Earlier this week Brion James, deliverer of the above line in ‘Blade Runner’, died. It thus seems appropriate to devote this week’s editorial to the cheerful subject of death, though there is more to it than the loss of an under-rated actor. One week after the eclipse (my eyesight now restored back to normal, thank you for asking), and it continues to rumble around my psyche in a vague fashion. For it suddenly struck me that if it HAD signalled the end of the world, my last minutes on Earth would have been spent staring at a small bright dot on a piece of cardboard, and that’s hardly the way in which I wish to end my life. Without wishing to inflict the sordid details on you, the list of possible ways tends to be skewed slightly towards Denise Richards and a large vat of chocolate.

But once you get beyond the obvious, base choices, it is an interesting question, and one where the answer does differ, more than you’d think, from a more general, how-do-you-want-to-die scenario. For example, given two weeks warning of my own demise, I’d liquidise all my assets and blow them, big time — no point saving for a rainy day, when neither heaven nor hell are exactly noted for them. But in the event of mass extermination, this is a less viable option, for who is going to want money? Especially since there’ll be so much of the stuff swilling round as to make it next to worthless.

Another important factor in the answer is how much warning is given. If it’s a sirens-going-off scenario, then all you’ll really have time to do is put your head between your legs and kiss your arse goodbye, to quote one of those “amusing” 70’s T-shirts. A couple of hours would permit you to rush home to your one true love, albeit only if she was within rushing home to distance (however, see the wonderful ‘Miracle Mile’ for details of the problems this sort of thing can cause) — for the rest of us, it’d be time to get a) on the phone, and b) quietly hammered. Anything more than a couple of days though, presents a bit of a stamina problem there, unless you intend to reach oblivion before oblivion reaches you.

The Canadian film, ‘Last Night’ suggested a nice scenario: given sufficient time, people faced with death go through a series of stages: denial, rage, etc, but eventually end up at a kind of laissez-faire acceptance. Personally, taking this to its logical conclusion, by the time Armageddon arrived, I like to think we’d all be so used to the concept, that we’d probably just watch ir on TV. There’s something to be said for this: never mind the eclipse, here’s the outside broadcast to end them all. Literally.

This would be particularly nice in the event of a rolling apocalypse, moving around the globe with the dawn: “we now take you to New Zealand, where…oops, too late. Hello, Australia!”. Even better still, we could ship those we wished to see die, off to act as commentators; Chris Evans to Tahiti, with Jeremy Beadle and Noel Edmonds also going to points east. It’d be peculiarly comforting to know, albeit for a few brief hours, that the world was free of their inane prattle. Yes, if you look hard enough, there is always an up side to everything, even global annihilation.

There’s probably something millennial about the topic too, though it looks increasingly like Nostradamus was wrong. Kosovo looked like it might have been it for a while, especially after America, with pin-point accuracy, bombed the Chinese embassy (as well as an entirely different country). But while that’s now just become another notch on the bedpost of the Balkans, there’s enough time left for India-Pakistan to blow up. Still, as long as there’s live and uninterrupted coverage…

In years to come, people will ask each other “Where were *you* during the eclipse of 1999?”. Well, it’s perhaps not quite up on the same level as historic events like, er, the death of Princess Diana, but after a long period of ennui leading up to the event, I must confess it wasn’t bad. It probably helped that I’d stoically ignored all the hype, and was thus expecting not very much to happen: no apocalypse (unlike certain French fashion designers, who must now be feeling very silly after predicting the Mir space-station would fall on Paris), no massive display of fireworks, just the moon covering most of the sun for a bit.

So come eleven o’clock, I abandoned my desk and left the building, in the biggest exodus since the last fire drill, to stand around in the streets with everyone else, pieces of cardboard in hand. Not that I need really have bothered, as it soon became apparent that it was a race between the clouds and the moon to see which would cover the sun first. The moon just about got there, though the clouds soon meant that pinholed cardboard was a waste of effort, while those wearing the special shades merely looked silly. It was a nicely communal activity though, I’ve not seen so many city workers standing around being entertained since the Stop the City protest. Next time, though, they’ll probably have worked out some way to make it pay-per-view.

