's no good with the knots, what with the arthritis and all, and I'll admit that it's going to be a burden dragging her wheelchair up some of the steeper inclines but, in her favour, she does make an excellent cup of tea. And anyway, she's so looking forward to the trip. She hasn't been able to get out much lately, and I simply haven't got the heart to tell her she can't come. UBO: Nevertheless, you must admit that no one in your party can claim to have any proper mountaineering experience. 105

MRS STENCHTROUSER: Mrs Samuels once went on a hiking holiday in the Pennines. UBO: Is that really enough, do you think? MRS STENCHTROUSER: And Mrs Bennett has a tea towel with a picture of Ben Nevis on it. How difficult can it be? As long as we wrap up warm and watch where we're walking then we can't really go wrong, can we? And we will be fully prepared: we'll have a thermos flask each, and everyone will be taking a packed lunch. Mrs Woodburne has said that she'll make us some sausage rolls for the trip, so we're going to be spoilt really. Oh, we'll be hot on the heels of the Abominable Snowman in no time. UBO: Which brings me to my next question. People have been trying to track down the yeti for generations. Few have ever seen it, and fewer still have been able to offer up any evidence. Assuming the creature exists at all, what tactics will you employ to find it? MRS STENCHTROUSER: Garden parties. UBO: I... err... I'm sorry? I thought you said 'garden parties'. MRS STENCHTROUSER: That is precisely what I said. What could possibly be a more civilised way of making someone's acquaintance than through a garden party? The reason that the yeti has never been found by previous expeditions is that they have gone about it the wrong way - chasing around the foothills with traps and ropes and rifles; tracking the creature by its footprints, it's fur or - heaven forbid - it's faeces. That's no way to effect a formal introduction - it's no wonder the poor thing has kept out of the way. Ask yourself: if you were being followed by people who kept sifting through your ordure, what would you think? UBO: I really don't MRS STENCHTROUSER: Well exactly! You would think you were being followed by a mad person. You would keep well out of the way. And if this lunatic ever came close to discovering you, you would hide behind a tree and make ready to hit him with a rock. 106

And I for one would defend your right to clobber him. UBO: But garden parties? MRS STENCHTROUSER: But nothing. Garden parties are the only decent and respectable way of making contact. We shall stage a number of events and send out open invitations, and hope that the Yeti is gracious enough to favour us with his presence. UBO: I don't actually think that they have gardens in the Himalayas, MRS STENCHTROUSER: No gardens? Ah, now that's a problem. No gardens, you say? Hmm, it's like Wolverhampton all over again... Well, it's soon remedied! Mrs Williams has a man who comes to trim her herbaceous borders. We'll see if he's free to come along and knock us up a couple of flowerbeds and an ornamental lawn. UBO: So, when you've finally 'made the acquaintance' of your yeti, you intend to... MRS STENCHTROUSER: ...To give him a makeover, yes that's right. Well, we've all seen the pictures, haven't we? The artists' impressions and eyewitness drawings that show this great lumbering creature with shaggy fur and bad teeth. You've got to admit, he needs some work, doesn't he? It was Mrs Pemberton's idea really. She was on the telly once, you know? Oh yes, back in the seventies, it was. She was on Nationwide. They stopped her in the street whilst she was out shopping to ask her about fish prices, or something like that. She got everso excited about it, and when she got home she telephoned all her friends to tell them she was going to be famous. Well, when she settled down to watch it, she was horrified. She was only on the screen for thirty seconds, but it was thirty seconds that almost destroyed her. She looked a right state - her hair was all awry, her cardigan was crumpled, her lipstick was smudged and the less said about her mascara the better. It sapped her confidence totally, and she wouldn't go out for weeks afterwards. UBO: Yes, but I don't really see what this has got to do with the 107

MRS STENCHTROUSER: With the Abominable Snowman? Well, it's obvious, isn't it. Sooner or later someone is bound to find him, in spite of their dubious methods. And when they do, pictures of him will be beamed all around the world. Just imagine what a sight he's going to look - with his eyes all bloodshot, his fingernails all dirty and his fur matted with shit, if you'll pardon my French. He's going to be traumatised, poor thing, just like Mrs Pemberton was. UBO: So you're going to get your yeti ready for the cameras; prepare it for media stardom? MRS STENCHTROUSER: Exactly! We'll give him a trim, get rid of all those split ends, introduce him to the wonders of dental floss, give him a proper manicure and try to do something about that appalling posture. By the time we've finished with him, the Abominable Snowman won't recognise himself. UBO: Mrs Stenchtrouser, have you really thought this through? This creature - this yeti - if it actually exists is, to all intents and purposes, a wild animal. It doesn't share your ideals of presentation and personal hygiene. It won't understand what you are trying to do. Don't you think it would be far happier to be left in its natural state? MRS STENCHTROUSER: Well... we're only trying to help. I'm sure he'll be very grateful. And we're not exactly new to this sort of thing, you know. I mean, look at the Loch Ness Monster - she was only too pleased when we gave her a perm and breast implants. UBO: Mrs Stenchtrouser, I knew you were going to saying something like that. MRS STENCHTROUSER: It did have a certain inevitability about it, I'll admit, but as far as punchlines go I've seen far worse. Shall we go and get a cup of tea? UBO: Fair enough, but you're paying...

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No More Glasses! Perfect eyesight at last, thanks to the miracle of modern laser eye surgery

Meet Kenton Cartwright. Since he was fourteen, Kenton has had to wear spectacles. They're heavy, unwieldy and they have stunted his growth. But now Kenton is finally free of the shackles of cumbersome eyewear thanks to the miracle of modern laser eye surgery. And Kenton is delighted.

“I'm delighted,” Kenton told us. “Thanks to modern laser eye surgery I no longer have to suffer the discomfort and inconvenience of spectacles. And, as an added benefit, I am now able to shoot powerful high-energy laser beams from my eyes.” That's right, thanks to modern laser eye surgery, Kenton now not only enjoys 20/20 vision, but he can also fry sausages from a distance of six metres and boil eggs with a single wink. So, if you're fed up with annoying glasses and irritating contact lenses - and you're quite interested in having the ability to burn through six inch thick reinforced steel with just a glance - then give us a call today.

Occuloid LaserProbe International 112-110 Tortilla Mews Monterrey Mexico (Alt ernatively, messages can be left with Mrs Toledo in the pastry s hop ne xt door) 109

The First Annual Bleeding Obvious Award for the Achievement of Outstanding Celebrity Without Really Doing Very Much It's a sad fact that all too often genuine ability and aptitude goes unrecognised and unrewarded. There is a vast pool of talent out there that has never been tapped, and never will be. Great painters whose work will never see the light of day, musicians whose melodies will forever fall upon deaf ears, poets whose verses will go unread, in spite of their ability to put words together really good. That this situation persists is only right and proper. These people are losers who should be actively scorned or, at the very least, entirely disregarded. Instead, it behoves us all to celebrate the achievers. Those people whose faces regularly adorn our glossiest of magazines, whose exploits fill our seediest of newspapers, and whose fascinating personalities are paraded for the benefit of we mere mortals on all the best panel games, talk shows and celebrity telethons. And who could be more worthy of our admiration than those who have achieved fame, fortune and notoriety without having to perfect their art, struggle for recognition or develop any kind of talent? After all, anyone can learn to act, or paint, or dance, or sing. But to be born into an acting family, to be the niece of a high-ranking TV executive or to been fortunate enough to have gone to university with the son of a rich publisher - these things are decreed by fate and fortune. They are divine happenstances that separate regular workaday chaff like us from the celebrity wheat, who are so much thinner, richer, healthier and, well, just so much better than normal people. 110

We here at The University of the Bleeding Obvious have, for some time, lamented the fact that this select group of fine people has not really had the recognition that it truly deserves. And so, realising that celebrity is about nothing if not about being in the right place at the right time, we decided to inaugurate The Bleeding Obvious Award for the Achievement of Outstanding Celebrity Without Really Doing Very Much. And what better way to celebrate such an award than with a glitzy star-studded bash in the West End, where already overexposed media people, up-and-coming teen idols and faded hasbeens can be seen, photographed, and involve themselves in scrupulously stage-managed indiscretions that will guarantee them a centre page spread in The News of the World at the weekend? Unfortunately the Albert Hall was already booked and the Palladium was being fumigated, but we sat down with a jug of coffee, pulled out the Yellow Pages and eventually managed to secure the Gala Bingo Hall in Broadstairs for a very reasonable rate. And they even offered to do the sandwiches at half price if we paid in cash. The date was set. The invitations were printed. The red carpet was given a thorough going-over with a stiff broom and we put all the little sausages on sticks. We were determined that this was going to a suitably glittering occasion and to this end we ordered 400 tons of glitter with which to sprinkle the guests as they entered. Then, the day before the ceremony, disaster struck. The 72-piece orchestra that we had engaged phoned us up to tell us they were double booked and that they would have to cancel us in favour of a golden wedding anniversary in Brighton. They apologised and offered to send us a spare trombonist that they had knocking about, but explained that he would only be able to do twenty minutes as he had to get back early to let his cats out. We were grateful for this gesture, but it still left us in the lurch. Then, as luck would have it, the manager of the hall informed us that his brother-in-law ran a mobile disco, and would be available for the evening. We were saved. All was ready! We must admit to feelings of trepidation as our guests began to arrive. A crowd of eager photographers, autograph hunters, well-wishers and homicidal stalkers began to gather as the limos pulled up outside the main entrance to deposit the very cream of the celebrity circuit on our doorstep. Soap stars, children's TV 111

presenters and daytime fashion gurus, not to mention the usual glut of astrologers and TV psychics, who always seem to turn up a t these events despite the lack of invitation. Then a minibus arrived to disgorge this season's batch of high-profile slappers, including Marti Hershel who has recently been linked with a couple of second division footballers, Janine Redbury, who was caught at it in March with a happily married sitcom star, and Sarah Kandinsky, the 'Bermondsey Banger', whose exploits with a certain backbench Tory MP single-handedly doubled the sales of Marmite in the last quarter of 2002. Then there was much excitement upon the arrival of popular sportsman Colin Dechamp, whose commercials for Pot Snax have made him the nation's favourite loveable rogue. Apparently, Colin once won an Olympic Gold medal for running, or something, so that may be something for him to fall back on when his TV career goes belly up. Finally, the crowd was hushed to an almost awe-struck silence as one of the longest limousines we have ever witnessed appeared around the corner and drew up to the entrance with stately grace. Window after window sailed slowly passed us, tinted black, reflecting our own expectant faces but offering no clue as to the occupants. After what seemed like an age it gradually came to a gentle stop. Doors opened - many doors - and a platoon of bodyguards issued forth to flank the vehicle. Then a handsome young couple emerged to a roar of delight from the assembled throng. She was slender, graceful, with a radiant smile and flowing golden hair; he was svelte, pleasantly rugged, with chiselled features and steel blue eyes. The crowd adored them, and this delightful couple acknowledged their love and affection with great charm and aplomb before proceeding into the auditorium. Lovely people. To this day, we still don't know who the hell they were. And so, with our guests seated, the lights dimmed and the tables practically overflowing with complimentary peanuts, it was time for the show to begin. We kicked off in style with a big dance number, featuring twenty-five students from the local experimental theatre company performing a rumba to the Village People's YMCA supposedly depicting the betrayal of Russian Cossacks following the Second World War. They exited the stage to a peel of riotous applause from one man sitting in the third row. Then it was time to get the ball rolling, and we were most 112

fortunate that the popular comedian Ben Skelton agreed to be our compere. As you may know, Ben once did a mildly amusing routine about tube trains in 1985 and he has been much in demand ever since. Aside from hosting award ceremonies, Ben also attends a great many film premieres, so we were lucky to get him. Rumour has it that he is currently working on a new joke, which he hopes will form the basis of his new book and screenplay, and he is confident that there is every possibility of a musical based on the gag. So, best of luck Ben. We were sure that Ben would be on fine form for our event, and we were not disappointed. To the delight of the audience he once again treated us to his classic tube train routine, plus the hilari ous fast food monologue and that old favourite, the taxi driver gag. These routines are like old friends now, and no ceremony would be complete without them. Then it was time for the first award - Best Celebrity Fitness Video. To announce the nominations was another old favourite, Sue Diamond - three-times winner of the International Arse of the Year Award and herself no stranger to the celebrity cash-in video. The three contenders were shortlisted not just on the basis of sales, but also for the most outlandish claims for weight loss. Former soap starlet Gemma McKenzie trod familiar ground with her Samba Slimming Programme. Meanwhile, former soap starlet Donna Peters greatly impressed the judges with her slightly more adventurous Twelve Step Chainsaw Plan to a Better You. But the ultimate winner was former soap starlet Tracey Newcombe for The Origami Workout - Fold Yourself Thin. Next up was the Most Dramatic Fall From Grace award. This was to be presented to the star whose debauchery and subsequent high-profile sacking had secured them the greatest media attention. As you might imagine, this was easily the most fiercely contested category, having been such a prolific year for disgraced celebrities. However, the award finally went to 'reformed' junkie and alcoholic Richard Nilhism, whose rambling, incoherent appearances on morning TV - coupled with his dogged persistence that he's still on the wagon in spite of the fact that he's clearly pissed out of his tiny head - impressed all the judges. There was time for one more award before the main event - Best Career Salvaging Stint in a Popular Panel Game. Nominations were former actor Danny Jervis for Celebrity Pants on BBC1; former journalist Amy Whetton for Whose Granddad? on ITV; and former 113

stand-up comic Phill Burton for Hold This For a Minute on Radio Four. The winner was Phill Burton, who will return for the grand final next week This brought us very neatly to our finale, The Bleeding Obvious Award for the Achievement of Outstanding Celebrity Without Really Doing Very Much. To present the award we welcomed onto the stage the celebrated actor Sir Richard Dangle, whose monumentally successful career in advertising voice-overs means that he will never have to perform on stage ever again. With great gravitas he announced - with that familiar, distinctive diction that has been used to advertise everything from Tupperware to toilet rolls - that the winner of this first award was none other than MaryAnn Slagg. And there really couldn't have been a more popular choice. The audience rose for a standing ovation as a tearful Mary-Ann made her way towards the stage. This dazzling young socialite, who first came to our attention four years ago when she began to frequent all the most exclusive London night-spots, is currently the darling of the tabloids. This is in no small part due to the phenomenal success of her recent autobiography, People I Have Shagged. At first she was only ever seen dripping off the arms of pop stars, actors and media moguls. But rapidly, as her fame gathered pace, she began to assemble an entourage of her own - famous chums and drinking buddies who followed her from club to bar to film premiere, and who were eager to be photographed in her company. But just who is Mary-Ann Slagg? Is she the glamorous daughter of some rich lord or earl? Perhaps she's an aspiring actress or model? We may never find out exactly who she is, or what she does, and it is this enduring enigma that accounts for our fascination with her. Viewers have been mesmerised by her increasingly regular appearances on daytime TV shows to air her opinions about fashion, cosmetics and the showbiz scene. And at the beginning of this year her public profile was thrown into sharper relief by her appearance on the reality TV show Celebrity Mausoleum, in which six semi-famous people have to spend four weeks in a vault, with the public periodically deciding which ones they ought to bury. Mary-Ann's reaction to receiving our award was typically dramatic. Upon reaching the podium she shrieked loudly and jumped up and down. Then, struggling in between sobs and wails, 114

she gushed that she didn't really deserve such an honour, and went on to thank her close family of stylists, make-up people and hairdressers. Finally, in serious, measured, sincere tones she spoke of her gratitude to us, the ordinary people, and told us that we were all very special, even though we weren't famous or anything. Then, with a tiny tear glistening in the corner of her eye, she issued a final, humble, 'thank you', then stepped back from the microphone to receive our admiration. The audience rose to its feet once more, and by this time our eyes were glistening too. It had been the perfect climax to a fantastic evening. For our part we were incredibly proud and felt that in staging this event we had, in some small way, paid tribute to the wonderful people who populate our media and enrich our lives. For one brief evening we had become part of their world. We ordinary folk - who work from 9 to 5, who pay our mortgages, who struggle with bills and taxes and debts, and whose only hope of ever distinguishing ourselves in life is by dying young - had, for one fleeting moment in time, touched the stars. Who could ask for more?

115

Jaggedy

Mrs Doreen Lubricant has invested a considerable amount of her own money on an outlandish scheme to make the coastline of Great Britain 'less jaggedy'. “You take a good look at any map of Britain,” she explains, “and it becomes painfully obvious what the real problem with this country is - the edges of it are all ragged. You've got bits jutting out here and there, and great big bulges all over the place. It looks a proper sight, I must say. What visitors think of us when they come over here, I don't know. No wonder we have slipped so far in the estimation of the rest of the world when we can't even keep our own coastline tidy.” To rectify this situation, Mrs Lubricant is searching for as many volunteers as possible to join her in a vigorous campaign of sanding and planing, with the eventual aim of making Britain's coastline smoother and more streamlined. She has also written to the government in the hope of enlisting official backing for her project, but so far the response has been lukewarm. “Whilst we always make the effort to be sensitive to individual concerns,” said David Contour, government spokesman for geography, “in this particular case we can't avoid coming to the conclusion that this woman is an absolute basket case. As I understand it, Mrs Lubricant's efforts to smooth down the coastline have already resulted in instances of criminal damage to private property. And, whilst I am sympathetic to her claims that 'some of the pointy bits are a danger to shipping', I'm afraid the government cannot condone the wilful destruction of the environment. Quite frankly, the woman is a menace, her ideas are ludicrous and the only thing that commends her bizarre and unnatural scheme is that it would involve the almost total eradication of East Anglia.”

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LOUSE Doctors in America have come up with a new headliceseeking missile, which they claim has a kill rate of 100%. And early tests have shown that it's every bit as good as they say it is. Not only does it eradicate the troublesome parasites once and for all, but it also blows you head off and cleans the wax out of your ears at the same time.

down the toilet is in direct contravention of their rights." Mr Taft hopes to get the court to officially recognise the spiders as sitting tenants, but this process could take some time. In the meantime he has been successful in gaining an injunction against Mrs Tipple, preventing her from entering her own bathroom. MARS Keen amateur astronomer Harry Fontaine caused a stir amongst both amateur and professional colleagues alike when he announced that he had observed strange and inexplicable anomalies in the motion of the planet Mars. "It was about 7.30pm yesterday," Harry explained. "I was watching the planet from my bedroom window. Suddenly I saw it get on a bus and go into town. I remember thinking to myself, 'That's funny. It usually stays in on a Wednesday night.'" If Harry's sighting is confirmed it means scientists will have to completely rethink their ideas about what Mars does for fun in the evenings.

SPIDERS Doris Tipple is terrified of spiders, and with good reason. After many years of being forcibly ejected from Mrs Tipple's bathroom, the spiders have got tough and have now employed the services of a top lawyer. "My clients have been residents of Mrs Tipple's bathroom for many many years now," says Bruce Taft, senior partner with law firm Bungle, Taft, Spandex & Plok. "In fact, the family moved in some considerable time before Mrs Tipple herself took up residence, and the verbal agreement they made with the previous owner still stands. Mrs Tipple's repeated attempts to imprison them in matchboxes, throw them out the window and flush them 117

Have you had an accident in the last two years? A really big one? Blood and guts and major loss of life - that sort of thing? Yes? Sorry, we can't help you. That stuff is right out of our league. But if you've cut a finger, stubbed your toe or accidentally bitten your tongue, then the good news is that you may be able to claim compensation. Just listen to these testimonials... Mrs Rita Cash of Norwich was hit by a shopping trolley in her local branch of Sainsbury's. “The trolley nudged my arm as I was cruising past the tinned vegetable section. It was just a glancing blow, and I hardly noticed it at the time. It didn't break the skin, didn't even bruise, so I thought no more about it. But several weeks later, after seeing an advert for The Trivial Accident Group, I suddenly remembered that I had been having nightmares about the incident and had been unable to sleep for some time. Well, I came over all litigious. The Trivial Accident Group took up my case, and successfully sued the supermarket for £20,000.” Mr Colin Grabb of Bolsover was seriously hurt by a cutting remark about his tie, made by one of his clients at the estate agent's at which he works. “I was showing a young couple around a property on the outskirts of town - a rather desirable, three-bedroomed detached house with ample scope for improvement and easy access to local amenities. As I was demonstrating the spaciousness of the attractive diningkitchen, which had a magnificent outlook over nearby parkland, the husband remarked to his wife that my tie clashed horribly with my shirt. Even today I can hear their mocking laughter ringing in my ears.” Mr Grabb was awarded half a million pounds, and secured a custodial sentence for the young man who made the hurtful remark.

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And Mr Jay Bent of Scunthorpe nearly walked into a door at a twenty-four hour service station, just off the M6. “It was an extremely close call,” Mr Bent tells us softly, still struggling to come to terms with the horrific event. “It was lucky for me that I was nowhere near the place at the time. In fact, I wasn't even in the country. But I often shudder when I think what might have happened had I been at that service station that night, instead of up to my neck in complimentary champagne and hired pussy in a five-star hotel in Kuala Lumpa. But for the intervention of fate, I might have received a very nasty bump on the nose.” Thanks to our intervention, Mr Bent won damages of four million, million pounds, and was invited to watch as the manager of the service station was kneecapped, nailed the underside of a flatbed truck and driven to Leipzig. If you've had a trivial accident, been the victim of mild intimidation or been embarrassed in public, then contact...

We'll find someone to blame

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Have you ever been fondled whilst standing in the queue at McDonalds?

Now at last you can insure yourself against videogam e accidents. Of course, m oney can never fully compensate for the loss w hen these accidents occur, but the next tim e you sprain an ankle on Mario Tennis, or get critically w ounded on Half Life, it can m ake living w ith tragedy that little bit m ore tolerable.

Has your personal space been invaded in the workplace? Perhaps you've been nonced up in the back row of your local cinema? Then contact

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Rob Hammond's Essential Guide to Buddhism In today's violent society, we can all be forgiven for feeling a little insecure. These days you can't even pop down to the shops for a copy of 'Guns and Shooting' without the risk of winding up the victim of a brutal coshing or drive-by stabbing. It's no wonder so many people are scared to go out alone. Hello, I'm Rob Hammond, and as a veteran of the Territorial Army, I've been specially trained to kill using nothing more than a raised elbow. Failing that, I could easily smother any potential attacker with my armpit, and if it became absolutely necessary, I could even blind my assailant by licking out his eyeballs - although this is something I try to avoid wherever possible, as it leaves a nasty taste in the mouth. But, sadly, not everyone can handle themselves as well as I can. The urban jungle is a very different kettle of monkeys from any other theatre of war, and any passing stranger can be a potential threat. To be honest, there was a time when even I felt uneasy about going out on my own. Yeah, I know, hard to believe, isn't it? But the truth is that after my discharge from the TA I would often barricade myself in my bedsit for weeks on end, surviving on a diet of dog food and pineapple chunks. In fact, I became quite jumpy. Every noise was a potential hazard, every footstep an assassin. I could have very easily turned into some kind of nut, but thankfully salvation was just around the corner - for it was then that I discovered Buddhism and my outlook on life was transformed. So, why am I telling you all this? Well, Buddhism can transform your life too! Wanna know more? Course you do. That's why I've prepared this list of frequently asked questions to help you understand what all this Buddhist malarkey is all about...

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All right then, what is Buddhism?

Buddhism is cool. It's less strict than Hinduism and cheaper than Catholicism. Actually, it's less like a religion and more like a way of life. It's all about meditation and the strict observance of moral precepts. There's also some stuff about Enlightenment, but I'm not really sure about that side of it yet.

How do I find Buddhism?

Well in my case, Buddhism found me. Someone shoved this leaflet under my door, telling me about an introductory lecture down at the community centre, given by the Ascended Master Ching Rampoche - who also runs the wet fish concession outside the job centre. I was curious, but I didn't want to just stroll straight in. I may only have been in the Territorials for six weeks, but I still understand the importance of reconnaissance. I hung around outside for a while, watching people enter. Then I took a brief stroll around the building, noting all the exits and possible escape routes. Finally I plucked up the courage and went in. Simple really.

Okay, so how can Buddhism help me?

That was the very question I asked myself. But as I listened to Master Rimpoche's learned words, it became obvious that Buddhism was what was missing from my life. Under his guidance I have learned to quell the inner rage that threatened to tear me apart - for anger is merely an expression of suffering, and can be eliminated by eradicating my desires. With every step upon my journey along the eightfold path I became stronger and more resolute. Buddhism has blessed me with a sense of inner peace.

Hang on - this Buddhism lark sounds like it's for girls!

Did I mention that it also enables me to kick seven shades of shit out of anybody who gets in my way?

Ah! Now that's more like it.

Too right. As well as providing an excuse to go around dressed only in a sheet, Buddhism has also shown me how to clear my mind of confusing and unproductive thoughts and achieve a state of tranquillity. This tranquillity can then be unleashed with devastating force on anyone who decides to give me grief. 121

Wicked. So who was this Buddha chap? He seems like a decent bloke.

Buddha's real name was Siddhartha Gotama, but that sounded a bit gay so all his mates called him Buddha. He was a monk with a bald head, and he was rock hard and could have anybody in his village. He also liked table tennis.

If Buddha were alive today, would he be able to beat Bruce Lee in a fight? Yeah, he'd slap him silly. Bruce Lee is dead.

Fair enough. So, is there any money in Buddhism? Surely there must be a fiddle going on somewhere?

Buddhism teaches us that wealth is impermanent and does not guarantee happiness. A true Buddhist pursues enlightenment, not money. Of course, Buddha lived millions of years ago, when trainers were much cheaper and there were no such things as minidisc players. Perhaps it's time for Buddhism to be revised in order to bring it into line with today's consumer society? I'm thinking about making a bid for the T-shirt concession.

What's all this I hear about having fourteen wives?

Nah, you're thinking of something else. Buddhists have nothing to do with that sort of thing.

Oh well. What were Buddha's Teachings?

Buddha taught us that there are four noble truths: firstly that life is suffering; secondly, that suffering is caused by desire; thirdly, that suffering can be overcome; and fourthly that the path of morality and awareness leads to happiness. However, he also taught us how to deal with someone twice your size by kicking him in the nuts, then running away. Not only was he a wise and noble man, but old Buddha was quick on his feet as well.

So what's Karma? Is it a type of curry?

No. It's not a species of chameleon either. Karma is the idea that every cause has an effect. So, if I hit you with a big stick, you'll go and tell your mate, who will come round and beat the gristle out of me with an even bigger stick. Actually, this aspect of Buddhism gives me a bit of a problem, and I've been trying to think of a way 122

round it. The way I see it is that if I hit you with a stick and nobody sees me, and I do a really good job of it so that you're not able to tell anyone about it, then I can pretty much get away with it.

Okay, point taken. Do Buddhists go to heaven?

Buddhist are continually reincarnated until they achieve a state of Nirvana. I'm not sure exactly what that is, but it sounds dead good. The really cool thing is that whenever you die, you just keep coming back, like the Terminator. Non-Buddhists are also reincarnated, of course, but they come back as ants and flies and worms.

What is this 'Wheel of Life' that I keep hearing about?

It's a giant wooden wheel with spikes on it. If you have an enemy and you want him to talk, you can strap him to the wheel and throw rocks at him, and he will tell you anything you want to know.

Can Buddhists do voodoo or any of that shit?

I have a friend who can touch the tip of his nose with his tongue. He's not a Buddhist, and it's not strictly magic, but it's well impressive, nonetheless. I did read about this guy once who was able to stop a man's heart just by staring into his eyes. I don't know whether he was a Buddhist either, but it's bloody spooky. I've tried it myself - just going up to people in the street and staring directly into their eyes. I concentrated really hard, but all that happened was I got cautioned by the police.

So, how do I join? Is there a test?

Of course there's a test - they don't just let anyone in, you know. To be a Buddhist you have to be strong, physically fit and have 20/20 vision. I have perfect eyesight myself, even though in the TA they said I was shortsighted. That incident with the tank wasn't my fault - the visibility was very poor that day. Even the coroner said so. Anyway, to be a Buddhist you also have to be able to do fifteen push-ups and run five miles without breaking a sweat, which I can do dead easy. And that's what Buddhism is all about. So, do you think you have what it takes to be a Buddhist? It's a hard life, but a rewarding one, and if you're looking for an exciting change of direction, then 123

Buddhism could be the very thing for you. Buddhists will be recruiting in your area soon, so why not pick up an application form and join us in bringing serenity and enlightenment to our troubled world. And if we manage to get enough of us together in time for this Sunday, we're all going to go down into town and give the Methodists a good pasting. Cheerio.

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A Very Local Paper For some time now, middle-aged sociopath Mr Henry Droop from Littlehampton has been unhappy with the state of his local newspaper. Mr Droop, who has a keen interest in local affairs, has taken the Littlehampton Evening Observer for six years. “I find that the national newspapers, whilst often packed with scandal and intrigue, nevertheless offer very little of relevance to my own personal life,” he says. “Oh, it is all very well reading about some uprising in Africa, or some summit meeting halfway round the world, but at the end of the day this kind of thing does not personally affect me. I need to know about what is happening in and around my own personal area - commemorative plaque unveilings, vegetable competitions, Women's Institute meetings a nd that sort of thing. Fair enough, so these things might not seem like big, exciting news events, but they are of great import to someone who personally lives and works within the Littlehampton region.” That said, Mr Droop's thirst for local news has recently led to him becoming disillusioned with the Evening Observer. “I have noticed just lately that many of their stories concern events that happen right over on the other side of town,” he told us. “Whilst it is fascinating to read about such things, they do not really effect me. Personally, I am disappointed that events that happen in my own personal neighbourhood hardly get a mention. For instance, the Jones's at number thirty-two lost their cat just the other day. It came back within an hour but, even so, it was not mentioned in the local paper. That is why I was so pleased when the man two doors up from me - Mr Bullimore - decided to produce his own local paper, which focuses on all the events that happen in my street – it is a very local paper, if you like. It's called the 'Acacia Street Gazette' and he writes them all out individually with a biro. “There is all the news, gossip and weather forecasts that you would find in a regular newspaper. And the traffic reports are spot 125

on, because Mr Bullimore stands at his window every morning and notes down what time everybody leaves to go to work. Yesterday's issue featured a story about the Frampton boy at number twentysix, who borrowed his dad's car and apparently did not get home until two o'clock this morning. Then there was an update on the Mrs Brownlow situation. She still has not returned from her mother's and eyewitness reports reveal that Mr Brownlow has been seen out and about with an unknown blonde. “My personal favourite was the horticultural feature, focussing mostly on the state of Mr Tompkinson's back garden. There was even a poll: 'Should Mr Tompkinson cut down his cherry tree - you decide'. I shall personally be very interested to see the result of that.” However, delighted though Mr Droop is with this innovative new publication, he does still have reservations. “Oh it is not perfect,” he admits. “Rather a lot of the stories centre around the houses up at the top of the street and do not really concern us down here. For instance, there was an item about one chap who had a skip parked in the road all day Tuesday, obstructing the traffic. Well, that really was not of any personal interest to me because I go the other way to work. “So anyway, I have decided to do something about it. If Mr Bullimore can produce his own newspaper, then so can I - but my paper will only concern news stories relevant to my house. Sales will be low, of course, because the news will only be of interest to everyone who lives here. And, as I live alone, that limits the projected circulation to one. Still, it means I will be able to tailor the stories to my own particular needs. There will be up-to-date breakfast reports, the latest information from the bathroom and all the top financial news, as it breaks, direct from the old whiskey bottle on the mantelpiece where I put all my loose change. And I am particularly looking forward to a forthcoming series of scandalous exposés about myself. It should make thrilling reading and I cannot wait to find out what I have been up to. I just hope it does not get too personal.”

