Take a quick look sideways, at the person sitting next to you. In three minutes they’ll be smiling. Why?
One of the best reasons for getting something new, something big and expensive and shiny, is so you can tell other people about it. Not come right out and say it: a little subtlety goes a long way when bragging on your possessions. Just to drop it into the conversation is the best way, wait until the moment is perfect before impact. Tease yourself.
“Jasmin? Oh, yeah, we’ve had a thing going fo a month or so. She works up in town, modelling, you know. Hadn’t I told you?”
Or: “I guess the Japanese CD players are pretty cool, but since I got mine I really swear by Bang and Olufsen. Oh, about two, two-and-a-half grand. I’m not too sure. My accountant took care of it, but the sound is crisp!”
Or even: “For real sashimi, there’s this little place in Tokyo, just off Ginza high street. What? Oh, last year, just pottering about, you know. Like you do.”
It’s important to remember, then, that first impressions really do last. It’s a cliché, but like most stereotypes it also happens to be true. Therefore, when your latest braggable goodie is a really luxury motor, take the advice of an old hand: go for the Bentley, and leave the Rolls Royce glittering in the showroom.
Ignore the relative merits of the vehicle in question: remember that the primary purpose of having bought a car like this is to tell people about how cool it is. The cars themselves just don’ enter into it. The important thing is the sound of the brag.
And the Rolls just can’t hack it. It starts off slow and soft; the ‘Ro’ is an even worse sound than ‘Ra’. Try saying it slowly, and ‘Ro’ sounds like your batteries are running down. It gets worse. The next vocal sound is ‘Lls’, followed by another ‘Ro’. The space that should appear in the middle is almost impossible to actually pronounce without sounding like you’re speaking to an idiot. What really comes out is ‘Arrollzroisss’. You can’t even start the word with ‘R’ because you need an in-breath to say it: you end up with ‘Aro’.
The phrase is frankly lousy: it starts with an inhalation, slows up over the vowell, softens in the middle without disappearing, then gears itself up again before finally trailing off in a sibilant ‘SSss’. It’s too long, telegraphing itself like an overlong joke.
The alternative is the Bentley, a far more impactful name. If someone tells you they’ve just bought a Bentley the sound is in your frontal lobes before you’ve heard it, already ricocheting off your jealousy centre and making your stomach hurt. The word alone can double you over.
It’s not only shorter: the first phonetic is ‘Be’, which can only be said with force. The lips compress, then squeeze the sound out like a pip from a squashed grape.
There’s a brief respite now with ‘En’, the lull before the storm. Because what arrives next is so typically British that no other country in the world could lay claim to it. ‘Tll’ can confound the most practiced linguist: an ill-prepared Oriental could physically explode trying. Remember, it’s not a ‘Bent-lee’, but a ‘Ben-tlee’. Even said gently, it’s a bullet.
The assault finally ends with ‘EEee’, a scream of pleasure echoing away into nothing, bouncing around like an orgasm in the woods. And all this has taken place in less than half a second. Try it.
See what I mean? As an added bonus, your Bentley will never submit itself to abbreviation. A Rolls Royce is a Roller and a Mercedes is a Merc, but a Bentley is only ever a Bentley.
The cars of little people, the Fords and the Volkswagens, they are cars to be driven. A Rolls Royce is there to be looked at. But a Bentley, ah, a Bentley. A Bentley is there to be said.
So think about it. And while you’re at it, take a look back at the person next to you. You’ve spent the last three minutes mouthing words like ‘Arroohh’, and ‘Tllee’ and ‘Be’.
It has taken me four days to summon up the will to write this diary. My mind has been nothing more than a churning black mass since Suzy died. It’s very hard to adjust to such a thing; accepting that someone has gone and they are now nothing more than a memory, a face in a photo, a pile of ashes.
I guess Suzy just chose the wrong thing to base her thesis on. It seems terribly unfair when you take into account that she actually succeeded in what she set out to do. She studied all the available facts — and there have never been many. She absorbed every word, pondered every supposition. It quickly took over her whole life. It also ended it. She found out too much and she couldn’t write it down; she didn’t get a chance to. She told me of her fears though and I was told what to expect, but it just sounded so far fetched.
