A few random meanderings from a week which saw the 30th anniversary of man allegedly walking on the moon. I say, ‘allegedly’, because it’s also brought up the old conspiracist’s favourite, suggesting that it was all afaked in a Hollywood backlot somewhere. I’ve seen some fairly convincing (to these admittedly layman’s eyes) photos, where the shadows wouldn’t seem to match the light sources, and there are some other bits and pieces which raise a questioning eyebrow. Against this, of course, is the odd tonne of moon-rock which has been brought back and the equipment such as reflectors which can be shown to be up there.

However, what always struck me as odd was the time-scales — a frantic rush to get there by the end of the 70’s…and then once you’ve gone to all that effort and expense, you only send twelve men, then give up after three years. The last man went to the moon in 1972, since when…nothing, and there are no realistic plans to return. It’s as if Columbus had discovered America, and then no-one bothered going to check it out for thirty years after — and it took him *two months* to get there, rather than four days. Did we find something up there that put us off the idea?

On a radically different tack, we’ve been talking here about the first movies we saw, and it seems that they could have a significant effect on the psyche. I should point out that we disregard Disney films, as everyone saw them, so they were deemed background radiation as far as psychological damage is concerned. [And besides, I find it hard to work out which ones I actually saw at the cinema, and which ones were merely glimpsed on ‘Disney Time’]. A swift poll round friends and acquaintances revealed a broad spectrum, from ‘Star Wars’ through ‘The Towering Inferno’ to ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ — the latter seen at an age well below what one might expect…

I’m not sure what mine was: it might have been ‘Ring of Bright Water’ or ‘Jaws’, which may go some way to explaining my warped and twisted mind — the dramatic highlight of the former is [SPOILER ALERT!] an otter getting pick-axed, while the latter has the all-time classic “severed head out of porthole” scene. Mind you, I had more nightmares from b&w giant-ant flick, ‘Them!’, after which I was terrified of going upstairs on my own, convinced that giant ants were going to come down out of the attic and eat me. I saw it again recently, and it holds up almost perfectly, at least until you *see* the ants, when…well, the word “pipe-cleaners” comes to mind.

Finally, speaking of regressing back to childhood, was playing football in Hyde Park last night. This was intended to be a works’ outing, but as the time neared, and the clouds rolled over, numbers slumped from 18 down to seven. Hyde Park was *jammed* with both softball and football games, all taking place on an ad-hoc basis, with jumpers for goalposts. And there was also a cheerful atmosphere of randomness: we doubled our numbers with itinerant players, gradually making the pitch bigger to accommodate the relevant size of teams. All very informal and friendly, and when we got bored, off we went our separate ways for lemonade and crisps. Well, beer, anyway. 😉 But it was probably the first time I’d played such a casual game of football since I was at school. And it was very, very nice…

Probably no editorial next week, since I’ll a) be off in Bradford at this year’s In-Fest, and b) working VERY hard on getting the next TC out. With luck, it’ll be finished that weekend, and I can then relax with a well-earned bottle of Kriek.

Although the British climate doesn’t really lend itself to outdoor activities, we are inordinately fond of them: picnics, cricket, and country walks are all part of the national psyche, yet all can become miserable ordeals when performed in the luke-warm drizzle which all too often passes for summer. The same spirit which got us through the Blitz can be seen when we gather round the barbecue, watching our breath condense in the air and muttering encouraging things like “I think it’s caught light” in a desperate attempt to talk the charcoal into combusting.

Music festivals are another weather-susceptible event: it’s now become so traditional for Glastonbury to be sodden, that you can detect a faint air of dissatisfaction if attendees don’t get their mud fight. Recreating the Battle of the Somme (albeit with slightly worse toilet facilities) isn’t my idea of a good time, so I was somewhat ambivalent to be given a ticket to The Big Day Out, an all-day festival taking place at Milton Keynes Bowl last weekend, featuring Metallica, Marilyn Manson, Ministry and several other bands not necessarily beginning with the letter M — my schoolfriend, Phil, had been coming down with a mate, who’d dropped out at the last minute. However, for once the weather played ball, and the day dawned gloriously sunny.

