Paranormal Bollocks

On Monday Lauren and I watched Derren Brown's program about exposing Spiritual Mediums. I'm not a big fan of Brown, but it was a good to see an examination of the techniques employed by the 'psychics' to manipulate and exploit the vulnerable and grief stricken. This led onto a discussion about Lauren's friend's mum who was also claimed to be a  'medium'. Apparently her spirit guide had channelled through her to tell Lauren that there was something wrong with her car wheel and when Lauren checked the tyre was flat. HOW FUCKING FREAKY IS THAT? Now, why the spirits would make a point of telling Lauren something that she would have noticed as soon as she went to get into her car, I don't know. But that's what makes me a skeptic.

And we all know, cats are always right... 

The program also led onto a discussion at work about Ghosts and the like. Again, I am highly skeptical of the existence of things that cannot be proved by the rigorous dry reasoning of SCIENTIFIC TESTING. Things like Ghosts. Ghosts and 'spiritual guides'. Why do ghosts and spiritual guides always come as stock characters? Think about it. Lauren's friend's mum apparently has two spiritual guides, a Native American and an Ancient Greek. Now, call me skeptical again, but how can she even begin to understand what these guides are even saying? Does she speak ancient Greek or Navajo or Cree or Cherokee? Most likely not, so how can she follow the spirit's advice? The reason these 'guides' have been chosen is because they are the layman's approximation of intelligence in history. Everybody has heard how wise the Greeks were, well, along with bumming, they invented maths and that Plato fella invented psychology or physiology or something clever beginning with P and ending in ology. And we've all seen Dances With Wolves, those Indian chaps must be clever with their quiet meditative ways and their wind catchers and diminishing supplies of buffalo. Well, they couldn't out smart fucking small pox or fire water could they? But it's the same with ghosts, people always see ghosts of  18th Century Gentlemen or Nuns, little Victorian Girls or Roman soldiers (as here in York). When Ghosts are reported they are always something historically recognisable. Why do people never report seeing ghosts of 6th Century Anglo-Saxon peasants tilling the fields or a 1980's Yuppie who died from a coke overdose after a particularly hard fought merger and acquisition? Why are spirit guides never ancient Phoenicians or Cuthbert the peasant from the 13th century who worked in the local dung smithy? Why? Because the general public don't know they even existed. Since the general public's view of history is tempered by Television, most particularly BBC costume dramas and Dickens adaptations, there's no wonder people make these connections when they see a 'ghost' or call up their local Spiritual Guide.

Would you trust this man with your dead Grandmother?

Further to the other day's Road Rage, Lauren and I have noticed an alarming trend that occurs on the A59 every morning between the hours of 7am and 9am and 4pm and 6pm. It's name is enough to strike terror deep into the heart of any driver, Howard Carter had his Curse of the Pharaohs, we York commuters have the Curse of the Farmer! Yes, everyday at precisely 7am and 4pm the local farmers decide it is time to start driving tractors towing trailers packed to the brim with hay or potatoes or pig shit or anthrax infected sheep carcasses up and down one of the busiest roads to York at the busiest time of the day. The farmer drives his tractor down one lane whilst his high foreheaded, web toed, idiot son drives down the other lane in the opposite direction. They reach the roundabouts at the ends of the A59, circle them and head back on themselves at precisely 14 Miles per hour. The cars are backed up to Thirsk and Huntington full of sweating, swearing commuters desperate to get to work on time or to get home for the night. If it wasn't for these bastards we'd be home in about twenty minutes.

Get out of my fucking way you backwards animal fucking cunts!

Battlegroup Nerd

I got a letter the other day from the Job Centre, as you will no doubt know I have been having a few problems with them and their lack of professional abilities. This was the final reply of a letter of complaint I sent to them about a month ago. In it they admitted they didn't do enough for me, I was failed by their advisers in a correct job search for my profession and that they were reimburse me £25 for the inconvenience I suffered at their hands. I will scan and post it some time in the future but I don't have a scanner with me at the moment. Sometimes it pays to complain... Two other things happened which made me laugh this week. I was standing in the Co-Op buying milk the other day. Behind me stood this young woman with two kids. A young man entered the shop, obviously he knew her and the conversation, I shit you not, went like this:

