Time, Gentlemen

Friday night was the bi-millennial On-Site drinks do. About three years ago Kate had cast the Runes and they had indicated this date and as fortune would have it, the stars were also in alignment (for the first time in 10,500 years). So it was decided that we lowly few, we band of bastards, should gather on the field of conflict and drink as much as humanely possible. Getting the crew from On-Site together to drink is such a painful task that it only occurs rarely and even then the full compliment of twits is not realised. Berny needs to get a babysitter (for himself), Brucey is off dropping children all over town at various Rainbow Brownie meetings, Ryan is up to his nuts in guts, Kate has been told the wrong fucking time, Logan Josh is off at some non-existent 'gig'. It's just too hard for one person to handle from an organisational point of view. It's akin to handling the logistics of the Afrika Korps and their landings at Tripoli. We had a date, as decided by the Gods and held on to it for our lives, come what may. So it was with certain trepidation that I approached the Maltings wondering who would be in there, or who would even turn up at all.

You sure we got the right day?

I shouldn't have worried, approach to the Maltings netted us Kamil and Berny, lurking in the streets like Burke and Hare. Upon arrival, I immediately saw Sir Stanners setting about a ruffian with his swagger stick. After clubbing said hooligan to the floor, Stanners (half cut from three days binge drinking) greeted us (Myself, Lauren and Steve, making a guest appearance. That's Lauren and Steve making a guest appearance, not me. I'm not a guest, I'm an employee. Oh, never mind) and the rest of the cunts duly filed in. We drank, we swore, we drank some more and by and by Logan Josh appeared as if out of nowhere. The bouncers wouldn't let him in due to his appearance and we made plans to meet him at the Akhorne. In the Akhorne were various people I'd met at Josh's birthday party, albeit not in military uniform this time. I spent my time there braying at Barry's muscle shirt and talking to Mrs Josh about buying cats. Despite a protracted argument with Josh about the logistics of 'all coming back to mine' rather than 'all getting a fucking taxi into the middle of nowhere (Huntington), getting pastis forced down our throats and then having to get another fucking taxi back on ourselves back to mine', myself, Lauren and Steve crashed out at some ungodly hour, drunk as cunts. Meanwhile, Stanners followed some young doris back to hers waiting for the rohypnol to kick in. A good night was had by all.

Thank fuck that's over for another forty years...

I was also on Telly again the other night, only as a photo though. Blink and you'd miss it, but follow this link below and I appear in the first fifteen minutes. I wouldn't bother with the rest of the show. It's shit and I'm not in it.

HISTORY COLD CASE: THE YORK 113

My God Sir, I've Lost My Leg...

A reasonably quick update for all you out there slavering for details of my private life. Last Thursday I went to see the greatest Grindcore band of them all: Napalm Death. It got rather sweaty and violent at the front and I still have the bruises to prove it. Anyway the best stuff they played was:

Suffer the Children

Siege of Power

From Enslavement to Obliteration

Scum

The Kill

You Suffer

Nazi Punks Fuck Off

And although I shouted for them to come back on a play one more song they didn’t.

Napalm, but not Napalm Death...

Saturday found me in the company of several hundred fat, balding, middle aged men who all had a thing for even smaller men in uniform. I feasted my eyes on such treats as a re-fight of the Battle of Borodino and laughing at knob heads who play games based on ‘what if’ scenarios, like what if the Second World War had continued and the Nazis had invented giant robots to carry on the fight? I mean really, World War Two? Giant robots? Go out and meet some girls, for Christ’s Sake! By far the highlight of the day was seeing this twerp:

He fights sitting on his arse. We'll have to move him off it...

Not only that but I saw his fabled mirror twin as well:

Waterloo, finally facing my Waterloo...

Both dressed like the Little Corporal’s that they are. I once worked with one of those gentlemen (not the chap in the Pink Floyd T-Shirt, he bravely stood in the line of fire to get these photographs…), I couldn’t tell you which one though.

On Sunday I slowly recovered from my uncle’s 65th Birthday celebrations and moved up to York along with Lauren. We are both working outside of York and decided it would be easier for both of us if we moved in together. Having now spent a day in the same house I feel I am in a position to give an accurate description of how it is to live with Lauren:

Int: a front room in a house in York, a Television is playing in the corner, ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ is showing on the screen. Two people sit on the sofa, one male; ALEX and one female; LAUREN.