Although Milton Keynes is North of London, the quickest train route turned out to be almost Zen-like in its obtuseness: head South to Croydon, then go around London via Clapham and Watford. After a minor detour, caused by Phil leaving the tickets behind (fortunately, we’d stopped off for a fry-up, and were still close to the house), we began Metallicizing the train carriage. This process involves the freaking-out and eventual driving away of non-event goers, by sheer weight of black T-shirts and surly expression. By the time we left Watford Junction, this heavy metal version of ethnic cleansing had been completed, and control taken.

Milton Keynes Central, isn’t. Central, that is. At least, I don’t think so, unless the centre of Milton Keynes contains nothing but roundabouts and car parks. We obtained a first-hand view of most of these, while trying to find a cash machine, and came to the impression that this wasn’t a town you would wish on anyone except your worst enemy. Fortunately, there were buses to take us to the venue, and as we meandered down towards the Bowl itself, you could almost think you were on a quiet country walk. Save, of course, for the thousands of others going the same way: I hadn’t seen that much black since Frank Sinatra’s funeral, although there were rather more tattoos and pierced body parts here — you name it, they’d shoved a stud through it.

The Bowl itself is a natural hollow, and very impressive, especially once filled with 60,000 members of the Trenchcoat Mafia. To keep the hordes well-fed, there were a host of junk food stalls, selling everything from freshly-squeezed lemonade to roast hog (not the mention the unofficial vendors flogging hash fudge at a quid a go!). And to keep them occupied, there were stalls selling jewellery, CDs, essentials like sunglasses and sunscreen, as well as, inevitably, the opportunity to get any bits of your body you’d forgotten about, pierced or tattooed, with more or less permanence. Two stages had been set up, to prevent those annoying inter-band delays, and even at this early point in proceedings, you had little chance of getting within hurling distance of the front. So, we settled on the hillside, wishing we’d brought a pair of binoculars.

Musically, it was a bit of a mixed bag. The bill was heavy on the heavy metal, and it’s a genre whose effect relies significantly on power: the ideal place to listen to it is an angry teenager’s bedroom, and in an outdoor setting, the sound seems to float up and away. Some bands suffered worse than others: Sepultura and Ministry were almost unrecognisable, which was disappointing since the latter have previously blown me away, in a more confined venue i.e. one with a roof. On the other hand, Placebo exceeded expectations, right from Brian Molko’s opening comment: “Sorry we’re late, I’ve just been backstage having my cock sucked by Marilyn Manson.”

But, as at all festivals, music is only a minor part of the event, and people were clearly enjoying themselves. Pink is normally a colour more associated with the Spice Girls or Billy, rather than Metallica and Manson, but as the day wore on, it began to rival black as the dominant colour. It was apparent that this was the first exposure in some time to the harsh rays of natural light for many attendees, and the results were predictably sensitive-looking. Combined with the high rate of alcohol consumption (the queues for the beer tent were exceeded only by those for the women’s toilets), things began to get a tad boisterous at the front — a full-fledged water-bottle fight broke out while we awaited Manson. You got an idea how the French army must have felt at Agincourt, as wave upon wave of disposable containers spiralled down from the heavens.

As darkness fell, headliners Metallica turned up. We’d moved forward towards the stage, but never got closer than about 200 feet from it — oddly, you got a better view a little further back, as you weren’t two inches from the head of the person in front. I’m not a Metallica fan, but I will confess to being mildly impressed by their two-hour session, which set the place alight. Literally — the hillside was covered in impromptu bonfires, some of disturbing size. However, at 11pm, with one final, mini-nuke sized pyrotechnic, the day finished, and we scurried back to the station to retrace our steps home. On the whole, I did kinda enjoy it — though it also reminded me of why I hate festivals, and I think it’ll probably be several more years before I go to my next one…

I am, in general a fan of technology: for a start, without it, you wouldn’t be reading this, unless I was a monk scrawling rants on cowhide with a quill. Yes, on the whole, technology is a Good Thing. But even I have moments of doubt, and finding yourself in a sleeping car on a train, trying to get an obstreperous electronic gadget to go to sleep at 4:15 am, certainly counts as one such.