Once the sun went out (or the 96.8% out we got here), that was it. For it really is a remarkably boring event: it’s like a glacier, impressive to see, but not something you’d want to watch. The most surprising thing was how it actually did get significantly colder — otherwise, it was tempting to go up to an overlooking roof-top, and lob a few burning tennis balls off the top, while dangling a colleague, clad in a black cape and wielding a scythe, over the edge. Combine that with a few well-chosen phrases through a megaphone, like ‘The end is nigh…’, and there could have been panic in the streets. However, the logistics of getting a scythe at such short notice proved too tricky, so I went back to my desk, and instead started worrying about whether I was now going to go blind. For to a hypochondriac such as myself, the dire warnings about not looking at the sun meant that I spent the next two days gazing at the wall, trying to work out if my vision was irrevocably damaged, or whether it was just that my contact lenses needed cleaning.

The best thing to come out of the eclipse is that it has probably given astronomy its highest profile in this country since the Apollo missions. It was nice to see the venerable Patrick Moore wheeled out on prime-time: as TV personalities go, you can’t imagine anyone further from the grinning and vacuous inanities of Johnny Vaughan and whatever talentless bimbo is working with him on The Big Breakfast this week. I must confess to feeling an overwhelming surge of nostalgia for Magnus Pyke, and the Great Egg Race. Oh, and Tomorrow’s World has never been the same since Raymond Baxter left.

The most amusing thing about the whole event was the frantic bleating of the businesses down in Cornwall, whining ceaselessly about how there weren’t enough visitors and blaming all and sundry for this failure. Except, of course, themselves for jacking their prices up to levels which went beyond the acceptable: after all, it wasn’t as if the eclipse was going to cost the hoteliers anything. It was a simple case of supply and demand and they got it badly wrong — it’s always immensely satisfying to see the greedy get their come-uppance (see also the great house price crash of the early ’90s). Book those camp-site places now for the next one, near the end of the 21st century…

So, there I am: early Monday morning, kneeling on the floor of the bathroom cubicle at work, gazing down at the bowl…and I’m thinking I’ve been here before — usually the morning after particularly alcohol-shaped evenings. But in this case, my mind was clear, sharp and focussed (or, at least, as much as it usually is on Monday morning, which is admittedly closer to fuzzy, blunt and…ooh, look at that cloud), and hard at work stapling together the next issue of Trash City.

This was, admittedly, a self-inflicted injury. I’d come in on the Sunday, intending to make full use of untrammelled access to the copier to knock off the sample copies for the printer, but managed to screw up and leave a dozen pages at home. “No problem,” I thought, “easily knock it off on Monday,” having totally forgotten the…ah, somewhat arresting nature of the TC front cover. Given the recent arrival of a new boss, of uncertain sensitivities (his mobile phone plays the theme from ‘Star Wars’…I’m not sure whether this is good or bad), I thought it best to exercise discretion, and so anyone entering the toilet would have heard sounds of rustling, punctuated by the odd ker-thunk of staples being driven home. The things I do for TC.

It was thus with a certain sense of relief that I stuffed it in the post later that morning. I think this must be what having kids are like; seems like a good idea at the time, but requires a steadily increasing amount of effort, until finally you can wave them goodbye and get on with the rest of your life. I think the worst bit was the proof-reading; every sweep seemed to find more typos, glitches and cock-ups rather than less. This is probably inevitable: by the time you’ve read an article a dozen times, you see what you think is there, rather than what actually is on the page. There’s thus an endless cycle of print-check-scrap — I’m sure I heard the Amazonian rain-forest give a small cheer when I finally said “Screw this for a lark” and went down the pub instead. Of course, I know full well that when it comes back from the printers, the typos will be outlined in neon and tap-dancing across the page to greet me. Such is the life of a ‘zine editor… I hope you’re bloody grateful. 🙂

In theory, this should mean I can kick back and relax. However, I’ve just had a quick attack of paranoia: phoned the Post Office to confirm delivery of the (recorded delivery) pages to Juma, and they said they had no record of the parcel… Panic! However, a swift call to Juma revealed they’d arrived safely with no problem, so I look forward to hearing what the Post Office Customer Services say… Actually, this wasn’t as bad as it would have been in the bad old days of scissors and glue, when there was *one* master — now it’s all electronic, I could just print off another set. Such are the delights of technology.

With that little crisis out of the way, and TC safely in the hands of the printers, all I’ve got left to do is the little things, like trying to remember where I put the envelopes. And the sticky labels. Er, and the subscriber’s list. Such are the problems with 13-month gaps between issues – though this represents a major improvement over the previous 18-month interval! Still, I think I can take this weekend off, give myself (and all the contributors, he adds hurriedly!) a pat on the back, and go down the pub for a well-earned beer: pint of Director’s, please, landlord. Tomorrow, I may well be kneeling on the bathroom floor again…

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…