LAUREN: Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…

ALEX: Yep

LAUREN: Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…

ALEX: Yep

LAUREN: Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…

Ad Nauseum until a Dancing Dog comes on the Television and distracts LAUREN for two minutes…

The house we are in is a six bedroom affair, Lauren and I assumed we’d be the only ones living there until the Estate Agent told us from next week four Ukrainian butchers would be moving in. So that means we’ll either have a fridge full of good meat or Lauren will get gang raped.

Deathcult Armageddon

Here is another guest posting, this time, it's from lauren and again it's about Brodsworth and the supposed Crimes Against Humanity that went on there last year. Sit back, relax, pull up a biscuit and enjoy....

Deathcult Armageddon

If you’re interested in stories with happy endings, you’d be better off reading some other blog. In this blog, not only is there no happy ending, there is no happy beginning and hardly any happy things in the middle. This is because not many happy things happen in the presence of Alex Sotheran, (a.k.a. Herr Sotheran, or “Führer und Reichskanzler”)

The sorry story I am about to impart concerns Herr Sotherans dealings with the once breathtaking student archaeological excavation at Brodsworth. I myself am partly to blame for this, which is the reason why I now write – to warn future students from dealings with this madman, nay, monster. Two years ago it came to pass that myself, a naive young archaeologist with a yearning to please, had the foolishness to introduce Herr Sotheran to Brodsworth's evil ruler Overlord Merrony. After a brief dalliance and several sacrificial offerings, it was decided that Herr Sotheran was to take charge of excavation the following year.

The full impact of this brief liaison between Sotheran and Merrony two years ago is unknown, but it should be noted that one student, one Adam McWhan, was never seen or heard of again. Rumours persist that somehow he escaped their evil clutches, changing his name and fleeing to Holland. These stories however may simply serve as a device for saddened friends and relatives to come to terms with his sudden disappearance.

What really happened to Adam McWhan

What happened the following year was unforeseen by all. The once beautiful grounds of Hickleton Hall had been transformed. Grey and desolate was the landscape, the hulking shell that was the camp kitchen the only building left fully standing. The Hall itself was ruined and aflame, the charred corpses of its former residents littering the ground. As the students stood aghast at the scene before them, Herr Sotheran appeared. “Welcome to your new home, my pretties” he sneered. “Meet my loyal servants, Von Redface, Donkey Kong and Sykes. They will help you...settle in”. The horrified students were sent to set up their tents in silence under the watchful eyes of Herr Sotheran and his servants, any protests being met with beatings unlike any ever seen by the eyes of man.

The grounds of Hickleton Hall after Herr Sotherans “alterations”. You don’t want to know what A, B, and C are...

I realised the full consequences of my imprudent actions over the coming days. At 5am every morning we awoke to the sound of Her Sotheran thrashing the engine of his car (which he had stolen from a passing old deaf man) and playing SS marching tunes at an ungodly volume. If any person was not up and out of their tents withing 5 minutes of this event, Herr Sotheran would run them down, driving his vehicle like a madman. Tents and bones were crushed in the furore, mud, blood and gore splattering Herr Sotheran's face as he laughed at the injustice of it all while Sykes, Donkey Kong and Von Redface looked on in cold indifference.

Artists impression of Hickleton campsite, 5.05am

Students caught committing anything deemed a “crime” were singled out and publicly humiliated. Such crimes included not laughing at Herr Sotheran's childish jokes, not liking Burzum and being a fan of historically inaccurate Hollywood films. One girl, the poor unfortunate Kate Brown, was ritually beaten with wet bamboo in front of the others, before being forced into a half finished test pit and covered with tarpaulin. It was only when she crawled inside that she realised the scale of her punishment – the hole was already filled to the brim with dead clowns. Dead clowns with no trousers. “That’ll teach you for denouncing the Chosen One” laughed Herr Sotheran, his eyes burning with lust for revenge on the girl. “Hvis Lyset Tar Oss is fucking brilliant. You will learn to love it too”.

