Through this black night I've pondered...

I'm back in Lichfield for a few more days since I haven't yet finished the borehole survey and neither have I located the medieval ditch. One would assume that a ditch that was 5m wide and 5m deep would be a difficult thing to misplace, but Lichfield certainly seems to have done it! Mind you, this is in the same city as the following happened to me this morning, so it doesn't beggar belief that much...

Feeling incredibly tired after the weekend's shenanigans (more of which later) and pissed off with pretty much everything, I thought I'd cheer myself up with some olde Sweetes, from an Olde Sweete Shoppe. Of which there are two in Lichfield. (An aside, this gives you an idea of the kind of people who live and visit here (ie, the blue rinse brigade). They remember 1883 when these kind of shops were all over the country, mucky faced little lads sitting at the counter drinking a creamy sasparilla (the latest craze from faraway New York!), whilst the grubby handed shop assistant shoves handfuls of aniseed balls into paper bags. 'Oh, it takes you back doesn't it Doris? Back to the old days when the internet was in black and white and there weren't so many darkies from Eastern Europe in the country...') anywaaaaay, I walkied into the shop and immediatly noticed the local village idiot was in there, slobbering over the glass fronted counter and ordering a giro's worth of Kola Kubes. He finished ordering, paid and recieved his change. He then asked where the charity box was, the owner showed him and he placed his change in the slot. As he did, he ruminated upon the charity that was benefiting from his patronage. 'Ah, Macmillan Cancer Relief!' He mused 'I'll give to that, cos anyone could have it and we wouldn't know! Anyone of us here could have it here and they wouldn't know!' He looked around the shop 'I could be eating one of your sweets' indicating the shop owner 'and suddenly get cancer!' With this cheery and upbeat proclimation he turned on his heel and left the shop. It was my turn and to break the heavy silence hanging in the shop I ventured to the owner 'well, Monday morning and you've already been blamed for causing cancer!' True story.

This weekend was tiring as I spent three hours of Friday night driving back home, after which I was dragged halfway across York to watch Robocop at Anna's. we also started watching Robocop 2, but I ended up getting confused and angry with it. Saturday night saw me in Barnsley at Kate's Mum and Dad's gaff, eating om nom noms, whilst being brow beaten by their family friend Stewart. He asked me question after question about my personal life, how many family members I had, my career trajectory, my shoe size and my full medical history.

Sunday night was spent in the company of about one million METAL HEADS who'd travelled down to Birmingham to see the METAL KINGS: MANOWAR!! For you sad cunts that missed it, here it is:

All The Dark Places In The Earth

Like the gnarled fingers of Hastur, the three spires had gazed down on that eerie place for countless millennia, groping ever skyward as though to pull the moon out of its orbit. The freezing fog that drifted across the swamp known as the King’s Fish Pond, hid all kinds of hideous life forms, from the lidless eyes of the Dagon to the greasy matted fur of the Shoggoth. This boil on the face of our otherwise beautiful country had no hidden charm but only morbid sentimentality of greater age when the Great Old Ones held the universe in thrall with their Black Magick. Yes, I speak of Lichfield, the moribund city whose very name conjures up images of the dead, the field of the dead, as it is known in the language of the Angle and the Saxon. It is of no consequence how I found myself wandering the crumbling facades and rustic gables of that foul place, it is only enough to know I was there. There in that bleak, black edifice of cruelty. It is here that my story begins, nay, it is here that my story ends, for it is a saga that should remain untold, but to you, dear diary, I feel I must commit the entire blasphemous tale that unfolded before my very eyes. I am on the edge of madness having stayed too long in that ghoulish place.

As I have already decreed, the reasons for my locale in that town are unnecessary, but I found myself ensconced in the Nyarlathotep guest house, a name I was uneasy with, but it being the only lodgings in the town (the other had ‘closed their doors’ after the infamous Parson Stranger had tripled their land rent overnight in mysterious circumstances). I was placed by the owner, a woman of a certain age, whom we shall call ‘Pauline’, for that was her name, in the attic room with views over the afore mentioned spires of the black cathedral on the hill. This, I was informed, was a ‘selling point’ and I wasn’t to worry about the smell that permeated the dank walls. Many would give their eye teeth for these views, especially on Walpurgisnacht when the surrounding hills would be lit with the demonic fires set by blood thirsty pagan wildmen, living in the forests at the edge of the unnatural city. Yes this ghastly ceremony passed as ‘entertainment’ in this borough, this ungodly display of heathen impiety. I knew my time was short passing through this pessimistic place and so was prepared to bear any burden that would ease my journey. I paid for the room in golden coinage, paper money was widely suspected as some foreign element in this municipal. As I did so, Pauline eyed my purse with lust and I felt I saw excitement in her eye at the prospect of so many riches.

