Part III - The Vaults of the Museum of Modern-Antiquities

‘Bet yer can’t guess wot I do?’

I looked him over.
He looked pitiable; like an emasculated door mouse. He was in his dotage. Small of stature. Fidgety. Skin wrapped in centuries of folds that held god knows what secrets. He had a hooked nose, large furry ears, and bushy eyebrows. His face had a sulphury complexion under the light bulb that hung above us; its feeble glow our only source of light. His eyes were like diamond cutters – two magnetic bright blue beams that shone out from amongst the folds of flesh and pierced the smudgy blackness.
‘No you’re right, I can’t’
He looked up at me. His eyebrows reproaching me with their bushiness.
‘Garn!’ he cried with a playful shove. ‘Wot’s yer bleedin’ game, eh? Can yer not take a guess matey!’
‘Alright, alright’ I said.
‘Let me see. You’re the esteemed curator of the museum, right?’
I waited for another exasperated look of indignation.
Instead he smiled and nodded approvingly.
‘That my friend is coweckt-a-mundo’
‘You, you are?!’ I stuttered, surprised.
‘You? Me? Yes me, who else can yer see with us laddy?’

The poor man had been summoned up to the surface to fetch me - to be my guide. And he seemed rather pleased about it too. I suspected he was nocturnal and didn’t get out much. The two of us were crammed in an elevator heading downwards; the ancient winch and pulley mechanism variety; its cogwheels moaning and complaining to each other. I got the impression that the elevator wasn’t used often. There wasn’t much to see in the elevator apart from the patch of yellow below me that identified the man' bold head. There was a fusty odour too; an old-fashioned mustiness and the distinct smell of bread crumbs. I suspected this was coming from the man’s lunch stashed in his pockets.

‘Sorry I didn’t quite catch your name, what was it again?’ I asked
‘Again?’ he replied ‘I’ve not given yer my name laddy so there’s no again about it! but as you ask so kindly you can go callin’ me Kenny’
‘Ok, so tell me Mr Kenny, do you get many visitors down here?’ It was pretty obvious they didn’t. The elevator itself would scare them away.
‘V’zeetors? V’zeetors! Wot wud we wont v’zeetors down ere’ for? Wen der’s plenty of em’ ponces crawling up der!’ he shrilled.

We continued to descend and then the lift gave a sudden thud and stopped.
‘Ahh the bo-em’ Kenny sighed. He’d reached home. The bottom.

What surprised me was that we hadn’t so much stopped at the bottom but landed on it. Before I could add anything further we we’re off. It was dark below. The air was dank and draughty. We walked through a warren of corridors and tunnels lined with vaults. The floor was stony and it echoed with our footsteps. All sounds were amplified down here; like mortars tearing through the air. You could hear your laboured breathing, the steady drip-drip of distant leaking pipes, and the furtive scurrying of a large portion of London’s rodent population and all this to the backdrop of looming shadows that lunged at you with vengeance. You could hear the constant drone of the overhead light bulbs; amberesque balls of grimy-yellow that ran along the ceiling in single file like soldiers and disappeared into the depths as far as the eye could see. How long the tunnels were!

‘How big is this place?!’ I asked
Kenny went into his (little used) tour-guide routine:
‘Four miles of corridors serving 153 individual coffered domed vaults. We have 3,567 light bulbs, each of which I have personally changed at-least 5 times…’
Suddenly there was a deep rumbling under our feet followed by the sound of grinding gears. It sounded suspiciously like a train.
‘and that is the Piccadilly Line westbound train to’ he paused, ‘to Russell Square’ – Kenny was on a roll.

‘When were these tunnels and vaults built?’ I asked.

‘Ooh, ages ago mate. Yonks before the fire n’way’
‘The great fire of London in 1666?’
‘Yus, dats wight. If yer look up T’ ceilin’ he said pointing ‘In them corners yer can still see the blackened stumps of the wood beams that wer burnt. The inferno must ‘ave raged ‘ell above, but the roof is made of stone so the vaults wer saved. Them vaults r’ old laddy. They wer around well before the Great Sewage Works Building Program of the 1500s. I know this cos me mate who works in the sewers and he say’s to me one day the sewers go around these vaults. There wer som arch‘ologists that came round er last year; pokin n’ peepin’ and wot av yer with der fancy E’kwipment n’ all. Dunno wot they found tho’ – if anyfink dat is’

‘Have they always housed the collection here?’