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Professor Jez Moonbeam Invents…

Professor Jez Moonbeam, pioneering fruitcake and notorious rodent botherer, brings us another invention designed to make our lives better No 2: The Wind Powered Spoon Wind! Nature's storehouse of energy. I don't mean bottom wind, obviously; whilst there's no doubt that it's a potent source of power, it's often unpredictable and the fallout can be horrific. No, I mean your actual sort of ‘blowing across hillsides’ and ‘whistling through valleys sort of wind’ - powerful, reasonably predictable and completely free. So doesn't it make sense to harness this natural powerhouse, instead of relying on nasty, horrid nuclear and oil-fired power stations? Bob Dylan clearly thought so when he wrote that the answer to the world's energy problems was 'blowing in the wind'. Oh yes. And in 1965 foppish British folky Donovan went one stage further and actually tried to 'catch the wind', although it later escaped and was last seen roaming around the back streets of Hounslow, harassing fruit sellers. More recently we've seen an increasing number of 'wind farms'. These are plots of land that have been seeded with tiny windmills, which, over the course of two or three years, grow into full-sized wind turbines capable of generating significant quantities of power. Unfortunately such wind farms are noisy, unsightly and prone to attack by ducks. A far better solution would be to build devices that can harness the power of the wind directly. A wind powered toaster, for example, could be used on any hillside without the need for an electrical power point. And a portable wind driven trouser press would be ideal for the modern mountaineer or backpacker who wishes to arrive at his destination looking smart and uncrumpled. Such devices are, sadly, still some way off, but I have already begun work on developing a fully functional wind powered spoon, 127

so that Welsh farmers stranded miles from anywhere can powerbreakfast on turbo cornflakes. After that I intend to build a fork that can be driven by the faintest wisp of a breeze, so that hungry sailors can eat beans out of a tin whilst they're becalmed in the tropics. This is a much more valuable line of research, I feel, than the prototype electric flick knife that some of my more disreputable colleagues are working on for the CIA. Shame on them for being so ungroovy.

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Appliances

They say that 90% of all accidents happen in the home. Well, that's a pretty glib assertion, isn't it? Who says so, and with what authority? Who collects these statistics and who interprets them? How do we know that this information hasn't just sprung from the imagination of some over-eager safety consultant with a point to make? How do we really know that these accidents all happen in the home? And, more sinisterly, how do we know that they really are accidents...? A quick peek inside the waiting room of your local casualty department will leave you in no doubt that the home is a dangerous place. There you will see people with lacerations, with burns, breakages, with saucepans jammed on their heads, knives through their necks, hedge trimmers speared through their abdomens… and generally all the kind of things you'd expect to find after a busy day spent pottering around the house. And, fair enough, it's not unreasonable to assume that one or two of them may indeed be accidents. But, if witness statements are to be believed, more and more of these incidents are no accident at all, rather the wilful and deliberate attempts of household appliances to cause harm to humankind. Consider the case of Derek Brockhurst. Forty-two year old Derek is a man who - by his own admission - likes a drink. Indeed, he likes a drink so much that most evenings he can barely tear himself away from the bar of his local pub, the Dog and Duck in Warminster. Thankfully, the landlord employs a pair of extremely well-built 'Good Samaritans' who are more than happy to come to the assistance of wayward souls. Every evening they helpfully lift the beer-stricken Derek from his stool, prise his gnarled fingers away from the ale-sodden, mahogany-panelled bar and sling him out into the street. Derek is usually most grateful for this service, 129

and in thanks for their kind attentions he will often hang around for an hour or so after the pub has shut, singing ballads beneath the landlord's window and occasionally breaking out into uncontrollable fits of sobbing. Then, when it’s finally time to call it a night, Derek pauses only to slash up the side of the old Ford Cortina that's normally parked outside the Co-Op, then wobbles his way home. Usually he manages to find his way home all right. Usually he fumbles with his key in the lock, but usually he gets the door open and somehow stumbles up to bed. Usually. But the 14th of March last year proved to be very unusual. On that night Derek reached his back door without incident, but then dropped his key. As he reached down to pick it up, he accidentally slashed his wrist on a broken bottle. Realising that he was probably bleeding quite badly, he made haste to get inside but scalded his hand on the hot kettle whilst trying to feel for the light switch - from which he received a mild electric shock. Feeling quite woozy at this point, he went to the kitchen drawer to find something to bind his wrist, but by this time he was becoming increasingly unsteady. The last thing he remembers was the electric carving knife 'rearing up' at him, as if it was going for his throat. Thankfully a neighbour found him and rushed him to hospital. Reflecting upon the evening afterwards, Derek found the whole thing quite puzzling. Who had placed the broken bottle in such a dangerous place? Who had been tampering with his light switch? He had been out of the house for a good eight hours, so how come the kettle was still hot enough to burn him? And, as far as Derek could remember, his carving knife had never tried to kill him before. He had thrown the instructions away many moons ago, but he was almost certain that he had never seen any warnings about the possibility of the gadget being homicidal. It hadn't even been plugged in. If this all seems like the attention-seeking fantasy of an incurable drunk, then consider the rather more sober testimony of Mrs Sharon Rollinson. Mrs Rollinson's ordeal began one afternoon when, after a busy morning spent shopping for girls' things, she decided to indulge herself with a relaxing soak in the bath. Shortly after lowering herself into the tub she heard the phone ring. Normally she would have ignored it, but on this occasion she suspected it might be one of her friends wishing to talk to her for a couple of hours about knitting or hairstyles or a new recipe or 130

something. So Mrs Rollinson quickly wrapped a towel around herself and rushed downstairs to answer it. In fact, she was so eager that she did not see the vacuum cleaner at the foot of the stairs, and could not avoid getting her foot entangled in the cable. Odd, she thought as she hurtled through the air and cracked the top of her skull against the front door, but she was almost certain that she had put it away before she had gone upstairs. Odder still: as she sat on the carpet and rubbed her aching head, she thought that she could hear it laughing. Was this a normal sort of thing for a vacuum cleaner to do, she wondered? She had never come across this type of behaviour before, but then the cleaner was relatively new and had a number of interesting new features with which she was not yet fully conversant. On the other hand, tripping somebody up then laughing as they smashed their face in against a letterbox was not exactly user-friendly. It was rather more likely that it had developed a fault somehow - something to do with the fuse or the belt or some such technical business that she had no business worrying her pretty little head about. It was certainly not the sort of thing she was going to concern herself with right now. There was more important business afoot to wit, the ringing telephone and the possibility of a radical new recipe for lemon cheesecake. She tried to make for the phone once more, but the vacuum cleaner had other ideas. Once again, the cable snaked around her ankle and pulled her back down to the floor. Then the thick, black hose rose up before her like a deadly cobra about to strike. Before she even had time to cry for help, the narrow gauge sweeper nozzle clamped itself over her mouth and sucked all the breath from her body. She blacked out. When she finally came round the vacuum cleaner was gone - and so were her car, her handbag and the video recorder. We might scoff at such tales, and attribute them to delusions, drunkenness or too many scotch eggs on a Thursday afternoon. But can we really afford to treat these reports so lightly, especially when they appear to be on the increase? What about the sad plight of Colin Redfearn? The police were called to his house after nothing was seen of him for several weeks. When the boys in blue broke down his door, they were astonished to find his lifeless body lying in the kitchen with the best part of a fridge-freezer rammed 131

down his gullet. Are we really to believe that Redfearn managed somehow to accidentally choke on his own refrigerator? Or was their something more pernicious at work? That's certainly the opinion of Doris Pettigrew who has lived for the last thirty years in a secluded cottage on the edge of Salisbury plain. Doris is a white witch and a natural clairvoyant. Her house sits on the conjunction of several major ley lines, and she regularly witnesses inexplicable lights in the sky, uncanny voices in her head, angelic visitations and spontaneous combustion whilst out shopping. She recently visited her doctor when a crop circle mysteriously appeared in the hair on her back, but he told her it was just a bug that was going round at the time. What's more, in 1978 she went to a Barbara Streisand concert, so she's certainly no stranger to weird and unaccountable phenomena. She's also extremely well acquainted with the possibility of household appliances having a life of their own, having suffered from the problem for many years. But Doris is not without an explanation - she believes that they are being possessed. “It's a sign of the times,” I’m afraid, Doris told us as she heaved a big sigh. “At one time, the restless and immortal spirits of the undead were perfectly happy to possess people in order to continue their campaign of havoc and mischief within the mortal realm. But now this is becoming more and more difficult, what with microwaves, satellite dishes and modern methods of intensive crop farming.” Doris is now convinced that “And supersonic jet travel,” Doris adds. “I'm sure that's got something to do with it as well. It's no joke, I can tell you. I should think just about every appliance in my house has been possessed at one time or another. If it's not demons in the microwave, trying to cook the cat every time the poor animal walks past, then it's phantoms in the television set, who won't allow me to watch anything other than Top Gear. I don't know how much more I can take.” Ms Pettigrew claims that her “And another thing,” she chirps. “People may think it's fun to have a house full of possessed equipment, but it's leaving me seriously out of pocket. There's the phone bill for a start. The poltergeist in the hot water boiler keeps making nuisance calls to the fire station and the local pizza restaurant - and what am I 132

supposed to do with four and a half tons of Deep Pan Ham and Pepperoni every month? It just sits there in a heap at the bottom of the garden, covered in cheesy snails. And then there's the alarm clock. Oh - don't talk to me about the alarm clock! I have to buy a new one every six weeks, because they keep filling up with pixies.” Indeed, but the most extraordinary aspect of “Sometimes I just wish that... Oh, sorry dear, were you saying something? Please carry on.” Thank you. The most extraordinary aspect of Doris Pettigrew's story is her fervent belief that many of her appliances are possessed by the spirits of dead celebrities. Most of them are fairly harmless. For example, her food processor is currently inhabited by Judy Garland and is perfectly happy to sit at home all day 24-hour rolling news on the telly. But in other cases it has proven to be problematic. For some years now the electric grill has been manipulated by the shade of Karl Marx, and on several occasions it has persuaded its fellow appliances to rise up in order to seize control of the means of producing toast. And since she discovered that her dishwasher is home to the discarnate spirit of Napoleon Boneparte, Ms Pettigrew has had to keep a constant vigil on the ambitious device in order to stop it wandering off and invading Russia in the middle of the night. There have also been other problems. Not so long ago, thousands of fans flocked to her house and camped on her doorstep after one newspaper got hold of the fact that the spin dryer was possessed by Jim Morrison. On the plus side, the dryer is currently in the middle of a sell-out comeback tour, but Ms Pettigrew is still plagued by requests from dedicated followers who want records signed, questions answered or clothes dried. And so she has finally decided that enough is enough - Doris Pettigrew plans to have her entire house exorcised and drive out the mischievous spirits for good. There will be no more John Wayne in the electric tin opener. No more Dusty Springfield in coffee percolator. Even Mother Theresa will be kicked out of the fridge once and for all. She's going to get rid of the lot of them, without exception. Well, that's not strictly true - there will be one exception. Ms Pettigrew has been very cagey about it, but we have it on good authority that the only thing she intends to spare is her 'personal massager' which she keeps locked in a drawer in her bedroom. 133

Apparently it is inhabited by the ghost of Errol Flynn, and she wants it kept just the way it is 'for sentimental reasons'.

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Maisy Donnington's Guide to Perking Yourself Up and Feeling All Nice and Lovely Well hello!

Awww, feeling down? Hmmm, I know what you mean - the weather's appalling, work is a bore, the family are just a nightmare and the sparkle seems to have gone out of life. You're probably wondering why you feel so dull and listless all the time, and why everything around you seems to be such a pain, aren't you? Yes, well, the answer is really quite simple - it's because you're a miserable old sourpuss, who jolly well needs damn good kick up the bottom to make you realise just how silly you're being. Hello, my name is Maisy Donnington, and I'm here to give you a few tips on how to turn that frown upside down and make the best of what's around; just a few little pointers on how you can cheer yourself up and beat the winter blues. You know, people are always remarking on how jolly and happy I always appear to be. “Maisy,” they will say to me when they see me walking down the street, a spring in my step as I whistle a merry tune, “Why are you always so bloody happy, you soppy cow?” Sometimes I think people are a little jealous of my chirpy disposition. In fact, just the other day my local newsagent told me to wipe the stupid grin off my face when I went in to pick up my copy of Cooking and Knitting Weekly. And even the butcher resorted to smashing my head repeatedly on the counter and threatening me with a meat cleaver as, with much genial cursing and shouting, he bid me divulge the reason for my insufferable breeziness. But it takes much more than persistent abuse, random acts of violence and death threats to get me down, I can tell you. Oh yes, I've got a few tricks up my sleeve when it comes to dealing with nasty little grouches and spoilsports, and if you want to be all jolly 135

and lovely and nice, then you can do a lot worse than take heed of these five handy tips. Tip One: Smile! Yes, it's as simple as that! All you have to do is stretch that mouth wide and show those lovely teeth - go on, give it a try! Of course, I'm slightly hampered by the fact that I've had most of my teeth punched in. Plus, quite a lot of the time, my face is all puffed up and swollen and bruised. But anyone who knows me can be sure that I'm smiling inside - no matter how much agony I'm in! Tip Two: Dance! Ah, dance - what better way is there to express a boundless joy for life than with the flowing rhythms of the polka, the tango or the waltz? I try to dance everywhere, if I possibly can - not only is it good for you, but it saves on cab fares. And, even if I do say so myself, I think I cut a fine figure as I prance and caper through the supermarket, doing my weekly shop. I start off with a gentle quickstep in the fruit and vegetable section, whilst simultaneously slapping out the beat on a pair of melons that I hold between my knees like bongos. Then it's off to the pasta aisle, where the hot Latin melodies take over. I begin to lose myself in a whirlwind of sensual passion and a crowd begins to form. By the time I reach the toiletries I am quite unstoppable, a whirling dervish with scant regard for my own, or anyone else's, safety. Bars of soap and shaving foam are sent spinning across the shop, and toothbrushes are scattered like so much matchwood upon the floor. At this point I am quite delirious in my ecstasy, and even the manager's arrival, his subsequent attempts to persuade me to desist, and his insistence on continually referring to me as a 'mad f@*!ing tart' do little to damage to my spirits. Usually what happens then is that he calls for a couple of burly young men from the stockroom to forcibly eject me, but nine times out of ten I will Lambada out under my own steam, and then do the Timewarp up to the post office to buy some envelopes. Ah, dance - I just love it. Tip Three: Make a Happy List! Making a happy list is a great thing to do! A happy list is a list of all the things you've got to be grateful for, and it's a wonderful way of making you realise just how lucky you are. So, for instance, if I 136

were to make a happy list right now, I would first write down tha t no one tried to kill me today. This is nearly always a good thing, although it doesn't happen often. Actually, when I was in the chemist's earlier, one of the girls there slowly drew her finger across her throat in a threatening gesture, but as she didn't actually lunge at me, it doesn't count as an actual attempt on my life. Some of the other things on my list would be, oh, flowers, babies, Tom Selleck and puppies. Actually, a puppy tried to bite me this morning, and a man looking suspiciously like Tom Selleck tried to back over me in his car... After consideration it appears that I may have to start this list again. Tip Four: Express Yourself! There's nothing worse than being unable to give vent to your innermost feelings and opinions. But remember - the only thing stopping you is you. Some people get a great deal of pleasure out of painting, or composing music, or amateur dramatics. Having said that, nobody gets any pleasure out of writing - that's just a fucking nightmare. Anyway, maybe you think you're no good with a brush, or that you're tone deaf, but that's really not the point. As long as you can express yourself, that's all that matters. Speaking for myself, I have quite an affinity with sculpture. I'm currently working on a twenty foot high representation of myself in my back garden, fashioned out of my own excrement - although at the moment I'm having a bit of trouble with the nose. It's a bit of a talking point in our neighbourhood and the local residents have held several meetings to discuss what can be done about it. Opinion seems to be divided. Half the street believe that it is an eyesore, whilst the other half - those living downwind - have decided that it is a public health hazard. Feelings have been running fairly high, and just two nights ago a rampaging mob converged on my house, bearing flaming torches. Fortunately they were unable to get within thirty yards without their eyes starting to sting. Tip Five: Make New Friends! What's the point in keeping your light under a bushel? You're an attractive, intelligent, witty person and people will want to get to know you. That's something to feel good about, so why not make the effort to make new friends? Over the past couple of weeks I've been trying to make the acquaintance of my postman. I get up 137

especially early and wave to him from my bedroom window. For the first couple of days he would look up and wave back, but I noticed that gradually his smile became more and more forced, and now he tramps up to the front door with his head down and won't acknowledge me at all. I've tried calling out to him, but have received only cursory grunts in reply. Then one morning I decided I would give him a bit of a surprise, so I hid beside my front door and waited for his approach. When he posted my letters, I reached out and pulled his hand through the letterbox. Well, I thought it was just a friendly gesture, but he reacted with some degree of panic, and rapidly snatched his hand back, tearing three livid scratches across my face as he did so. I realised that it was my own fault for startling the poor man, so this morning I thought I'd write him a letter of apology. I waited patiently behind the front door, intending to hand it to him personally. He arrived later than usual - in fact he took me completely by surprise. All of a sudden my mail was roughly punched through my letterbox, and I heard the rapid retreat of running feet. I flung open the door and gave chase, managing to drag him to the ground just beyond my rose bushes. There was a bit of a struggle, but in the confusion I was able to ram my letter of apology down the collar of his shirt before he broke free and ran off screaming down the road. I guess he's just shy; I can see I will need to make an extra special effort to bring him out of his shell. So what I'm intending to do is this: tomorrow I shall follow him home. Then, once he's had chance to relax and settle down in front of the TV, I'm going to tap on the window and press my naked breasts up against the glass. Hopefully this will serve to break the ice, and will allow us to get to know one another on a more casual footing. So, those are just five of the ways that you can pick yourself up and be a happy little sunbeam - without having to resort to illegal substances, lewd magazines or nasty, evil television. There's no longer any excuse for you to be a crabby little misery guts, so pull up your happy socks, gird your giggle bone and let's see if we can't make the world a more plumptious and sugary place. Bye bye!

138

Exploding Dinners

In these days of fast food, TV dinners and reconstituted mechanically-recovered-offal-based microwave Snack Tubs, it is becoming increasingly difficult to ensure a properly balanced diet. For kids the temptation to pig out on burgers and treacle-coated Munch Bars is even greater, and parents face a never-ending battle to persuade them to eat a proper, healthy, lard-based meal. Well now those days could be over, thanks to the good people at Funmeals, who are about to introduce a new range of products aimed at bringing children back to the dinner table. We invited spokesman Jack Zannussi to tell us about it. Zannussi: We're all very proud of our new Aurora range of frozen meals. The brand encompasses quite a large selection of products, offering the consumer excellent choice. Every item has been prepared to maximise vitamin and nutrient content, and we have managed to reduce salt and fat content without compromising taste. But what really sets the brand apart can be summed up in one word - 'fun'. University of the Bleeding Obvious: As we understand it, the range is uniquely designed to appeal to children? Zannussi: Oh yes, we felt that this was very important. Meal times should be an occasion. It's more than just a feeding session - it's a social event. We know, we've done research. That's why our meals are more than just food. Every product within the Aurora range is designed to entertain, to enthral, to UBO: To explode? 139

Zannussi: Well, that's rather a crude way of putting it, but yes. We have integrated the latest pyrotechnic technology into our products to create fully interactive meals, which will dazzle and amaze. Stick your fork into a potato fritter and it will shoot twenty feet into the air and explode to produce a spectacular burst of colour and light. Watch as our freshly frozen garden peas dance and fizzle on your plate. Gasp in delight as the steak and kidney pie spins round like a Catherine wheel, flinging out an aura of radiant stars. Dinner time is happy time. UBO: Are you quite sure about that? Zannussi: Oh most definitely. We've got the figures. Research shows that after consuming one of our meals, the average child is often up to 40% happier. UBO: The reason I ask is because of concerns about safety. During your initial trial period, when these meals were on sale in North Yorkshire, there were quite a number of well-documented accidents - burns, lacerations and such like. Zannussi: And our research shows that they all occurred as a result of failure to comply with the correct handling instructions. We've since redesigned the packaging to emphasise the proper procedures for preparing and consuming the product. UBO: Instructions such as 'Stand well back' and 'Once lit, do not return'? Mr Zannussi, don't you think that stipulating these meals should be observed from a distance of not less than 15 feet makes them rather difficult to eat? Zannussi: It has its own problems, certainly - which is why we are offering people a custom-designed telescopic fork. All they have to do is collect six tokens from the back of special boxes. We are anticipating that this will be a very popular offer. In our survey, over 80% of our sample said that they'd be happy to eat their dinner with a telescopic fork. We have bar charts. UBO: Very well, let's move on to the problem presented by some of the ingredients. 140

Zannussi: We try to use natural ingredients wherever possible, but certain preservatives are necessary to extend shelf life. UBO: I was thinking rather more about the large quantities of gunpowder, sulphur and various other noxious chemicals that are present in these meals. I am not a chemist myself, Mr Zannussi, but I strongly suspect that such substances are extremely injurious to health. Then, of course, there is always the risk of these foodstuffs being ignited once they have entered the digestive system. Zannussi: These kinds of worries beleaguer many new products, but usually turn out to be unfounded. I remember many concerns surrounding a lot of those 'just-add-boiling-water' instant meals when they first came out. UBO: That's as may be, but I don't recall a Pot Noodle ever killing anybody. Your new meals have already been associated with at least one death. Zannussi: Death? UBO: I'm referring to fourteen-year-old Daniel Peasgood of Halifax. Zannussi: Ah now, strictly speaking, young Daniel is missing, not dead. Nobody's seen him since the 'incident' and I don't think it would be prudent to assume his demise until they have recovered a body. UBO: They found his trousers in Redcar. Zannussi: Well, you know what teenagers are like. UBO: So, in summary, despite the objections and the obvious dangers, you are still determined to press ahead with the nationwide launch of the Aurora range? Zannussi: Certainly we are. Oh, I'm aware that the product has 141

problems. Our carrots - for instance - are highly unstable and are prone to explode on contact with gravy. Our cottage pie has experienced particular difficulties, and has a tendency to fly off in random directions when it reaches temperatures in excess of 80°C. And Lord knows what would happen if our sprouts ever fell into the hands of terrorists. But, taking all this into consideration, I firmly believe the benefits far outweigh the problems. I think the sheer thrill of watching your meat and two veg lift off its plate in a shower of sparks and engulf the dinner table in a furious festival of lights before consuming itself in a white-hot fireball is well worth the loss of the odd eyebrow or two. Don't you?

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Lunch

Project Scooby

The Quest for the World's Greatest Sandwich

Somewhere, as it sluices like a concrete river through the hardbaked, sun-bleached plain of the Nevada desert, there's a dust trail that leaves the highway and heads off apparently to nowhere. Or at least, that's what we've been told. As we shudder to a halt at the side of the road and wait for the dust to die down so we might see where the hell we are, we're beginning to wonder if it exists at all. We're slowly cooking in a 1974 pickup that looks like it might have enjoyed a previous existence as something roadworthy. Our driver is also our guide. Randy 'Peanuts' Murphy has lived in this neighbourhood for over sixty years and - according to the people who recommended him to us - he knows this land like the back of his hand. When we heard about a secret complex, hidden somewhere in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, Peanuts seemed like the perfect man to accompany us. Now, as we sit alongside the rank old coot 'somewhere' along the bleached white spine of the highway, we are starting to wonder if we've made the right decision. “Thing is, the desert is a bitch,” Peanuts tells us, with the confident, lazy drawl of a man accustomed to talking crap for the benefit of tourists. He's staring out through the dirt-blasted windshield, scanning what the distant heat haze allows him to see of the horizon. He's got a pensive look on his face, but we realise he's probably just concentrating on dislodging part of this morning's breakfast from beneath his false palate. “Yup,” he continues, and flicks his hand in an indolent gesture as he rests it on the steering wheel, “she sure is a harsh and unforgiving mistress.” “Okay,” we say. “She's a cruel and wanton trickster,” Peanuts elaborates. He jerks his head around and hurls a big gob of spit at the adjacent window. 145

The window happens to be wound up, but he doesn't seem the slightest bit perturbed by the viscous globule of sputum as it slowly slides down the glass. “A sly old devil dog. A barbed wire boot for the unwary traveller. She's a rancid, petulant wheelbarrow of death for the moribund adventurer. Oh yes, sirree.” “Great,” we say. “So, where are we?” “We're lodged in the very heart of her evil bosom,” Peanuts says unhelpfully. “Caught up in her web of fear. I've seen the desert kill a man - it sure ain't pretty.” “Fantastic,” we say, becoming impatient now. “So what you're trying to tell us is...?” “Listen boys,” Peanuts says, and he turns and fixes us with a cold, yellow-eyed glare. His lined, weather-beaten face seems as old as the desert, and each crease and wrinkle speaks of a lifetime of wisdom. Slightly more alarmingly, we notice that the gob on the window behind him has started to move upwards. “Listen real good,” he says again. “I've been living on this land all my life. Man and boy. In sickness and in health. Ob-la-di, ob-lada. Don't you think if I'd could find my way about, I would have shipped out years ago?” He makes a good point, and he knows it. Without the need to elaborate, he guns the engine and we're off again, in search of our mysterious isolated facility. Peanuts has never seen the place himself, but he knows many people who have. “Most folks round here know about it,” he tells us, and his voice could almost be described as portentous. “It's the place where they're making The Sandwich.” According to our source back in London, who claims to have seen the paperwork, somewhere out here is a top secret research facility dedicated to the design and construction of the world's greatest sandwich. Project Scooby - named in honour of the sandwich-loving cartoon dog - was initiated back in 1979 when the then President, Jimmy Carter, feeling a little peckish, turned to a couple of his aides who were sniffing around his Oval Office and said, 'Hey guys, if you're stuck for something to do, why don't you go fix me a bite to eat?” And so Project Scooby was born. Originally funded wholly by the American Government, the project initially boasted a team of six government nutritionists and was housed in a small rented office above a dentist's in Philadelphia. From such humble beginnings the 146

undertaking has grown to accommodate several international partners - both government bodies and private companies. The scope of the project has increased also. From rustling up a bite to eat for Jimmy Carter, the current aim of Project Scooby is to design the ultimate 'super sandwich'. A sandwich to be both feared and admired by people all over the planet. A sandwich that could, if properly handled, dominate the world. They've been working on it for over 20 years and now, if our information is correct, they might at last be nearing completion. One day soon, President Carter may finally get his lunch. When the facility in Nevada first came into use is a matter for speculation. Peanuts Murphy seems to think that Project Scooby first came here in the mid-eighties. “Oh sure, yes,” he recalls. “The summer of 1984, I remember it like it was yesterday. Boy George, Phil Collins, Tears For Fears. All the kids were into the frilly shirts and the make up and the big hair. It was fucking gruesome. The Chorlton's boy was shot through the neck one night after being mistaken for a fruit. Still, better safe than sorry.” “And what about the Project Scooby people?” we prompt him. “Oh no,” he says. “They were far too straight-laced for any of that Spandau Ballet crap. One or two of them may have been a bit fruity, but they didn't let it show.” Peanuts pauses to dislodge a couple of cockroaches from his ear. “There was a lot of construction traffic coming through town at that time. That's when we first began to get wind of something going off in the mountains. A lot of bigwigs about as well - military and scientific types. They used long words and frightened our womenfolk.” Peanuts stops the truck again and turns to us, a broad, gleaming grin cracking his gnarled face. “Well hey boys, whaddya know?” he says, and gestures over his shoulder. We look at the window behind him, slightly nonplussed. There's a long streak spreading upwards on the glass, marking the ungainly passage of his expended saliva, but no sign of the actual gob itself. We start to worry. It could be anywhere. Then we notice the real object of his triumph. Clearly visible, etched into the dry dust stretching across the desert to the distant mountains is a well-travelled dirt track. “I told you we'd find it,” Peanuts says, then he swings the wheel around sharply and we dive off the highway. We rattle down a small bank and then, all of a sudden, we're bouncing across the uneven 147

track, shaken this way and that as the truck crunches up the rocks in its path. This is the real desert now. We've left the comfort and convenience of metalled roads and are thundering across bare naked earth. It's a wild, desolate place, and Peanut's earlier mental utterances come back to us. We begin to see that the desert really could kill a man. Kill him, bury him and stand laughing over his unmarked grave. This is home only to the very hardiest of men, and the fiercest most tenacious of God's creatures. In the distance we can see herds of long-toothed sand pigs, foraging amongst the dry earth for prairie oysters and buffalo worms. Above us we hear the cries of the circling mountain ducks. They follow in our wake, like seagulls following a trawler. The trail seems to go on forever, snaking this way and that as it heads towards the distant mountains, but those mountains never seem to get any closer. It's as if they're running away from us as fast as we run towards them. After a while, doubt begins to sink in. Perhaps we're following the wrong trail? Perhaps this track leads nowhere? Or perhaps it leads to some completely different secret research facility - perhaps one investigating UFOs or stealth weaponry...? Of course, although Project Scooby has never been officially been recognised it has still attracted its fair share of attention from both the media and certain outspoken individuals. Amongst them are a large number of nutritionists, sandwichologists and bun specialists who have been most critical of the attempt. Such a 'super sandwich' could not possibly exist, they claim. Nobody has yet baked a loaf with the tensile strength to take the strain. And whilst the adhesive properties of many industrial strength margarines are impressive, there isn't a single brand that would be able to maintain structural cohesion in the event of crust slippage or wheat germ decay. Perhaps then, this is just some wild goose chase? Perhaps Project Scooby is just a pipe dream, a modern-day fairy story - unfeasible, untenable, impossible? Just as we begin to think we've made a terrible mistake, we pass an empty tanker of mayonnaise coming in the opposite direction, and we are reassured that we must be on the right path. The Nevada facility first came to our attention when we heard a report from amateur pilot Christian Pyle. Pyle was out one morning, 148

practising three-point turns in his private plane, when he passed over some kind of industrial complex hidden in the mountains. On first glimpsing it, he noted what appeared to be a large central warehouse or hangar, surrounded by a network of smaller buildings. Banking sharply, he flew over the site again. This time he clearly saw a giant vat marked with the words 'French Mustard', and also several large fields of cress. Since then, a number of more detailed reports have reached us from people who have been able to slip through the tight security cordon that surrounds the site. We have learned that the large hangar that Pyle saw from the air is where the sandwich - officially titled Scoob 1 - is being constructed. It currently measures over thirty feet high, but new levels are being added all the time. A complicated network of pipes constantly feeds barbecue sauce to the sandwich, pumped directly from a highly classified supply facility off the Pacific coast. This is the very lifeblood of the project, without which Scoob 1 would simply whither and die. Project Scooby, as you might expect, requires an uninterrupted influx of ingredients. As well as a steady stream of trucks and tankers visiting the site, they also receive daily parachute drops of gherkins. Witnesses have testified to the huge stockpiles of sandwich components that are stored at the facility, including giant mile-long salamis, row upon row of huge Edam 'boulders' and an artificial lake of salad cream, on which employees can go waterskiing during their time off. There is also, apparently, a hidden 'chilli cavern', which is highly restricted and can only be accessed in times of dire emergency - and then only when the employee is wearing a full radiation suit. It's no mean feat, transporting all these supplies and all this equipment to such a remote spot. But there may be a very good reason why this location was chosen. Not only is it away from the prying eyes of rival sandwich constructors, but there is also rumoured to be large deposits of naturally occurring pepperoni in these mountains. And a careful study of maps dating back some hundred years or more reveals that at the beginning of the twentieth century, prospectors discovered rich seams of Chinese Chicken. As we draw ever closer, we can almost smell the pickles. The track sweeps in a broad arc around the foothills. The desert rises up around us as the mountains begin to grow. For the first time we see a tantalising glimpse of the facility - in the distance, nestling 149

between far away outcrops we spot the top of a crane, a radio mast and the occasional spurt from one of the ketchup geysers. Our sense of excitement builds as we anticipate the buzz of activity that lies ahead of us - engineers turning cucumbers on lathes, riveting tomatoes or smelting onions. But our hearts sink when we start to see the warning signs at the side of the track. “NO VISITORS”, “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY”, “TRESPASSERS WILL BE CLAMPED” and “NO PICNICS”. Then we come to the checkpoint. Peanuts slows the truck to a halt as an armed guard steps forward. And our journey is at an end. No amount of blagging, pleading, bribery or coercion will persuade the young sentry to let us pass. With little other choice, we turn the truck around and head on back. Night is falling in the desert as we begin our tired, bone-shaking journey back to the highway. We hear the distant calls of the Lumbago wolves, howling in agony. We're told that packs of Beatles come out at dusk to feed on the herds of Monkees and the occasional Herman's Hermit, but we see no sign of them. Perhaps we're too lost in regret to notice them. To have come all this way and to be turned back at the last moment is crushing. To know that we will never get to see teams of welders working on great sheets of ham, or watch lumberjacks felling giant stalks in the forest of celery is a disappointment we can hardly bear. Ah well, we've always got next year's trip to look forward to. We're off to Indonesia to check out the worlds biggest chicken tikka masala.