One of the inhabitants of Kate’s test pit

While I cannot possibly recount the total number of atrocities committed by or in the name of this monster, I feel it necessary to list some of their names and fates. Their friends and families were lied to incessantly about their dearests whereabouts, and I feel it is my responsibility to impart the truth, as gruesome and shocking as it is.

Ben Wheatley – Herr Sotheran's sex slave. Required to refill his arsehole with crushed limestone every morning so Herr Sotheran can “feel natural”.

Kyle Leaper – hypnotised by Overlord Merrony to serve Herr Sotheran. Mind control is exercised through the forced wearing of a leather waistcoat.

Angela Walker – in hiding. One of the few who got away. Discovered that Herr Sotheran had designs on her as the mother of his “master race”, to be conceived though the medium of a pair of beige pyjamas and a teatowel soaked in his seed.

Alex Bratby – drowned in a portaloo.

Sam Stein – still working at Brodsworth, only because her feet were nailed to the floor. Frequently passes in and out of consciousness. Locals, scared of freeing her and incurring the Wrath of Sotheran, now visit and treat her as a prophet of the future.

Chris Nolan-Rennie – bound in chains of adamantium and backfilled into one of the churchyard trenches.

Owen Watts – choked on his own hair.

Caroline Esberger – danced to death in shoes made of heated iron, to the tune of “Dance Yourself Dizzy”.

D-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-dizzy!
D-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-dizzy!
Tonight they're turning on the heat
Tonight you're in for such a treat
Tonight, put on your dancin' feet
And dance, dance, dance

Mario and Luigi (real names unknown) - painted red and green respectively, beaten, and forced to eat pizza whilst jumping over barrels until death by exhaustion.

RIP

Adam Doore – dissected alive as Herr Sotheran tried to discover the source of his luxuriant beard.

Ryan Wilson – crucified on top of “Pimpin’ Jesus”

Daniel Goldswain, a. k. a. “Sex Machine” – literally turned into a sex machine.

It is here that this sorry tale must end. I know no words of comfort that may aid individuals affected directly or indirectly by these crimes. The Brodsworth Deathcult continues, with no end of Herr Sotheran and Overlord Merrony's tyrannical reign in sight. All I can hope is that this message is received and serves to discourage unfortunate students from signing up willingly to serve this torturous machine. Unless the only other option is going to join the Stonehenge Chain Gang.

The Frozen North of Ultima Thule

Steve and Lauren visited last Thursday; they were staying for a week and we had planned on a road trip to the north. Lauren, being the Goth she is, wanted to see Dimmuborgir. They arrived pretty late on Thursday bearing gifts of Rum and a 'Yorkshire Tea' milk jug and apron, sent from Andrew Chamberlain of Sheffield University. After a quick cup of tea we headed into town only to find everything shut, so we couldn't have a celebratory drink for their arrival. We came back to my gaff and Lauren and I gossipped about everyone we know, so if you know Lauren and you know me, then we talked about YOU, yes YOU. For some God only known reason they wanted to spend Friday checking out the fishing camp that is Reykjavik, so I took them to my site first of all. As we walked away I could hear Atli asking why all my friends are so short. We went round some of the museums, first the National Museum, then the Settlement centre where the enthusiastic guide enthused over horse fighting, telling us specially trained Icelandic fighting horses go for the jugular. He told us the horses were sent into a frenzy of fighting because of the presence of a mare. I suggested it was like most towns on a Friday or Saturday night. The Manuscript Museum was excellent and I hadn't been in there before so that was good for me at least. We headed out for a few drinks on Friday night with Jo, Roz and Duncan.

After picking up a car on Saturday morning we headed out on the well trod path of the Golden Circle, after first of all going around the Reykjanes peninsular to see the bridge between continents, then getting the car stuck in the only patch of snow in the south-west of Iceland. After about an hour of attempting to dig the car out with the jack handle, three burly Russians appeared in a 4X4 and pushed the car out for us, completely emasculating Steve and I in the process. The rest of the Golden Circle tour occurred without incident except for Lauren and I standing upwind of Geysir and getting soaked. Neither of us were expecting that to happen. We thought better of visiting Þingvellir due to the failing light and the sideways snow being blown by a 100mph wind. Instead of going to Duncan's housewarming party (Roz ad Jo refused to have anything to do with it...) we crashed out early, ready to set off north in the morning.