It was all true though. She proved it by the very nature of her demise. You can’t induce something like that, however hard you try. I don’t think you’d want to. It is not the sort of thing you’d fake either. There would be no point. You are hardly around to reap any praise, are you ?
1st October
I’m terrified. This whole thing of Suzy’s death intrigues me. She was my best friend and I saw all the changes in her. I’m starting to recognise them in myself. I’m irrevocably drawn in, but fear I should stop before taking things too far, like she did. Its not easy. Researching this, going over the same ground that Suzy did, using her books, talking to the same people she did, I find that clues are jumping out at me. This thing wants to be found. It yearns to be discovered. I have no time, no concentration for anything else. I have to pursue Suzy’s killer. I think it wants me to. It’s probably already too late.
2nd October
Suzy’s downward spiral began four months ago and in all that time I have never named her fear; my fear. It seems so childish. I can’t even write the words.
People laughed at Suzy but they were intrigued as well. Secretly, they hoped she’d succeed. Some people asked her to come back to them if she ever found anything. Well, she did — but she couldn’t. Everyone held an interest in Suzy’s work but they didn’t know why she persevered with it. Others had broached the subject; she had all the books ever written on it, but they said nothing. Suzy wanted to write the ultimate solution to an age-old mystery. I know now that it won’t ever be written. By anybody.
5th October
I’ve been awake for three whole days now. I wonder how long Suzy stayed up: writing, researching, inching closer step by step. It has grabbed me by the throat and it won’t let go. It wants me. It leaves me dry.
13th October
I wrote a will. I asked that all my notes, and those made by Suzy, be buried with me. Then I realised I won’t be buried. It’ll save my folks a bundle on funeral costs.
17th October
Very close now. These pages are stained with sweat. It’s so hot here. I’m hot inside. I’ve lost weight. My hair is falling out. The room smells of copper.
Soon I will know everything. I will see what Suzy saw; feel what Suzy felt and I’m no longer afraid. I think it will be worth the price.
10:37 p.m: I was wrong. You can induce it. I’m about to go super nova. It’s so close. The air crackles. I had the idea of setting up a video camera to tape the whole thing. Research shows that the surrounding area is always left untouched. This film could prompt a thousand similar suicides; oh, it is suicide. I know exactly what I’m doing but I go willingly. I can’t eat or sleep. I can only think and that’s what it wants me to do. I have to keep on raking through the ashes. The answer lies in thought. It hits some people all at once. It’s when it takes time that it really hurts.
Soon. Soon.
12:12 p.m: This will be my last entry. The camera is recording; it’s a 3-hour tape. I hope it won’t take that long. Such thoughts mustn’t hinder my concentration.
I’m now going to sit down dead centre in front of the camera. I have my collected notes in case I lose my way. I leave this life happy, because at the very end I will know where it is I’m going. In fact, I’ll know everything: I will access the name of God; the reason for the universe; the given name of every star; why I was put here to learn these things. I will have complete knowledge, absolute understanding, and then my brain will revolt at the horror of it all. No human mind was meant to know these things so somewhere along the line, a defence mechanism was introduced. Who by ? Soon I’ll know that too. And then my body will crumble, my brain implode and wither. Overload. Short out. Spontaneously combust.
You’ll see and you’ll believe. The camera never lies.
For many years now, ‘Fortean Times’ has been gathering together the “weird stuff” that happens in the world, with a sense of style and humour all it’s own. Having read this remarkably cool publication for longer than I like to remember, the news that they were running a weekend convention provoked a sense of delight, that would perhaps only be surpassed by a note from Nastassja demanding a bed for the night.
The beast in question occupied a full two days, each with a designated central subject (Saturday was Spontaneous Human Combustion, Sunday had Alien Abductions), and sundry other topics round the fringe. Unsurprisingly, I received a certain amount of stick from people for attending such an event, and must admit part of the appeal was the thought of hearing people like Mary Seal, organiser of the Wembley conspiracy convention fiasco, and chief proponent of the Global Octopus theory (you don’t want to know, believe me). Having previously been on the edges of a couple of UFO groups, I knew just how “fringe” some areas of borderline research can get!