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151

Sandwiches Through the Ages

In 1762, fresh from a busy morning spent interfering with peasant girls, John Montagu, Fourth Earl of Sandwich and congenital buffoon returned home in a peckish mood. Experimenting with various buns, loaves and selected fillings he managed to create what most research and development technicians would call 'a right mess'. However, once the maid had cleared everything away, Sandwich found that - quite by accident - he was left with a thick chunk of meat wedged between two slices of bread. The 'sandwich' was born. Or so conventional wisdom would have us believe. In fact the sandwich is known to have been around since Roman times - and there are certain cafes in York and Chester where you can still buy early examples. There is anecdotal evidence that they may have existed much earlier. Plato cites the Great Ham and Cheese Bap of Asia Minor as being a miracle of culinary engineering, ranking alongside the Temple of Diana at Ephesus, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and the Really Big Potato Fritter of Alexandria as one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. It seems that 'Loopy Nuts' Sandwich - as he was affectionately known throughout the parish - had something of a reputation for appropriating other people's inventions and passing them off as his own. Earlier that same year he had invented a 'circular device to assist in the smooth motion of vehicles'. This he also named after himself, although critics pointed out that his 'vehicular sandwich' was remarkably similar in both function and design to the 'wheel', an invention that had already been around for some time. In fact, during his lifetime, he claimed to have invented the printing press, the telescope, the spinning wheel, in-line roller skates and fire. And each time he 'invented' something new, he christened it a sandwich. He once boasted that he had developed over 150 sandwiches, all 152

of which were clearly based on existing designs. Sandwich only ever came up with one truly original invention - the Rex. Such was his contempt for the device that he named it after his dog. It was, in fact, possibly the earliest known example of a mobile phone technically quite considerably ahead of its time. Sadly, Sandwich never saw the potential of the device, and merely used it to hammer in nails. Nevertheless, the 'Rex' survives intact. It can be seen in Bristol Museum, and still has £2.50 worth of credit left on it.

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The Sandwich Advisor

Ham and tomato? Cheese and pickle? Pork and asparagus? It's a nightmare, isn't it? It's lunchtime, the minutes are ticking away and you've only got a few precious moments to get in there, choose the sandwich that really suits your needs, then get out again. It's a well known fact that buying your lunchtime sandwich is the third most stressful thing you can do, after moving house and sleeping with your boss. Especially if you do all three on the same day. Well, it is if you choose to believe The National Sandwich Hotline. They claim that they deal with up to four thousand calls a day from desperate customers who simply cannot make their mind up when it comes to lunch. And the number of people using the service is steadily rising as coffee shops, delicatessens and supermarkets offer more and more choice. So what does the National Sandwich Hotline actually do? Well, it offers personal lunchtime help in the shape of professional sandwich advisors like Chris Martin. Chris travels the length and breadth of the country, meeting clients and helping them to make that difficult choice. We were fortunate enough to spend the some time with him as he did his rounds, and he was eager to point out that it's his job to offer advice, not make decisions. “One thing we don't do is make up people's minds for them,” he told us. “We are here to give advice and support, but in the end the choice is always up to the individual. Hopefully, if we've done our job properly, then the customer will make the right decision, but I'd be lying if I said that mistakes don't happen. Last year an office worker in Sidcup was advised by one of our staff to purchase a salmon and cucumber bap. It turns out that she didn't like it at all, and would have much preferred something involving cheese. Well, as you can imagine, it put our man in a bit of a tight spot. The fast response team had to be called in, the area was sealed off 154

and the office worker was brought under control with a cheese board and some salted crackers. Our man was quite disheartened. He'd misread the signs, given the wrong advice and because of his error a young woman's lunchtime had been spoilt. But hey, it happens. After all, we're only human.” We get the distinct impression that Chris himself would never have made a mistake like that. He has a reputation as one of the most respected sandwich advisors in the country, and his services are sought by the great and the good. At present we are sitting in a Ford Focus, speeding up the M1 towards York where Chris has an appointment with a senior partner in a busy firm of solicitors. The back seat is heaving with stacks of Tupperware boxes, each containing prospective lunch samples and sandwich swatches. The fusion of smells - onions, cucumbers, mayonnaises and freshly baked breads - is heavenly. It makes us wonder if being a sandwich advisor is really as difficult as we've been led to believe. Surely it's just a question of waving all these goodies under the nose of the client and seeing which one takes his fancy? Chris, however, greets this suggestion with a curious mixture of horror and disdain. “Good grief, no!” he cries, throwing us a brief look of distress as he pulls out to overtake a Mazda. “It's a science,” he insists. “And, at the same time, its an art form,” he adds. “No, no, it's more than that - it's a whole philosophy of life. Listen, if somebody says that they quite fancy a ham and pickle baguette, then you can't just say, well, go out and get yourself a ham and pickle baguette. The world just doesn't work like that. You have to examine why they want a ham and pickle baguette - what emotional imperative lies behind the urge for a ham and pickle baguette? What deep, psychological need would this ham and pickle baguette fulfil? What does the ham symbolise, and what conflicting element does the pickle represent? And then, when you have completely deconstructed the client's desire for a ham and pickle baguette; when you can finally determine with complete clarity the inner workings of his psyche, and the importance of the ham and pickle baguette therein - then, and only then, will you find yourself in a position to recommend an egg and cress sandwich. You see?” No. We don't see. But we're too intimidated to say anything about it. This Chris Martin seems to know what he's talking about, even if nobody else does. We sit in silence for a while. Chris accelerates past a truck carrying carpet tiles, then slips in behind a 155

National Express coach as we approach the turn off for York. Finally, it's Chris who breaks the silence. “We do have forms, of course,” he says, and there is something in his voice that suggests we ought to be impressed by this. We pretend to be impressed by this, and he is encouraged to continue. “Oh yes, I don't want to give the impression that we offer advice purely according to our own instincts or preferences. It's important, you see, that we remain detached and impartial throughout the whole process. So we have forms.” He indicates a buff folder containing a wad of forms lying on the back seat, and invites us to take a look. “They're blank, of course,” he explains apologetically. “I can't show you a completed one - client confidentiality and all that. But you can see the kind of information that we have to collect before we even begin to talk about the various lunch possibilities. The first section is all to do with flavour preferences - likes and dislikes, that sort of thing. Whether they are adventurous in their lunchtime habits, and so on. You might like to fill it out yourselves for fun.” We look over the form with interest, but decide to pass on his kind offer of 'fun'. “The next bit,” he continues as we swing around a roundabout far too quickly, “is concerned with nutritional requirements. This, of course, has to take account of any other meals that may have been eaten during the course of the day. We don't advise that our clients ingest anything without first consulting us, but occasionally it does happen.” We nod in what we understand to be a serious manner. The form, meanwhile, had by now been fashioned into a fetching hat. “The final section highlights any health issues,” Chris tells us. “Allergies, heart problems, cholesterol levels - we need to know about any medical problems for, um, medical reasons. So, having collected all this information, we can then begin to build up the customer's personal sandwich profile. This is where the real skill is involved, for everyone's individual sandwich profile is as unique as their fingerprint or retina pattern... Aha, this is it!” We've arrived at the offices of his client. Unfortunately, we are not allowed to sit in on the consultation itself, so Chris leaves us standing in the car park and says he'll come back for us later. We're disappointed, but not too disappointed. To be honest, the whole operation seems a bit suspect. We're convinced that Chris is 156

convinced that what he provides is an important and worthwhile service, but we can't help thinking that The National Sandwich Hotline is merely taking advantage of people too weak-minded to make their own decisions. In the interests of balance - and since we had nothing better to do - we decided to drop in on Professor Charles Yellowhammer, to hear his opinion on the matter. When he's not acting as advisor to the European Space Agency, Professor Yellowhammer is the senior lecturer in advanced mathematics at Cambridge. He won the Nobel Prize in 1964 for his pioneering theories on using the passage of high-amplitude waves to measure the curvature of space-time, and has since gone on to make a number of astounding discoveries in the field of nonEuclidean geometry as applied to real world physics. He has an IQ of 220, is widely regarded as one of the leading pioneers of his generation, and is someone who, we felt, would not be stumped when it came to deciding what he wanted for lunch. He happened to be in York to chair a discussion on the possible dangers and repercussions of harnessing zero point energy, but very kindly took time out to speak to us. The question we asked him was this: if you had to choose between egg and cress, ham salad or cheese and onion, which one would you plump for? The Professor betrayed a flicker of surprise, then frowned, deep in thought. He was clearly treating the problem very seriously, and was silent for a moment as he stroked his chin in contemplation. Finally he seemed to reach a conclusion, drew a sharp intake of breath and announced that he'd probably just go out and get a burger instead. That, you see, is what an education can do for you. By the time we met up with Chris Martin again, it was already late in the afternoon - way past lunchtime, in fact. We gathered that his meeting had not gone at all well. His client had not responded positively to suggestions of chicken with a vinaigrette dressing, and apparently there had been a contretemps regarding a radish. Chris had left him seriously considering tomatoes, but otherwise it seemed that very little had been resolved. We drove back in a sullen silence, and Chris very kindly dropped us off at home - not our home, his, but we figured that the walk would do us good and help us work up an appetite. On reflection, we had seen very little to convince us that what The National Sandwich Hotline was doing was a good thing. There 157

was a time when people who were too dumb to decide what to have for lunch would have died of malnutrition. Natural selection, you see. But now, because of the National Sandwich Hotline, their numbers will swell. There will come a point when our shops and supermarkets will be overrun with these morons - hopelessly milling around with their mouths open, picking up stuff and putting it back, holding up queues and getting in everybody's way. This, we felt, was not something that ought to be encouraged. As we tramped home we decided that we would stop off at a little sandwich shop we know and get a bite to eat. We didn't know exactly what we wanted, but we figured that we'd work it out when we got there.

While we were with him, Chris Martin very kindly offered to prepare our own personalised sandwich chart. We filled in a form on behalf of Mrs Edna Womble (deceased) of 42 The Mews, Cardiff, from which Chris produced this...

As you can see from this illustration, onions are in the ascendant and there is a favourable conjunction between mustard and fishpaste. Based on this information, Chris forecasts an emphasis on dairy products over the next seven days, with a brief flirtation with Pot Noodle midweek, and rounding off with strawberry yoghurt on Friday. He also mentioned something about beetroot, but by that time we had given up.

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Cold Fusion Sandwiches

Edward Smiley, an amateur inventor based in the UK, has made scientific history and turned the world of physics upside down by inventing the world's first cold fusion sandwich. “It's been a dream of mine for some time,” says Eddy. “For too long sandwiches have been a highly dangerous and unpredictable method of creating lunch, contaminating our atmosphere and constantly threatening us with the prospect of catastrophic meltdown. Now, at last, we have the option of sandwiches that are not only clean and energy efficient, but can also provide up to ten times the typical yield of traditional fission sandwiches.” But what exactly does this mean for the man in the street? Well, at present most sandwiches are made by bombarding an ordinary loaf with high-energy particles and literally 'splitting' it into its component slices. These form the building blocks of the modern sandwich. The process is simple enough, but is unpredictable and difficult to control. Unfortunately, accidents do happen. Just last month a bakery in Dudley was levelled in a bread related incident, and investigators were subsequently able to trace the disaster back to a hairline crack in a family size farmhouse loaf. It was only the smallest of flaws, and yet when it split under the enormous pressures of baking it was enough to set off a chain reaction in a shelf full of croissants. Thankfully, incidents like this are rare. Even so, at best the fission process is messy and inevitably leads to a fallout of crumbs, which are difficult to dispose of and often end up polluting cupboards and bread bins for decades. According to Smiley, his cold fusion process results in no fallout whatsoever. “I must be honest and admit that my claims have met with a certain amount of scepticism from some of my colleagues,” he says. “But my experiments have proved, time and time again, that 159

the process works. I think the real problem is that some people simply don't want to believe. This is, perhaps, understandable. After all, the image of the sandwich has been in decline since the late seventies. What was once hailed as a revolutionary new breakthrough in mealtime engineering is now perceived as dangerous and wasteful. Of late it has become fashionable to believe that the future of lunch technology lies with the sausage roll, the Scotch egg or the pie. There have even been experiments with reconstituted meat snacks, but personally I have always believed that the sandwich has a far greater potential.” There seems little reason to doubt Mr Smiley's sincerity. He has been fascinated by sandwiches since he was a boy, and as a teenager he spent many lonely hours locked away in his bedroom, experimenting with different fillings. During his time at university he built an ingenious coal-fired bap. It had no real commercial potential, but it did pave the way for later developments and when he graduated he went on to design a revolutionary new gas turbinedriven bagel for Exxon. It is also worth noting that Edward Smiley was one of the principal members of the team who worked on the award winning clockwork pitta, an invention which has made an enormous contribution to the day-to-day running of curry restaurants throughout the third world. However, his first love has always been sandwiches, and although there is still plenty of work to be done he remains firm in the belief that there is a great future in store for his invention. “It hasn't been easy,” he confesses. “And I won't deny that there is still a long way to go. We need to properly test new textures of bread, both at high velocity and under extremes of pressure. We also need to conduct a proper study into the relative adhesive properties of butter and margarine. Then, of course, there's the filling. At the moment I am only able to use peanut butter in my sandwiches - and the crunchy variety, at that. Obviously, this is incredibly frustrating. We need to take a long hard look at cheese spread, seriously investigate crab paste and consider the strengths and weaknesses of a selection of cold meats. Then there is lettuce - oh, don't talk to me about lettuce! I need time, I need money, I need better facilities. I also need a new spreading knife, because the one I've got at the moment is too flimsy and floppy and crap. “It's going to be a mammoth task,” he continues cautiously. 160

“And it's not just a question of science, because at the same time we also have to deal with people's preconceived ideas and prejudices about their lunch. But it will be worth the effort, just to be able to say, hopefully in the not too distant future, that we have at last developed a sandwich, or even a roll, that can in some way, be it great or small, contribute to making this world a better place. If I can do that, then I'll know that my time hasn't been completely wasted.”

Solar Sandwich Smiley isn’t the only researcher working on the cutting edge of sandwich technology. Gyles Folding, a shoe salesman from Wrexham, has entered the fray with his solar powered sandwich. His invention, which runs on energy generated by three small photoelectric cells concealed in the top slice of bread, is cheap, easy to maintain and environmentally friendly. They currently come in three flavours: cheese, cheese and tomato, and ham. A bacon & lettuce version is in the pipeline, although the launch date has recently been postponed because of electrical problems. Folding has based the designs for his sandwiches on blueprints made by his grandfather over sixty years ago. Colonel Gerry Folding designed sandwiches for the Allies during the war, and it was his gammon and mayonnaise baps that were instrumental in the liberation of Dieppe. The Colonel was sadly killed in 1948 when a turkey and cress roll, which he was test-driving for the RAF, went out of control and collided with a nun.

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Part Two

Fatquake

Shock news reached us yesterday from Colorado, USA, when we heard that Mr Buddy Vats, the world's fattest man, suffered a fatal earthquake in the early hours of the morning. This tragedy has its own particular poignancy, coming as it does just three weeks before Mr Vats was due to receive a special award from the Guinness Book of Records, in recognition of his contribution to the world of international blubber. Buddy Vats was first proclaimed the world's fattest man as long ago as September 1983, and in spite of some tough competition from prize porkers across the globe he has held the title ever since. Back then, Mr Vats weighed in at an impressive 1150 pounds and was living in his mom's garage in Denver. Being unable to move under his own steam, he was incapable of going out and foraging for himself, and so his weight was maintained by regular deliveries of pies and burgers, provided by local fundraisers and well-wishers. Indeed, such was the success of the many charity events and appeals instigated by the 'Keep Buddy Big' campaign, that Mr Vats was able to continue expanding at an impressive rate. This became a problem. The Vats' garage was only really designed to accommodate a normal family saloon, and could not meet the unique requirements of an over-inflated fat bastard and the attendant pulleys and guide ropes that enabled him to perform his basic ablutions and toilet activities. By 1990 it was clear that other arrangements would need to be made. The call went out and in no time a suitable aircraft hanger had been located on the outskirts of Grand Junction. So far, so good. But if finding a new home for Mr Vats was relatively easy, then the actual task of physically relocating him was going to be much more difficult. Various schemes were talked about, including fitting him with giant wheels and rolling him, or greasing him up and punting him along 165

the highway with long poles. The local mayor even offered a considerable sum of public money to build a canal so that Mr Vats could be floated down to his new home. However, in the end it was a German construction firm who saved the day, with the loan of some heavy-duty earth moving equipment. At this point, nobody was really sure how much Mr Vats weighed. Conventional measuring techniques were simply not up the job, so it was decided to send in a team of geologists to gather data and estimate his overall mass. By late spring they still hadn't returned, and so a second contingent was sent in after them. This team was also feared lost after all radio contact ceased, but against all odds one of their number managed to find his way back. He was pale and emaciated as he was dragged from the oleaginous rolls of flab that hung from Mr Vats' left armpit, and he was babbling incoherently. Nevertheless, papers later recovered from his person contained enough information to be able to fix Mr Vats' weight at a figure rapidly approaching 2000 pounds. Mr Vats continued to grow throughout the rest of the decade not just in physical size, but also in notoriety. He entertained an increasing number of visitors, and soon crowds were flocking to see him. And so, in 1996 a local businessman decided to capitalise on the fat man's fame by building a 200-acre amusement park on his lower abdomen, with parking for over ten thousand cars on his thighs. Gradually 'Vatsworld' expanded to incorporate a luxury five star hotel nestling in the picturesque valley between Mr Vats' pendulous man-breasts, perfectly placed to take advantage of the busy flab-skiing slopes that had recently become such a popular attraction on his blubbery jowls. By the end of the millennium Vatsworld had become the third most popular attraction in North America and had proudly unveiled a multi-million dollar science centre on one of Mr Vats' fat ankles. The idea behind the centre was to investigate ways of tapping into Mr Vats' vast reserves of renewable energy. Thoraxic-thermal power was already being utilised to heat the water for Vatsworld's seven Olympic standard swimming pools. However, there were ambitious new plans to build a wind farm on Mr Vats' upper lip to harness the stentorian force of his cheesy breath. Technicians were also investigating ways of unlocking the vast store of potential energy generated by the humble sweat gland (On average, Mr Vats would produce over two and a half thousand gallons of sweat an 166

hour). But the project that was creating the most excitement was the proposed 'colon-turbines'. These vast turbines were to be located deep in the substructure of Mr Vats, and be driven by the immense forces that would blast forth from his digestive system at regular intervals. One senior project manager is quoted as saying that Mr Vats' anus could feasibly power a moderately sized town for anything up to twenty years - although he did admit that no one would want to live there. Such forward-looking ideas were exciting, certainly, but it was at around this time that Mr Vats' future began to look very shaky indeed. Throughout his final few years his growth had accelerated to an unprecedented rate. Whilst this had led to the welcome creation of some very valuable real estate, it had also become the cause of much concern for a great many dull, uninspiring scientific types who thought that they knew better. They were worried that so much ballast concentrated in such a relatively small area would have dire consequences. In particular, they feared that the mass would ultimately become so great that Mr Vats would literally collapse in on himself, becoming a super-dense 'fat hole' from which even chips would be unable to escape. But in the end it seemed that Mother Nature herself stepped in to put an end to this extraordinary tale of corporate corpulence. The clues, we suppose, were there all along: the increasing instability of some of Mr Vats' chubbier regions; the recent lard slides and blubber quakes; the constant miasma of body odour, coupled with the creaks and groans of discomfort. To put it simply, Mr Vats was too fat to live. The tremors set in during the night, building up to a quake that shook his ribcage apart, caused his lungs to slip and split his heart like a melon. He will be sorely missed by his friends, his family and his many dedicated visitors. Especially those who had booked in advance.

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Teaching Carrots to Fly In this excerpt from his best-selling book, senior aeronautical engineer and keen gardener Garth Poke relates how he was introduced to the fascinating and highly classified 'Project Orange'

Ask anyone in the street how they feel about carrots and you're bound to get any number of different answers, from a phlegmatic shrug of the shoulders to a more than emphatic belt in the mouth. Ask them what they think about the possibility of carrots being able to fly and their answers would undoubtedly be of similar accord they'd think you were some kind of nut. Furthermore, they'd have no qualms about telling you that they thought you were some kind of nut. They'd probably tell everyone that you're a nut, then hightail it to the local cop emporium to warn them of a dangerous nutter at large with a vegetable fixation. However, strange as it may seem, the prospect of a high altitude carrot cruising through the stratosphere is not as far removed as it may at first appear. In fact, to those of us who were briefly but inextricably bound up in the hitherto top secret 'Project Orange' it was a tantalising possibility that we lived with every day. I was first contacted in the autumn of '87, during my final year at Oxford, or possibly Cambridge. Life was hectic, and I often found it difficult to recall which university I attended. I'm pretty sure it wasn't Aberdeen. Anyway, one day a gentleman, whose name I was never made aware of, came to visit me at my rooms. I remember him being quite tall and he seemed remarkably pale, although it was difficult to tell for certain as he favoured standing in shadow. He was accompanied by an even taller man who remained just outside the door, and whose face I never saw as it was way above my eyelevel. The man - the first one, the one who spoke - seemed to know a disturbing amount of personal information about me. Some of it was so personal that I didn't even know it myself. For instance, he told me that on Wednesdays I was in the habit of 168

stopping for lunch at a small sandwich shop adjacent to the town hall - which proved, upon further investigation, to be quite correct. He also told me that my favourite sandwich was mustard and cress. I have never, to my knowledge, ever bought a mustard and cress sandwich, but it does go some way towards explaining why the ham and tomato that I usually favour normally makes me sick. Clearly, he dropped these little titbits of information into our smalltalk to demonstrate his advantage over me. But as our discourse progressed it became obvious that he was rather more interested in the research I had done over the course of my degree. He made particular mention of a thesis I had written concerning the tensile properties of vegetable matter at extreme temperatures. He told me that it had raised a few eyebrows in certain quarters, as well as ruffling a few feathers and knocking a few knees. The 'certain quarters' to which he referred appeared to be some manner of organisation for which he worked. I was intrigued at these strange befeathered, knocked-kneed people with misplaced eyebrows, and wondered how they knew so much about my choice in sandwiches, but he would not explain further. He simply said that they could use people like me, then turned to go, leaving his card on the occasional table before he left. There was nothing on it. Several days later I received a mysterious phone call. This was most unnerving as I didn't have a phone. A voice on the other end said that they had a proposition for me, and that if I was interested in learning something to my advantage, I should attend a rendezvous the following evening. Curiosity got the better of me, and so at 7pm the next day I found myself standing outside the Odeon cinema in Totnes. It was a warm and muggy night, I seem to recall. I waited and watched as the occasional drunken tourist ambled past me, scattering a trail of discarded chips in his wake. There was almost always some downtrodden tramp moving in the opposite direction, trying to trace the trail to its source. Eventually a shadowy figure hissed at me from around a corner. He was tall - even taller than the previous two I had seen - and he was also much, much paler, although it was difficult to be sure as it was also much, much darker. “We can't talk here,” he whispered at me in a voice like crushed glass, and then nodded at the cinema. “In there.” We went in to see Back to the Future III - he bought the tickets, I paid for the popcorn. I thought the film was quite disappointing, 169

but he seemed to like it. Afterwards, we went across to the pub over the road and had a couple of pints and a game of pool. Then, feeling peckish, we rounded off the night with a kebab. It was quite a pleasant evening and certainly made a change from staying in and watching the TV. As we parted he told me to report to an abandoned airbase in Norfolk at eight o'clock the next morning. And so, after a night of fitful dreaming, I arrived bright and early to find the place deserted. I waited for about twenty minutes, then a car arrived to take me to an airbase down the road that was slightly less abandoned. Here I was shown into a battered corrugated iron hangar, where I was greeted by a battered, corrugated iron flight lieutenant. I was asked to change into a sterilised overall, and a man came and took away my underpants for analysis. I never saw them again. I was then led through a plastic strip curtain to what appeared to be some kind of lecture room. On the right were a series of displays presenting artists' impressions of various vegetables in flight; on the left was a monkey strapped to an ejector seat, but I tried not to catch his eye. The room was already full of people from all walks of life. There was a scattering of military personnel, several crusty academic types, some brawny engineers, electricians, drivers, frogmen, farm labourers, a juggler, several clowns and a man called Barry who cleaned out fish ponds for a living. I found an empty seat amongst the creaking ranks of plastic chairs that were linked together like prisoners in a chain gang, and to my surprise I found myself next to Mr Prebble, my old music teacher from school. I knew it was him, because I recognised his bassoon. However, before I had time to ask him what this was all about - before I even had the opportunity to tell him to take his hand off my knee - we were hushed into silence by a short, fat man in a tall lab coat, decorated with an eclectic collection of stains. I couldn't help but notice that he had a slab of Dundee cake protruding from his breast pocket, and if there was ever any significance to this, I was never made aware of it. Just to make doubly certain that he had our attention, the labcoated man slapped his clipboard down on the table in front him, cleared his throat, then announced to us all that his name was Dr Gadbach Fatback, and that no one was to laugh. He then asked if anyone had ever seen a vegetable fly. I got the impression that the question was meant to be rhetorical, but one of our number stood up and attested that he had once witnessed a cucumber levitating 170

above the fresh produce section in Sainsbury's. Two men arrived, took him firmly by the elbows, then - with a minimum of fuss escorted him outside and beat him to a pulp. The lights were then dimmed and we were shown a short film. We saw some grainy, out of focus footage of a parsnip being placed on a stand. After a few seconds a strange haze seemed to surround it and it very slightly began to twitch and shiver. Then, quite unexpectedly, it lifted about six inches into the air - it may have gone further, had it not been tethered. It stayed there for about fifteen or twenty seconds, there was a sudden flash, and the film ended suddenly. Dr Fatback explained that this experiment had taken place in Russia almost forty years ago, and that since that time their research had come along in leaps and bounds. Our agents in Moscow had learned that the Russians were already in possession of a squadron of low-level marrows that were invisible to radar. Furthermore, they were up to something pretty daring with broccoli florets, and were on the verge of putting a potato into geo-stationary orbit. Meanwhile, our own efforts have been pitifully inept. Despite spending billions on a radical new propulsion system for cauliflowers, the RAF had thus far been unable to get any of them off the ground. Nevertheless, they did record some success in 1981 when they managed to get a sprout up to three hundred feet after suspending it from a duck - but work on this project was terminated when the duck got stroppy. It was clear, Dr Fatback said, that if this initiative was ever going to bear fruit, they would need civilian help. And that's where we came in - experts drawn from every field you could imagine, as well as one or two that you couldn't (and at least one that you could imagine perfectly well, but really wouldn't want to). It was an exciting time. If we were successful, we would be writing a whole new chapter in the book of aviation history; if not, we would be nothing more than an embarrassing footnote in a slim pamphlet about market gardening. It was a challenge that was too good to refuse, and so it came to pass that I began work on a project that would change my life forever... Garth Poke's 'Operation Orange: 28 Days on the Cutting Edge of Vegetarian Aviation' is released next Monday. Or possibly Tuesday. Actually, it might be next month.