After a quick tour around Þingvellir in far more agreeable circumstances than the previous day, we struck out north stopping at Borganes and the fantastic Egil's Saga Museum which turned out to be a brilliant but basic guide to Egll's Saga through the medium of wood. The best things were the Scorn Pole and the werewolf statue of Egil's Grandfather.

Egil, probably...

It took a while to find because the simple girl at the garage drew us the most random map of how to get there, then failed to even give us the map. The journey north continued and despite Steve's misgivings about the 'Road of Death' we arrived in Varmahlið alive. The hotel was empty except for us three and with the snow laid thick around outside it threatened to turn into a scene from The Shining. I'm sure I was woken up by someone scratching on the door whilst muttering 'Red Rum, Red Rum...'

Here's Johnny!!

Monday brought us to Akureyri and even further north to Húsavík, so Lauren could see the biggest collection of penises (penii?) in Iceland in the the Phallological Museum. She's always gasping for cock, that one. It turns out that the museum is shut for the winter, it must be something to do with the cold weather and the exhibits shrivelling up...

Lauren and Steve outside the Phallalogical Museum, closed due to Shrinkage

With a loss for anything else to do in Húsavík we visited the excellent Whale Museum which was being used by the local Derby & Joan (Derbyson & Joandóttir?) Club for their golf tournament. We learnt all about whaling, whale spotting and whale biology whilst dodging golf balls.

Golf? In a museum? Only in Iceland...

Om Nom Nom

Leaving the many varied sites of Húsavík behind (if I were in charge of the tourism in Húsavík, I think I would go with the town logo; 'Húsavík, at least it's not Olafsvik') we headed back south and took a wrong turn that dropped us outside of Dimmuborgir. We left the car on the road and began the descent into Hell. The snow was still very thick and was covering even the site gate when we arrived. The place was empty except for us three and we trudged through waist deep snow to try to reach the formation known as the Church. After exhausting ourselves just like Scott of the Antarctic we decided it would be best to turn back as Icelandic weather is not something to take for granted. Also, trolls can be a very real and present danger in a place like Dimmuborgir and I didn't fancy trying to outrun one knee deep in snow.

Lauren and Steve get ready to outrun Trolls at Dimmuborgir

With a late meal of Pizza in our bellies we headed to a bar for a drink, where Lauren was accosted by a farmer who liked her accent. I asked him if he was a snow farmer, which didn't go down very well. I crashed out in the semi-luxurious surroundings of the Hotel Akureryi and woke to a massive breakfast of cereals, toast and waffles. Well, you've got to gorge yourself when it's free.

It took us ages to build this snowman and I still don't know where Lauren got that massive carrot from...

A quick wade through more waist deep snow at Goðafoss and the pseudocraters at Skútustaðir, we called in to book a chalet at the Dimmuborgir Guesthouse. Promptly getting the car stuck again, this time in Volcanic ash rather than snow, we needed the assistance of the owner of the guesthouse to pull us out, whilst his dog ran around our toes with a log it seemed fixated on.

Not again Steve...

Hverir and it's otherworldly appearance were next on the list. After wondering what the fuck was going on at Hverir we spent the rest of the afternoon in the relaxing nature baths at Jarðböðin which we had to ourselves for the most part. The snow even lay thick around the baths, so Steve and I had fun rolling about in it then throwing ourselves into the 42 degree hot pots. The evening was spent eating pasta, playing cards and seeing how bad a loser Lauren is.

Om nom nom...

Lauren tried calling the Phallological Museum on Wednesday morning to see if the owner was back from Reykjavik yet. She told him she was gasping to see his Penis(es), but he wouldn't be back until late that day, so we decided to begin the long drive back to Reykjavik via Reykholt. We got to Reykholt late on, but the nice lady at the reception allowed us to stay as long as we wished after she found out I was an archaeologist. She even showed us the library upstairs and the apartment that students can use when staying there. She finished the personal guide with a quick tour of the church. all this and she didn't even charge me the entrance fee. A quick look at the hot springs at Deildartunghver later we headed back to Reykjavik only stopping for some food shopping. After a massive meal Duncan and Jo headed out to meet us in Dillon for a couple of drinks and we all fell into a deep and drunk sleep.