The first night I slept fitfully, plagued by feverish dreams, I saw Great Satan devour his son and screaming faces haunted my sleep. But other than this the first night passed without incident. As break-fast was included in my deal (a deal with the Devil, some may say), I stumbled blearily down-stairs to the break-fast parlour. The table was already laid with cutlery and plates for my arrival. The crockery had a greasy sheen and the watercolour pictures on them depicted scenes of horror to which I was not accustomed. One vignette showed a bent creature sitting upon what looked like the wall of a cemetery, in its claw was held a bone and it gnawed feverishly on the end. I looked away in disgust, pulling a face at the very moment Pauline entered the room. ‘Don’t like the plates ay?’ she bellowed, for her composition dictated that she speak as loudly as possible in any given situation ‘Not many outsiders do, but here in Lichfield, we see the beauty in them!’ she spoke in that strange tongue of the West Midlands, the accent that makes one sound like a mentally challenged simpleton, chained up in a lunatic asylum, eating beetles and worms for sustenance. ‘Yes, I have had many folk through my doors, some from far away places like Europe.’ She stopped talking and pondered a moment ‘What do you think about Europe?’ the question was bellowed so loud I was almost knocked off my chair. Without waiting for an answer she turned and returned to the scullery, where the unwholesome banging of pots and pans began, a cacophony that was to accompany the rest of the break-fast meal.

Presently my solitude was broken by a gentleman in a cocked hat, he introduced himself and I detected from his accent that he was from the former colonies. He told me in that strange New World accent that he was from Innsmouth in Massachusetts. He had a curious gait and large bulbous eyes, not unlike a fish. As we chatted he pulled from his pocket, a box of metal and glass which filled his palm. He motioned to the device and asked me in an authoritarian tone if I knew what it was. I did, as it happened. The box was a rudimentary communication device. I had seen such in my travels in the Far East (another story, of which time here is not available). I had a basic working knowledge of the machines that allowed one man to speak to another across great distances. This American pressed me for information on the usage of this article. I spoke only what I knew and advised him as best of my knowledge. He seemed satisfied and lapsed into a silence as he ate. The American was not my only guest at break-fast that morning. Presently two young women joined myself and the colonist. They had the posture of the European, the attitude of the Old World and small cigarillo of the French. My travelled mind deduced they were from La Belle Francais. My presumption was proved correct when, within moments of them arriving Pauline re-entered the room and bellowed at the girls ‘Il mange, nes pas, dans la sac!’ The look of combined horror on their faces gave me the excuse to leave for my work.

My tribulations did not end there. At my vocational scene I met with the two labourers I was to supervise. One was a short dark looking man with piercing eyes, the other lean, tall and nimble in movement, but not thought. These ‘men’ were my charges for the duration of my time in that ominous city. I set them to work and they took to their various tasks with vigour and pith. My task was to oversee their work and this involved me sitting upon my carriage and making notes in a small black book. Their work was rhythmic and mesmerising and I fell into a stupor. This languor lasted until I suddenly became aware of a presence over my right shoulder. I turned with a start to see a ‘gentleman’ staring through the window of the carriage. His breathing has left greasy stains upon the glass and he only stopped when I moved to open the window. Upon his head was a coiffure, unlike any I had seen upon a mortal man. He resembled the famous American vaudeville performer who goes by the stage name of Elvis Presley. However he appeared to be four times the age of Presley. ‘Wha’cha’doin?’ he barked at me, fetid breath blowing on my face. I explained my mission involved the location of underground features, specifically the ancient town’s ditch. ‘Wha’maps,ya got?’ he demanded. I explained and demonstrated to him the cartographic sheets that I was using in the task. His face cracked in two, a grin spread across from ear to ear, revealing teeth that resembled a row of burnt fence posts. ‘Have ya got the 1485 map?’ He leered at me. I answered in the negative. He went on to explain to me that he had the aforementioned map, but it was drawn upon skin. I dare not ask where he acquired such an item, nor indeed whose skin it belonged to…