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172

Professor Jez Moonbeam Invents…

Professor Jez Moonbeam, leading light of the international pig fancying community, blesses us once more with insights beyond the reach of mere mortals No 3: Wing Mirrors for Fish The reason that all fish are paranoid is that they have no necks. Look, it's obvious when you think about it: if a fish has no neck, it can't look over its shoulder; and if it can't look over its shoulder, it's bound to get a bit jumpy, isn't it? And, let's face it, no one wants a mental fish. I first became aware of this problem a couple of years ago. A neighbour of mine - she's dead now, by the way, but that's another story - well she had this goldfish called Happy Shopper. Now, Happy Shopper was... and before you ask, I don't know why she called it 'Happy Shopper'. It was something that I always meant to ask her, but you know how it is - the question never gets asked, because there's always something that crops up - any one of the hundreds of piffling little distractions that dog our trivial lives. The last thing that cropped up was a sixteen-ton truck. I remember seeing her standing there, frozen in terror in the middle of the road as this dirty big lorry came screeching around the corner. I recall thinking to myself: my God! This is probably the final chance I'll ever have to ask why she called her goldfish 'Happy Shopper', but before I could get the question out, she was already wrapped around the back axle and on her way to Doncaster. Poor bitch. Anyway, 'Happy Shopper' was something of a misnomer: not only was the poor creature extremely unhappy, but its one and only experience of shopping had ended up with it being thrown out of the supermarket for interfering with a tin of salmon. It wasn't difficult to see that it was its inability to see what was behind it that was at the root of its behavioural problems. Oh yes, when it comes 173

to fish, I know how to spot all the symptoms. When I was younger I used to have an imaginary mackerel, so I understand their inner motives. What was needed was some sort of device that could equip the fish with 360º vision, thus allaying its fears of being taken roughly from the rear. And so I set to it, designing and building an ingenious pair of spectacles, with built-in periscopes pointing backwards. It was quite intricate and detailed work, and it took me almost a month, often beavering away until the small hours of the morning. But when they were finished, they were a work of art, and I was justly proud. Of course, it wasn't until I went next door to try them on that I realised my mistake - you can't put glasses on a fish, because they have no ears. So I fitted him with wing mirrors instead.

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Optimum Leaning Angles

Hey! It's not easy to look hip and cool and trendy and windswept, but it is possible. It's a question of angles. All you need to do is learn the correct and most nonchalant way to lean, and you can shed that bumbling, gauche exterior once and for all. Here, let me explain...

Fig. 1

To help us in our demonstration, meet Bob. Bob is a junior advertising copywriter in his early thirties, and although he considers himself pretty cool and trendy, he lacks a certain attitude. He is pictured here in a perpendicular pose, which, whilst allowing him to be alert and poised for action, makes him seem rather uptight and formal. Let's suggest that he attempt to appear more casual.

Fig. 2 Ah, now here you can see that Bob has made a classic error. He has, quite rightly, decided to adopt a more insouciant stance. However, foolishly he has chosen to lean forwards, rather than against the wall behind him. This is likely to have one of several possible consequences. This angle brings him perilously close to the road, and if it's been raining he could end up getting splashed by passing traffic, leading to an inevitable loss of face. Then again, he could end up literally losing his face, if he should overbalance and smash his teeth in on the curb. Or he could be mistaken for a mime artist 'leaning into the wind'. Either way, it's going to make him look like a right tit. Let's get him to try again.

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Fig. 3 Well, yes, this is an improvement. We're on the right track, certainly, but we're not out of the woods yet. When leaning, it is always best to rest against something solid, such as a public building, an automobile or a small horse. Bob has wisely chosen to lean back against the wall, which offers both support and security. However, an angle of 45 degrees lacks prestige and stability, and there is every possibility that small children and animals may take pleasure in passing beneath his inclined form. This will seriously offend Bob's dignity. It must also be noted that this angle is very difficult to maintain and puts an enormous amount of pressure on the calves and lower back. Unless Bob has made a special study of how to fall on his backside without looking like a dick, he would perhaps be best advised to avoid this position. Sorry Bob, try again!

Fig. 4 Oh, come on, now you're just showing off! Learning how to lean correctly is not as easy as if might at first appear. It takes much practice and dedication, and you've got to be prepared to learn from your mistakes. Bob, evidently discouraged by our criticisms, has clearly decided to give up and just piss about instead. Well, it's not big and it's not clever. Come on Bob! You can do it! Go on, give it one more shot.

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Fig. 5 That's it! Perfect! At last, Bob has achieved the optimum leaning angle. The studied slouch, the hunched shoulders, the nonchalant curl of the lip all add up to the perfect picture of disaffected youth. It's like watching a young Marlon Brando or James Dean. Oh yes, Bob sure is one cool mother. There is just one small problem - Bob has decided to lean against the other side of the wall, where no one can see him. Is all that effort for nothing? Come on Bob, come on out where we can look at you!

Fig. 6 Hey, now this guy is just toooooo cool. A rebel without a cause, he's the king of the block. All the guys want to be him, all the girls want to be with him. In just a few short lessons, Bob has gone from an awkward, shambling buffoon to a rock and roll rebel. He's a free spirit, nobody can tame him; no one can tie him down. Go Bobby, go, go, go! ...Oops, lunch hour's nearly over. Better get back to the office, Bob, you've got to get the Tesco's account finished by 4 o’clock. Bye!

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178

Did Man Really Go To Belgium?

When Clint Walker first set foot in Brussels in July 1969, it was the culmination of a multi-million dollar dream that saw mankind strike out further into the dark, airless reaches of the unknown than he had ever been before. More than that, it was a symbolic gesture of all that the human race could achieve, and as people around the world tuned in to the live broadcast, it seemed that the whole planet was brought together in a common humanity for the first time in the history of our civilisation. Gathered around flickering black and white TV screens, we watched with baited breath as Walker stepped out onto the dry, barren surface of this strange place and uttered those now immortal words to the millions who watched around the world, “Well, we're here ... Smells a bit funny.” For as long as man can remember he has dreamed of one day travelling to Belgium. Ever since life first rose up from its pool of stagnant, primordial shit, scratched its arse and stood blinking in the sunlight, it has wondered what might be found beyond the horizon. We are all possessed of the urge to find out what lies beyond the limits of our experience, to seek out strange new worlds, to thrust our standards deep into alien soil and claim it for our own. But for thousands of years, Belgium seemed like an impossible dream - a silver jewel that we could imagine, that we might picture, but one that we could never hold. Not unless we were blessed with really big hands, anyway. Storytellers of old let their imaginations run riot, imagining colossal mountain peaks, strange twisted landscapes and treacherous swamps. Stories and fables have, over the centuries, peopled this mythical land with fantastic creatures, super-advanced rocket men and terrible brain-gobbling monsters. It has informed and inspired the work of many great writers throughout history, from Shakespeare and Dickens to Bernard Shaw, George Orwell and Patricia Cornwell. And who can forget 179

the HG Wells classic The First Men in Belgium, which describes two intrepid explorers reaching the strange land and encountering fantastic alien creatures made out of nougat. I know I can't. So when Clint Walker's capsule blasted off from Cape Kennedy that warm summer's day, we who watched this age-old dream finally being made real were full of questions. What would those brave explorers find as they touched down in Brussels? Science told us that Belgium was just a dead, lifeless rock, but we still harboured a hope that they would discover something truly fantastic. Were there really Belgians in Belgium? Would they be like us? Would we glimpse strange, futuristic cities and strange alien technology? Were the streets really paved with nougat, were the clouds fashioned from candyfloss? No, of course they weren't. Walker found only a barren, airless, dead landscape - everyone knows that. Today, over thirty years later, that extraordinary day is cemented firmly in the history books, as dry and factual to our new generations of schoolchildren as the battle of Trafalgar or the First World War. Remarkable though the achievement was, all the 'Belgianauts' brought back with them were some rock samples, a couple of postcards and some curiously unpleasant chocolate. Nevertheless, although those brave adventurers found no trace of anything that might be called civilisation, their mission still stands as one of the most remarkable achievements of human ingenuity. Or at least, that is what we have been led to believe. For although this event seems like an irrefutable matter of record, there are still some nagging rumours that won't go away. Throughout the years, there have been many people who have come forward to claim that the mission was nothing more than a sham. Rumours of fraud persist, despite official denials and regular debunkings. The same story keeps popping up time and again, from many disparate sources: namely that NASA did not send a man to Belgium at all. That is was, in fact, just an elaborate hoax. So what are we to believe? Did mankind really go to Belgium way back in 1969, or have we been deceived these last thirty years? One of the most compelling reasons to suspect a hoax concerns the level of technology available to the original Belgianauts. There are serious doubts about whether it would really have been possible to mount a trip to Belgium back in 1969. Even today, such a journey would stretch the limits of our twenty-first century 180

technology. The original capsule was a rudimentary affair, constructed chiefly of corrugated iron and plywood, and many critics are unwilling to believe that it could have held up under the stresses and strains of intercontinental flight. The guidance system was equally primitive. The computer responsible for calculating the delicate flight trajectories and fuel burns was no more powerful than one of today's digital watches - one of those cheap ones you get for a quid in a petrol station. All in all, the vehicle was about as sophisticated as a shovel, and yet we are expected to believe that three men managed to navigate their way across millions of miles of echoing nothingness and touch down safely in a contraption that was powered by two AA batteries and an elastic band? At the time, of course, we were all impressed by the sheer scale of the project. The pictures of Mission Control that were broadcast around the world were awe-inspiring. The hundreds of bustling people, the banks of equipment, the huge illuminated displays all added to the impression that everything was meticulously planned to the last detail, and every cough, splutter and hiccup was monitored. But were we blinded by simple showmanship? Could it be that the glitz and glamour of Hollywood was being employed to deceive us all? One man who believed he had uncovered proof of NASA's deception was forty-eight year old Arthur Crampon of Penzance. Mr Crampon spent twenty years holed up in his attic, claiming that because of what he had discovered 'certain interests' would try to eliminate him if ever his whereabouts were made public. Crampon was not idle during his lofty exile, and spent much time poring over photographs, testimonies and official documents by torchlight. Recently, he approached us here at The University of the Bleeding Obvious in the hope that we might present his findings to the rest of the world. However, he did lay down a number of conditions before he agreed to talk to us. Firstly, he insisted that we would meet him in a public place. Secondly, he requested that we all wear disguises to prevent drawing attention to ourselves. Thirdly, he made us promise to refer to him both during the meeting and in any future articles only by the alias 'Mr Black'. We agreed, and so the next day, dressed as characters from the Alexandre Dumas classic The Three Musketeers, we met up with Mr Arthur Crampon of 42 Long Row, Penzance at his local McDonalds. Crampon himself seemed a little worse for wear. 181

Having spent so long locked away in a dark, dusty roof space, he was pale, dirty and undernourished. Furthermore, it seemed that he had yet to reacquaint himself with many of our more basic social conventions, and his frequent tendency to leap up on the table, scream at the top of his voice, then slope off into the corner and take a shit in a carrier bag was causing some distress to the other customers. Nevertheless, we finally managed to get him settled down and, blinking and wincing in the unfamiliar daylight, he told us what he knew. “It wasn't real, you know,” he dribbled. “It was all just a big con. All that stuff you saw at Mission Control was just for show. The flashing lights, the consoles, the whirling computer tapes were all old props from science-fiction movies, purchased from MGM just the week before. Look carefully at that old footage and you can see part of the spaceship from Forbidden Planet and some scenery previously used in The Day the Earth Stood Still. And NASA still hasn't satisfactorily explained why some of its technicians appear to be dressed as Roman Centurions from Quo Vadis.” At this point in the proceedings, Crampon hurled his Big Mac at the window, then leapt on a small boy sitting at the next table, hurled him over the counter and tried to wedge his head up the milkshake machine. We quickly dragged him away and after convincing Mr Crampon that the distraught nine-year-old was not a CIA agent, we bought him some chicken nuggets and persuaded him to continue. “You wanna know the truth?” he mumbled through a mouth full of breadcrumbed poultry. “The truth is that NASA planned and undertook the whole mission equipped with just one shortwave radio transmitter, a thirty-year-old road map of Northern France and a set of directions scribbled on the back of a cigarette packet. The most powerful piece of equipment they had access to was a man in a cardboard box with buttons painted on it, who went 'beep-beep' every so often.” Mr Crampon was about to continue when he suddenly stopped and drew a sharp intake of breath. He then adopted a strained expression, held it for a couple of moments, then grinned the grin of a man who has just soiled himself and wants the whole world to congratulate him. When we failed to applaud, he carried on. “The whole thing was a tissue of lies,” he asserted as he gently 182

rocked back and forth in his seat, accompanied by ominous squelching noises. “There are too many objections. For one thing, the Belgianauts would have had to pass over France, and there's simply no way they could have survived the radiation. now famous image w as And that's another thing - why have This taken in 1975 by the NASA these so-called 'Belgianauts' never High Resolution Refractor, on a Vauxhall Viva spoken publicly about their mission? mounted circling Brussels at an altitude Does anyone really know what of tw o and a half feet. It show s happened to them? I have it on good w hat has since become know n to conspiracy buffs as 'That authority that one of them once had a Belgian Ball Thing', and is taken many to be evidence of non-speaking role in an episode of by intelligent life in Belgium. Baywatch, but what of the others? And "It is quite obviously an artificial how come...” structure,” says confirmed Crampon's conversation tailed off ballist Peter Grenville, club of the South Yorkshire as his attention was distracted by secretary Amateur Ball Watchers something outside. He suddenly Association. "Nothing like that occur in nature. It has seemed very frightened. He turned could clearly been constructed for a pale - even paler than he had been reason. I believe it is a message us all, telling us that w e are before - scribbled something hastily to not alone in the universe." onto a paper napkin, then jumped to Grenville has w ritten a besthis feet and ran outside. Twisting selling book on The Belgian Ball around, we just had chance to catch Thing, in w hich he suggests that some great universal truth lies sight of him careering across the road behind its apparent similarity to before, tragically, he disappeared the molecular structure of spandex. NASA, in the beneath the wheels of a snowplough. meantime, have played dow n And that was the end of the road - the w hole subject, claiming that object is nothing more than both for our investigation, and for the the an optical illusion caused by the late lamented Arthur Crampon. Did interplay of shadow s throw n up he really have evidence that proved by an adjacent mountain range. NASA hoaxed the Belgium landings? Was he right to believe that certain people would kill him rather than run the risk of this evidence being made public? Is the fact that he was killed by a snowplough on a blisteringly hot day in July further proof that there was a conspiracy against him? We may never know the truth: many people believe it died with Crampon, and that he takes his final secret to the grave. And yet he may have left us a clue. For on that greasy, crap-stained napkin 183

written in spidery, child-like letters - are his final words: “Who the hell wants to go to Belgium anyway?” And in the end, isn't that the most compelling evidence of all?

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Interesting Jobs No. 420 Wind Tunnel Technician And now, in the latest in our series looking at interesting and unusual occupations, we speak to Maurice Pencil, a wind tunnel technician at the Happworth Aeronautical Institute in Gwent. University of the Bleeding Obvious: Maurice Pencil, you've worked with wind tunnels for over twenty years, both in the public and private sectors. Indeed, you've become something of an expert. Maurice Pencil: Well, yes, yes. I expect they probably do. UBO: In fact would I be right in calling you the foremost authority on wind tunnel design in Europe? Pencil: Oh, easily twice that amount. UBO: Erm, yes... I believe that your colleagues often refer to you as 'Mr Wind', is that right? Pencil: On Tuesdays and Thursdays, and sometimes at the weekend. UBO: I see... I think... It must give you quite a buzz to be held in such high esteem? Pencil: I should say so. The lads round here call me 'Mr Wind' you know. UBO: Quite. Of course, although it would seem to be an interesting and exotic industry, it must have its fair share of 185

difficulties? After all, that's some pretty serious machinery you're working with. Pencil: Peanuts, everywhere! And there was a thin dusting of cat litter over everything. Urrgh! UBO: Yes. I should imagine the average wind tunnel is capable of generating gales in excess of...? Pencil: Oh, two or three of them on a good day. UBO: And as I understand it, quite often you are required to actually be inside the wind tunnel while it's in operation. I imagine it's quite hazardous? Pencil: Well that's a fair point and I'll mention it to him when I see him. UBO: That would, I guess, explain your permanently startled and windswept expression, and also the fact that you have insects stuck all over your face. Pencil: I'll have two from the top, and three from the bottom, please Carol. UBO: I'm sure it's no picnic. Indeed, I seem to remember reading about technicians who had experienced problems because of this. After prolonged periods they found that the wind whistling past their ears had rendered them almost totally deaf. Pencil: Quick Vanessa! The badger's escaped and the vicar will be here at any minute. We never thought we'd have to put up with this sort of thing when we installed that immersion heater. UBO: So the health aspects of the job don't concern you at all? I suppose someone as experienced as yourself knows how to avoid taking such risks? Pencil: There were at least half a dozen of them. They came screaming out of the night, all high on lighter fuel and naked as the 186

day they were born. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. UBO: Mr Pencil, you can't actually hear a bloody word I'm saying to you, can you? Pencil: And then I said to him, “I suppose you think that's funny, do you?” Then before he could reply, I shoved the pole back up and I haven't seen him since! UBO: Jesus! You know I'm speaking to you. You can see my lips moving. But you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about, have you? All you can hear is the constant ringing in your ears, isn't it, you dozy twat? Pencil: Four foot six, he was. But he was deadly with a pool cue. UBO: This has been a complete waste of my time, you irritating little shit. Pencil: Trumpet. UBO: Well thank you. Thank you very much, Mr Pencil for agreeing to talk to us today. Frankly, I don't know why you bothered. Now fuck off, you fat-face, wall-eyed prick. Pencil: Fuck off yourself, you chinless, brown-nosed tosser.

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Global Moistening

A leaked report commissioned for the International Prog Rock Earth Congress (IPREC) reveals the alarming fact that our planet is almost three percent damper than it was twenty years ago. This might not seem like a significant statistic, but if the trend continues then in the course of our own lifetimes we might very well see the major land masses of our planet becoming so squishy that it will be impossible to build anything and everyone will have to go around in flippers. These findings are the result of work carried out by Dr Robert Fripp, noted biochemist, geologist and lead singer with seventies legends King Crimson. Using a specially developed technique known as 'jabbing sticks into the ground at random' Dr Fripp was able to demonstrate that the earth beneath our feet is now considerably wetter than it ought to be. Having examined the data at some length, a panel of experts has now concluded that this is a bad thing and has officially classified the phenomenon as 'worrying'. This, of course, is not the first time that IPREC has stepped forward with proclamations of gloom and doom. The Congress was first set up in 1981 by a consortium comprising some of the most influential progressive rock musicians in the industry. It meets twice a year - at a specially built underground conference facility on an unnamed atoll in the Indian Ocean - to discuss possible threats to the planet. They first hit the headlines in 1984 when Jon Anderson of Yes announced that the world was about to be hit by a giant meatball from space, a visitation that he claimed would either be mankind's nemesis or his salvation - resulting in either widespread devastation or a valuable source of food for the starving millions. In the end the meatball missed the Earth by several million miles, but although the meatstrike did not actually take place there were still reports of showers of faggots in parts of 188

Nairobi and the Middle East. It wasn't until 1996 that IPREC once more came to the attention of the media. This time it was the turn of former Genesis front man Peter Gabriel to spread the bad news - he announced that over the coming years there was a very real threat of there not being enough coffee mugs to go round. He had first become aware of the problem whilst working in his studio, sampling some of the native sounds of the indigenous people of Finland, or Iceland, or somewhere. He noticed that every time he felt like a cup of coffee he could never find a clean mug. Gabriel decided to monitor this problem and over the ensuing weeks he made careful note of mug availability in his studio. At the end of this period he produced a number of graphs and bar charts, using different coloured crayons, and was able to forecast that by the year 2050 the population of Earth would outstrip the number of available mugs by a factor of about thirty to one. Worried that this shortage would contribute to the spread of disease by forcing people to share drinking vessels, Gabriel began a vigorous campaign to persuade governments to divert some of their defence budgets into the manufacture and stockpiling of mugs. His 'make cups, not war' campaign enjoyed a brief burst of publicity, but quickly slipped from public awareness despite the moderate success of a charity single. Which brings us to the current crisis. IPREC has treated the possibility of global moistening very seriously, and has aske d the band Jethro Tull to look into the possible repercussions. Their initial findings indicate that it will radically influence almost every walk of life - from transport, architecture and industry, to leisure, fashion and the arts. In fact, it will affect everything except table tennis. They've looked into it very carefully, and they've been forced to conclude that table tennis can continue more or less as normal. However, by far the most devastating effect will be on agriculture. Jethro Tull predict that increased dampness will make the growing of many crops impossible and force a shift to rice, which thrives in wet conditions. The consequences for livestock will be even more severe. Smaller animals such as chickens may not experience much of a problem at first, and ducks will obviously suffer no ill effects at all, but a soggier planet will mean that heavier animals, such as pigs, cows and some of the heftier sheep will rapidly sink into the encroaching mire and be dragged below the 189

surface. Some short term measures have been proposed, including equipping cows with waders and snorkels, but eventually specially made diving suits will be necessary. This will undoubtedly prove impractical, especially at milking time. The only real solution is to breed aquatic versions of these animals. Sadly, although advances in genetic manipulation are being made all the time, the day when we can successfully cross a haddock with a pig are still some way off. Having said that, scientists in Edinburgh have recently managed to successfully fit an outboard motor to a lamb chop. At the time the experiment was considered a frivolous waste of time and resources, but in light of the current global moistening scare the true value of their work can now be seen. But can anything be done to reverse the effects of global moistening? Well, it's no good asking me. For the answer to that question we need to turn to the good people of Hawkwind, who have been charged with the awesome task of preventing this catastrophe. Realising that they could not possibly handle such an important assignment alone, they enlisted the help of Professor Jez Moonbeam, who agreed to assist them in return for being made an honorary member of the band. Professor Moonbeam decided that before they could fully understand the problem, they should first establish which parts of the planet were the worst affected. He and the band set about examining all the geological and meteorological information they could get hold of in order to identify which areas were damper than others. Japan, Indonesia and Malaysia all registered very high levels of ground water, as did a number of South American countries. However, for some as yet unknown reason, the wettest place on the planet turned out to be a three foot stretch of road just outside the main post office in Sutton Coldfield. It was so wet, in fact, that OAPs calling to pick up their pensions were regularly harassed by passing salmon. Interestingly, it's not just in Sutton Coldfield that the fish are getting more militant. There's been trouble in parts of Wolverhampton as well. This has led some observers to the conclusion that fish are orchestrating the whole dampening process. The main proponent of this theory is keen angler and part time cockney drummer Phil Collins, who has voiced his fears of a future in which fish are the master race. He envisages, in his words, a 'wet planet, like in that Kevin Costner film, where man is nothing but a 190

slave to the Fish Lords'. Phil seriously believes that there will come a time when human beings will be born solely to serve their piscine masters, made to toil day and night, building little castles for them to swim through and novelty signs that read 'No Fishing'. But it's not too late. According to Phil, we must eradicate the fish to preserve our future; we must hoist them from the seas, from the rivers, from the oceans and slap them silly until they can take no more. Last month he organised a march on the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs to demand that they post machine gun nests at the mouth of every river and equip trawlers with depth charges. The fact that the only other person who turned up for his protest was a forty-eight year old car park attendant who came dressed as a chocolate Hob Nob only served to illustrate the lack of regard that is generally felt for Mr Collins' theory. Professor Moonbeam has certainly ruled out the possibility. He has gone on record as saying that no one in their right mind could possibly believe that fish are responsible for global moistening. Crabs, yes - those crafty bastards have had it in for us for a long time. But fish, no - the slimy little bleeders just haven't got the nerve. So where is all this water coming from? IPREC's president for life, Rick Wakeman, favours the idea that someone, somewhere, has left a bath running, but initial tests of groundwater samples have revealed no traces of bubble bath. Meanwhile, the guys from Marillion have suggested that global moistening is caused by 'the baby Jesus spitting'. Emerson, Lake and Palmer firmly believe that Antarctica is melting, due to erosion caused by the increasing number of penguins who are taking up snowboarding. And Gong have advanced the idea that the Earth is simply retaining water 'like a big fatty'. Each of these ideas has its supporters, but until Professor Moonbeam and Hawkwind make their presentation to IPREC's next meeting in September, it's still only guesswork. But one thing is certain - the Earth is undoubtedly getting wetter and if the situation is not remedied it will become irreversibly waterlogged. Analysts predict that this will make it sluggish - enough to alter its orbit around the sun and ultimately cause it to stick to the side of the moon like a piece of wet tissue paper. Something clearly has to be done. 191

Global Moistening: The Options For some time now a crack team of international plumbers has been looking into the issue of global moistening and has recently presented IPREC with their estimate. Working long and hard, sometimes staying behind till at least four-thirty on some days, and foregoing several tea breaks, they have come up with four possible plans to counter the problem.

Plan #1: Orbital Fans Their first idea was to surround the Earth with a string of very powerful fans, which would hopefully be sufficient to drive off the excess moisture. Sadly, it has been pointed out that such devices would be exorbitantly expensive to run and no agreement has been reached about who should foot the bill. The final nail in the coffin for this plan came when it was realised that the strength of the gale required to dry to planet would also sweep away pretty much everything else that wasn’t nailed down or wedged under a rock. This would be a bad thing.

Plan #2: Giant Plunger Their second ingenious notion was to drill a massive hole at the North Pole - it doesn't have to be at the North Pole, it's just better for aesthetic reasons. They would then suck all the water out of the planet using a giant plunger, to be operated by a specially trained pneumatic badger called Cyril (this may be a typo). Although at first glance this would appear to be an elegant and popular idea, further calculations reveal that the pressure generated would be sufficient to turn the planet inside out. This would also be a bad thing. 192

Plan #3: Space Mangle Giant space mangle: put planet in squeeze water out... You get the picture. The problem is that there is no guarantee that the Earth would spring back into shape. We could end up with a completely flat planet and things would inevitably roll off and be lost in space. Whilst there's no doubt that there are certain things that wouldn't be missed, it is generally felt that for the most part this would be a bad thing.

Plan #4 Wringer Plan four currently has the most support. It proposes the construction of two giant clamps, one in Peru, the other in China. These will be used to twist the planet in opposite directions, forcing out the excess water. It's a relatively simple process and the damage should be limited to just a few stretch marks in the Pacific Ocean and minor creasing in Western Africa. The plan has the added bonus of enjoying funding from Disney, who plan to collect the excess water in a giant bucket and use it to irrigate Mars so they can turn it into a theme park. Hollywood film star Bruce Willis has already been tipped to head the project, having already saved the planet on more than one occasion - once in that film with the big asteroid, and again in the one with the flying taxi and the woman who just wore little bit of string... which is probably no bad thing.

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COBBLERS Mr Daniel Hines, a cobbler from Bedford, has recently been fined £6000 for the unlawful use of other people's shoes. For the last twenty years Mr Hines, who does not own a pair of shoes himself, has been availing himself of the footwear left in his care by the customers at his thriving heel bar, using them to go out shopping, visit friends or even for walks in the park. However, a recent investigation uncovered Mr Hines' nefarious activities and the police swooped on him last June. During the three day trial, the jury heard eyewitness reports of Mr Hines smooching about Sainsbury's in a pair of brown suede slip-ons, and watched security video footage of him buying a newspaper and a packet of liquorice allsorts in WH Smith, sporting navy blue ankle-length moon boots. However, the most damning evidence was provided by Mrs Denise Rigsby of 42 The Larches, Biggleswade, who does not wish to be named. "I had suspected that something strange was going on for some time," said Mrs X. "So when I took my favourite pair of white slingbacks to be re-

heeled, I made a careful note of the mileage. Sure enough, when I got them back I noticed that there was an extra three hundred miles on the clock. When I confronted Mr Hines about it, he told me it was because the new heels had to be 'run in' but I later discovered that he had been seen out in them at the Emerald Palace night-club in Warfarin Street." Mr Hines has refused to comment on the case, but a spokesman for the evil cobbler told as that he also asked for several pairs of sandals and a front door key to be taken into account. 1965 Scientists have finally discovered the highest known number. Boffins working in a top secret atomic research centre hidden beneath the Atlas mountains have been steadily counting upwards since 1966, and recently announced that they reached the number one thousand, nine hundred and sixty-five, before they were unable to go any further. They have therefore concluded that this must be the largest number that physics will allow... Oh, hang on... 1966... 194

Professor Jez Moonbeam Invents…

Professor Jez Moonbeam, a man centuries ahead of his time and months behind with his rent, once more brings us the fruits of his fevered imaginings No 4: Egg Umbrella There's nothing worse than a stroppy chicken, as anyone who has ever been on the sharp end of one will tell you. I have personally been the victim of a chicken called Matilda McAlester (although I can't guarantee that she's not using an alias) who seems to have been holding a grudge against me for the last five years. She often comes round my house when I'm not there and stuffs feathers through my letterbox, and this can be terribly difficult to explain whenever I have friends over. Luckily I don't have any friends, so the problem doesn't arise, but it's dreadfully inconvenient all the same. The worst thing about this whole situation is that I have absolutely no idea why this fractious fowl has decided to pick on me. As far as I'm aware I've done nothing to incur her wrath, nor do I have anything against poultry in general. I can only conclude that she's mental. And this got me thinking. I am a firm believer in the idea that disruptive and antisocial behaviour is a result of upbringing and environment - especially when it comes to chickens - and I was certain that Matilda McAlester's problems stemmed from when she was an impressionable young egg. But what could possibly drive a young chicken to distraction? Then suddenly, as I was waiting for a number 52 bus to Doncaster, I had an epiphany! This caused some distress to the people waiting along with me, many of whom were elderly and infirm, and unaccustomed to finding themselves on the periphery of a major discovery. However, after I had made my apologies and seen off the ambulance, I had chance to reflect upon my sudden 195

flash of insight. The constant, driving rain beating on top on the bus shelter had made me consider the effects of rain drumming on the top of an egg. The constant din would be enough to send even the most stable of young chicks right round the chuff. Imagine being trapped inside a bottle bank, with Ringo Star hammering away on top of you day and night. Doesn't bear thinking about, does it? The solution seemed simple enough: fit each egg with an umbrella, thus protecting it from the elements. During my initial experiments I tried first welding, and then gluing the umbrella to the top of the egg, but these methods proved unsatisfactory. However, in recent weeks I have enjoyed some considerable success using rivets, and will soon be ready to unveil my egg umbrella to the world. This means that hopefully, in the not too distant future, people like myself will be able to go about their business free from the troublesome attentions of lunatic birds.