This all started on holiday in Scotland: Chris wanted to buy a Furby for her daughter, and opted to get one up there, to see whether it perhaps had a Scottish accent and a fondness for haggis. Our first purchase has to be returned to the shop, since when the batteries were inserted, it did nothing at all — if I knew then what I do now, I’d have kept it. The second was more successful, and I found myself trying to close the battery panel of a wriggling, squawking, Gremliny kind of thing. Indeed, “Gremliny” is putting it mildly: Joe Dante should sue, though we never found out what happens if you get a Furby wet. However, if I ever see one of the little bastards again, this mistake will be rectified, just as soon as I find a bag, some half-bricks, and a deep body of water.

Those who claim there are no difference between the sexes have clearly never produced a Furby in mixed company. Women immediately go “Awwwww”, get all gooey, and start lactating. Men look on aghast: those who have kids have all the horrors brought back to them, while those who don’t, rapidly vow to have vasectomies. For Furbys make us obsolescent: they find burping and farting funny, have a vocabulary largely consisting of grunts, and demand regular feeding — yet never leave the toilet-seat up or make dubious sexual demands. With current advances in genetic engineering, it won’t be long before real, live Furbys replace men entirely: I have seen the future, and it has Bambi Eyes.

The little monsters are activated by a series of sensors, to which it responds like a Tamagotchi: feed it, and it purrs “Yum”, tickle its tummy and it gurgles, ignore it and it gets bored before drifting off to sleep. It starts off speaking “Furbish”, and eventually learns English, with a vocabulary of 200-300 words, allowing it to hold debates with tabloid readers and minor members of the Royal Family. I can only assume that a jolt on the train led to one of these sensors being pushed somehow, and thus to me being woken at the crack of dawn by a muffled, repetitive, whiny electronic cry of “I’m hungry! I’m worried!”.

I was on the top bunk in the sleeper, and the irritating bleating was from a rucksack on the shelf at my feet. Kicking it didn’t help — even if it did make me feel a good bit better. Nor did shuffling it around, and I really didn’t fancy taking everything out of the bag. The solution was obvious, drop it to the shelf below, where one of two things would happen: either the jolt would stop the sensor being activated, or the continued noise would wake Chris up and *she’d* have to deal with it. Any pangs of guilt were rapidly annulled; after all, it was her little brute. And lo, the second option did come to pass, and two grown adults did struggle vainly to soothe a fur-covered sack of silicon chips. In the end, we decided that feeding it was the best option, and peace was restored. Couldn’t help wondering what the people in the next berth thought, overhearing a baby’s cries for food, interspersed with comments in a male voice like “If you won’t shut the little fucker up, I will” and “Shall I get a hammer?” We almost expected to be met in London by Child Welfare officers.

But perhaps the most disturbing feature only became clear when the Furby went home to Phoenix and met the one already in residence. When you turn them on, facing each other, they converse, sometimes in Furbish, sometimes in English. They talk, ask questions, respond, sing and dance for each other and when one gets tired and goes to sleep, so does its mate. It’s apparently really weird to watch, and I can see why her mother – the only woman apparently immune to their saccharine cuteness, bless her – thinks they are possessed by Satan. I have visions of creeping downstairs in the middle of the night, and finding them conspiring to torture, rape and murder your entire family. Is anyone up for ‘Bride of Furby’? And, perhaps more importantly, what’s Furbish for “I’ll cut the phone lines, you find the chainsaw”…?