That night my dreams were again invaded by the faces of the denizens of this pit of villainy, but this was the least of my horrors that last evening I spent in the City of Death. I was awoken at three bells by a noise, an inhuman ghastly noise. I thought at first that my room was being broken into by Pauline. Quickly gaining consciousness, I realised the true horror what was confronted me. The basic human defence system overcame me and I bolted for the locked door. In the darkness I pounded upon the frame, screaming for freedom. The vision I had seen forced me from the room with alarming speed, so much so that I tumbled down the three flights of stairs below. I barely noticed that I had fallen, I was so quickly out of the front door and into the cold, black night. Pumping my legs I ran and ran as fast I could be carried. I came to three hours later, the woman that found me later told the psychiatrist that I had been gibbering and wailing like a banshee. Under deep hypnosis and cold water treatment, my mental situation was slowly cured. It was perhaps several years before I could revisit the horrors I saw in that attic room at the Nyarlathotep guest house. The memories came back in fits and starts and only now can I revisit the entire ghastly scene that faced me that night. When she first mentioned it, I thought Pauline was trying to frighten me, I thought she was playing games with my weak disposition, but when I saw that apparition, all doubt left me. I knew she spoke the truth. There in my room that night, sitting on the end of the bed was the spirit of dead cat. It stared into my eyes and deep into my soul, judging me. The fear of centuries lay heavy upon my heart and I bolted, as any reasonable human would. But how did I know this creature was an agent of the Mi-Go? What revealed it to be from the dark side of the Moon, a denizen of Ulthar? The figure of the feline was only half in existence! It was a half-a-cat. But this alone was not enough for the true magnitude of what I was witnessing was a spectre. No, what sealed the fact that this cat was a phantom was the fact THAT ITS TAIL WAS POINTING THE WRONG WAY!

Deep in the lair of Dagon...

As Marlow described the boat edging its way up the rivers of the Congo as a beetle scuttling across the floor of a lofty portico, I too, found myself scuttling into the Heart of Darkness in the Staffordshire badlands. Yes, the clarion of Lichfield was sounded and I answered the call. At 5.45am I was up with the Larch and found myself travelling south to Lichfield. I had been given a mission and for my sins I took it. A borehole survey was required and I was the only man that would never get off the boat.

Tamworth, shit, I'm still in Tamworth...

I haven’t been to Lichfield for three years, but not one atom has changed. Mind you, in the past five hundred years, not one atom of Lichfield has changed. The Civil War siege is still the main taking point at the coffee mornings across the city. ‘I don’t like those Roundheads, their eyes are too close together…’ ‘Coming over here, building their corner shops and filling the town with the smell of sweet meats…’ I previously spent a long time in Lichfield and it got under my skin, like a sliver of metal lost during a surgical procedure the town was still in me and as soon as we (Barry and I) stepped into town we made our way to Greggs, just like the old days. Stuffing our faces with greasy offerings we gaped in awe as Major Misunderstanding waltzed passed us with his pantaloons and swagger stick, ready to attack any scallywag of a youth who should cross his path… This was not the least of today’s spectacles. We took a seat in the market square to watch the passers-by and it was not long before Lichfield’s answer to the Blue Man Group appeared; two men dressed head to toe in red, even with red tights stretched across their heads. They had some form of Gladiator’s cudgels with which they battered each other with for five minutes then promptly disappeared. We rubbed our eyes, was this real? Did that really happen? What purpose was it for? They never asked for money, never made their issues known. They fought then disappeared, like red ninjas.

A red ninja, but nothing like the red ninjas I saw, unfortunately...

The Major and the Red Fellas were not the weirdest denizens of Lichfield that we saw today. Whilst still sitting in the market square, I spied a gentleman of a certain age (about 45), with a mullet firmly planted upon his bonce. This was the least of his problems. He was wearing a strange combination of army surplus wear. British Army pattern boots, DPM trousers and British Army jumper. Although all these items were tied together by theme it was the accoutrements that proved to be upsetting. Hanging from his chest, flapping in the breeze, was a FUCKING IRON CROSS! I shit you not! A German World War Two Iron Cross. Underneath this was a sewn on National Eagle patch. The only thing he was missing was the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler arm band and Panzer Kill patches. We reckoned he must have been Lichfield’s BNP candidate. There can be no other explanation why someone would be parading around in Nazi paraphernalia in the middle of the afternoon…

'Darling, I'm just off out, do you need anything from the market?'