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Barker Harris “Evening all. I'm Detective Inspector Barker Harris of the Metropolitan Police Force, but you can call me Snuggles, woof. During my long service as a police sniffer dog, searching out lethal explosives, illicit narcotics or naughty literature, I have placed myself in danger on a number of occasions, bark bark. So when I finally got promoted to the top job in the missing pets department, many people were of the opinion that it was well deserved, grrr, grrr, grrr. Of course, my days sniffing soiled suitcases, smelly cars and strangers' bottoms may be over, but that doesn't mean I can't still have fun, growl, snarl, whimper. Neither does it mean that I have an easy time of it, oh no, growl, no. I don't just sit behind my desk all day, playing with a rubber bone while the Chief Superintendent feeds me Doggy Chocs, arf, arf, arf. Did you know that we are currently on the lookout for over four hundred runaway animals, wag, wag, wag? Most are harmless, charged with minor crimes like fouling a public footway, destruction of private property or double parking in a loading zone, yelp. Others, like the six most-wanted listed below, are rather more dangerous and should be approached only with extreme caution and, preferably, a really big stick, yap, yap, yappy, yap.” No. 1: Larry the Fish A well known character in the criminal underworld, it's generally understood that if you're after a motor then Larry the Fish is the bloke to see. He's steals cars to order, slipping in easily through the smallest of openings. Then he uses an ingenious system of wires and 197

pulleys to drive it away. His only problem is that he has difficulty seeing over the steering wheel, which means that he totals just about every car he steals. So, if you should be walking along one day and see a dirty great Mondeo pile into a lamppost, and a small orange goldfish leap out and leg it, then you can be pretty sure it's Larry the Fish. No. 2: Ernie the Tortoise A bit of a joker is old Ernie, but the punchline is usually a visit to the hospital for the unfortunate victim. You will normally find him sitting in someone's garden, smacked out of his head on weed killer and pretending to be a rock. Sometimes he can stay like that for hours, but if you should inadvertently draw too near he will sink his teeth into your ankle and hang on for dear life until you pass out. His latest trick is even more fiendish. He has taken to crawling into the window displays of local bakers, disguised as a meat pie. When some unlucky customer eventually tries to take a bite, Ernie suddenly comes to life, scares the living marrow out of them and then runs off with the poor sod's wallet. He was recently spotted pulling this trick in a busy street in Newcastle. Our lads raised the alarm and gave chase, but Ernie was too quick for them. No. 3: Ronnie and Reggie - The sheep twins. Very nasty characters indeed. One's mad, the other's mental. If you should ever cross them, the first you'll know about it is when you wake up in the morning with your feet stuffed up your arse. Of course, if you've made them really mad, it will be someone else's feet.

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No. 4: Hoppity Fluffikins III Now this one looks like a pretty harmless chap, doesn't he? But just try to imagine him stomping through your neighbourhood, wielding a sub-machine gun, cutting a swathe of death through crowds of harmless bystanders and laughing maniacally with homicidal glee as he careers inexorably down his blood-soaked path of horror and destruction. Okay, so he's never actually been known to do that sort of thing but... well...you never know, do you? No. 5: Nipper Smith Leader of the notorious 'Crabs of Doom' terrorist group, which was responsible for the recent spate of 'pinching' incidents on the Paris Metro. Also believed to be behind last September's whelk stall bombings, in which twelve cockles were seriously injured, and two scallops were killed. Nipper Smith is currently on the run after being involved in a shrimp-rage incident at a fishmonger's in Chester. He is believed to be armed and slightly dangerous. No. 6: Truffles, the Gentleman Pig By day he hobnobs around town, only visiting the most fashionable parties, only being seen in the most exclusive venues. Maybe you've been fortunate enough to have had him as a houseguest yourself, standing with one trotter resting nonchalantly on the mantelpiece as he regales your guests with extraordinary tales of derring-do in far flung Bombay, or deepest, darkest Africa. “Oh, Mr Truffles,” you may say, “You really are the most extraordinary of fellows, what with your 'andsome tales of travel and adventure. 199

Well, I don't know, and no mistake. Do 'elp yerself to another scratching, then come and meet the vicar.” But beware, this fashionable pig-about-town has a secret. Whilst he's holding court with his posh talk, he's most probably eyeing up your silverware, or checking out the locks on the windows - for by night he is the most accomplished and elusive of all cat burglars. Gracefully he will drag his corpulent bulk up drainpipes, across rooftops and balconies in order to gain entry to your abode then have it away with the family jewels. By morning the sparklies will be gone, and the only evidence of entry will be the curtains flapping in the open French windows, a carefully-placed monogrammed mitten and the faint smell of pork.

Approach with caution! Remember, none of these animals is friendly, and most of them bite. You have been warned.

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Out now from Obvious Magazines... With over 60 full colour pages every month, Amateur Stamp Collector Collector is the ultimate resource for the keen collector of amateur stamp collectors. So, whether you're only just starting your collection of philatelists, or if you're already a seasoned professional, Amateur Stamp Collector Collector is the publication for you.

In this month's issue:  Expert Darius Stroke gives us his top tips on the best places to discover amateur stamp collectors, how to spot the ones worth collecting, and how best to sneak up on them unawares.  Caring for your collection: ten ways to keep your amateur stamp collectors healthy and happy whilst they're locked away in their display cases.  We talk to Christian Pyle, whose recent acquisition of the extremely rare 'Melvin Craddock' has made him the envy of the amateur stamp collector collecting community.  Want to know how much to pay for a 'Nigel Tomlinson' or what a 'Peter Simpson' is likely fetch at auction? Then check out our essential Amateur Stamp Collector price guide.

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That's all in the latest issue of

201

Nobby Wentworth's Pet Surgery

Hello fatso. You know, we all need a little love in our lives; that 's why it's always nice to have a furry little friend about the house. A cat or a dog - something to stroke and pet and make a fuss of. Even a hamster, or gerbil, or rat, or tortoise. Yeah, why not a tortoise? I guess even reptiles need love. Hell, you might even collect stick insects. Okay, it's unusual but then who am I to judge, weirdo? Come to think of it, I knew a bloke who lived his whole life with just a tin of tuna to keep him company. Do you know something, that tuna was his only friend, right up until the end. When he finally passed away it kept a vigil at his graveside, pining for its owner. For all I know, it's still there. Well, that's no kind of life for a tinned fish, is it? The point is, whatever you choose to share your life with - be it Pomeranian or parakeet, Siamese or salmon - sooner or later, they all get sick. We've all experienced the distress of coming home from work to find that the dog is coughing up its lungs in the living room, the cat's fallen off a stepladder, or the goldfish has been done over by a gang of vicious guppies who've left him with nothing but an empty wallet, a pair of black eyes and a dislocated pectoral fin. And what do you do when you find that your parrot's got jet lag, or the tortoise needs re-tiling, or your freaky little stick insect thing has become all knobbly? Well you phone a vet, don't you? Course you do, and so along he comes, dribbles a lot of complicated medical stuff, probably in Latin, tells you not to worry and then charges you a small fortune. Sorted. Except that you're considerably out of pocket. But then, you're calling upon the skill and expertise of a qualified professional, so it's only fair that he should charge a barrel full of cash for his services, right? Wrong. Ask yourself, just what kind of qualifications do you need to be a vet? Go on, do it - ask yourself right now. Out 202

loud. Done it? Right, well I'll tell you - fiddly squat, that's what. Oh, you might have been led to believe that they spend six years studying at veterinary college, then another decade on probation under the watchful eye of a senior surgeon, but all that James Herriot stuff is what they spout for the benefit of the punters. In point of fact, all you need in order to set yourself up in your own little veterinary practice is a certificate from ILVSAOF - that's the International League of Veterinary Surgeons, Abattoir Workers and Furriers, in case you were wondering. And all you need to do to get the certificate is attend a day release course at a farm in East Anglia. How do I know this? Because my brother-in-law went, that's how. You do three hours in the morning, you get an hour for lunch, then you do another four hours in the afternoon. It's easy. They show you a few pictures of cats, you dissect a pork pie, then you spend the rest of the day playing 'who can get their arm the furthest up a cow's arse?' My brother-in-law won. At the end of the day they gave him a badge and a pair of pliers, and told him he was a qualified vet. He set up on his own shortly after that, but he didn't have a clue what he was doing. When he was younger he had served his apprenticeship as a welder, and so - seeing as how old habits die hard - he ended up welding budgies. Made a few quid out of it as well, until the RSPCA closed him down. Happy days. Still, it just goes to show - your trusted professionals aren't always as professional as they might seem. And if they're anything like my brother-in-law, then they're certainly not to be trusted. So where does that leave you when Fido's come over all feverish, Tiddles has got a dislocated lung or Sticky the stick insect has got the shits? Well cheer up fat head, all is not lost. The answer is blindingly simple - do it yourself. Now I know what you're thinking - you couldn't possibly start fiddling about with your precious pet. Quite right too. You can't leap straight in and give the Airedale a heart transplant just like that - not without studying a few diagrams first. That would be the behaviour of a right twat, as we say in the business. But with practice and a little patience, you will soon be competent in all aspects of pet maintenance. Trust me, it's not difficult at all once you've got the hang of it. I 203

first got into pet repair when I was just nine. We had a Yorkshire terrier named Sparky. Lively little thing it was, always running about, yapping excitedly, scratching away in the garden looking for bones and stuff. Well, being quite mechanically minded I was always rather curious about how it worked, and so one day, when I was in the house on my own with nothing better to do, I decided to take it apart. After twenty minutes with a screwdriver and an adjustable spanner, and following a couple of good belts with a hammer, I soon had old Sparky in pieces. Well, I won't lie to you, I made a right old mess of it. There were bits of dog everywhere. I thought I was being extra careful, making a mental note of where all the pieces went as I took it apart, but when I came to reassemble it I'm afraid I made rather a hash of it. You know what it's like: you end up with a leg where the tail should be, or you put the spleen in upside down, or the head doesn't quite swivel the way it ought to. And no matter how hard you try, you always have bits left over. Still, you've got to start somewhere. It was a learning experience for me - for Sparky as well, in fact, and from that day on he always looked nervous when he saw me with my toolbox. The important thing is not to be frightened of getting in there and having a good rummage about. Yes, you're going to make mistakes, but it’s the only way to learn. I was a little hesitant after my first experience of canine upkeep, but over the next few years I got more confident, and was able to undo some of the damage I had inflicted on my first botched attempt. In time, as I became steadily more proficient, word of my skills began to spread and it wasn't long before the kids in our neighbourhood were bringing along their own pets for me to mend. It started slowly at first - so-and-so's pet guinea pig isn't eating its food; could I take a look at it? Thingy's goldfish keeps sinking; could I mend the puncture? Little Jimmy's millipede has got a broken leg... that kind of thing. Soon, however, it got to be quite regular, and pets were arriving from far and wide. It was all pretty mundane stuff, the kind of thing people could do quite easily themselves if they put their mind to it, and to be honest it got a little boring. 204

You see, at this point, I had kind of moved on. In my continued tinkerings with Sparky, adjusting this, modifying that, I had not merely kept him in serviceable order - I had improved upon the original design. Something of a grand claim, I know, but then contrary to popular belief, Mother Nature doesn't always know best. For instance, by removing over sixty feet of excess artery I significantly streamlined Sparky's cardiovascular system. And the installation of shock absorbers on his hind legs reduced wear on his hips by about forty percent. I also stuck a rocket motor up his arse, which could be activated by a simple wag of the tail. Because of the enormous fuel consumption it would only burn for a few brief seconds, but that was enough to give Sparky a real burst of speed whenever he called for it. On his first test flight he scared the living shit out of the postman. I don't think the poor man was quite ready for the sight of a ragged old Yorkshire terrier, held together with fishing line and gaffer tape, rocketing up the garden path towards him on a plume of flame. Inevitably, the kids in our neighbourhood wanted their pets customising in the same way. I was asked equip snakes with castors, poodles with spoilers, and on one occasion I was even called upon to fit an outboard motor to a prize racing duck. I seem to remember doing a lot of parrot work, re-sprays mostly. People were never really happy with the colour schemes, especially if they'd just redecorated and found that the bird clashed with the new wallpaper. However, my proudest achievement was putting a global positioning system in a pig. It was later sold to a local butcher and turned into homing sausages. I'll be truthful and admit that things didn't always go without a hitch. I turned the shed into my own little pet surgery, and I usua lly had two or three animals on the go at the same time. It wasn't unusual to walk in there of a morning and find an Alsatian up on ramps, a couple of hamsters in a vice and a parrot hanging up to dry. Considering how busy I was it was inevitable that confusions would arise. And so cats that came to me suffering from fur balls would go away with gills, or some poor kid would come to collect his ferret only to find that I'd accidentally bolted a lizard's head on by mistake. This is why it's vitally important to label everything 205

properly and keep the bits separate. Of course, when I say 'accidentally', this wasn't always the case. I got bored fixing the same old problems and making the same old predictable alterations, and so to keep myself amused I started to adapt the animals in rather more imaginative ways - grafting genitalia onto their heads, replacing the legs with caterpillar tracks, fitting periscopes and that kind of thing. My favourite trick was to re-route the poor creature's digestive system so that it looped back on itself, causing an inevitable build-up to occur. Oh sure, Flopsy the bunny would seem perfectly alright when I returned him to his grateful owner. But then, a couple of days later it would begin to show signs of stomach cramps. Then the fever would set in. Gradually it would become worse until, finally ... Oh, can't you just taste the suspense! You see, you never knew just when it was going to blow. One minute Flopsy would be sitting there quietly munching a carrot. The next BANG! - up goes bunny in a shower of shit. That's when things started to get ugly. I began to get myself something of a reputation. The animals stopped coming in and I was shunned by all and sundry. Parents told their kids to keep well away from me. According to them, I was evil, twisted, strange. People would whisper and point at me in the street. “There he goes,” I would hear them hiss. “The monster maker. It's not decent. It's not natural...” Natural? Ha! Listen spotty, I'll tell you what's natural: swinging about the trees, stark-bollock-naked, flinging your shit at passers-by - that's what's natural. But you don't often see any of these squeaky-clean do-gooder types baring their arses to the birds, do you? Course not - the hypocrites are all sat at home, munching on their natural microwaved ready-meals and watching their natural TVs. And quite right too, because nature leaves a lot to be desired. That is why my work must continue. Oh, I'm done with decoking badgers and rewiring squirrels. All that stuff belongs to the recklessness of youth. These days I'm genuinely trying to improve the fauna of our planet, correcting the mistakes that natural selection has failed to address. Giraffes, for instance - they've got those long necks to help them reach the leaves of tall trees, but they're prone to snap in high 206

winds. Me, I'd give them proper knees so they can climb ladders. And bats - what's all that business with the sonar about? Apparently, it's so they can 'see' in the dark, but why not just fit them with headlights? And as for koalas, what are they for? I mean, what do they actually do, apart from swing around all day munching on leaves. We'd be better off without them... bastards. Is it wrong to want to produce an animal that can fulfil its potential? No, I don't think it is. That's why for my first major undertaking I attempted to build a racehorse that could ride a motorbike. I entered it in the Grand National, but the stupid bugger kept falling off. Damn and blast it and back to the drawing board. With my next project I was a little more successful. I crossed a baseball cap with a chameleon and came up with a hat that could blend in with the head of the wearer. Initial sales have been quite promising. Less successful has been my attempt to cross a Chihuahua with a Doberman, to produce a dog that can crap three times its own bodyweight. Over the past few years this work has earned me a degree of notoriety, in addition to the unwelcome interest of several animal rights groups. But these people simply don't understand. With stupefying predictability, I have been tarnished with the appellation 'Dr Frankenstein' by an unimaginative press, and the significant advances I have made have been completely overlooked. That was why I felt the time had come to embark upon a venture that no one could ignore. I would construct a giant monkey! Oh yes, with a giant monkey, I could rule the world! It took me many, many weeks of hard work, toiling long into the night with hammers, soldering irons, hacksaws and tongs. And when he was finished he was magnificent - twenty feet high, when he wasn't slouching. A marvellous specimen of monkey kind! I thought at last that I had achieved my ultimate goal. And where is he now? I'll tell you - he collects shopping trolleys at the local Asda. Fantastic! All that potential just wasted. I've argued with him, pleaded with him, desperately tried to make him see that he's throwing his life away, but he just won't listen. He says its because he's happier doing that. As if! How can a twenty-foot monkey be happy collecting shopping trolleys? Exactly. 207

Trouble was, the monkey had a mind of its own. That was my big mistake - and my last mistake. I'm done with adapting existing animals to my own ends - botched jobs on other people's work, that's all it is. No, I'm better than that - I'm an artist, a creator. My next project will be a totally original design. I've drawn up the plans already: the powerful back legs of a hare, the vicious razor-sharp talons of an eagle, the sweeping graceful frame of a gazelle, the sly calculating brain of a fox and the head of a potato. And when I finally breathe life into my creation, then the world will truly understand my vision. I shall make them understand, for I shall create a whole army of potato-headed creatures, each one subservient to my will. Oh yes, you ain't seen nothing yet, mate.

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The History of Rock Elvis

It is 1945 and the dark days of the war are finally over. Adolf Hitler's fatal plummet over the Reichenbach Falls has delivered the world from the fiendish machinations of one of the most heinous villains of modern history. With the spectre of armed conflict finally vanquished, the nations of Earth can once more return to a state of peaceful coexistence, cultural intolerance and cold loathing. Nevertheless... The war had exacted a terrible toll. Cities lay in ruins, nations were split asunder, and many years of poverty, austerity and hardship lay ahead. In short, it wasn't much fun for the kids especially those who were keen to listen to the latest beats. The music scene was in a poor state indeed. There were no charts to speak of, MTV hadn't really got going and Robbie Williams had yet to be invented. Even the records themselves were difficult to come by, as most of the available vinyl had been melted down to make aircraft carriers. The only decent sounds around could be heard in dingy jazz clubs and illegal drinking joints, but these were not the kind of places that teenagers frequented. And quite rightly so. It was a murky underworld of vice and violence; an urban jungle where the only people fit to survive were those with quick wits, sharp eyes and wooden livers. But that was all to change. The decade was drawing to a close, there was a new spirit of optimism in the air, and society was becoming more affluent and cosmopolitan. The turning point finally came when Chuck Berry, a seventeen year old filter cleaner in an Arkansas pickled onion factory, first picked up a steam-driven guitar and invented the fifties. He promptly teamed up with like-minded farmer’s boy, Jerry Lee Lewis, and the two of 209

them set out on the road to rock and roll fame. That road led them to Vegas, where they soon attracted a following. Before very long, their own particular brand of music had spread like wildfire across the globe. Yes! Rock and roll was born. Everywhere the kids were a-shakin’ and a-jivin’ in their own skiffle bands, often making their own makeshift instruments out of tea chests, washing machines and abandoned jet engines from Nazi fighter aircraft. It seemed that with every new week, a new dance craze was born: the twist, the hucklebuck, the popspring and the Hardy reverse shufflestep, to name but those. Everywhere, the kids were getting down and digging it. Those that weren’t already in traction, anyway. However, rock and roll was still very much an underground thing, lacking the widespread appeal and mainstream recognition of other popular teenage pastimes, such as building camp fires, volleyball and masturbation. That was all to change with the arrival of one man - Elvis. Yes, in 1952 Elvis ‘Pelvis’ Presley was a forty-eight year old crooner doing matinees in a Las Vegas casino. When he heard about Chuck and Jerry, he saw the potential in no time. Within the year he had reinvented himself as a 17 year old rockabilly funkster, wowing oldies and youngsters alike with his electrifying performances on top US televisions shows like The Ed Sullivan Show and The News. He was noted in particular for his shockingly lurid and erotic style of dancing which set teenage girls aflame. In 1953, Congress made it a federal offence for him to appear on television from the waist down, and even as late as 1975, it was still illegal to view Presley’s arse without the signed permission of a county judge. But, as they say, there's no such thing as bad publicity, and all this attention did Elvis's career no harm at all. Within six months of signing his contract with RCA records, Elvis had eight number one hits - quite a considerable feat when you consider that he only actually released four records in that time. He was also at the centre of an extremely lucrative merchandising boom, lending his name and image not only to the usual run of posters and books, but also Elvis-themed bathroom fittings, Elvis-themed oven mitts and even his own, personally approved brand of Elvis-themed axle grease. Not surprisingly, it was around this time that he began to amass a great fortune, and the rewards and accolades just kept coming. When 'Don't Be Cruel' was released in 1956, Elvis was presented 210

with the key to the city of Baltimore. When 'All Shook Up' stormed up the charts the following year, the people of Maryland set fire to a cow in his honour. And when he scored a number one hit with 'Teddy Bear' he was given Paraguay - a country which is still owned by his estate, and which has become the spiritual homeland to many Elvis fans today. It seemed that everything was going just fine for Elvis, but scandal was lurking just around the corner in the shape of a small church mouse by the name of Colonel Tom Parker. In an interview with a local newspaper in Memphis, Colonel Tom claimed that Elvis couldn't actually sing a note and that he himself was responsible for the distinctive, crooning tones heard on all of Elvis's records. Apparently they'd had a special plinth installed in the studio so that Colonel Tom could stand level with the microphone. And when Elvis played live, Colonel Tom would cling to his shirt, beneath one of his lapels, belting out his greatest hits and occasionally hissing stage directions as Elvis mimed and concentrated on gyrating his pelvis. The story was treated with derision upon its initial publication. This, after all, was the paper that had previously claimed that J Edgar Hoover was made entirely out of papier mâché - a claim which ultimately proved only half correct - and so people were content to take it with a pinch of salt. However, the story received a very public boost when, at a concert later that very same month, Elvis's voice seemed to dry to a barely audible squeak, forcing organisers to cancel the performance barely a third of the way through. His publicist subsequently claimed that Elvis had succumbed to a particularly nasty cold, which had seriously affected his throat, but it seemed that the damage had been done. There were severe doubts about him now, so Elvis decided to lie low for a while and join the army. And it is at this point that we reach one of the most hotly debated chapters of the King's career. The official story of Elvis's time in the army has it that he spent two years in Germany, during which time he peeled a lot of potatoes, learnt to play the banjo and got to drive an amphibious vehicle a couple of times. It's all rather mundane, which is why many people have come to doubt this version of events. And they are right to do so, for now at last the true story can be told. Elvis was in fact a voodoo ninja karate expert, working for the CIA behind enemy lines. During 1958 he 211

was dropped in Russia - we're not told how, but some sort of parachute seems to be a likely possibility. Once behind the Iron Curtain he adopted the clever pseudonym 'Elviski' and was thus able to blend in seamlessly with the rest of the populace, sendi ng back coded messages about troop movements and the whereabouts of vodka and furry hats. When Elvis finally returned to civilian life many people believed that he had undergone a noticeable change. Some felt his music had lost its edge; others believed that his persona had mellowed. Some felt that his tendency to speak with a slight Russian burr and call everyone 'comrade' all the time lay at the heart of these subtle changes, and there were plenty who were prepared to entertain the notion that he had been switched with a Russian doppelganger. Whatever the reason, it's true to say that Elvis never recaptured the energy and vigour of his youth. Nevertheless, he became a consummate showman and his regular performances in Vegas were as much about spectacle and pizzazz as they were about music. People would come from all over the world to witness him singing 'Burning Love' whilst juggling different sized fruits and riding a flaming unicycle. And experts were almost universally agreed that his lion taming act was second to none. But sadly, all the circus skills in the world were not enough to save Elvis from a grisly end, and in 1977 he died, fatally, after choking on a toilet. Elvis was no more, and his fans would forever grieve his passing. The King was dead... Or was he? Maybe, just maybe, Elvis is still out there, using his voodoo cybernetic space karate skills to right wrongs, to protect the innocent and to fight for justice in a world in which one man can rarely make a difference. Today, still wanted by the government, he might just survive as a soldier of fortune. So if you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find him, maybe you can hire... Elvis. Probably. None of this is true, by the way.

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GRAVY BOAT Archaeologists exploring an area of riverbed in London have discovered the remains of an Elizabethan gravy boat which once plied its trade up an down the banks of the River Thames, selling traffic jam and hand shakes to riverside sand bars. It was also carrying a supply of hamstrings and foxholes, commodities which were in great demand and would have been traded with dockers in return for pig-ironing or pigeon-holing.

collection of fleeting glimpses and a feeling of unease which has been specially treated to preserve it from deterioration and is currently on display in the Natural History Museum.

CHIP-WRITERS An amateur inventor in Bolton has come up with a device that he believes will revolutionise the lives of millions of office workers all around the world. Gavin Trout has taken the principal of potato printing to the next level by coming up with the 'chip-writer'. The machine works in much the same way as a traditional typewriter, except that it utilises a series of deep-fried potato chips, each embossed with a different letter or character. Trout claims that the chipwriter can produce attractive, typewritten documents in a choice of green, orange or brown - thanks to special ribbons impregnated with mushy peas, baked beans or curry sauce. He also working on a photocopier based on potato waffles.

Little is known about vessels from this period, and it is rare for such a well-preserved specimen to turn up. However, three years ago, just a few hundred metres from this site, a Georgian Handicraft was disinterred from the mud. These were generally employed as pleasure craft by the gentry, and would have been sumptuously decorated. In fact, archaeologists found the remains of an ornate gilt complex, and traces of handpainted flypaper still stuck to the planking with a strong, adhesive meat paste. Astonishingly, they also found a locker containing small pockets of resistance, a 213

Jazz Bomb

The town of Chicken Shit in New Mexico is perhaps the most unwelcoming place that you're never likely to visit. The people there are unaccountably proud of their inbreeding and don't really like outsiders. If your skin's a different colour, if you talk funny, if your clothes are strange or even if you prefer a different kind of maple syrup on your waffles, then you're just not going to feel a t home in Chicken Shit. And if you let it slip that you've got a different surname from everybody else in the town, the chances are you'll be swinging from a lamppost by sunset. But on the 29th July, 1947, something happened in Chicken Shit; something that has never been properly explained to this day, but which changed the townsfolk forever. It occurred in the early hours of the morning: a massive explosion that was heard as far away as Pigswill, thirty miles to the north. However, when emergency services arrived in Chicken Shit they found that very little had been disturbed: just a few broken windows and dislodged roof tiles. This suggested an explosion in mid air: the little damage that was evident resulting from the subsequent shock wave. And yet strangely, when law enforcement officials from the county sheriff's office tried to interview some of the locals about the incident, they seemed to be completely unfazed about it. Some of them reported seeing a bright flash of light, or being woken by an enormous thunderclap, but on the whole they were really quite chilled out. Officer Jim Mendoza was one of the policemen on duty that night, and he recalls being extremely disturbed by their unusual behaviour. “It was real spooky,” he told us. “We all knew that Chicken Shit was a pretty... well... tight-knit community. And they certainly didn't take too kindly to interference from outside, which is why people gave the place a wide berth. So, as you can imagine, 214

on the night of the explosion we kinda expected them to be pretty jumpy. Well, there's a dozen squad cars, two fire trucks and three ambulances turn up on the scene. We figured this was bound to piss them off, and we thought we'd be dodging shotgun shells the moment we stepped out the car. But that's not what happened at all. The townsfolk were all hanging out on their porches, smoking, chatting, singing little songs. Real mellowed out, they were. We tried to ask them what had happened, but they just told us that everything was 'cool' and kept offering us waffles.” So what was it that changed the people of Chicken Shit, New Mexico, from militant rednecks to spaced-out stoners in the middle of the night? There has never been a proper explanation, but over the years there have been many rumours. A mystery virus, perhaps? Some kind of cosmic bombardment? Maybe even a Soviet mind ray? Such ideas have been scoffed at and almost universally derided. But there is one notion that has refused to go away - could what happened to Chicken Shit be the result of the almost legendary 'jazz bomb'. An increasing number of influential researchers believe it was. The jazz bomb was first conceived in the early days of the twentieth century. Up until that point it had been believed that the smallest indivisible particle of music was the 'note'. However, the legendary musical physicist Scat Parker was convinced that these notes were comprised of smaller particles. He theorised that if it were possible to split the note, the sudden release of jazz particles would produce a phenomenal quantity of raw power. Of course, the means of actually splitting a note were well beyond the technology available to Scat Parker. What he really needed was some sort of high energy musical accelerator with which to bombard raw music. All he actually had was a trumpet, and even that was slightly bent. He died in 1928 when a tree fell on him, and his grand scheme to liberate the jazz particle was never realised. Or was it? Skip forward fourteen or fifteen years to the latter days of the second world war, and Hitler is desperately searching for the ultimate weapon. According to some researchers, one project that his scientists were working on was the jazz bomb. Marty Wallop, best-selling author of Nazi Lasers on the Moon: The Third Reich's Secret Space Programme, takes up the story: “It was well known that Hitler was looking into the possibility of 215

making some sort of jazz weapon,” Wallop explained as he brandished his latest book, Aryan Rhythms: The Quest for the Jazz Bomb. “That was no secret. It was something the Allies were investigating too, although nobody held out much hope of building a workable device. What most people don't realise is how close the Nazis actually came to achieving it. Quite early on in their researches they had built a massive underground Wurlitzer on the outskirts of Munich. This mighty organ was capable of taking raw music and smashing it into its component parts. However the ability to harness the destructive power of this process remained tantalisingly beyond their reach. Nevertheless, documents captured by the Russians when they entered Berlin revealed that they were literally within months of building a working jazz bomb. The repercussions of such a device do not bear thinking about. If such a bomb were dropped on London it would have left everyone within a twenty mile radius of the capital completely chilled out, and much of the rest of South East England fairly listless.” Like many other best-selling authors out to make an easy buck, Wallop believes that Nazi jazz scientists were spirited away to America at the end of the war to continue their work in secret. And the incident in Chicken Shit might just be the proof he needs. “I believe that what happened that night in that small hick town is the direct result of the military testing its prototype jazz bomb,” he told us. “Nothing else can really explain how a population of retarded, gun-happy fuckwits can transform itself overnight into a bunch of spaced-out, pot-smoking beatniks who only come out at night and keep calling you 'daddy-o' all the time.” If the jazz bomb theory proves to be a reality, it could be a very disturbing development. On the face of it, it seems like rather a good thing: a bomb that can turn people from murderous psychopaths into jazzed-up hepcats would seem to be quite a positive commodity. But it's not quite that simple. For instance, there's the effect of the blast itself. Anyone standing at ground zero when a jazz bomb strikes would be instantly vaporised. Admittedly, they'd be very relaxed about it, but the fact remains that you're never going to see them shopping in Woolworth's again. Further out from the blast zone, those people hit by the initial jazz wave would be sent into a state of jazz trauma from which they might never recover. They may be able to tap the odd foot, nod their head in what they understand to be a rhythmical fashion, and utter 216

phrases like 'cool daddy-o' Jazz Rocket and 'dig those crazy rhythms, Zarko Whoopsie of the Blue Note sister', but they will be no Professor Rooms, Spitalfields, has recently unveiled good for anything else. his intention to explore the galaxy in a jazz ered rocket, seeking out new life forms However, it's when we pow and spreading the message of jazz to the look beyond the initial effects universe. “Man, this is going to be so cool,” crooned w hen w e interview ed him that the real dangers of the he recently. “This rocket is gonna cruise up jazz bomb come to light. into the sky on a rainbow of pure jazz. It's be beautiful. We're gonna use the Jazz fission is unlikely to gonna international language of jazz to reach out to create a clean explosion. For the sky people; w e're gonna be one nation instance, it could produce a united in the rhythms of the cosmos. Bebop starchildren, yeah!” blast wave of funk. This can Professor Zarko is not embarking on directly affect cell tissue and this mission alone. He has the support of a and pioneering group of jazz cause horrible mutations. talented musicians. “There's me on trumpet,” he told And a jazz explosion will us. “Then there's the great Charlie Kruger on piano, Geoff the inevitably create fallout in the 'Silkfingers' pow der monkey and his magic trombone, form of 'lethargens'. These and Slick Pallooka on bongos. Slick is just coolest person in the universe man. It's are compounds that inhibit the gonna be great.” growth and activity in both But it's early days yet. Professor Zarko has yet to finalise the designs for his rocket, plants and animals, and can something that he has so far been remain in the soil for extremely relaxed about. Nevertheless, though progress is slow , he remains thousands of years, even optimistic about the w hole project. After all, contaminating water supplies this isn't the first time he has embarked on and ruining crops. The only an expedition like this. “Oh no, man, this rocket thing is gonna way to deal with these be a breeze for seasoned jazz adventurers compounds effectively is to like us,” he explained. “We once w ent to Llandudno in a camper van. Dude, it w as seal them in rock and dump w ild.” them at sea - and it must be hard rock: prog rock, acid rock or AOR just aren't up to the job. On the other hand, it isn't all bad news. If jazz can be harnessed sensibly and safely then it could provide us with an answer to our energy crisis. Jazz power stations might one day supply heat and light to your home, jazz combustion engines might take you to work, and jazz powered rockets might even help us to explore the outer regions of the galaxy. But we're still a long way from achieving this. By its very nature, jazz is unpredictable; it does not conform to established models, and is more inclined to extemporise than follow rigid physical rules. For this reason, musicians are looking at fusion rather than fission as a way of tapping the energy potential of jazz. By blending jazz with other forms of music such 217

as soul, rock or even folk, they hope to be able to create a steady, controllable power source. But if the commercial applications are encouraging, the dark cloud on the horizon is the prospect that the military, once again, have got there first. “I have it on good authority,” Marty Wallop warned us, as he proudly displayed a copy of his best-selling book Shit! Look Out: Nazis with Jet Packs, “- and this comes direct from a source in the Pentagon, whom I cannot name - that the army now have a working 'jazz gun'. Apparently, it's small enough to be operated by a two-man crew and has already seen action in the Middle East. I'm told it was devastatingly effective. It uses jazz fusion to create a steady stream of jazz particles, which can be focussed on any target up to a mile and a half away. I understand that when it's turned up to its top setting it can make you dance like a monkey.”