However, what Lino might call the “kook” factor was very low. Mary Seal never appeared – some may call that suspicious – and the nearest we got to nonsense was Doc Shiels, a long-time magician, trickster, hoaxer and consumer of Guinness. The last named probably explains any deficiency on the coherency front (he can be forgiven, it was the weekend Ireland beat Italy!). This general lack of loonies is perhaps because Forteans don’t lumber their subjects with emotional baggage. On the SHC panel, for example, all three panellists said they’d be entirely happy to find it was the result of something natural. In the world of the paranormal, such a separation of faith from knowledge is pleasant to see.
The other (and more expected) major enjoyment factor was the sense of fun that pervaded the weekend. A delight of FT is the attitude of “we don’t know whether this means anything at all, but it’s certainly amusing”, and this came through in most of the events. Let’s face it, topics like SHC are pretty ridiculous when considered in the cold light of day! It was all pretty informal, with most of the guests quite happy to hang round after their talks and chat to the audience, and the organisers also seemed approachable.
Not that I needed to, as it mostly went very smoothly, although the temperature in the main hall provided the audience with first-hand experience of what SHC must be like. Luckily, the event was taking place in the University of London Union, so plenty of cheap, liquid refreshment was easily to hand (to the delight of Doc Shiels!). Sunday was a touch less successful, with two guests not appearing at zero or less notice (illness, rather than abduction by aliens), but these things happen, and no-one seemed to mind too much.
One eagerly awaited opportunity was the chance to get “weird stuff”. A large amount of all sorts of reading material was duly bought, though the general restraint on view was also seen in the dealer’s room. I ended up with as much sceptical junk as true-believer bunkum. Does this indicate some kind of balance?
Highlights are hard to pick, as there honestly was nothing I didn’t enjoy. However, special mention may be made of the all-too-brief Fortean slide show, Jenny Randles’ lecture on alien abductions (which sent several chills down my spine – true or not, they make great campfire tales) and Kevin McLure, talking about the visions of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and meandering from poltergeists to Charles Manson with perfect Fortean dry wit. But everything had it’s moments, often unexpected ones: a former police officer, talking about SHC, mentioned in passing that there’s a method for forging fingerprints, a comment worth filing in your paranoia. And even the ‘delusion show’, designed to expose tricks used by mediums, scored a direct hit on the psyche of one member of the TC crew!
By the end of Sunday, my mind had been suitably expanded – it’s surprising how tiring this can be! The advantage of such an event is that after you’ve heard about aliens, people burning from the inside, big cats, religious visions, and who knows what else, then things like cancelled trains and leaking showers somehow just don’t seem of any significance…
It must be five years ago that I first heard tell of a strange, yellow-faced family taking America by storm. Wondrous tales of biting satire, film and music references galore and merciless parodies of American life and culture started to filter across the great soggy divide, setting my taste-buds alight with curiosity. At first I was sceptical of the enthusiasm given to the telling of these tales: I remember reading of land-lubbers being wooed by old sea-dogs, with tales of mermaids; was this just another story peppered with imagination? I was determined to find out, so set sail on a journey of discovery to the United States of America…well, went there on holiday anyway. The trek was long and arduous, many ship-mates were taken by scurvy (probably the in-flight meals). But I was so close, there was no turning back. Then off the starboard bow, blurry in the distance (too much duty-free Vodka), I spied the S.S.“Simpson”. The stories were true, under-estimated if anything, my search was ended; all that remained now was to see every episode.
Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa and Maggie were the main crew, ably assisted by religious neighbour from hell Ned Flanders, bar-owner Moe, Grandpa Simpson, Barney the drunk, Krusty the Clown, Mr. Burns (owner of the nuclear plant), Selma and Patty (Marge’s sisters), to name just a few. Yellow faced perfection, where had they been all these years?
It was obviously aimed at a junior audience, but the good ship “Simpson”…okay, okay, enough “Ancient Mariner” crap… has much to offer the culturally aware. Film references include “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” (several times), “Clockwork Orange”, “Thelma and Louise”, “Childs Play”. There’s a whole episode modelled around “Goodfellas”, with Bart in the Ray Liotta role and another that’s almost scene by scene, “Cape Fear” – Bart is hunted onto a house-boat. Musical performances (cartoon characters, real soundtrack) by such luminaries as The Ramones, Aerosmith, Spinal Tap, Red Hot Chilli Peppers and more. Guest voice skills of Michelle Pfeiffer, Elizabeth Taylor, Kelsey Grammer, Sting, Dustin Hoffman, Linda Ronstadt and Brooke Shields to name just a few. In short “The Simpsons” is the place to be seen, even in a sometimes less than flattering cartoon form.