Barry beat a hasty retreat back north in the afternoon and I was left alone with the hole borer. He can talk a lot, but he hasn’t bored me yet. Mind you, there is still time. As for digs, I am back in the soft bosom of Pauline, at the Mountains of Madness guesthouse. Like Lichfield, Pauline hasn’t changed a bit. I haven’t seen her for four years and when she answered the door, I said ‘do you remember me, Pauline?’ ‘Yeeeeees’ she answered in that unsure way that one uses when one is either covering up for a lack of long term memory or not fully understanding the question… I presumed the latter. On the way up to the room she told me ‘Stewart was going to have you, but I gave him Steve as Stewart can’t do breakfast on a Tuesday, and now I’ve got you.’ Literally, WTF? This week is going to be interesting…

Breakfast time at Pauline's...

I’m afraid that of late I have been treating this blog like a ginger stepchild and neglecting it, that is because I have been teaching and updating has had to take a second place to writing lectures. But since I last updated a couple of interesting things have happened. I slept in an Army barracks a couple of weekends ago, it was the annual AGM of No Man’s Land and instead of it being held in London, as it usually is, it was brought further north to Nottingham and Chelwynd barracks. So for once I could attend, the main reason was to see the ladies and gents of NML and to get drunk in a new town. This weekend, Moogdroog had a belated birthday party, held in the sci-fi style. Although it wasn’t a fancy dress theme, Logan and Mrs Josh hijacked it and demanded that we show up dressed in a sci-fi theme. Moogdroog made a great Scully from the X-factor. The Josh’s came as the gay robots from Star Trek. And me? The best costume of the night! A goddamn TIE Fighter! Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyo!!!!

Best costume... EVER!!

NEWS FLASH, reasons the hate Lichfield # 679: Having parked my car where we used to park the cars, behind Pauline’s house, I have just been informed that parking restrictions have been enforced. Pauline wasn’t even told and all the cars that belonged to her guests were ticketed the next day! This town is so fucking backwards!!

If you know of a better 'ole...then go to it pt6

Lichfield! Ah, Lichfield! Nestling in the heart of Staffordshire, quietly majestic down the centuries, like an aged Grandparent quietly watching the rest of the world evolve & mature. Great men came and went, great women came and went, moulding the planet in their image. Stone tools superseded by metal, in turn outdone by machinery. Lichfield watched it all. Feet gave way to carts and wagons, the internal combustion engine ushered in the era of the car, pioneers soared into the blue skies aboard aeroplanes. Lichfield sat and pondered the changes. Lichfield sat pondering.

Saturday night entertainment in Lichfield in the 1980's

Lichfield was still pondering the changes when Onsite got an evaluation trenching contract before development commenced on a new mall complex including a Cinema on what was the existing council carpark and the area surrounding the bus station:


This project was the biggest upheaval in Lichfield's history since Prince Rupert of the Rhine demolished the cathedral's spire during the English Civil War. It was such an upheaval, in fact, that the local newspapers were full of letters from the older generation (of which Lichfield is made up of about 80%, Lichfield being somewhere you go to die, not live...) debasing the coming cinema. The cinema would give the local 'youths' somewhere to gather. Obviously this would lead to them all hanging around in groups and smoking Ecstasy until they were ripped off their tits on LSD Acid. What the letter writers failed to note was that the local 'youths' had nowhere to go and hung around in groups smoking ecstasy anyway. At least a Cinema would give them a focal point and help release some of that tension that living in a town populated by geriatrics who get excited at the prospect of a Christmas show from Phil Cool can generate. This was the kind of attitude we were up against in Lichfield. Development and change=BAD, sitting on your arse for centuries doing nothing=GOOD. laissez le bon temps d'arrêt.

The Church says NO(to the cinema)!

It wasn't all bad, Lichfield had it's share of characters as only parochial places can. We stayed in Pauline's B&B for the most part and I have covered my adventures there in this post. I forgot to mention in that post that the dentist Daniel was mistaken for turned out be a Hungarian/Bulgarian/Romanian (I was never quite clear which) man with quite a dour demeanor and a hatred of 'the Muslim'. He was never seen in daylight hours and I'm fairly positive that 'Vlad the Extractor' slept in a coffin lined with soil from his homeland...

'Please be to opening ze mouth and saying ze Arrrghhhh'

There was Sven the bartender in one of the pubs, a Margret Thatcher supporting Wiccan Wizard. He spotted my Tenhornedbeast t-shirt and asked if it was a Star of David I was wearing. A Star of David with ten points? I thought you were an authority on Magic Symbols Sven? He also bored me for a while with his stories of laylines instead of allowing me to try my lay lines on the attractive barmaid he was working with.