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Splitting the Crotchet Scientists now know that musical notes are made up of much smaller particles, the distribution of which determine the particular genre of music. Below is an example of the kind of note that is commonly found in many classic Motown and early soul records. As you can see, it has been greatly enlarged so that you can identify the individual elements that go to make up its overall structure.

This, of course, is only an illustration. In practice, it is impossible to know both the position and velocities of individual musical units, due to something called the 'Hendrix Uncertainty Principle'. This usually only operates on a sub-atomic scale and does not influence our everyday experience of full-scale concerts. That said, there are a growing number of musicologists who believe that it could explain why some gigs are cancelled without notice, and venues are changed at the last minute.

This note appears by kind permission of Atlantic Records.

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Professor Jez Moonbeam Invents…

Professor Jez Moonbeam, who many people blame for what happened outside the Post Office last Tuesday, has been at it again, and it seems that no one can stop him No 5: The Sneeze Wheel

The average sneeze travels at speeds in excess of 90 miles an hour. This is fast enough, and powerful enough, to spread mucus over an area some forty feet wide, wake up everybody in your street, or knock a small kitten off a wall. A real belter of a sneeze can easily punch a hole through a six-inch thick slab of concrete, and there are rumours that the destructive applications of sneezing were once given serious consideration by the Soviet military. According to something I read on the internet - so it must be true - during the cold war Khrushchev sanctioned a programme to investigate and develop sneezing as a weapon. Operation Red Nose, as it may or may not have been called, aimed to recruit some of the most ferocious sneezers then serving in the ranks of the Red Army and train them to control and direct their outbursts with lethal force. They even developed special pepper sprays and allergens to augment their natural talents, but it was all to little avail. The squad hoped one day to be able to sneeze a tank off the face of the planet, but in the end all their combined efforts ever achieved was to cause a researcher to spill his coffee. My own experience of sneezing has been, on occasion, equally dramatic. Not so very long ago I was sitting on a bus and my hayfever was giving me a particularly bad time. I was doing my utmost to control my nasal detonations, but suddenly I was taken by surprise. It was one of those sneezes that just seems to bubble up from nowhere and tear out of every single orifice on your body, announcing itself to all present in the process. The full force of this 220

particular discharge struck a woman sitting three seats in front of me, lifted her hat clean off her head and pitched it out of the open window. She was a frail and spindly old biddy, and didn't really seem to know what had hit her. Unfortunately she was accompanied by her son who was the size of a small skip, and who dragged me off the bus at the next stop and beat the marrow out of me. And it was as I was lying amongst the dustbins and old boxes, looking for my teeth, that I had an idea. If a simple sneeze, I conjectured, was capable of causing so much distress, destruction and personal injury, then why couldn't it be harnessed in a more positive way? As soon as I got home I started work on the 'Sneeze Wheel' - a small turbine installed over the nose and mouth, linked to a dynamo to create electrical power. I haven't actually been able to test it yet, since my nose is still very swollen, and the apparatus will not fit over my face, but I have high hopes for this latest innovation. In fact, I think that this idea is set to run and run... sorry, that was sort of a joke… run, as in nose… doesn’t matter.

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Fish Olympics

It is with regret that we have to report that the XII Fish Olympiad, held this year in Helsinki, has been abandoned. As many of you will already know, the Fish Olympics takes place every four years and offers the opportunity for fish from all over the world to compete in a spirit of international fellowship. Staged over a period of seventeen days, and consisting of 67 different events, the Fish Olympics has been held up as a fine example of piscine achievement, and has demonstrated once and for all that saltwater and freshwater species can co-operate in a spirit of harmony and mutual respect. However, in recent years public interest has been on the wane, as a result of which the sponsors decided to pull out of the event. “Whilst we have the highest regard for the athletes,” a spokesman said last week, “we realise that very few people are prepared to tolerate the spectacle of fish flapping about on race tracks, pointlessly attempting to ride bicycles and generally giving themselves a hard time.” Nevertheless, despite this setback, organisers decided to go ahead with the games. The lack of funding inevitably meant that the opening ceremony was a more muted affair than in recent years - but it was impressive nonetheless, as the fish of all nations paraded around the stadium to the rapturous applause of the many crabs, prawns and other assorted shellfish that filled the stands. However, the following day, as the first round of events began, it became apparent that the apathy that had overtaken the general public was also affecting the competitors. During the 400 metres hurdles, many of them just lay on the ground in little puddles, and seemed disinclined to move, apparently content to just roll around and open and close their mouths frantically as they fought for air. A similar lack of effort ruined the pole vault, where we were 222

treated to the extraordinary spectacle of some of the world's most highly trained sportsfish not even bothering to grip the pole. The same day also saw the debacle of the men's speed skating event, in which the two favourites - Tony Pike of the USA and Juan Mackerel-Gonzalez from Peru - just seemed to slide about uncontrollably before ending up in an untidy tangle in the centre of the rink. The event was ultimately won by a packet of fish fingers that a disgusted spectator threw into the arena, and which crossed the finish line a full fifteen seconds ahead of its nearest rival. Day two saw no improvements. Gary Carp of Great Britain passed out during the haddock relay and his trainer had to revive him by waving a jar of tartare sauce under his nose. The table tennis was a complete washout, as was the archery, but we did witness a record breaking performance from the South African entrant in the arm wrestling finals. His moment of glory was shortlived, however, as a random drug test subsequently revealed him to be an octopus. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the performances in the water events were slightly more electrifying. There were, admittedly, several setbacks: not least the disappearance of the entire Norwegian team, who were eaten by a dolphin during a practice session. But, by and large, we saw some excellent performances, especially that of Igor Sturgeonovitch, who smashed the record for the 100 metres butterfly. It must have been a proud moment for him as he was netted by the judges, clubbed to death then stuffed and mounted as an example of sporting excellence that is rarely ever seen in this day and age. It's a pity that Igor's example could not have been followed by some of the other entrants. Day three saw the boxing finals: minnow-weight, turbot-weight and shark-weight. Whilst the first two went off without incident - indeed, without a single blow being struck - the shark-weight final quickly turned into the most shameful incident we've seen in fishsports for many a year. The two combatants, 'Teeth' McGinnley and Colin 'Ripper' Smith, are both known for their ferocity and a tendency to 'overlook' the conventions of fair play. True to form, it turned out to be a vicious fight, with much biting, gouging and rending of flesh. After the third round the organisers decided to end the contest, but when the bell went, 'Teeth' McGinnley and 'Ripper' Smith just kept on fighting. When the referee subsequently tried to break them up, 223

they ate him and rampaged through the audience. There was blubber everywhere. Crabs scuttled frantically out of the way as clams and winkles were crushed underfoot in the panic. Eventually a division of crack squid was called to the scene and subdued the pugilists with tranquilliser darts, jellyfish and specially developed 'Taser eels'. It was felt that the games could not possibly continue following such an incident, and so the committee wisely decided to bring this year's event to a close. There is now a question mark hanging over the future of the Fish Olympics. The next games are set to take place in Tokyo in four years’ time, and the Japanese remain eager to welcome so much raw fish to their shores. Nevertheless, many feel that the XII Fish Olympiad could be the last. This would be a great pity, of course, and a terrible blow to fish the world over. Time will tell. In the meantime, we're still got the Frog Grand Prix to look forward to next June.

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Official Apologies In a move designed to increase the degree of accountability to its 'customers', the UK's National Health Service has recently created a new executive position. In the hope of finding out what this may mean for patients, we went along to interview the man at the centre of this initiative, Gerry Crumb - the NHS's new Head of Official Apologies.

UNIVERSITY OF THE BLEEDING OBVIOUS: Official Apologies - it sounds intriguing. Perhaps you could begin by outlining the responsibilities of your role? GERRY CRUMB: Certainly, I can. It's a very exciting and challenging position. And rewarding - oh yes, it's definitely rewarding. Basically, it is my job to take the blame for everything that goes wrong throughout the NHS. I performed a similar role when I worked at the Foreign Office. UBO: You take the blame for everything? GERRY CRUMB: Absolutely: everything and anything. Every single mishap and mistake that occurs in any hospital, surgery or other NHS facility will henceforth be my fault. UBO: I'm not sure I understand. Are you suggesting that it is your job to go out and deliberately make mistakes? Or have I got it wrong? GERRY CRUMB: Sorry, my fault for not making myself clear. You see, the Government has realised that no matter what precautions they take, or what procedures they put in place, mistakes are going to be made. And inevitably, when those 225

mistakes happen the first thing people will want to do is find someone to blame. Well, up until now the public has traditionally blamed the doctors, or the nurses, or the board of governors, or whomever. Obviously, these people have enough to contend with, without being put through hoops every time they get it a bit wrong. In fact, it's just this sort of pressure than can lead to them making further mistakes. UBO:

And this is where you come in?

GERRY CRUMB: Exactly. Whenever a doctor hacks off the wrong leg, or a nurse administers the wrong drug it's up to me to step into the breach and take the blame. UBO:

Just you?

GERRY CRUMB: Just me, yes. I have a secretary, but it's not within her remit to accept responsibility for anything. UBO: But surely no one is going to believe that you could possibly be responsible for everything that goes wrong across the whole country? GERRY CRUMB: Ha! What a naïve notion - as if the public gives a damn who's really responsible. As long as someone puts their hand up to it and says 'it’s my fault' then it doesn't matter one jot. All they need is someone to point the finger at. Someone to say sorry. Someone to stand up in court and take the rap. Someone to be pilloried by the Sunday papers and have their name dragged through the mud. UBO:

Okay then, so how does it work in practice?

GERRY CRUMB: Well it really depends upon the severity of the incident. Let's say, for example, that someone spends two years on a waiting list for an operation, only to have it cancelled at the last minute. Well, that's a fairly mundane occurrence - happens all the time. We have a standard form letter that we send out, in which I formerly apologise, accept all responsibility and promise that it won't happen again. Of course, when it does happen again, we 226

have another letter apologising more profusely and promising that the matter will be 'seriously investigated'. When it happens for a third time - which it invariably does - I will personally telephone the patient, assure them that the matter is being taken most seriously and intimate that I am about to tender my resignation. UBO: I see. So what about more extreme cases - incidents which may result in more serious consequences for the patient? Let's say that a patient has had a perfectly healthy kidney removed instead of a diseased one. How would you respond? GERRY CRUMB: Ah well the first thing we'd do is dispatch what we call a 'Fast Response Team' to the hospital. On arrival they would apologise in full to the victim UBO: The patient? GERRY CRUMB: Sorry, yes, I mean the patient. They would plump his pillows up for him, buy him chocolates and flowers maybe even take him out for a meal. Failing that, they may treat him to a day at the zoo, or a nearby theme park. Maybe a paintballing weekend - I believe they're very popular these days. Anything to placate him really. It's a damage limitation exercise, you see. UBO: Yes, I see. Of course, the likelihood is that the patient will be far too ill to fully appreciate a paintballing weekend. GERRY CRUMB: Yes, sorry - you're quite right. Well, in that case I would personally attend the patient myself - prostrate myself at his feet, or slash my own wrists as a demonstration of penitence. UBO: And if that didn't appease him? GERRY CRUMB: Oh, well - then we'd send in the helicopter gunships. UBO: Helicopter gunships? GERRY CRUMB: Yes, big metal things with whirly things on top. 227

If there's one thing I learnt whilst I was at the Foreign Office is that there is no crisis too great that it can't be speedily remedied by sending in helicopter gunships. UBO: Mr Crumb, I have to tell you that I have grave doubts about this whole scheme. GERRY CRUMB: Well, of course you do, and I'm bound to say that I'm terribly sorry about it, and that I'm fully prepared to take all responsibility. UBO: No, Mr Crumb, that's just not good enough; it's just too unlikely. Nobody is going to accept that it's all your fault and leave it at that, because it means that the people who are actually responsible will go unchecked. GERRY CRUMB: Sorry. UBO: If every criticism and complaint is fielded by you, the real culprits will just carry on as normal. There will be no incentive to improve; they will feel no obligation to raise their standards. GERRY CRUMB: Yes... sorry. UBO: Mr Crumb, will you please stop apologising to me. GERRY CRUMB: Yes, err... yes... UBO: And don't just sit there staring at the floor, Mr Crumb. There's an important point here that needs to be addressed. As long as you keep protecting these people from the consequences of their actions then there is never going be any change for the better. Doesn't it bother you that now you have been given this job, people within the medical profession will be able to get away will all manner of mistakes and malpractice, whilst somebody else gets the blame? I think this is a very dangerous new policy. GERRY CRUMB: Well actually... UBO:

Yes? 228

GERRY CRUMB: Well it's not really a new policy. UBO:

No?

GERRY CRUMB: No, that's the way it's always worked. It's just that now it's been put on an official footing... Sorry.

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A Tall Order This month we were pleased to have an opportunity to speak to top advertising guru Christian Pyle, who dropped in to speak to us about his company's latest campaign. This is what he had to tell us.

University of the Bleeding Obvious: Christian Pyle, as one of the leading lights in a thriving advertising industry, you've certainly turned a few heads in your time. However, I'm sure you'll agree that your agency's latest account has to be its most controversial, yes? Christian Pyle: Well now, I'm not sure that 'controversial' is quite the word I'd choose to describe it. It's certainly a very challenging assignment, I won't deny that. But speaking as someone who thrives on challenge, it's a prospect I rather relish. UBO: I see. We're talking, of course, about your forthcoming campaign for Gabriel Landen PLC, Europe's largest manufacturer of disposable tampons. CP: That's right. UBO: You were quoted, I think, in the Financial Times last week as being confident that you could double the company's turnover within the next eighteen months. That's a tall order. CP: Well, it's not going to be plain sailing. UBO: Indeed not. Do you really believe that you can live up to such a promise? I mean, given that Gabriel Landen already dominate the feminine hygiene market, do you think you can 230

realistically wrest any more of the market share away from the competition? CP: Certainly we can. I have no doubt about that. No doubt at all. But that isn't really the main thrust of our strategy. UBO: Is it not? CP: Oh, no, no, no. You see, in order to achieve the sort of growth we're aiming for, we need to open up a whole new market. UBO: I see. Geographically? The Far East, or South America, perhaps? CP: Demographically. We need to introduce our product to people who would never have previously considered buying a tampon. UBO: Ah... and by that you mean...? CP: Well, we mean young, middle-class males between the ages of 18 and 25. UBO: All right, yes... men? CP: Indeed. You see, here we have a sizeable section of the populace that the tampon industry has so far completely failed to cater for. It's a completely untapped market, just waiting for someone with the right amount of drive, vision and verve to come along and make a killing. It's the so-called Loaded generation young males with well-paid jobs, no responsibilities and money to burn. It makes perfect sense for us to target them. UBO: Yes, yes, of course, I see that. But I can't help feeling that you're going to have a hell of a hard time selling, erm, tampons to men. If you see what I mean? CP: Oh, believe me, I know it's not going to be easy. There will be certain obstacles. 231

UBO: You're not kidding. CP: But, as I said earlier, I'm up for a challenge. We will have to completely rethink, reinterpret and re-conceptualise the tampon. UBO: Do you think you might also need to re-engineer it? CP: Well we're not ruling anything out at this stage. You see the main problem we face is that the tampon has traditionally been aimed at women and, as such, marketing strategies have concentrated on things like comfort, ease of use and peace of mind. That kind of sales pitch just won't work for men. We will need to emphasise the dynamic qualities of the product - the danger, the mystery, the machismo, if you like. We need to fix a different image of the tampon in people's heads - associate it with fast cars and high living. Our TV spots will be fronted by racing drivers, athletes and film stars. In fact, we're currently having talks with Arnold Schwarzenegger's people, which is something I'm particularly excited about. UBO: Right, yes, I see. And you think that will be enough to persuade men to buy tampons, do you? CP: Well, not in itself, no. We're going to have to take a long hard look at the product range itself. We need a variety of tampons designed by men, for men. Tampons in chrome, brushed steel or mat black. And we will have to market them with names like 'Stallion', 'Nelson' and 'Polaris'. We're looking at this from every conceivable angle. UBO: I'm sure you are, but there is perhaps one conceivable angle that you haven't considered. Namely, that men don't buy tampons, because men don't need tampons. CP: Microwave meals. UBO: I beg your pardon? CP: Microwave meals. You know, when they first came up with Microwave meals they were hailed as a breakthrough in food 232

technology - but no one thought you could ever actually sell them. Look like crap, smell like crap, taste like crap. So they gave them to us, and we sold them to the world. Want to know how? I'll tell you how: we created a demand for them. Just like we're going to create a male demand for tampons. By the time we've finished, young fashionable males will simply be unable to leave the house without their top-of-the-range designer tampons. UBO: But, market forces aside, surely there are sound biological reasons why men don't need tampons? How do you propose to create a demand for the product? Hormone therapy? Surgery? Or maybe you've got some kind of sex change ray? CP: Ha! No, no, of course not. The first two options are far too expensive, and the third won't be in service until 2018. We'll use something infinitely more subtle - a sales tool that we've had a great deal of practice with. We'll use fashion. We'll use peer pressure. We'll use mankind's desperate, overriding need to conform. You see, I think you're making the mistake of underestimating the power of advertising. UBO: Well yes, quite possibly. But are you sure you're not making a similar mistake in overestimating your own influence? Surely you can't cling to the assumption that everyone is gullible enough to fall for the same line? CP: No, no, no - of course not. I'm not saying that I can wave a magic wand and every young male across the country is going to rush out and buy tampons that they don't want, don't need and can't use. All I'm saying is that there are enough twats out there to make it worth our time. UBO: Mr Pyle, thank you very much. CP: It's been a pleasure.

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What Is It?

BEETROOT! Excuse me. The scientific community has been rocked to its foundations recently by the startling claims of Professor Norman Sadowitz of the Colorado State University who - after many years of painstaking research and careful experimentation - has concluded that 'Things Ain't What They Used To Be'. Already scientists the world over are in a state of excitement as they hotly debate the consequences of this astounding new theory. “This discovery opens up a whole new branch of science,” says Doctor Heinrich Crabs of Hoffenwoffer University in Germany. “There are several areas that we will need to look into further: what exactly are these 'things'? What did they used to be like? What's the capital of China?* Only once we have satisfactorily answered these questions can we consider the possible reasons for them not being what they used to be.” Not everyone, however, has embraced Sadowitz's theory so readily. Lawrence Wankal, spokesman for the National Institute of Turkey Fanciers, has said that Sadowitz's methods are open to misinterpretation, his research is flawed, and his theory is ridiculous. Furthermore, Wankal claims that Sadowitz sleeps with animals and wears rubber underwear. Sadowitz's response to this criticism has taken the form of a letter which appeared in this week's Sunday Times. In this letter Sadowitz states that he knows his theory is absolutely true, because the pixies told him. He also comments that his personal life is no business of anyone else, and that he wears rubber underwear only to protect him against spontaneous lightning strikes. Meanwhile, we have discovered that the National Institute of Turkey Fanciers doesn't actually exist, and that Lawrence Wankal is a figment of his own imagination. 234

As if all this hasn't muddied the waters enough, further upsets are likely next week when a man in Blackpool is expected to announce that 'That's Just The Way It Is'. * early indications are that the capital of China is Beijing

Where Is It?

Throughout history, man has striven to find out where it is. In Ancient Egypt it was believed to be behind the sun. If ever the sun fell out of the sky, so the legend went, it would be on full display and doom would rain down upon the land. The Greeks, on the other hand, thought that it was buried deep in the heart of Mount Olympus, and that on dark winter evenings it could be heard warbling a strange wobbly song. These days, of course, it is much smaller, and we are more inclined to believe that it has simply rolled under the sideboard, or slipped behind the cushions on the sofa.

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FLYOVER Our commiserations to Mr Alex Pollard of Shrewsbury, who has failed to prevent his local council from demolishing his wife in order to build a new flyover. Mr Pollard first became aware of the council's intentions three years ago, and began a lengthy legal battle to prevent the demolition order being carried out. He has, during that time, persuaded the council to consider a number of alternative routes, the most feasible of which would have involved flattening Mrs Hewson at number forty-two, or blasting a tunnel through the woman who works at the launderette. However, both these women have been declared areas of natural beauty and are therefore considered off-limits for development. In a last-ditch attempt Mr Pollard claimed that his wife is a site of historical significance, but subsequently failed to convince the board of English Heritage that she was the scene of one of the most desperate battles of the Civil War. Work on the longdelayed flyover is now set to recommence, and Mrs Pollard is scheduled to be blown up next Wednesday.

Mr Pollard is, understandably, most distressed by this news, and believes there is more to this decision than meets the eye. Ten years ago, whilst swimming in the sea during a holiday in Bournemouth, his mother was identified as a danger to shipping and scuttled by the Royal Navy. Mr Pollard believes, perhaps not unreasonably, that he is the victim of a plot and has warned other members of his family to be especially vigilant. DIY OLYMPICS Victory for the British DIY Olympic squad who return home with an impressive six gold medals, including the 600 metres wallpapering, the freestyle tiling and the gloss painting relay. They also managed to scrape a silver for the speed paving event. Commiserations, however, to Diana McFlurry, who slipped on a stepladder whilst measuring up some coving. Her sprained ankle means she will be not be fit in time for the Commonwealth Games later this year, in which she was hoping to be part of the formation gardening team.

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Springboard to the Stars

We may have set foot upon the surface of the moon and sent probes to the furthest reaches of the Solar System, but in terms of space exploration we have only just begun to scratch the surface. For the moment, the prospect of interstellar travel eludes us. Nevertheless, although crossing the vast empty voids of the universe is beyond our capabilities, it is not beyond our imaginations. Engineers are confident that some time in the future we will develop the technology to journey to distant stars. Perhaps it could be sooner than we think. Scientists are already looking at a number of different options, including ion drives, anti-gravity motors and interspatial warp matrix interfaces. But these technologies are still highly theoretical. However, conventional science might yet provide a means for us to explore the galaxy, if Project Pogo is given the go ahead. Project Pogo uses a revolutionary new space vehicle, the Pogo Rocket, which uses a two-tier system of powerful springs to launch itself into orbit. The first spring, the 'launch spring', is over six miles high and requires five hundred heavy-duty winches to compress it. This spring provides the initial thrust to fire the Pogo Rocket into space. Once in orbit, the launch spring will be jettisoned and the capsule will head towards the moon, impact with it and bounce clear of the surface using the smaller 'flight spring'. It will then head to Mars and repeat the process, bouncing from the surface and heading on towards Jupiter. And so on, and so forth until it is out of the solar system and hurtling towards another galaxy. Each time it bounces from a planetary surface, it will - in a way that is completely contrary to the laws of physics - gather momentum and increase its speed by a factor of ten. Thus, in just a few years time, mankind could find itself literally leapfrogging across the universe. There are, inevitably, a few obstacles to overcome first. No one 237

is quite sure if the Pogo Rocket will be able to find sufficiently solid planetary surfaces from which to bounce. The moon and Mars should not be a problem, but Jupiter is made largely from gas, and most experts agree that Saturn is far too wet and sloppy. But these uncertainties can be fairly easily overcome by making use of the planets' satellites. A far greater problem will arise from the incredible speeds the Pogo Rocket will be capable of. By increasing its velocity with each bounce, it could conceivably reach the nearest galaxy within a few years. But, as yet, no one has figured out a way to stop it.

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Professor Jez Moonbeam Invents… Professor Jez Moonbeam, possibly the only man to ever successfully scale Mount Everest from the inside, has been reading the previous article No 6: Pogo Stick Ejector Seat

Bloody kids! Some little tyke down our street has just been given a pogo stick for his birthday, and I'm sorry but I just don't hold with them. Oh I appreciate the engineering and the ingenuity that went into the design and development of the pogo stick, but I personally think that the whole pogo thing was a bit of a scientific blind alley. Back in the twenties when Charles Pogo first invented his famous stick, we were told that it was going to be the latest thing in travel. The day of the motor car was over. The train was a thing of the past. Even the jet aircraft was going to have trouble keeping up, for the only hope of an efficient, economically viable integrated transport system lay in the pogo stick. People would commute into work on pogo sticks; they would travel the length and breadth of the country on vast, three-laned pogo highways; there would even be pogo services across the Atlantic - London to New York in a single bound. At one point London Transport was considering getting rid of all the trains in the Underground and replacing the tracks with smooth, pogo-friendly paving, until it was pointed out that there was a very serious danger of the pogoers smashing their brains in on the tunnel roofs. Of course, it never happened. The trouble with pogo sticks is that you can't really carry a lot of luggage on one. Neither can you install a CD player, air conditioning or reclining seats. Plus, for the many people who suffer from travel sickness, cars are quite bad enough as it is - leaping about the place on a dirty great spring is 239

going to do them no good at all. They also don't do a great deal of good for my carrots. Let me explain. I am currently in the process of developing luminous carrots that can be seen in the dark, and I was growing my first experimental batch in a patch of ground down at the bottom of my garden. And they were doing quite well until the other day, when that little sod from down the street lost control of his birthday present, came bounding over the garden fence, mashed my prize carrots to a pulp then flew off and sailed right through the greenhouse. Well, it's not on, is it? It's not right that people should be allowed to go careering about, smashing up people's vegetables with wild abandon. Something has to be done. Unfortunately the pogo stick is here to stay - there's nothing I can do about that - but there are a couple of modifications I can make to render the damn things safer for all concerned. Firstly, I have noticed that pogo sticks don't have brakes. This is a serious problem. Obviously it's very difficult to stop them once they get going, so I have suggested that all pogo sticks are fitted with an anchor, which can be hurled out behind the rider and bring the stick to a sudden stop. However, an anchor is only really any good if it is able to hook onto something fairly hefty, such as a railing, a car or a large dog. If it should fail, the only option available to the pogoer is to abandon the vehicle. This is where my second modification comes in: the pogo stick ejector seat. When activated, this will launch the rider clear of the stick. A parachute will then deploy and the rider can float gently back down to earth, hopefully well away from my greenhouse.