Him: Alright Lindsay
Her: Alright Liam, you alright?
Him: I'm alright, how's Dave? He alright?
Her: Yeah alright.
Him: Alright

The other thing that happened occurred as I was walking into town to pay some cheques into the bank I was accosted by a Mormon. You can tell them a mile off, they are always well dressed youngsters carrying bibles and wearing name badges. This guy had already tried it on with the couple walking in front of me to no avail. I was listening to my MP3 player but I could see he was gearing up to get me on my knees for Jebus. He opened his mouth and was about to say something when I stopped him dead in his tracks: 'Sorry mate, I'm a Satanist.' I told him as I strode on. Actually if I hadn't been in a hurry I would have stopped and talked to him. I would have liked to ask him why I should believe in a God who would create something so useless as wasps (cue lecture length comment from Ashley about what good wasps actually do, besides just stinging people and being the shit bags of the insect world...)

Wasps = cunts

Anyway, I was in a hurry (ooh nice segue there) as I was due to pick Vin up and go to Elvington Air museum for their Battlegroup North militeria fair. Another day of dressing up was lined up for us. This time military re-enactment was the order of the day. Now, before you start, I don't really have much of a problem with military re-enactors,. Some of my best friends are re-enactors, but I wouldn't do it myself. But, you say, they only dress up like the much despised Goths. Well yes they do, but at least it has some basis in historical fact and by that token it has a sense of education to it. You feel they are not just indulging themselves but they are actually teaching you something about the past whilst learning themselves. Goths just indulge themselves dressing as vain vampires from a totally fictitious Victorian period. Anyway, I must stop thinking about Goths before the vein in my foreheads starts throbbing again. The problem I do have with re-enactors is their preference for the German Army of the Second World War. In particular the Waffen SS. Elvington was no different and the Germans out numbered the Allies by about three to one. It was like Unternehmen Seelöwe had been an outstanding success... It turned into a day of Swastika spotting, so here follows photos of the best we saw...

Note the tasteful arrangement of Nazi weapons and uniforms...

This was priced at twelve pounds,  all the Allied flag were ten pounds. Make of that what you will...

Special mention must be made of one of the traders, who quite literally set his stall out politically:

'Have you got any Allied stuff?'

'Nah mate, I wouldn't be interested in any of that...'

Ashtrays of the Third Reich...

Herr und Frau Himmler search out cheap bargains...

 Note the tasteful Smiley Hitler T-Shirt

And finally from Elvington, I can't even begin to tell you what is wrong with this picture:

Re-Enactors, always striving for historical accuracy...

For more pictures from Elvington see my Facebook photo album here. Saturday night saw me sitting in the balcony of the Hyde Park Picture House watching Until the Light Take Us, the new documentary about Norwegian Black Metal and the halcyonic days of church burnings and murder! It was excellent, if a little filled out with fluff. The soundtrack was great. 99% of the people reading this won't give two shits about it and that's the way it should stay, but the other 1% should try to see it wherever it's playing.

Driving Home for Christmas

You know what I hate most about this job? No, it's not the wind that shot blasts us with gravel when it picks up a bit across the site. It's not the fact that I have spent two and a half weeks putting two meter slots across two hundred meters of a 19th century field boundary and finding nothing but a belt buckle and modern drain pipe for my trouble. It's not the fact that we are watched by Chris the site foreman during his 'break' to make sure we are earning our keep. It's not the aforementioned Chris who comes and talks to me without listening to a word I say back. No, it's none of that, it's the drive home.

The drive out to work isn't so bad, we leave at seven AM, go around several roundabouts, connect onto the A59 and then the A1, off a slip road, into Tarmac's site, sign our names on a piece of paper and go round the corner to work all in time for eight AM. The journey home, however, is a different kettle of fish. We go through several picturesque villages before hitting the A1, we drop off it onto the A59. This is where the first problem begins. At Kirk Hammerton (this place always gives me a chuckle, imagine naming a village after the guitarist of Metallica. The next town over is Lars Ulricham) a feeder road drops over half of the road using travellers of North Yorkshire into my path. Bam! The traffic comes almost to a standstill for about ten minutes as we crawl along at less than walking speed. Then we're free and past Kirk Hammerton, it all gets a bit too cozy until we hit the roundabout before the one at Haxby. The traffic here gets awful bad, it's a as though everyone in England lives in Haxby, has the same job in the same office and are all released from work at the same time. Either that or there is a local sport centred around sitting in your car at round-abouts. Villagers in Devon dodge rolled flaming barrels of tar, people from Cooper's Hill in Gloucestershire chase cheese down hills. The denizens of Haxby sit in their cars and attempt to go slower then the one in front. Eventually we are free of the Haxby roundabout and the road opens up again, there is hardly another car. It takes an hour to drive to work, it takes an hour and a half to drive back. Fucking Haxby cunts.