'One for the road, Lads?'

Vlad and Sven were not the only weirdos that we met within the city walls of Lichfield and I'm sure Duck L'Orange can wax lyrical about them for hours, but that is not the purpose of this piece. Lichfield marked the last job I would work for Onsite for nearly two years. This probably had something to do with what happened on the day before I left the company. We had been erecting fences around the holes we were digging in the carpark, Nick had come down from York to oversee Lauren and myself, as Barry was off eating pies or something. Lauren had been tasked with watching the machine as it cut it's way into the ground. I was, single handedly mind you, building the fences around the holes. In a brief pause I placed a spare fence panel absentmindedly against the half built fence. The wind took the panel and it fell into the carpark. It fell into an empty bay, unfortunately the next bay was occupied by a vehicle (I don't remember the particular make, it's all a bit of a blur after this..). The fence panel was exactly the right size to fall on the car's left side and scratch about twenty identically spaced lines down each panel of the vehicle.

How the car looked to me in those pregnant seconds after dropping the fence panel...

I looked at the fence panel, looked at the car, looked at the fence panel, wondered if I could get away without saying anything. I decided it was far too obvious and had to 'fess up to Nick. Nick looked at the fence panel, looked at me, looked at the car, looked at the fence panel, looked at me, wondered if he could get away with smashing my teeth down my throat in broad daylight. He decided it was far too obvious and left a note on the car to get in touch with him about insurance. Apparently the lady did and although I never found out exactly how much Nick paid out in insurance for the repair job he reminded me of the incident every time I talked to him on the phone for the next eighteen months. I sheepishly left Onsite for France, but I'll talk more about that in the next instalment, so while you think about that, I'll give you another bonus from the Singapore blog:

Thursday, May 31, 2007

Today is Vesak Day, we had the day off and I was going to spend it lying prostrate in front of a massive Golden Buddha, releasing a load of doves and then taking part in a candle lit procession like the good Buddhist I am. I got on the MRT and was heading down to Chinatown when B*** called me, telling me to come back to Yishun. Apparently I was needed as we were going to change our flights back to the UK. I thought they only needed my passport, which I had dropped off earlier. But, no, that wasn't good enough for Singapore Airlines. I needed to be there in person T**** had been told on the phone. So I duly arrived back at their apartment and we all set off down town. When we got there it turns out we didn't all need to go and least of all we didn't even need our passports...

Having ruined my Vesak day, which I had been looking forward to since the last one, me and B*** went in search of a Gun Shop he had read about in the Yellow Pages. God I was so angry I was gonna get a gun and just start blasting! Imagine, ruining MY BUDDHIST CELEBRATIONS!!

The shop was shut, so I went around the Arab quarter which was really nice, like Morroco, but better. Then walked back into town and bought myself a guitar for about £50. This is how nice people are here, I bought the guitar, the guys in the shop gave me a load of plectrums for free and then took a dollar off the price as they had no change. I then went up stairs to see Dean in To Megatherion, I bought the CD I am listening to now and he knocked two dollars off the price, again because he had no change. Imagine that in the UK?

And further to this, we needed some tyres for the array, the ones that were provided have copper banding in them. The instrument is looking for metal in the ground, so obviously having metal in the wheels fucks up the readings, as the machine reads the wheels and not the ground. We went to this bike shop called Cheap John's (true.), told the guy (I presumed it was John) our problem and he said "here, take this wheel, it's plastic, has no metal in the tyres." We said,"OK,How much do you want for it?" 'John' said "Don't worry, try it out and if it works then pay me, if not, then bring it back whenever." We were Gobsmacked. The upshot of the story was we couldn't be bothered to change the wheels over so we took it back to 'John' anyway. We are well on the way to finishing the second area of the site, there are quite few large anomolies that we have picked up with on the scanner but they shouldn't be a problem, unless they are 2,500lb Japanese Bombs. Mind you, we won't have any more problems if they go off...

Only B*** and I have been on the site for the past couple of days, T**** seems to have gone down with Dengue, the disease spread by mosquitos. It's like flu but takes about a month to get over. One of us had to get it. I expect we will all come down with it at some point. It's not fateful but there is nothing you can do about it. Mind you Dengue is the least of the problems if there is a Japanese bomb sitting under the ground, we'll find out tomorrow....