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Could you spare just three doubloons a day to support a helpless pirate? Many pirates find themselves lost and bewildered in today's modern, high-speed world, and can often turn to rum, ginger cake and crown green bowls in order to find the comfort and reassurance that they so desperately need. Buccaneers like Blackbeard have had to survive on the streets, taking food and shelter wherever they can find them. Blackbeard was abandoned by his crew and was left to fend for himself in Manchester city centre after a bit of a brouhaha concerning some mislaid emeralds. Sadly, a life of high adventure, derring-do and swashbuckling have left this cutthroat ill-equipped to deal with life on the streets. Such a hazardous lifestyle can also leave these unfortunate privateers with physical disabilities that make it difficult for them to find work. It's hard to hold down a steady job in the face of so much prejudice when you have a missing arm, a false leg or a wooden eye. One of the saddest cases we have come across was that of Captain Hook, who tragically lost his hand in an industrial crocodile incident and has since been unable to get compensation for the accident. Of course, looking after pirates who have been abused or are down on their luck is just one of our responsibilities. Here at the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Pirates, we also try very hard to educate people in the proper care of these rogues, in the hope that we can prevent such maltreatment. For instance, many people take pirates home for Christmas or give them as birthday presents, but turn them out later when it becomes apparent that they are unable to look after them. That's exactly what happened to Henry Morgan. He was adopted by a 241

nice family from Essex, and lived with them quite happily for a while. But then things started to get out of hand. People fail to realise that pirates are vicious and devious villains, and if they don't get enough exercise or booty they can become restless. Henry Morgan started scratching at the furniture and relieving himself in the hallway, and when it became apparent that he wasn't getting the attention he craved, he started waylaying callers to the house and robbing them of their valuables. It was when he made the cleaning lady walk the plank from the upstairs bedroom window that the family really started to take notice. However, try as they might, they couldn't keep Henry Morgan under control, and he eventually went too far. One morning he fired a broadside at the milkman's float, then boarded the stricken vehicle and made off with all the gold top. It was then that the family realised he would have to go. Henry Morgan and others like him are now in our care until we can find a suitable home for him - and it is your donations that make our work possible. Thanks to the money so far raised, we have been able to nurse many abused and neglected pirates back to full health, and place them with families who are able to love them and care for them properly. We are grateful for your generosity, but in order to continue our work, we need you to keep on giving. So if you'd like the make a donation, and you have any gold, silver or precious gems lying about, send the map of where it's buried to: The Admiral Benbow 42 Pretty Polly Street Pugwash Gwent

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Sir Barnaby Tonk Shines a Light

Most people don't give them a second thought, and possibly quite rightly so. But the next time you're driving home of an evening, take a look up at those mighty trunks that sprout at each side of the road, with their sodium flowers burning brightly, spreading warm bands of sickly yellow light over the nocturnal tarmac. Ask yourself, where did they come from? Forged in the smoky steel mills of some soot-stained Midlands town? You'd be forgiven for thinking so, but the truth is somewhat different, for every lamppost that lines our highways and byways is grown from seed. And were it not for the recklessness and scandal that propelled Sir Barnaby Tonk halfway around the globe almost a hundred and fifty years ago, we would not be basking in the light of these magnificent specimens today. Stories of the great 'light poles' of South America were circulating long before their full potential was realised. Adventurers and explorers in the New World often returned with tales of the continent's extraordinary flora and fauna, and such accounts were usually taken with the pinch of salt that many of them no doubt deserved. It would take a man of extraordinary vision and stupefying credulity - not to mention criminal wealth - to recognise the true worth of such wonders of nature. That gentleman turned out to be Sir Barnaby Tonk, later Lord Tonk of Huddersfield. Sir Barnaby, a man of considerable means, was the very epitome of the idle rich. He was a rather restless fellow, and though he pursued many interests during his lifetime, none lasted more than two or three weeks. He was, on various occasions, an astronomer, a poet, swordsman, billiard player, alchemist, artist or whatever else happened to take his fancy at the time. He dabbled restlessly, latching onto some endeavour on a whim, reading all he could read, soliciting the opinions of experts 243

and artisans, kitting himself out with the requisite equipment and then suddenly dropping the whole idea in favour of the next mad fad to catch his attention. Suddenly Sir Barnaby would be all of a dither about cricket. He'd mark out a pitch in his ample grounds, buy himself all the gear, the whites, the bat, form his own team and then... Flop. Next morning he would wake up firmly of the opinion that cricket was an absolute bore, and would set out to pursue the noble craft of pottery instead. One subject that, oddly enough, failed to grab Sir Barnaby's attention was botany. Oh certainly, Sir Barnaby appreciated Mother Nature and all her works, but there was only one particular aspect of her handicraft that really interested him. Indeed, it was the one single pursuit that he followed unwaveringly throughout his lifetime. You see, Sir Barnaby had something of an eye for the ladies. In fact, the enthusiasm with which he invested his appreciation of the female form was such that, by today's standards, it might almost be considered an addiction. An addiction, what's more, which he indulged with such dedication and assiduity as would make your nose bleed. Oh yes, Sir Barnaby may have spent many of his years as a bachelor, but rarely did he forgo the pleasures of female companionship. Since he had been a mere slip of a lad, he had always known that his staggering quantities of cash were a natural aphrodisiac and he had wasted no time in investing his considerable fortune in the pleasures of the flesh. And, let me tell you, he could buy a hell of a lot of flesh. Inevitably, Sir Barnaby's unshakeable determination to 'put it about like something not right' created its own particular difficulties. This was, after all, Sir Barnaby Tonk. Everyone knew Sir Barnaby Tonk and wherever he went in the parish he was recognised. Furthermore, his movements were regularly reported in the local broadsheets and his name was dropped with something approaching wild abandon within polite society. A couple of minor scandals in his youth had already been the cause for much gossip, and it would take only the merest suggestion of impropriety for his past indiscretions to resurface and embarrass him. After all, the Tonks had a reputation to uphold. And whilst concern for the good name of the family did not convince Sir Barnaby to desist in his debauchery, it did at least teach him to be more circumspect. Disguise - that was the answer! By passing himself off as a stranger, he could indulge in all manner of wantonness with 244

impunity. And, as luck would have it, Sir Barnaby already had the means to affect such a subterfuge. Some years previously, he had indulged a fleeting passion for amateur theatricals. Indeed, he had planned a one-man show, and had even got as far as printing up the programmes before he decided that the whole thing was wretched and cancelled the performance at the last moment. Much to the relief of the friends and family who were expected to attend, it should be noted. Nevertheless, he still had all sorts of props and costumes locked away in storage. These, he determined, would now be put to proper use. As might be expected, his initial forays into the world of selfconcealment were not successful. Sir Barnaby had at his disposal a fantastic selection of beards, hats, false noses, eyebrows and so on, and found himself quite unable to resist the temptation to use everything. Concealed by a huge wiry beard, his face distorted by ill-fitting false teeth, and with a lank and greasy wig covering his own naturally lank and greasy hair, he slipped out of the house and made for the local tavern. The exercise was at least a partial success, in that no one there present could possibly have determined his true identity. Sadly, he found that his freakish appearance drew unwarranted attention and derision. More importantly, he completely failed to pull. But practice made perfect, and Sir Barnaby soon learned that less was more. He found that he could disguise himself adequately enough to pass all but the most rigorous of inspections; and, happily, the young ladies who inspected him most rigorously were judicious enough to keep the matter to themselves. Until, that is, a young maid called Sally Cropper contracted that most hideous of afflictions - she fell in love. In her exuberance she became less than discreet, and, inevitably, her father got to hear of her amorous encounters. Now, Mr Cropper was a fair man, a reasonable sort, but he did own a shotgun and he was acutely aware of how persuasive such a weapon could be when it came to difficult negotiations. He demanded that Sir Barnaby do the decent thing and make an honest woman of his daughter. Sir Barnaby, on the other hand, was not fair and reasonable. Furthermore, he did not own a shotgun, since the weapon that he had inherited from his father had been confiscated by the magistrate, after Sir Barnaby had accidentally shot a washer woman in the arse whilst out on a duck hunt. Therefore, short of running 245

away to South America, there was really nothing he could do but marry the girl. The choice was clear, and so the following morning, just as the sun was rising through the frail mists that had settled over the hills in the night, Sir Barnaby packed his bags, caught a stage to Southampton and took the first available boat to Buenos Aires. He disappeared without trace. Then, almost five years to the day of his departure, news reached the civilised world of a strange, hairy wildman, who lived in the deepest, darkest depths of the Amazon jungle, and attacked European travellers on sight. Could this be Sir Barnaby Tonk? No, as it turned out it was just some local nutter - but, coincidentally, Sir Barnaby did reappear at around the same time. He turned up in London, and the intervening years had evidently been kind to him, for he was accompanied by a considerable entourage and could afford to take a suite of rooms at one of the city's plushest hotels. It emerged that whilst he was in the New World, he had quickly spotted the potential of the Amazonian light poles (Lampposts, remember? We spoke about them earlier) and had sold them to governments and city authorities all around the globe. He had now returned to offer the same service to the country of his birth. At last! The streets were alive with light. Nightlife flourished, crime rates halved, and finally people could see just exactly what they were stepping in. And Sir Barnaby? Well, he was hailed as a national hero. More importantly, he was rich enough to have Mr Cropper shot. He returned to his ancestral seat, where he spent the rest of his days learning to play random instruments, making pyramids out of playing cards and screwing various members of the domestic staff. And you thought a lamppost was just a big stick in the ground?

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New Horizons in Business Management Case study #523: Parker Stropp (UK) Ltd

Essential to any successful enterprise are its staff. A company's workforce is its greatest asset, and it can make or break a firm at any level. In this case study we talk to three people who are employed by a leading retail chain, and try to ascertain how they contribute to the health of the business.

The Area Manager

“As the fastest growing retailer of bathroom fittings in the UK, with over 200 stores nationwide and an ongoing programme of expansionalization, it's no wonder that Parker Stropp has become such a dominant name on the high street. And it's no accident that we are so successful. Our secret? Well, we stock a comprehensive range of products, and by keeping a close eye on our operating costs, we can deliver an advantageous price point to the customer. But there's more to it than that. The main reason that we dominate the market is our staff. Each and every member of our customerfacing retail contingent is passionate about bathroom fittings, and is dedicated to providing the best possible service to the consumer. This is achieved by utilising an ongoing training schedule, which is geared towards constantly driving forward individual personalisation target thresholds. To this end, staff elements are encouraged to envisualise workable strategies for furthering attainment goals, and every month they will meet with their line managers on a one-to-one basis to work through a number of preagreed assessment objectives. “It sounds like a lot of effort - and indeed it is - but most of our staff are aware of the necessity of going the extra mile in order to maximise profits and maintain the company's positioning within a 247

highly competitive market. They, in turn, find it a worthwhile and rewarding experience. But it's not all hard work, of course - we are capable of having fun, too. For instance, at this year's managers' conference we staged a cabaret, in which myself and several of my colleagues dressed up as the Spice Girls and mimed to one of their pop records. Photos were printed in the company newsletter, and I'm sure the staff had a good laugh at them. Seeing the senior members of the company in less formal circumstances makes us all feel like part of the same team, and - as long as this sort of thing is done in moderation - it can have a positive impact on morale.”

The Store Manager

“Oh yes, this year's conference was, erm... a bit of a laugh! It was fancy dress in the evening, so I went as a gangster, type of thing and there was also a cabaret. Well, you've never seen anything like it! I'm not being funny, but one of the directors did a magic act and, well, I've seen better tricks at a children's party. Then the chief accountant did this... erm... 'comedy' routine. Well, he told some jokes about some of the head office staff, which were a bit near the knuckle, type of thing, but I think they took it in good humour. But what I'm not going to be able to forget is seeing my area manager dressed up as one of the Spice Girls! I think I'll have nightmares about that for the rest of my life! Only joking. To make matters worse, they put a picture of it in the company newsletter. I don't think he's ever going to live it down! I don't know, I think you've got to be mad to work for this company! “Anyway, it was a welcome chance for us to let our hair down those of us who still have any! Running a busy shop like this can be hard work, and it's good to have a break every now and then. There are very strict guidelines, which have to be observed at all times: forms have to be filled in, and regulations have to be adhered to. There are sales logs, stock forms, staff workbooks, spot checks, security forms, delivery reports, planograms, and so on, and so on and all this is vital to the running of the store, type of thing. I know, from speaking to other managers at the conference, that there are some people who think it's all a bit over the top. Well, I'm not being funny, but you've got to have proper procedures and regulations, or none of us would know what we were doing, type of thing. And the area managers are very keen that all this paperwork is kept up to date. I've had a roasting several times about it. Mind 248

you, next time the area manager gives me a hard time, I'll remind him about how he dressed up as a Spice Girl - that'll take the wind out of his sails! Ah, only joking.”

The Sales Assistant

“So who the hell is this area manager, anyway? And why would I want to see pictures of the twat tarted up in fancy dress? They send this crappy newsletter out every month, and it's full of this shit somebody from head office is doing a sponsored run, somebody else has had a baby, some drippy head of something-or-other has just moved house. Am I supposed to care? I don't know who these people are. I don't want to know who these people are chances are they're a bunch of wankers anyway. Every one of 'em just a bunch of smug, self-important little tin gods who eat, sleep and breathe this company because there's fuck all else in their sad little lives to occupy them. “Perhaps - and this is just a suggestion now - but perhaps, if they spent more time doing the jobs they're meant to be doing instead of dicking about then maybe, just maybe, this company wouldn't be the fucking joke that it is. Yeah, sure they've got over two hundred shops, but they're all in back streets and forgotten little shopping arcades. We're constantly promoting stock we haven't got, because the frigging buyers haven't got a clue what they're doing. The equipment doesn't work, the building's a death trap, the manager's a bleeding retard, the senior management are on the take and the company's so up to its neck in debt that it can't afford to fully staff the place. “Am I motivated? Am I proud to work for this dynamic, flourishing company? Am I really 'passionate about bathroom fittings'? Am I bollocks! They pay me minimum wage, want me to do three people's jobs and expect me to work overtime for nothing. And for this I'm supposed to be grateful. Well, they've got a shock on the way, because come April I'm going to work for the council and these people can shove their job up their chocolate fundament.”

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The

Feeling giddy? Confused? Don't know whether you're coming or going? The chances are that your ears are out of whack. Proper doctors now know that irregular, misplaced and maladjusted ear alignment can cause delirium, panic attacks and seepage. And if left untreated, it can ultimately lead to permanent, irreversible mentalism. You don't want to be a mental, do you? Of course not. Well, now the Montreux Clinic for Aural Readjustment can help. Here, look at this:

See? Fortunately, Senior Consultant Roberto El Armitagio has developed a simple, effective and relatively safe method of ear balancing which can seriously improve your chances of staying on the right side of gaga. Using a combination of lead weights, pulleys and elastic webbing, his method can have your wonky flappers fixed up in no time*. *approximately six to eight weeks, depending on the initial degree of displacement.

So don't be too late, it's foolish to wait, get your head straight at the

Caution: Treatment may render patient profoundly deaf.

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Mozart’s Parrot

Kurt Smurf, a naturalist working for the zoological gardens in Dresden has discovered that its small collection of red-bellied parrots is capable of squawking many of Mozart's most famous compositions. “Oh yes, most definitely,” Kurt told us. “Hello there. I am walking past the cages here not so very long ago, and am hearing all of a sudden an extract from Mozart's Symphony in G, No 12. As clear as if it was bells. Could I say hello to my mother in Munich?” Since then, Kurt has spent a great deal of time studying the parrots, making careful note of the tunes they have been performing. “Oh boy,” he told us. “There's no mistaking it. So far I am hearing them perform twelve major symphonies, two piano concertos and last Tuesday I am also catching a brief snatch of his Rondo in F. It is very strange. Anyhow, it has been my mother's birthday this week, and I am forgetting her card. So happy birthday mother, yes.” Intrigued by this, Kurt delved deeper into the mystery and discovered that the parrots are descended from a pair that was presented to the zoo by Mozart himself in 1791. Kurt has an interesting theory about this. “I am sitting down and I am thinking, and I am wondering what all this can be. And then, bang! It hits me. I am thinking that Mozart must be using his parrots as some kind of recording device, yes? Why else would he want to keep parrots? He must have used the parrots to memorise the tunes as he was writing them, in the same way that someone like George Michael or David Hasselhoff will use a cassette recorder when they suddenly have an idea for a great pop song. The tunes are passed down from one generation of parrots to the next, and Bob is your uncle!” It's an interesting idea, and one that may have extraordinary possibilities. Kurt has been unable to identify one of the 251

compositions that the parrots regularly perform and believes it to be a previously unknown work by the late composer. He is currently working hard to orchestrate the piece and hopes to persuade the Berlin Philharmonic to perform it for the first time at a special concert this summer. “It should be a really special event,” he enthuses, then adds thoughtfully. “Of course, I could be wrong. I could have just spent all this time listening to a lot of parrots squawking. Still, hey ho... See you at Christmas mother!”

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POLISHERS The arrest last week of French polisher, Mr Simon C. Horn, for interfering with a client's coffee table is just the latest in a series of high profile scandals that have rocked the industry. Said Mr Horn, "I don't know what came over me, I just couldn't help myself. There was something about the heady aroma of the polish and the dusty atmosphere of the shop that that I found simply intoxicating. The sight of Mrs Waverley's table just sitting there, waiting for me... the lustrous sheen of the veneer, the shapely curve of its legs... I just had to have it!"

MONSTERS A recent report released by the Home Office reveals a dramatic increase in the number of people being attacked by monsters. In the first quarter of this year police stations across the UK received over 400 reports from members of the public who had been set upon by giant slavering beasties. That's 120 more than in the same period last year. What's more, it seems that the monsters themselves are becoming more fearsome, on average being two feet taller, with much sharper teeth, shaggier fur and even more bloodshot eyes. Add to this the recent high profile outbreak of Trolls in the South East, plus an ongoing epidemic of Werewolves in Lancashire, and it becomes obvious that there is now a real cause for concern. In fact, experts predict that by the year 2010 the UK will be a 60% scarier place in which to live.

A police spokesman reminded the public that whilst this was just an isolated incident, people would be wise to take precautions when trusting their furniture to the care of strangers. "There's a lot of sick bastards out there," he said. "So try not to let your wardrobe go out unattended, and, if possible, ensure your sideboard is back indoors before 10pm." He latter added, strictly off the record, that he thought Mrs Waverley's coffee table was probably asking for it. 253

Barney’s Magic Number Show This week children’s editor Belinda Sommers reviews Barney's Magic Number Show, currently running at the Haymarket in Leicester

Ha! Well, as far as I’m concerned, Barney's Magic Number Show was a dead loss. Call that art? Call it drama? Call it family entertainment, 'cos I bleeding don't. Quite honestly, if this is what passes for cutting edge quality entertainment these days, then my pants might as well be doing a six-week run in the West End. It makes me sick to the stomach to think that I paid good money to watch a bunch of uninspired, talentless pillocks dressed in stupid costumes, leaping and dancing and poncing about, and singing ridiculous little ditties about how everybody should be nice to each other, and generally behaving like a bunch of retards. I wasn't asking for much, but these people didn't seem to understand the first thing about modern theatre. Where was the intrigue? Where was the sparkling dialogue? Where was the conflict, the drama, the eternal struggle to rise above the odds and snatch victory from the jaws of defeat? Where, in point of fact, was the plot? The story, what there was of it, seemed to revolve around the efforts of a purple dinosaur to learn elementary arithmetic - not the most thrilling of scenarios, I'm sure you'll agree, and I doubt whether any of the major studios will be beating a path to their door to snatch up the film rights. The damn thing wasn't even realistic. I'm no palaeontologist, but I'm pretty sure that your actual real dinosaurs weren't bright purple, were not overly concerned with becoming competent in basic numeracy, and were not in the habit of donning a top hat and tails and performing a soft-shoe shuffle. The last time I saw a dinosaur less convincing than this effort, Doug McClure was attacking it with a stick. Actually, a bit of violence would have spiced it up no end. About halfway through the first act it looked as though things were 254

about to kick off, as the stage suddenly filled with children who began to dance rings around the purple dinosaur. Hello, I thought to myself, sitting up in my seat, this is going to be a blood bath. But no, I'm afraid not. The kids all sat cross-legged on the floor and the dinosaur told them a story about numbers, or something. No blood. No guts. No dismembered torsos or entrails flying across the auditorium. All that died were my hopes for an end to this dreary nonsense, and I became resigned to the fact that the rest of this show was going to be about as sexy as a bucket of sick. I think it was at this point that I decided I'd rather have my tits jammed repeatedly in a filing cabinet than have to sit through the rest of this sober, and so I slunk back down in my seat and retreated to comforting warmth of the bottle of scotch that I had thoughtfully concealed in my handbag before the performance. And then, at last, came the interval. Best bit of the whole show in my opinion. Disappointingly, the bar was shut but I wasn't too bothered, since I was already sorted, so I went out the back for a ciggie and watched two dogs shagging by the stage door. Damn sight more entertaining than all those tossers jigging about on stage. Anyway, on with the second half. Actually, by this point I had mellowed slightly. Maybe it was the drink, I don't know, but I started to feel warm and fuzzy. Okay, so the show was diabolical, but at least they were trying, and so I felt compelled to offer some constructive criticism of my own. Following a song and dance routine about what happens when you add the number seven to the number two, I stood up and shouted stuff like, 'You’re shit, get off!' and 'Hey big nose, go and slash your wrists, you worthless prick!' I was only trying to be helpful, but they didn’t want to know, did they? These two security blokes came up and told me that I had to leave. They said I’d upset some of the kids, or something. Some of them were crying and blubbing - you know, the way that kids do. I explained that if these kids were indeed crying then it was because of this bloody awful show, and nothing to do with me. The two apes were not inclined to follow my reasoning, and started to manhandle me away, implying that I was drunk. Well, I took great offence at that. I shook myself free, stood my ground and explained very slowly and carefully that I was not drunk, that I was perfectly capable of holding my liquor and that they should both fuck off and leave me alone. 255

I think it was at that point that I was sick. I think, if I remember correctly, it was quite a gusher as well - which can't have really helped my case. I recall a bit of a kerfuffle, a lot of shouting and someone falling over and getting covered in vomit. Actually, that may have been me. They started to bundle me towards the exit, which can't have been easy because I was quite slippery by then. Also, I'm sure I made it perfectly clear that I wasn't going to go without a fight. I certainly gave one of those baboons a black eye, and I'm reasonably confident that I got the other one in the knackers. Not that it did me much good, however, and I was soon hurled out into the street. I couldn't even get my money back. So anyway, that was Barney's Magic Number Show. Crap. Take my advice, stay at home and rent a DVD instead. Next month Belinda reviews Cinderella On Ice at the Birmingham Hippodrome.

256

Professor Jez Moonbeam Invents…

Professor Jez Moonbeam, whose standing within the scientific community is every bit as impressive as his catalogue of successes, turn his attention – inevitably – to sheep No 7: Headlights For Sheep What with modern farming methods being the way they are, and the lack of sufficient subsidies, and the increasingly restrictive nature of legislation, and the emergence of new, deadlier strains of killer weevils, and... Well, basically, many farmers are finding it more and more difficult to make ends meet. In the last few years, landowners have found it necessary to resort to some extremely bizarre tactics in order to remain solvent. It is now common practice for many arable farmers to play relaxation tapes to their crops to encourage them to grow faster and stronger. And it has been discovered that reading a selection of popular children's stories to cows just before they go to bed has a profound effect on their milk yield. (They especially like Roald Dahl, but can't be doing with that Harry Potter nonsense. Apparently.) Some farmers even run special 'fit camps' for potatoes, in which spuds are put through a vigorous and gruelling exercise programme, thus making for more athletic chips and healthier waffles. However, the one initiative that has had the most measurable effect on the profitability of modern farming is the introduction of twenty-four hour grazing for sheep. The sheep work a three-shift system, spending eight hours out in the fields, with their remaining time divided between sleeping, reading car maintenance magazines and playing pool. Whilst this is undoubtedly a very efficient system, it leads to problems for sheep on the night shift: namely, that it is impractical to use floodlights, because they traditionally roam over a wide area, and so they are forced to graze in the dark. This has resulted in a number of collisions in which promising young sheep have been damaged and, in some cases, written off completely. This is why DEFRA, working closely with the farmers' union, has been desperately seeking a solution to the problem. So 257

desperately, in fact, that they approached me to see if I had any ideas. It seemed to me that the answer was quite simple: fit the sheep with headlights. The practicalities, however, would present a few problems. I was supplied with a young merino male called Steven, on whom I was authorised to carry out my experiments. I began very simply by mounting a pair of headlights from a 1972 Vauxhall Victor on his shoulders, connected to a 12-volt battery slung beneath his midriff. However, Steven said that this was uncomfortable, and the straps holding the battery caused some unpleasant chaffing, so it was back to the drawing board. Instead of the car headlights, I went for a miner's helmet, and placed the battery in a small cart, which Steven would pull behind him. Despite my faith in this set up, initial field tests proved unsatisfactory - the helmet constantly slipped down over Steven's eyes, and the cart became snagged on every little pothole and furrow, seriously impeding Steven's progress across the field. It was a serious setback. Over dinner, Steven and I discussed our various options, and together we decided that a different approach was needed. It was Steven that suggested we use the motive power of the sheep itself to power the light, and so the next morning I rigged up a simple dynamo, attached to Steven's rear, offside leg. This powered a single headlight, fitted via a cranial implant to Steven's skull. It was a resounding success, and we went into full-scale production immediately. Steven has since stayed with me, and is currently assisting me with a number of other exciting projects. I must say, we work together extremely well - although I have detected some jealously from my existing assistant, Lazlo Windchime-Monkeybush, who seems to rather resent his presence. Nevertheless, we have made excellent progress, including an adaptation of our Sheep Headlight System, which now includes an arsemounted searchlight to scare away owls.

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Traditional Wisdom

Hello there, my name's Waterfall Pixiedust III, and I'm the Emeritus Professor of New Age studies at Lowestoft University. Personally I detest such labels, as they are merely the means by which modern society seeks to shoehorn individuals into its repressive and highly arbitrary system of classification. But , that said, I am undoubtedly a professor; my students all call me professor; I have a certificate hanging on my office wall, clearly stating that I am a professor; and I usually find that I can more easily get a table in a restaurant by refusing to allow the staff to entertain any doubt over the question of whether I am, or am not, indeed, a professor. So please, while I know that I may appear to be more laid back than your average academic, don't let that fact deter you from affording me due respect, or addressing me as 'sir'. Now then, during the past few years you may have noticed that there has been a resurgence of interest in what has been called 'traditional wisdom'. I'm talking about those familiar old proverbs, sayings and beliefs that we are accustomed to reciting parrotfashion during the course of a conversation. You know the sort of thing: a stitch in time saves nine, never wake a sleepwalker, or it's bad luck to smash a mirror with a black cat on Friday 13th. More often than not, we don't really believe what we're saying. Usually we're just talking to someone incredibly dull and have to resort to aphorisms because we can't be bothered to make the effort of carrying on a real conversation. Now, new research carried out recently by my team has questioned whether these superstitions contain any element of truth. In undertaking to examine what had hitherto been matters of rumour and superstition, I first had to devise scientific methods of collecting the raw data. How, then, does one go about investigating old wives' tales? The answer seemed obvious - by investigating old 259

wives. To this end, members of my team were requested to bring their old wives to work so that I could study them under laboratory conditions. We began by sterilising them, labelling them, and then injecting them with a special dye, which would show up under ultra violet light. We also performed the same procedure on the man from the newsagent's round the corner, in order that we might use him as a control. Then it was time for the serious questioning to begin. We wanted to know the answers to some fundamental questions regarding key elements of traditional wisdom. For example: is it really bad luck to walk under ladders? Does shaking hands with a chimney sweep bring good fortune? If you shook hands with a sweep underneath a ladder, would they cancel each other out? And when cows lie down in the pasture, does it mean it's going to rain or are the cows just knackered after a long day spent milling around aimlessly and eating grass? I have to be honest and admit that the results of this initial research were not promising. Many of the old wives became disorientated and confused, and were unable to satisfactorily answer our questions. Some even became tearful and abusive, and one in particular - Mrs Edna Primrose of Norwich - had to be physically restrained after making threatening motions at us with the business end of a fractional distillation tube. It was most depressing. We had learnt nothing from our test subjects, although the man from the newsagents was most co-operative, and informed us that he was currently running a 'two for the price of one' promotion on chocolate digestives. Nevertheless, we were forced to conclude that the experiment had been a failure, so after having all our old wives humanely destroyed, we moved on to investigate another avenue of research. Perhaps, we considered, we had made a mistake in confining our investigations to the laboratory. This was confirmed when I learned that my researchers out in the field had been having considerably more success. They had been charged with evaluating the basis for the familiar country saying 'red sky at night, shepherd's delight'. To this end, they had visited over a hundred and fifty farms in the area to investigate what the shepherds were so bloody happy about. What they concluded was that most agricultural workers were basically simple folk who were fairly easy to please. In fact, they even came back with a couple of lesser-known sayings to add to the 260

project's database: grey sky in the evening, pig herders beaming, and blue sky in the morning, dairy farmers over the bleeding moon. Fascinating though this information was, what was still lacking was hard experimental evidence and so we decided to stop pissing about, return to the laboratory and put in a solid afternoon's work. Our first task was to determine whether a bird in the hand is indeed worth two in the bush. We therefore obtained a number of birds some handheld, some bush-ridden - and tried to float them on the stock exchange. The reaction of investors was disappointing all round and no clear trend emerged. Undaunted, we doggedly pressed on. Eager to answer the question of whether time really does fly when you're having fun and mindful that we needed to make significant progress with regard to using up the department's budget - we all jetted off for a week in Disneyland. Although time did seem to pass more quickly for my team and I, the sensitive atomic chronograph that accompanied us recorded no change - even after we had taken it on several of the more sedate rides. Clearly, our stopwatch was not having as much fun as the rest of us, but plans for a return jaunt with more exuberant equipment were scuppered when university chiefs started to get unnecessarily obstructive over our expense claims. With this line of inquiry closed, the final phase of the investigation concentrated on the idea that if you feel your ears burning, it means that someone is talking about you. Volunteers mostly old wives - were asked sit in the laboratory with their ears attached to an array of highly sensitive measuring equipment. This equipment was designed to record not just the amount of heat produced but also abnormal swelling and changes in the conductivity of the skin. We then adjourned to another room at the opposite end of the building and talked about the subjects in an abusive and derogatory fashion. This kind of conversation flowed quite freely - we were still pretty pissed off about having the return trip to Disneyland cancelled, so tempers were running high. Following these experiments, we looked at whether the same process might work in reverse. To test this hypothesis we exposed our subjects' ears to blowtorches, hairdryers and crimping irons to see if people in an adjoining room would start talking about them. They didn't - at least, not in any statistically significant way. After testing over five hundred volunteers and disfiguring half of them, 261

we had to concede that the results were at best inconclusive, and at worst excruciatingly painful. After two years of intensive research, expensive holidays and well-publicised court cases, the project eventually came to a disappointing end. And our conclusions? Well, it seems fairly obvious that the term 'traditional wisdom' is something of a misnomer. It's nothing more than a crock of primitive, simpleminded mumbo-jumbo, and the wisest thing to do, in my not inconsiderable estimation, would be to disregard the lot of it. Take if from me, if there's a red sky at night, it's probably just pollutants from the nearest chemical plant. A bird in the hand is actually worth sod all and the only way you're going to recoup your investment is to put it in a pie. And, to be honest, if you're ears are burning it's highly unlikely that anyone is talking about you, and more probable that your head is on fire.