I guess some reading this are fans of anime and view all this with a certain mistrust, “Where’s the violence?”, I hear you cry. Everywhere! “Itchy & Scratchy”: a cartoon within a cartoon, cat and mouse that make “Tom and Jerry” look like “My Little Pony” – eyeballs replaced by bombs, tongues tied around rockets, heads cut off with a razor then dancing in the arterial spray, heads eaten by ants…and that’s just the printable stuff. There was also an Arnie piss-take called “McBain” with a body-count to rival any “video nasty” (such as “Reservoir Dogs” …huh??!!) and five (I think) Halloween specials with “Simpsons” versions of “Child’s Play”, “The Twilight Zone”, “The Raven”, “Return of the Living Dead”, “Dracula” and “Salem’s Lot”. Kids’ stuff? I think not. There’s so much that’s wasted on young minds, I can only hope it helps educate them to the finer things in life; cult movies, rock music, doughnuts and beer, all in excess and pure heaven!
“The Simpsons” was started by Matt Groenig to “send up the bastions of American culture” and has, ironically, become a major part of said culture, thanks mostly to the merchandising people, though I don’t suppose Groenig is groaning…(sorry!) If anyone deserves success it’s “The Simpsons” crew – Matt and his gang go from strength to strength with each series more biting than the last, it’s unusual to find a programme that gets better as it goes on, but here it is, and believe me nothing is sacred to these guys – these are a few of the tag-lines:
Bart finds 3-eyed fish in a pond next to the nuclear plant.
Homer is put in an asylum for wearing a pink shirt to work.
Homer gets poisoned in a sushi restaurant.
Bart gets run over by Mr. Burns, and the Simpsons sue for damages.
Krusty the Clown is arrested for robbing the kwiki-mart.
Homer discovers he’s shooting blanks, sperm-wise; he also discovers a half-brother.
Marge gets obsessed with gambling, Mr. Burns turns into Howard Hughes.
“The Simpsons” was originally intended for, and broadcast on, “The Tracey Ullman Show”, but you wouldn’t recognize the characters now as they look completely different. All the voice over artists were working on Tracey’s show; the woman who does Marge’s voice was Rhoda’s sister in the series of the same name (remember that old chestnut?). In fact there was a court-case a few years back when Tracey Ullman tried to get money from Matt Groenig claiming she invented the characters used in “The Simpsons”; needless to say, this failed.
The first ‘real’ episode as we know it was “Some Enchanted Evening”, since when there’s been more than 100 episodes and very few aren’t worth checking out a.s.a.p. They’ve tried changing the animation style several times; unlike latter “Tom and Jerry” and “Bugs Bunny” the scripts are still good. There’s been speculation about a movie for some years, let’s hope it’s not far from realisation. Mmmhhh, Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa and Maggie on the big screen…
“The Simpsons“ has out-lived the hype and surpassed every promise ten-fold. It gets more cutting and hilarious with each addition to its, already full, family tree. If you’re not already watching “The Simpsons” religiously get down your local video shop or branch of W.H. Smiths and buy, rent, borrow or steal some choice cuts of Simpson humour now!
Douglas Baptie, Hawick – “With regard to Conspiracy Corner, security cameras are a particular pet hate. I’m not convinced they work for a start – the ‘Abbie’ case being an example…Despite dramatic claims, senior police officials quietly admit crime just gets moved to the areas not being covered. Logically, of course, cameras should cover every street in the country, so that every citizen is protected, and not just the business community wanting to protect their property. Cameras in every household might help stamp out child abuse and spouse battery. I guess the cost might be prohibitive. [However, surely the only people who could object would be those with something to hide? Decent, law-abiding citizens surely have nothing to fear!] I am always surprised at how susceptible many of the cameras are to a spot of teen-terrorism. Most are rarely positioned higher than above first-floor level and could easily be pulled from their stands by a well-aimed rope and a couple of brawny scallywags. The only other equipment required would be a balaclava and a decent pair of running shoes…”
We at TC do not condone any behaviour in breach of the law. We do not suggest you try the tactics discussed above. Or, at least, we suggest you don’t get caught. Particularly not carrying a copy of TC, carefully folded to this page.