‘Oh no, the current building above was built in the 1600s. It first belonged to some o’ganization or suffink and then they turned it to a museum. Before all that there was a church ere on this sight. The museum building was built on the foundations of the old church building yer see. The underground vaults however ave always been ere’. Even before the church. I’m not sure if anybody knows wen tho. Maybe those archi ‘ologists know. Who knows?
‘But you’ve been here for years right? Do you not have any ideas?’
‘Wot I fink don't matter. But I fink these vaults go back years, as far back as the Crusades’

Then he paused

‘Look there’s suffink ere’ I wanna show yer. I think those arch’ologists missed this. Yer game?’
‘Er, Yeah. Sure’ I said.

Secret Vault

We headed into a vault in the corner. There was nothing especial about it. It had a coffered-domed ceiling just like the others. On the far side there was a rectangular niche built into the wall. This too was not unfamiliar but on closer inspection, when you poked your head into it, you noticed that one of the sides of the niche had a narrow passage that a single person could pass through sideways. When you went through to the other-side, you was in another vault. A vault onto another!

But this second vault was different. It had a ribbed-ceiling not coffered like the others and patterned cornice running around its knees. It was much older -12^th century Romanesque style I'd guess. But what was really startling was what adorned the wall on the far side. I walked towards it. It was a large arch structure, containing a ‘Jali’ or latticework screen with geometrical patterns. There were two panels on either side of the bottom with fret patternage. The outer rim of the arch itself had further layers of herring bone patterns, floral undulations, carved stone and finally a series of inscriptions. The design had arabesque motifs. It looked like a ‘Mihrab’ found in mosques indicating the direction to Mecca but the inscriptions at the top and those surrounding the arch were not Arabic at all. On closer inspection they looked liked 'Sanskrit'. It was wholly inexplicable - an Arabic design but Sanskrit calligraphy? I had never seen anything like it before! I would have liked to have studied it further but Kenny was growing impatient. So we headed back out.

The Diary

We entered the vault that housed the Dr Alexander Von Nutterboffin collection. The air was gristled with the unmistakable smell of old paper. The vault was lined with sheaves and sheaves of it. Floor to ceiling; buff and yellowed and dog eared by age and covered in a thin patina of dust. The paper lined the walls and it seemed to buttress the ceilings; our only protection from the roof caving in. Kenny had to leave.
'jus press the buzzer if yer need me - yeah?’ and then he was off

Soon I was rummaging through the paperwork. I found a diary belonging to the doctor and began reading...

Extracts from Dr Nutterboffin's Diary:

May 14^th, 1963 – Happy at last! Excavation officially commenced today after many weeks delay wrangling with the Kashmiri authorities over permits, fees, taxes, and baksheesh. The officials! My god! Had heard about them but never for the life of me thought they’d be this bad. The worst is a particularly disingenuous rascal and petulant man called Mr Ghulam Backander, the Area Commissioner for Geological Surveys (as he keeps trying to remind me). Mr GB has a bushy mustache. The mustache has a habit of involuntary twitching whenever Mr Ghulam has something on his mind and what he has on his mind is ‘greasing’ or the desire to be greased. So I handed him 100 rupees ‘grease tax’ and his mustache stopped twitching – can’t even fart here without someone wanting to see a permit. Hopefully this will be the last of the authorities – fingers crossed!

May 15^th, 1963 - I started digging at sight A1 (see map). Location: North East of Mangla Dam - twenty metres from the water line on an incline. Sight secluded and relatively undisturbed. Managed to set up the survey equipment, tent, stove and provisions. Some villagers came round to see what I was doing. Somebody must have told them about me. They sat squatting some distance from the camp on a slight rise, shielding their eyes from the midday sun, their salwar kameezs flapping in the wind. From the distance they looked like desert nomads. ‘Assalam’o’alaikum!’ I shouted - we exchanged pleasantries. They were more interested in the equipment. They left promising to come back again soon. Just being nosy I suppose.

May 16^th, 1963 – Digging going well. Nothing so far. Mainly ruddy dust. It’s hot!