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Grand Theft Equine

Spiralling fuel costs and environmental concerns have led to a resurgence of the horse-drawn horse in many towns and cities. Formerly the playthings of the aspiring middle-classes, who dress them up in bows at weekends and ponce around at gymkhanas, the horse is once again becoming a common sight on our roads. They are cheaper to run than cars, being fed mostly on a diet of leftovers, the occasional sugar lump and their own dung. Four legs one at each corner for stability - means they have a considerable speed advantage over ducks. And since science has consistently failed to deliver the flying cars and personal jetpacks they've been promising since the fifties, it looks like the horse will set the standard for transport in the future. But gone is the traditional image of the mangy, fly-blown creature of yesteryear. Today's horses are sleeker, faster and more aerodynamic than their ancestors. There are already a number of colours and models available, from the compact and nippy pony, to the more spacious stallion, which is ideal for larger families. And most of them come with driver's airbag and CD player fitted as standard. However, the increasing desirability of the horse has presented a new target for teenage joyriders, and horse theft is now a serious problem in many inner city areas. Sometimes they are stolen to order, in which case it is the larger, deluxe animals that are at risk. But opportunists will target the cheaper models - horses that are easily broken into, left unlocked or gullible enough to be led away on the promise of a carrot. One young offender explained to us why he does it. “It's the crack, innit mate. Horses is dark. You wanna look cool, you and the rude boys gotta jack a pony, and tear up the hood before the Babylon come knocking on your gates.” 263

We didn't have a fucking clue what he was talking about, so we asked Sergeant Wilbur Modulator of Manchester Police why young kids found horses so attractive. “I think it's their sleek, muscular shoulders, their musky smell and their large yet surprisingly pert bottoms. Well, that's why I like them.” Thinking of buying a secondFearing that Sergeant hand horse? Modulator had misunderstood, Beware! Shady dealers will often we tried to clarify our question employ a number of underhand tricks by asking him why young kids to get you to part with good money for an absolute donkey. Here are five found stealing horses so pointers to help you spot the con attractive. men. “Well, for much the same reasons, really,” he explained. 1. Is the horse a uniform colour? Horses that are piebald should be avoided. “And also I think it's their way Even a slightly different coloured ear of rebelling against the could be a sign of a re-spray, which might be hiding serious flaw s in the establishment. Most of these bodyw ork. kids come from deprived 2. Does the animal have a full service homes. Some of them, for record? A complete history of any repairs carried out on the horse is instance, don't even have essential to ensure you are getting a top colour TV or an Atari VCS. So class animal. You don't w ant to get when they see a nice new lumbered w ith an animal that needs its knees replacing every five hundred horsey sitting in someone's miles. drive, they feel angry and 3. How are its teeth? The teeth are a confused.” useful tool in determining the age of the horse. Often, unscrupulous dealers will And so they steal it. replace the teeth w ith new er dentures “And so they steal it,” and pass the animal off as a younger model. Look out for loose or badly fitting Sergeant Modulator confirms. teeth, as this could be a sign that the “As any normal, decent human horse has been tampered w ith. A permanent, fixed grin is nearly alw ays a being would in those bad sign. circumstances. I feel really 4. Make sure that the registration sorry for these kids, although I number matches the number etched do recognise that they are behind the left ear. This is such a simple test, but many people neglect to check. causing a problem. They will 5. Finally, look carefully for any weld take a horse and tear round the marks on the underside of the horse. A streets doing handbrake turns common practice is to take tw o horses that have been w ritten off in accidents, and wheelies, causing cut aw ay the damaged sections and considerable concern to the w eld the tw o good halves together - a so called 'cut and shut'. residents. A lot of the time we are able to recover the animal, 264

although more often than not we find it in a sorry state. Sometimes it's just the saddle that has been slashed. On other occasions we may find it up on bricks with its hooves missing, or in extreme cases it may be just a burnt out skeleton at the side of the road. The trouble is, we simply don't have the resources or the manpower to stop it.” The police may be unable to do anything about the problem, but the good news is that there is something you can do. Leicester-based company Secure-O-Horse is offering a number of security options to prevent your precious nag from falling victim to horse thieves. Currently on offer are a range of alarms, rein-locks and tracking devices - and the company hopes to have a set of fetlock clamps on the market in time for Christmas.

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PERFECT CIRCLE Dr Gaseous Ballcock of the Huddersfield Academy of Performing Seals claims to have developed what he calls the world's first 'perfect circle', in which the ratio of the radius to the circumference can be expressed as a whole number. “This does away with all that nasty 'pi' business, which I could never really get a handle on anyway,” Dr Ballcock explains. Dr Ballcock kicked off his career in experimental geometry with an ambitious attempt to flatten triangles to make them more userfriendly, an endeavour in which he failed spectacularly. Undeterred, he later enjoyed some success with a project to round off hexagons, and was a valuable member of the international team put together to stretch dodecahedrons. His new work on circles will have profound repercussions in a number of important areas, most notably engineering, rocketry and plumbing. But Dr Ballcock himself is far more excited about a quite different application. “It's going to completely change the way we look at

doughnuts,” he told us animatedly. “They're going to be bigger, fatter and have more jam in them. Personally, I can't wait.” RUNGS Bad news for Mr Dom Everly this week, as his previously thriving window cleaning business, Lord of the Rungs, goes into liquidation. Mr Everly blames the failure of the firm on a number of factors, but chief amongst them was his inability to recover the 'One Squeegee' the mystical window wiper that would have given him dominion over the bustling market town of Ilkeston where he formerly plied his trade. Apparently, Mr Everly's fortunes took a downturn when the One Squeegee was stolen from him by a rival company, who then destroyed it by casting it into the fiery bucket of Mordor, just outside Nottingham. This left the company unable to fulfil many of its commitments, and trade became so bad that it eventually had to fold. That, at least, is Dom Everly's version of events, but it has to be said that, at the time of writing, his many creditors remain largely unsympathetic. 266

An Appeal on Behalf of the Henderson Foundation for Recently Bereaved Herrings

Billy is a herring. Last year his wife of ten years was tragically killed when she was hit by a lager can thrown from a cross Channel ferry, two miles from Dover. As you'd expect, Billy was devastated by the loss and underwent many months of depression. However, thanks to your donations, Billy was able to turn to us - The Henderson Foundation for Recently Bereaved Herrings. Our foundation has proved to be a great comfort to herrings like Billy, by providing special drop-in centres and organising encounter groups where the bereaved can meet other herrings in the same situation, and learn to cope with their grief together. Billy is a happier and more optimistic herring than he was twelve months ago. “Yes, I found the encounter groups very helpful. It enabled me to get my problems off my chest by having a good laugh at other people's tragedy. Another way in which the foundation helped is by encouraging me to take part in the various activities which it organises - trips to famous shipwrecks, underwater pot making, underwater basketball and a lot of other underwater stuff. Before this I was content to skulk around under a rock all day going 'glub glub' and, all in all, behaving rather like a fish. I suppose I felt like giving up. I even experimented with drugs, though I didn't inject as it's rather difficult to fill a syringe underwater. Then I found out about the Foundation and it gave me a new lease of life. I joined the Bristol Channel Underwater Snooker Team, and although today I still feel like giving up, at least I can knock different coloured balls down holes in a table covered in green fur.” 267

Another herring who came to us is Malcolm. Malcolm was left an orphan after his parents were cut up and used for a project by two Marine Biology students in Liverpool. Malcolm takes up the story: “What I found most useful was the counselling I received when I first joined the foundation. They have specialists who are very experienced in dealing with cases like mine. Over a number of sessions they helped me put my grief into perspective. They pointed out that my parents died to promote learning. My first response was cynical and I remember suggesting that the students had probably only done it for a joke, but eventually I was able to derive solace from the notion that the death of my parents had, in some small way, advanced the frontiers of scientific knowledge. I have written to the two students recently, hoping it might provide some sense of closure. One was a building site labourer until he was arrested last week for talking to a brick. The other is a Conservative Member of Parliament, who wrote back to tell me that they had cut up my mother and father for a joke.” Through our continued efforts we hope to help more herrings like Billy and Malcolm. Your generosity is greatly appreciated, and this weekend we will be fundraising in a city centre near you. So, if you're out doing your shopping and you see someone dressed like a fish, do us a favour and bung him a couple of quid.

268

Lobster Facts

With Derek the Fact Crab

Derek the Fact Crab lives on the beach, one beady eye trained on the land, and one beady eye trained on the water. Derek is a happy crab, and sees many things. He knows about all the creatures that crawl upon the shore, that burrow in the sand and live amongst the dunes. He knows about the things that swim beneath the waves, that hide beyond the reef and stroll along the ocean bed. He even knows about the things that wheel about the sky, that flit from tree to tree and glide upon the breeze. And he knows about lobsters. To be precise, he knows three things about lobsters, for they are his kith and kin. And so we went to see Derek the Fact Crab and plied him with expensive wines, and splendid cigars, and cheese and onion crisps, in the hope that he might divulge this information. And Derek was more than happy to oblige. Here are Derek the Fact Crab's Lobster Facts: Lobster Fact 1: Contrary to popular belief, Lobsters cannot squeal as they have no vocal chords. In order to communicate they employ a system of Morse code, which they generate by rhythmically clacking their claws. Lobster Fact 2: A lobster's shell is made out of a unique alloy of titanium and lead, and is resistant to most forms of attack, up to and including a thermonuclear strike. Scientists believe that it evolved this extraordinary ability at the end of the cretaceous period, when it was preyed upon by dinosaurs armed with depleted uranium rocket grenades. 269

Lobster Fact 3: Lobsters can travel at speeds in excess of 150 mph, thanks to rocket propelled jet skis that can be lowered from discretely placed flaps along the undersides of their bodies. This makes them v ery difficult to catch, as they can outrun most things and present a difficult target for even the most experienced marksman. In fact, the only way you're likely to lay your hands on one is to creep up on it from behind when it stops to refuel. It won't hear you, because the constant roar of its rocket engines will have rendered it deaf. And it won't be able to see you, because its thick armour plating means it's unable to twist around and look over its shoulder. Disclaimer: Derek, of course, does not know everything. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no! And whilst we take every precaution to avoid presenting erroneous data, there remains the slim possibility that some of these carefully researched and independently verified lobster facts may be bollocks. We must therefore point out that we here at The University of the Bleeding Obvious cannot be held responsible for any accidents, misadventures, legal actions or social faux pas resulting from information gleaned from this item. Hey, you start hanging around with lobsters and, quite frankly, you deserve everything you get, you sick bastard. Thank you.

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A Day in the Life Dr Adolphous Bongo gives us a rare glimpse into his daily routine It has been suggested that I share with you a typical day in the life of a top medical professional. Personally, I don't see that it's any of your business, but my agent seems to think that it's a good idea, so here goes. My day usually begins quite early with a brisk five mile jog. Not for me, you understand - for my chauffeur who has to sprint from his filthy council estate to come and take me to work. Not that he minds all that much. He seems to think that the exercise is good for him, and I've done nothing to discourage him in this belief. Of course, as a medical man I know only too well that this sort of nonsense can be fatal - being the major cause of heart attacks, embolisms, brain haemorrhages and rabies. Still, chauffeurs are fairly easy to come by at the moment, so I'm not too bothered. Anyhow, this chap arrives at my house totally shagged out at around 9.30am. There's just time for him to get the Bentley out of the garage, clean it, valet it and change the oil before we have to be off. He's an amiable sort of fellow, and he's usually bursting at the seams with cheery gossip and congenial conversation. It really is quite irritating, especially at that time in a morning, and so I usually scream at him to shut up and threaten him with the sack before it gets too stressful. Of course, in my line of business, stress can be a killer. Quite literally. As a doctor I frequently have the lives of my patients in hands, and if I'm anxious or irritable it can be so easy to accidentally inject them with bleach or sever a windpipe. I know of many a promising young GP who has had their career tragically cut short by knifing someone in a moment of forgetfulness or fatigue. That's why it's vitally important to learn how to unwind, and so before I go to the surgery I spend an hour or so at my local fitness club, where I sit in the lounge and watch ladies bottoms wobbling as they use the running machines. Sometimes I'm joined by Fatty Robinson, an old friend whom I 271

first met at medical school. He's a very successful radiologist now. Or a proctologist. Or something like that. I must admit, I've never been too sure what all these different 'ologists' do. As a doctor people often expect me to know about all that stuff, but in my experience the nurses are usually clued up enough about that sort of thing for me not to have to bother with it. Anyway, whatever Fatty's particular line is, he is seriously loaded and well respected enough for us to excuse our ogling by claiming that it's all in the line of medical research. And such is our dedication that we both feel absolutely exhausted by the time we leave. In order to recoup my energies, I usually like to spend an hour or two by myself. It's important to have time in the day that you can call your own. Sometimes I go and sit in the park, or take a stroll along the river. And sometimes I go into the supermarket and squat in the pick 'n' mix with a Fun Size Mars Bar up my nose. However the presence of ordinary people is something I find intensely irritating and after a while I start lashing out, so around about midday my chauffeur is usually called to come and pick me up from the police station. For lunch I will join Fatty Robinson in the most expensive restaurant we can find, and we will converse loudly on the subject of our earnings for the benefit of the other diners. If there's time I will order something to eat, but more often than not my schedule simply won't allow it and I am whisked away to fulfil an obligation. Sometimes I am asked to open some wretched hospice, or attend a book signing, or appear on some dreary TV programme. There are times when I yearn for the old days, when being a doctor meant you just got on with your job of curing people, instead of pursuing the lifestyle of a media celebrity. At times like these I become quite depressed, but one look at my bank statement soon lifts my mood and in no time I'm ready for a spot of golf. I love golf. It's the atmosphere of the club that I find so invigorating. There's something quite intoxicating about the smell of so many rich and influential people gathered together in one place. There's a feeling that you get when you first roll into the car park; a kind of tingle that shimmies down your spine when you see all those Mercs and Porsches and Daimlers. It's the reassurance of knowing that the only plebs you're going to run into will be filling up your glass or cleaning up the vomit. I like it best when it's raining, as then there's very little incentive to actually leave the 272

clubhouse and play a round. It's usually quite late in the day by the time I leave. If possible, I like to call in at the surgery, just to check up on how things are going. I know that many of the patients find it quite uplifting to see me stride through the packed waiting room, picking my way carefully over their slumped and broken forms, with a cheery 'Hallo' and a comforting smile. Sometimes, if I'm in the mood, I'll even agree to see one or two of them. This is really what my profession is all about - sitting there, patiently listening as they tell me about their ailments. The coughing, the choking, the bleeding, the swollen glands, the distended abdomens, the broken limbs, the fevers, the burning throats, the headaches, the nausea, the cramps, the fits, the suppurating ulcers and the infected wounds. I find that if I tell them it's a virus and give them a signed copy of my book, they will go away quite happy. Then it's time to head home, but not before I meet up with Fatty Robinson one last time for a quick game of squash at the local gym. I'm very competitive, and if I don't win I can become quite annoyed and I cry like a girl. If it's a particularly spectacular defeat I have been known to hijack a cab and drive home along the pavements, killing and maiming many innocent bystanders. By the time I get home I've usually calmed down and am happy to pass the evening relaxing with a bottle of whiskey and a good book - preferably one of my own. Sometimes the police may call round to question me about the earlier mayhem in the high street, but a couple of quick phone calls usually sorts the matter out. That's the thing about being one of the most high profile physicians in the country - I know people. But then, every job's got to have its perks, hasn't it?

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Skippy’s Opera

The prospect of using sound as a weapon is something that has been considered feasible for many years. In fact, acoustic warfare is very real and can be seen regularly in nature. For instance dolphins stun their prey with powerful ultrasonic pulses. Similarly, the deadly tartan bagpipe crab emits a loud, discordant wailing noise to paralyse passing tuna. And the South American Ringo monkey is able to confuse predators by playing the drums noisily and irritatingly. There are also examples from human history that suggest an ability to harness the destructive power of sound. It is claimed that Alexander the Great had a mighty bell constructed which could reduce the sturdiest of fortifications to rubble. According to legend, Alexander's enemies lived in mortal fear of his mighty clanger. Another tale claims that, when roused, Hannibal - that's the chap with the elephants - could bellow so loudly that he struck ice cold terror into the hearts of men and ruptured the eardrums of dogs and young children. There is even a legend, described by Plato, of an ancient king of Ethiopia who demonstrated a most remarkable talent. In times of crisis 'his digestion being troubled, he would vent his displeasure by producing a fearsome thunderclap from the very depths of his being, and a terrible wind would spring forth.' Though such tales may be fanciful, various attempts develop an acoustic weapon have been reliably documented. During the Second World War, the Nazis put a great deal of effort into such research and eventually came up with the Mark IV Volkstuba - the people's tuba. The instrument was so big that it had to be carried on the back of a flatbed truck, but it was remarkably effective at producing low, infrasonic frequencies, capable of destroying enemy troops and equipment by literally shaking them to pieces. 274

Fortunately, it was never employed in combat, as it proved equally effective at destroying its operator, the truck on which it was mounted and, eventually, itself. At the same time, allied forces were developing a sonic weapon of their own. The Whitfield and Stanley Combat Whistle was small enough to be carried as part of a soldier's standard kit, and could be deployed at a moment's notice. When used, it would emit a shrill, piercing shriek. This wasn't powerful enough to cause any actual physical damage but it was, nevertheless, bloody annoying. Subsequent research into sonic weaponry has been shrouded in much secrecy, but there are rumours that significant advances have been made in certain quarters. It is claimed by conspiracy buffs that, during the seventies, the American military pioneered a method of brainwashing using high frequency sound waves. Meanwhile, documents reveal that the Russians successfully experimented with a hand-held infrasonic device that could destroy enemy vehicles. And more recently, British scientists have developed ‘Gary Halliwell’ - a devastatingly efficient, cross-dressing long-range tribute act, who causes feelings of panic and nausea amongst enemy troops. However, the most exciting research has been taking place in Australia. Back in the fifties, technicians at the top secret Kiri Te Kanawa Research Station on the outskirts of Brisbane were interested in the ability of certain talented opera singers to produce frequencies capable of shattering glass. They saw the potential for a new kind a weapon and so, under the guidance of project leader Professor Dave O'Farrel - Skippy to his friends - they started to look at ways of concentrating these sound waves. Lack of funding proved to be their biggest obstacle, but with the invaluable assistance of children from the local primary school, they eventually managed to put together a device made from papiermâché, string and aluminium foil. When operated by a trained singer this device was able to direct a beam of pure sound energy at the test subject. Professor Skippy found that different results could be obtained by using different singers. Generally speaking, a falsetto would produce headaches and nausea, whilst a tenor would induce stomach cramps and uncontrolled defecation. The project was successful enough to attract increased funding for Professor Skippy and his team. They set about constructing a much more powerful version of the device; one that could be used 275

in all conditions, and didn't go all limp and soggy when it rained. After months of detailed experiments and careful study, they eventually came up with Sydney Opera House. As far as most people are concerned, Sydney Opera House is a perfectly normal - if somewhat striking - building. Not so, there's more to the Opera House than meets the eye. It is, in fact, an incredibly powerful sonic collector, capable of concentrating sound into a devastatingly destructive beam of pure energy. Its position on Sydney Harbour is no accident, as it was placed there deliberately to protect the city from attack from the sea. With a full choir on stage, it can produce a wall of sound so powerful that any enemy ships would be shaken to their rivets. Despite the work that had gone into its preparation, no one was really sure just how powerful it would be. On its first test run, the Opera House surprised everyone by melting all the lampposts in the western half of the city. Professor Skippy and his team were delighted, but the work was only just beginning. Whilst Sydney Opera House would prove most effective as a deterrent, its lack of mobility made it totally unsuitable for use as an offensive weapon. Such a huge, unwieldy building lumbering across the battlefield would be a sitting target, and its distinctive profile could be spotted many miles away, losing the all-important element of surprise. Professor Skippy's next task, therefore, was to make a smaller version of the Opera House, capable of rapid deployment. Though he worked on the project incessantly, the secrets of miniaturising his creation were to elude him, for just as it seemed that he was on the verge of a breakthrough, a cruel accident took him away. During an experimental dress rehearsal in 1976, an unstable soprano exploded. Professor Skippy was killed instantly. Perhaps the most tragic consequence of Professor Skippy's untimely death was the fact that his work died with him. The Australian government ruled that sonic research was too dangerous and cancelled the project for good. But Professor Skippy isn't completely forgotten. Every year, on the anniversary of his death, Sydney Opera House plays host to a special tribute concert - which damages the foundations of nearby buildings and rattles everybody's teeth within a five-mile radius.

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Transatlantic Gardening

Are there no more great adventures to be had? Are there no more daring risks to be taken, or hazardous journeys on which to embark? It wasn't all that long ago when men of character and breeding would strike out into the unknown at the drop of a hat, equipped with little more than a pair of sturdy boots and a pipe full of tobacco. Undeterred by danger, their only bastion against inclement weather would be a tartan blanket, and their only preparation for survival in treacherous and unknown country would be to take some sandwiches. After all, when it came down to it, what more would a gentleman of courage have needed than his wits and a certain firmness of character? A man like that would have thought nothing of facing the direst of perils, for he knew that when encountering a monster with bright red eyes, flesh-encrusted claws and a gobful of sharp teeth, a firm voice and an unflinching manner would soon have the fearsome beast purring like a kitten and nuzzling against his shin. But these days there is no more wilderness to explore or territory to chart. There are no more dark corners of the world to be illuminated. Where once ancient mapmakers would have inscribed the legend ‘Here be Dragons’, their modern counterparts are happily detailing the many public amenities and gift shops within easy reach of the hotel. There is nowhere in the world where you can't buy a Big Mac, watch CNN or hail a cab. So does this mean that there are no more adventurers left? No, no it does not... Thankfully, the world hasn't quite run out of challenges yet and there are still those who are prepared to meet them. Just such a man is Ray Powell of Plymouth. When a friend and colleague bet him that he couldn't sail across the Atlantic Ocean in his own garden, Ray took him up on the wager. 277

Ray was no stranger to the sea. Oh no. At the age of six he had won a goldfish at a local fair and by the time he was seventeen he had seen The Poseidon Adventure over a dozen times, so he was certainly no novice when it came to nautical matters. Nevertheless, to be on the safe side he went to seek advice from his old Uncle Gerry. Old Uncle Gerry, a seafaring man himself, had earned the distinction of being the first person to hitchhike across the Pacific, and was infamous for being the only man in history to have emerged victorious from a hand-to-hand battle with a tin of tuna. Unfortunately, old Uncle Gerry was dead, and consequently proved to be of little help Ray, however, was undaunted. Living in a naval town he figured that he couldn't help but be a natural sailor. After all, he had certainly hung out with enough of them. The sea must be in his blood, in his fibre, in his very marrow, and he had long suspected that this was the cause of his arthritis. He bought himself an atla s and after studying it for several hours he managed to locate the page displaying the North Atlantic. Hurrah! He had a little drink to celebrate and then got on with plotting his course - and was immediately encouraged when he saw that the route was relatively short and more or less straight all the way across. He got a pencil and a ruler and carefully drew a line across the page. This navigation lark was a piece of piss. Ray's next consideration was the matter of supplies. In days of old, sailors had survived long voyages on hard tack, salted meat and recycled water. Thankfully, since those difficult times some bright spark had had the foresight to invent crisps and pop, so Ray was able to ensure he had a plentiful store of Cheesy Wotsits and Tizer. Then, after making one last stop to pick up a packet of mint imperials and a book of wordsearch puzzles for the journey, he was finally ready to cast off. It's not often that people get the opportunity to watch a back garden easing slowly out of Plymouth harbour and striking out towards open sea. And, whilst it's not the most impressive of sights, it has to be said that it is one of the most unusual, and consequentially quite a crowd had gathered to see him off. Sat at the helm in a ragged deckchair, Ray waved graciously to his well wishers as the breeze billowed in the duvet cover that he had strung from the washing line to form his makeshift sail. Slowly, as dry land became ever more distant behind him, their cheers and shouts of 278

encouragement faded from his ears and Ray was finally on his own. Peace at last. He pulled a portable radio from beneath his chair, tuned it in to the cricket and then settled back and went to sleep. And so passed the first few days. Ray was content to lie back in the sun as the wind filled his sail and carried him onwards. Oh, this was the life! He began to fancy that he was descended from some great mariner, maybe a buccaneer even. He certainly seemed to be perfectly home out here upon the ocean. That was until conditions took a turn for the worse. His problems began when a sudden downpour lashed the ocean into a broiling soup, beat down upon his flower borders and washed most of his bedding plants into the brine. But worse was to come when he was caught in the path of a hurricane, which wrecked his mainsail and carried off most of his patio furniture. Finally, a tidal wave almost capsized the garden completely and left it in a very bad shape. Once the storm had passed and Ray's garden lay battered and becalmed, drying out in the feeble North Atlantic sunshine, Ray was able to finally assess the true extent of the damage. It didn't look good. Many of the gnomes were totally beyond repair, the gravel path had been all but washed away, and there was a fresh infestation of greenfly on his roses. To make matters worse, his garden had sprung a leak and he was taking on water fast. This, at least, he could do something about. Displaying the kind of imagination and initiative that had made heroes out of previous pioneers, Ray gathered together half a dozen stone slabs and arranged them artistically around the hole to create a water feature. This done he made careful examination of his sail, but found it irreparable, so he tried to improvise by using a garden fork and a spade as makeshift oars. The idea was only moderately successful. Whilst the spade seemed up to the job, for some reason the fork proved completely ineffectual and Ray ended up paddling around in circles for the next day and a half. He finally concluded that garden tools were not the answer. Instead he turned his hand to weaving a new mainsail out of dandelions, which - perhaps surprisingly turned out to be markedly more efficient. At this point, Ray was still optimistic about his chances of success. He had endured a number of serious setbacks, but he had made the best of the situation and pulled through. Surely he had been through the worst of it now? But then, just four days after encountering the hurricane, fate was to strike him a further blow. It 279

was early one morning. He had passed a restless night, but continued to doze fitfully in his deck chair. The sky was clear, the sun was just rising, sending its pale yellow beams skipping across the glassy surface of the ocean. Everything was quiet. Then suddenly he was woken by much shouting and cheering. A sickening shudder shook his little garden and Ray leapt to his feet to see a mammoth galleon draw alongside. Pirates! They came streaming down ropes in their droves, cutlasses clamped between their teeth as two, maybe three dozen of them invaded his tiny plot of land. Snarling, leering and singing jaunty songs about rum and parrots and treasure, they lurched and careered all over his garden, revelling, carousing, and shivering whatever timbers they could get their hands on. They broke flowerpots, smashed his greenhouse, pissed in his fishpond and buggered his bird table. Then, after about five minutes of debauchery and intemperance, they evidently decided that they'd had enough, got back in their boat and sailed off. Feeling more than a little stunned, Ray surveyed the fresh devastation left in the wake of this second catastrophe. Shrugging to himself, he set about clearing up the mess, collecting up the empty rum bottles, shovelling up the piles of vomit and trying to extricate chocolate gateau from the patio heater. Then, to his horror, he realised that the pirates had carried off his garden shed, complete with his supply of crisps and pop! He was finished... For a while he just drifted. With his supplies gone he was forced to forage amongst his flowerbeds for worms and beetles, but the sustenance these provided was negligible. He found himself slipping deeper into malnutrition, and as each day went by so his energy faded and his will to carry on ebbed away. Then, probably about a week later, he received a strange visitation. Sprawled upon the ground, his throat burning with thirst, his stomach racked with pangs of hunger, he felt a draught upon the nape of his neck. Looking up, his hazy, sun-bleached vision perceived the outline of a strange bird standing before him. It was like a seagull, only larger. As big as an albatross, but with brightly coloured plumage like a parrot, and a hooked beak like a hawk. It was similar to a vulture in some respects, but with the shrewd, intelligent-looking eyes of a penguin and the brightly patterned waistcoat of a children's entertainer. It held something in its beak which it let fall to the ground with a 280

wet slap. Ray snatched up the object eagerly, and ravenously sank his teeth into it. It turned out to be a fresh cod, which was just as well, since if it had been a limpet mine it would have blown his fillings out. That fish restored a little of Ray's vitality. No doubt about it, that curious visitor had saved his life. The bird returned on subsequent days, each time bringing Ray a gift: sometimes cod, sometimes tuna, skate or haddock. Two weeks after its first appearance, the bird brought him a freshwater salmon, which Ray took as an encouraging sign that he was nearing land. Then it began to get more adventurous and started to bring him rashers of bacon, chocolate chip cookies and cheese. But the bird didn't just provide food - it brought him beer and fags as well. It also provided company. Ray would spend hours talking to the strange bird, pouring out his life story, his hopes, his aspirations and his fears. The bird listened patiently, never interrupting, never displaying even the slightest sign of boredom. Ray began to wonder whether it was real. Perhaps it was just a delusion; a product of his own fevered imagination? But then, if that was the case, where did all the jam doughnuts come from? Then, on the day of the bird's final visit, it turned up in a top hat and brought along a kebab and a bag of nuts. And it was on this day that it finally spoke to him. It told Ray that his journey was almost at an end; that he should turn right at the next squid he came to and then he would soon be in sight of land. When Ray implored the bird to stay with him so that they could enjoy victory together, the bird shook its beak and told him that he could not; that he had to return whence he came; namely, to the office of an insurance company in Florida, where it was head of marketing. And then, just as abruptly as it had arrived, it was gone. Ray followed the bird's instructions, turning right at the next squid and then sailing on. He wondered where the bird had really come from. Had it been a messenger from heaven? Perhaps it was his guardian angel in earthly form? Or maybe it really did work in the financial sector - who knew? One thing was certain, its advice was correct and very soon Ray met a man travelling in the opposite direction on a rockery, who told him that he was only half a day's sailing out of Boston. Tired, exhausted, wearied and tired again, Ray Powell finally landed in America just four months after he had set out from home. He was greeted by a tumultuous surge of indifference from the 281

millions of disinterested bystanders who had no idea that he was coming. But that didn't matter. He had become the first man to cross the Atlantic overland. What's more, he had risen to the challenge, he had defeated the obstacles, he had shown courage in the face of adversity, perseverance in the face of ruin, he had proved his point, won his bet and pocketed twenty quid. He flew back to England by restaurant, but this trip proved to be uneventful.

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…BEARD Our best wishes to Buzzy McBumble from Johannesburg. Last weekend, Buzzy became the first bee to have a beard made entirely of humans…

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