Rik Rawling, Morley – “All my neighbours have got these fucking searchlights in their gardens – every time a cat goes for a shit, it lights up the backyards bright enough to be seen from Alpha Centauri. This climate of fear revved up by the media carefully smokescreens all the Big Brother shit that’s really going down. Bar codes on wrists – not long now. I brought up the subject with some friends, and they thought it was bollocks. It’s going on around them and they just don’t feel the fire…Let loose the Overfiend! Bring on the Apocalypse! Eternal death in the fiery lake of Oblivion, under the hateful gaze of the one true dragon of the Eternal Night, is infinitely preferable to endless hours trapped in a grey room (pink blinds), with John Major clones, forced to watch re-runs of ‘May to December’. Forever.”
Paul Mallinson, Eynsham – “I would expect that the links between the IRA and our own government are closer than they like to admit. All governments, when they reach such a high level of control and influence, are nothing more than legalised criminal organizations. If the Mafia ran Italy legally, I’m sure it wouldn’t be much different to how it is run today! [Oh, I dunno, would probably be a good bit more stable. And the government/IRA thing: interesting how the peace truce was negotiated with the Conservatives at their lowest poll rating since the first caveman was asked whether he preferred mammoth or bison. Let’s face, it’s the only thing that’s got a chance of saving the Tories’ necks, unless they can convince Argentina to invade the Falklands again] The ‘wondrous visions’ page after the letters? Why is it that I’ve never managed to get one of these bloody things to work yet. I tell you one thing – when I eventually ‘click’, and I do actually see what I’m supposed to, I’m worried that my head might explode. Should make a good scene in the middle of Athena, if nothing else.”
Ah, yes. The 3D picture. Some interesting responses: a Scottie dog; the Statue of Liberty; and we’ll draw a veil over the identity of the person who stared intently at the picture for several minutes, and then said “Is it a penis?”. And now we hand you over to one of the aggravating bastards who can actually see them:
Tim Greaves, Eastleigh – “I assume you’re joking when you say you can’t see anything in that 3-D design. [That’s right, make me feel really inadequate, why don’t you?] It shows the words “Trash City”, with “Trash” being small in the upper foreground, “City” very large just behind and below it, and what looks like the skyline of a city along the bottom. Do I win a prize? [Bah. Hope you go blind] You want a tip? They say you have to pick a point behind the design and stare fixedly at it, but I can’t do it. I mean, what exactly are you supposed to fix on? The only way I can see ’em is by placing a clear acetate sheet in front, then fix on my own silhouetted reflection. Gradually the images blur and the three dimensional picture just pops into focus. Give it a try, it works for me!”
Hark. That sound in the distance. Must be Paul Mallinson’s head exploding.
Andy Collins, St Leonard’s-on-Sea – “The DJ decided it was that time of the evening to air a Ministry tune. Out of the corner of my eye, a demonic looking guy, large for his height, joined us, looking very similar to Henry Rollins. I became a little wary…then he went up to my friend, roared loudly in his face like a sexually repressed water buffalo and went ape shit, huge arms flailing, mental illness apparent. We backed off to the edge of the dance-floor, expecting imminent death as he ripped off his shirt and went even wilder. No tattoos – this wasn’t a ‘Cape Fear’ situation – but fists were clenched and chest was straining. To my relief, the song cranked down. We were all still standing, faces intact. He then roared again, proclaiming very emotionally that “I fucking love that song”. Great. We’re so pleased for you. Piss off home and go knock through a wall or something. We came to a conclusion that he was a thoughtform created by Ministry in some heinous black magic session to infest various clubs, reassuring people that their fan-base was still as strong, and active, and manic, as ever.