May 17^th, 1963 – Soil mainly sandstone with occasional Syenite crystals indicating igneous rock history. Nothing extraordinary there. It’s lovely to sit here at sunset under the shade of the cool elongated shadows, especially after the furnace of the day. The scene is landscaped by the Karakoram Range in the far distance under whose feet the gentle undulating curves of the Pamir foothills ripple like satin sheets. Beautiful!

May 19^th, 1963 – Had lunch today on the top of a bluff not far from the excavation site. Great vantage point! Could see the entire sweep of the east and north shores of the dam. Noticed something peculiar: The vegetation. Or lack thereof; no vegetation or tree/shrub line for about 40 metres from the waters edge. Will send soil samples for mass spectrometry analysis.

May 25^th, 1963 – Finally! Mass spectrometry results! See below:

Silicon – normal
Carbon – normal
Sodium – normal
Sulphur – normal
Helium – less than normal (due to reduced biomass – living organisms)
Cadmium – abnormally high concentrations
Potassium – abnormally high concentrations
Unknown – traces of unidentified element (further analysis required)

May 29^th, 1963 - Have dug through the main soil substrata level. Nothing so far. Hard chalky layer next. Took the afternoon off to pay a visit to the nearby village of ‘Nanga Ghandu’. As I entered, the village shamen jumped out from under a tree where he had been masticating some betel leaves. His eyes were vacuous as if he were stoned. He performed a little ritual on me; reciting some incantations all the while jigging his arms from side to side. He made me drink some philtre, and then put a talisman round my neck – presumably to ward of evil spirits.

Thought: Who are they protecting? Me or themselves!
Anthropological note: animalistic nature of ritual at odds with Islamic teaching, yet somehow the locals have fused it into their beliefs – ritual practiced in many other villages bordering the dam. Found no evidence of its existence in farther afield/outlying villages.

Village elders were very kind and hospitable. We had chai. Told them I wanted to know more about the history of the area. So was taken to a hovel that belonged to the oldest person in the village. A women whose birth certificate claimed she was 147 years old (unable to vouch accuracy but record keeping 147 years ago would have been lacking!) – but she did look very old. Her name was Masi Jaan Jalebi. There she stood in front of me. All 4ft 8 inches of her and rather sprightly for her age too! A wizened creature; shrivelled by the heat, her teeth having long departed her, and her husband an even more ancient memory. Looking at her eyes was like looking through layers of tree rings. She lived alone with her chickens, which could be heard clucking and cooing under her bed. The inside of her hut was cool, the walls covered in baked mud and blackened by the soot from the indoor brazier.

I told her about the excavation. Then pointing her calloused hands in the air she croaked:

‘It is cursed! That area is cursed with the dreaded scourge of the Djinns! – Don’t go there if you value your life! Stay away son! Stay away my son for it is cursed! Cursed with the Djinns from the stars!’

Slept badly that night. The witches croaky imploring kept me awake. There was a genuine dread in the old crows voice. The full moon was out and as I lay supine on the mattress I could make out its outline through the gauz of my tent. It was hanging in the velvety blackness like a silvery calabash tossed into the sky. I stared at its fuzziness and slowly and gradually let my shutters close in on it.

June 2^nd, 1963 – The height of summer! Have been paying visits to the outlying villages. Same story always: a paganistic tinge flavours their beliefs and a dread of the area – where does this pernicious dread come from? Why are the villagers universally afraid of the dam? The dam was only built three years ago in 1960? Am I missing something here?

June 4^th, 1963 – Finally dug through chalky layer. Hard work! Found something puzzling; underneath the chalk was a black viscous oily layer of approx 1mm thickness. Definitely not an artifact. Will send sample for carbon dating. Not sure if anybody else has mentioned this in the scientific literature.

June 8^th, 1963 – Day off! - Still waiting for results from the carbon dating analysis. Took a break and went to the history museum in the city of Mirpur – largest settlement on the shores of the dam. Museum was small dusty affair; stuffy but cool – a relief from the merciless heat. Nothing of note. Mainly fragments of broken pottery, earthenware pots and terracotta jugs. In the photographic section a grainy black and white photograph caught my attention. It was spottled and crinkly with age. It showed a group of villagers posing, decked in their newest clothes with plasticine smiles (for the camera) squinting in the midday sun. In the background the Himalayan Karakoram mountain range and a goat shuffling in the corner, and behind the familiar low-lying depression of the dam. And the date: 1834.

1834! But the dam was not built until 1960? Conclusion: The dam must have been built on a natural depression. Will make a note of this.