It's Election night in the UK and I won't say any more about that except that I told the Polish couple on site, Kamil and Gosia, that Lauren voted BNP. Now they hate her.

I'm tired and I can't be bothered to find some pictures or links for this post. If you don't like it, you can suck a fat one.

Fucking Students

It's Bank Holiday Monday and I'm not at work. I would actually prefer to be at work, I'm missing out on £140 by sitting here writing this. Having not worked for nearly six months I'd prefer to be out grinding at the earth like a tilling Anglo-Saxon peasant. But at least the holiday means that I don't have to get up at the crack of sparrows to drive the hour to work whilst listening to Lauren droning on and on about Heston Blumenthal's TV program from the night before. So it's not all bad, eh? I've been making good use of the extended weekend by drinking and sleeping. Mainly drinking on my own whilst watching Britain's Got Talent. I lead a full life, I tell you! I cleaned the house on Saturday and as I went around the front room I lifted the cushions off the sofa to find the detritus of the previous occupants of the house. I was amazed at the laziness of the students cunts that populated this place. The sofa was stuffed with crap they'd dropped down the cushion sides and never bothered to get out again. Spanners, decks of cards, pens, pencils, clothes pegs and various tickets/doctor's appointments were jammed under there. What the fuck are people like? How didn't they feel this lot sticking into them when they were sat down?

It came from beneath the sofa...

I did call into York centre on Saturday, ostentatiously to see if Logan Josh's claims of Stahlhelms was true. He'd informed me that The Blue Moon Trading Company was unknowingly selling reproduction German World War One helmets as World War Two items. They certainly were, but the price put me off a bit, nearly £70! I quite like the idea of sitting around watching telly and drinking whilst looking like Ernst Jünger getting ready to raid a trench, but the price was a bit too steep for me. I declined the offer and consoled myself with four AC/DC CDs and four DVDs instead.

'What's on the other side?'
'Errr... Strictly Come Dancing on Ice'

I got myself Clerks, Into The Wild, The Blue Max and Last Tango in Paris. I began watching Clerks the other day and realised a lot of time has passed since I first watched it and it's not actually as good as I'd remembered. Stilted dialogue, over acting and preposterous situations don't really make a good film I'm afraid... Last Tango in Paris was also slightly disappointing, not nearly as good as it has been made out to be, with all the controversy. I also have no idea when 'uncut, uncensored version' can legitimately be claimed as a DVD 'extra'. I haven't watched Into The Wild yet, but have heard nothing but good things about it, and the Blue Max was bought 'cos it's such a good film anyway.

It's a Pfalz, yeah you heard me, a fucking Pfalz!

Speaking of music, as I wasn't, I got hold of the new release of Jaldaboath, if you like Metal, Monty Python and Medieval shit then I can't recommend it enough. Anyone that does a cover of the Rent-A-Ghost theme gets a thumbs up from me... As does this collection of GG Allin CDs/DVD I also got this weekend, WWGGD?

Top Suits and Monkey Hats

Despite the advance warning, no Ukrainian butchers have yet moved in. Lauren and I come home from work each day with the dread of finding the kitchen awash with the blood of sheep and pigs, entrails scattered around the living room and four Vodka drunk foreigners forcing themselves on Lauren. But so far we have been saved and we are still the only ones living here. We have no idea if they have been denied visas or they are late coming because of the volcanic ash from Iceland. Maybe they aren't even coming at all. The possibilities hang over us like the sword of Damocles and we sleep uneasily in our beds. We could ring the landlord and ask what is going on, but that would spoil the fun...