Andy Waller, Magdeburg – “We sampled Berlin a couple of weeks ago and it turned out to be a classic – if disastrous – weekend. The Friday in the city was fine, but when it came to Friday night, we had no accommodation. Our solution was just to ignore this factor. Thus, we played cards, went out for a pizza, consumed a few litres of red wine (I followed my usual principles – “If in doubt about anything while in a big city, just get horribly pissed”), rode down Tiergarten in shopping trolleys for a couple of kilometres, and then collapsed on the grass next to the Brandenburg Gate. This kind of improvised “summer campout” was problematic for a number of reasons, and rather ill-considered. It wasn’t yet Summer, and was therefore very cold, we had no tent, no sleeping-bags, we didn’t even have a mat. The next day, everybody was ratty as fuck, I was still drunk from the night before (I kind of overshot the required amount of wine needed for intoxication purposes) and nobody had succeeded in getting any sleep. It was a total disaster, but was one of the most memorable weekends I’ve probably ever had, in a funny sort of way…”
Japanese animal-rights activist being kind to a couple of cephalopodic friends.
Given the above, I feel lucky to have got out of Paris alive. Maybe there is a market for nightmare holidays? “Kids go free on our tour of Romanian orphanages” – and if you’re lucky, they don’t come back, but are kidnapped by some rich but infertile parents from suburbia.
John Weller, Bournemouth – “I’m thinking of putting together something ‘zineish myself, but I’m not sure yet what form it’ll take…Another aim would be to load for bear, and stalk a few of the counterculture’s sacred cows [er, shouldn’t that be “load for cow” then? – helpful editor] – vegans, ‘animal rights’ and hunt sabbing, the gut reactions that pass for thought among people whose only contact with the countryside is a day spent chasing red-coated fools. Liz and I hunt rabbits to feed ourselves and our animals (17 ferrets and a red-tailed hawk) and we take responsibility for what we kill. What we don’t need are the fools who told us (at the Food and Farming Show in Hyde Park) that “all hunting is blood lust” and that “all ferrets should be released into the wild”. Pure, thoughtless compassion: 90% of any animals released into the wild would die in the first two weeks, and the survivors would gravitate to poultry sheds, or wherever there’s fast food. But who wants to hear the truth when righteous anger is so much more satisfying?”
I would deeply love to produce a contentious, hard-hitting ‘zine that succeeds in annoying people and getting up their noses. Difficult, though it may be to believe, inside this mild-mannered editorial body, there beats a heart of purest sulphur. Unfortunately, I think after 17 issues of TC, people probably know me too well to actually take it seriously. This has been one of the appeals of the Internet; the chance to talk to a lot of Americans, to whom concepts such as “sarcasm” and “irony” are mostly alien and anathema. Anyone feeling in need of an argument should go onto the “alt.cult-movies” newsgroup, and say something derogatory about “Schindler’s List”. Oh, and be sure to put on asbestos underwear first. But in the hallowed pages of this publication, I guess I’ll just have to keep on with the political incorrectness.
Pam Creais, Sidcup – “I have doubts about most things that are supposedly ‘good for us’. I think too many people are influenced by what they read in papers and magazines, and talked into doing things that they wouldn’t normally do. I mean, do you go around supermarkets examining tins of food for ‘E’ numbers? I thought perhaps not! [Actually, I do – and refuse to buy anything unless it has at least three additives] As for vegetarianism, it’s not a philosophy, I could adopt myself, and I’m an animal lover. I especially love them when they’re on my plate at meal-times. Too many people exhibit ludicrously idealistic sentiments when it comes to animals. Obviously, I’m not saying that it’s right to ill-treat them, but it’s always sensible to get matters into perspective. An animal is, after all, just that – an animal. They shouldn’t be made fools of, or the subject of idolatry.”
I agree. It’s like the recent controversy over calf exports; in terms of valid, commercial alternatives, the only other option is really killing all male calves at birth – this would scarcely please “Friends of the Furries”, but to use them in the nice, kind, humane British veal trade, we’d have to increase 100-fold the amount of veal that we eat. Not that I personally mind, being a great fan of a nice escalope. But certainly, animals shouldn’t be made into fools. Casseroles, possibly, or certainly sandwiches, but it’s gooseberries or some similar summer fruit you want if you want to make a fool…
Speaking of which, more letters for this column are always welcome. They needn’t be anything to do with the ‘zine, as the above show, and I am quite willing to keep them hanging round until an ‘appropriate’ moment arrives; at least one of the above letters dates back to ‘93. You have been warned…