Will they be waiting for us? Only time will tell...

Last night, Lauren and I donned our best bibs and tuckers as we had been cordially invited to dine with Logan Josh and his lovely wife. We were picked up at 1920hrs on the dot by what can only be described as a strategically shaved monkey, who, upon closer inspection, was discovered to be none other than Logan Josh himself. He whisked us at breakneck speed to their pile located within the rabbit warren that is Huntington. The warren like appearance of the estate is a piece of border-line genius tactical planning to keep the riff-raff out. It provides avenues of movement that funnel poor people into killing zones swept by machine gun fire. We, however, were safe as we were in the chariot of Logan Josh. Number plate recognition cameras allowed us safe passage. Throughout the journey Lauren and I were blindfolded so as not to be able to disclose our eventual location to ne'er-do-wells. But Logan Josh eased our discomfort throughout the journey by telling us tales of Sir Stanners and his deeds of daring do at Nostell.

'You can go back to your village now, I have cleared your lands of the beast. I just demand twenty of your maidens in payment...'

Arrival was greeted by glasses of alcohol thrust upon us, the first of many. And on a school night as well! And then Dinner was served. I had previously been asked by Logan Josh if there were any foods to which I was not partial to. Lauren and I both have a fear of mushrooms, sweetcorn and peas and we both told him. He then told me that he would be serving a raw mushroom, sweetcorn and pea pasta dish. A quick aside is in order. I know mushrooms are supposed to be the food of the Gods, but I have had a pathological fear of them from an early age. It has now grown out of all proportion that they could taste like the fucking nectar that drips out of Natalie Portman's tit, but they ain't going anywhere near my fucking mouth. Peas and sweetcorn are a texture thing, I can eat them when they are in something else, but I don't enjoy it. Sweetcorn I never understood anyway. This shit doesn't break down in your gut. Like rats and cockroaches it would survive a nuclear holocaust. What the Hell is that about? In a thousand years, when archaeologists of the future, with laser trowels and hover shovels, come to dig up our remains they will find skeletons with undigested sweetcorn in the stomach areas. It will be surmised that everyone's last ritual meal was sweetcorn. A sweetcorn cult. Children of the corn. I digress. The meal that Logan Josh dished up had not one mushroom, not one pea or not one sweetcorn in it. It was a lovely curry.

Om nom nom...

As the evening passed the booze flowed, Logan Josh became more boorish and out came the hats. Logan Josh is known in hat collecting circles as somewhat of a fanatic when it comes to hattage. We were forced to don various hats by a drunken Josh, much like the costume shop owner in Mr Ben, but with more threats of violence. I'll leave you with a series of photographs showing a minscule portion of his collection of head coverings and Toys R Us uniforms.











And here's a goodnight kiss from Logan Josh himself...

Oh My Goth!

It was a lovely sunny day on Saturday and as I was in York, I thought better of merging with the madding crowds in the city centre and decided to go over to Whitby instead. I had heard rumours that it was Goth weekend. The fangs were out in force. It was like Twiglet set on the North Yorkshire Coast. The bats had flown in for the weekend. Scores of vampires had descended to bite the exposed neck of the West Cliff. Ever since Bram Stoker set a large portion of Dracula in Whitby, vampire wannabes have made the pilgrimage to the fishing town. This has grown out of all sense of proportion to become the now-famous Goth festival. It allows people with unfulfilled lives and synapses that are not properly connected to parade the streets dressed as Victorian ladies and gentlemen of the night, in a alternative universe where latex and New Rocks had been invented a century previously. It's like the ultimate in Retro. Most of these people believe themselves to be vampires and probably sleep in coffins lined with sand from Whitby beach.

I just can't get comfortable in this Scarborough sand...

But why Victoriana? What is the appeal of the most repressive period of British history? If you're going to resurrect a period of history why not the 18th Century? All those powdered wigs, pantaloons and syphilis would be perfect for 'dressing up time'. Not to mention all the shagging, Marquis De Sade style. Anyway, all these folks seem to be stuck in the alternative timeline of pretend 19th Century Vampire bullshit. They all lead an alternative lifestyle by looking exactly the same as each other. A trusted uniform that allows you to express your individuality as part of the crowd. I remember the Goths of old, the ones in the frilly shirts and lacy gloves dancing like cunts to Sisters Of Mercy in Heavy Metal nightclubs, it was always early in the evening before the other punters came in and kicked the shit out of them. But things have moved on from then and have changed so much. To be fair, I wouldn't have such a problem with Goths, if they didn't take themselves SO FUCKING SERIOUSLY! The po-faced set of twats.

'I'm so romantic and wistful, I'm a poet of the undead, a dreamer of unknown places...'

'No you're not, you're a cunt.'

Anyway, I drove over to Whitby with Anna in tow as my official photographer (she was paid in chips) and by Christ, we were not disappointed! We immediately spotted a Goth family upon arrival (actually we spotted one on the outskirts of York as well but I think they were lost...) and the rest of the streets were awash with black. It was a boiling hot day and these pricks were parading around in full dress suits and massive black capes...

Wrap up warm, it's gonna be cold today...

The Goths had come from far and wide and in a variety of vehicles (not being real vampires, none of them had the ability to turn into bats and fly to the event). But, like the Model T Ford cars they only in came in one colour: Black:

I wondered how high this guy's garage was to be able to fit those plumes in...

Goths die in hot cars...

When the horn was pressed it played the theme to 'The Munsters'...

This big black truck shipped in the poorer Goths who couldn't afford a car...

OK, let's have a look at some of the more shameful aspects of humanity that we saw. Now, we couldn't work out what the Hell this first couple were supposed to be. She was dressed in period costume alright but he was in a quasi-18th Century Grenadier outfit. You're a century too early, mate...


Pop Quiz time, is this a really ugly woman, or an averagely ugly man in a dress? Answers on a postcard, please:

'Sometimes it's hard to be a woman...'

Just like Excalibur coming out of a lake, King Arthur got out of a taxi...

The once and future King, needed a bit of help getting around these days...

The graveyard was the obvious place to find some of the best dressed Goths in town, so we climbed the 199 steps to the Church, bumping into other freaks on the way:

This is a Goth Weekend, not the AGM of the Pirates of the Caribbean Appreciation Society

Ahhh, so you just like DRESSING UP as an evil Nazi, but you're not ACTUALLY an evil Nazi? Right...


'Why so sad?'
'The chippy has run out of cod...'



Steampunks? Steamtwats, more like...

What is missing in your lives?

It looks to me like the best part of you ran down the crack of your mamas ass and ended up as a brown stain on the mattress.

Oh, just Fuck Off!

Scattered amongst the gravestones we found plenty of wistful looking waifs waiting for night to fall. I shit you not, when I took this photo of this girl I said to her 'Don't smile!'

Cheer up Love, it might never happen...

Vain doesn't even begin to describe it...

To add insult to injury, even Dr David Kenyon was in town. I'd heard he was in Whitby for the weekend, dressed up in military re-enactment clobber. I texted him to meet up and he said he was 'wandering around town dressed like a twat' I answered 'It's Goth weekend so you're not alone...' I assumed he was there for some museum show. Nope, he was there for the fucking Goth weekend, the stupid shit:

I used to have respect for you Kenyon...

He and his Goth mates dragged us round the Goth shops in the Spa which were selling cauldron's, bat's wings, paintings of cats sitting under crescent moons, neon dreadlock extensions and goggles for all your Traditional Goth/Cyber Goth/Steam Punk needs. Speaking of Steam Punks, amongst the best we saw were these two. Definitely the fittest specimens of Goths we saw all day:

The fantasies just don't stop...

They were with some ugly bloke in a trenchcoat but I pushed him out of the way to get this photo. But, by a country mile the best costumes we saw all day were these two:

Literally: OH MY GOTH!!

There is not enough words in the English language to even begin describing this outfit. Where do you begin? What is it? Why the fuck does he have a cod-piece made out of an elephant's head? Why has he got a golden breastplate covered in pictures of Napoleon? Why has he got mirrors on his hat? What is the deal with the blunderbuss? Is he a hunter? What does he hunt? What basis in any kind of reality does this even have? Looking at this makes me feel like I've been taking crazy pills. Anna came up with the perfect name to describe it, she called him Hannibal. She wasn't sure what it meant but it seems to work...