June 15^th, 1963 – Finally! See below for excerpt from carbon dating analysis of substrata:

Carbon 14 isotopic analysis (carbon dating) on the sample in question has dated it to 14,000 BC. Error margin 5% (+/-) – hence the viscous oily layer was formed around 14,000 BC. What happened in 14,000 BC? Sent letter to Dr Jeffry’s at Oxford; was there a global wide geological event of significance that occurred around 14,000 BC - ???

June 18^th, 1963 – Was in my tent last night and heard some rustling sounds. Went outside with the kerosene lamp to take a look. It was a moon lit night with the silky moon reflecting off the waters surface, the ripples shedding it to ribbons, then in the foreground, between the silhouette of the nearby bluff and the faint blue of the sky I saw something stir. It looked like an animal but its movement was more purposeful, and then it stopped. There was no movement after that – probably a fox or something.

June 19^th, 1963 – The bastards! Woke up this morning to find that someone’s been tampering with the equipment. But the strange thing is that this is not the work of some bumbling villagers. The settings on my Ochiometer have been changed. Cogito: the work of intelligence - there was purposefulness in this.

June 20^th, 1963 – Just heard back from Dr Jeffry’s. There was no global geological event that occurred around 14,000 BC that can account for the soil layer. Whatever caused it happened locally.

Prologue to part III - Father Eduardo Conspiratorez

‘Here lies the darkest mystery known to man, enter thy crypts and be damned!’ (Father Eduardo Conspiratorez)

The Venetian monk 'Father Eduardo Conspiratorez' is a little known figure in history preferring to remain in the shadows rather then hugging the limelight. It was not Venetian merchants but Father Eduardo who first travelled eastwards in the 11th century to:

‘Those sun-baked heathen lands of the Indus plain’

Perhaps it was a heightened sense of religious duty that drew him eastwards beyond the Fertile Crescent where the sun rages fiercely and scowls on those that live under it. Who knows what it is that rages in the hearts of such men, but this much is certain: -

At some point in Father Eduardo's journey, scholars still puzzle over exactly where, but contemporary thinking suggests somewhere north-east of Mohenjodaro (the oldest city in the world), Father Eduardo found something that startled and disturbed his pious countenance. He hastily dispatched a messenger to retrace his footsteps back to Venice with this very message:

‘Here lies the darkest mystery known to man, enter thy crypts and be damned!’

The Venetian monk was never heard of again; fading into history like dust, his scoured bones lying undiscovered under a sun-baked earth. But his name lives on in the English word conspiracy.

Chapter II - The Inimitable Dr Nutterboffin

When Alexander was little he had an epiphany that would stick with him for the rest of his days. It was summertime in Bavaria. The world was shot through in a rave of whipped colours, whites and pinks and yellows and ultra-violets. Winter had finally released its ascetic grip to give way to spring and now the first signs of a bountiful summer. Compared to the joyless blues of earlier months, life was now a flourishing bonanza. The bonanza sprouted from the black earth carpeting the hilltops and dells in waves and waves of tussocky grass. The bonanza seethed below the soil toiling away with quiet industry - fortifying and recycling. It bloomed Brilliant White atop decomposing bodies and on dead tree trunks that looked like twisted wreckage. It flew through the skyways; its droning and buzzing barely audible above the swish and swash of leaves twinkling on and off like light bulbs. The wheat fronds were nodding piously towards the sun their benefactor as the wind rattled their chubby stalks and enraged the aphids that sat on them. The buttercups were out chasing the bees, and the bees in turn were gorging and stupefying themselves on the sweet nectarines; after which they'd slumber in the sun exhausted, and if they felt particularly wicked or mischievous they’d go bother some humans.

There was however one bee that was particularly troublesome. Not troublesome to humans mind you, but to his fellow worker bees. He was a pariah, an outcast and didn’t fit in. The reason for this lay inside his head – literally. Embryology had gifted him with much to be proud of. Like a shapely abdomen, fantastic yellow stripes that we’re cool and little bee-wings that we’re nifty. They were small and agile but made up for size in their whirring speed. He could use them to fly up oh high, and he did. He strayed from the regular bee routes that were choked with bee-traffic. He’d go as high as he could, beyond the forbidden cloud line (where no bee dared) just to see what it was like. Just to see what it was like.

But there was something else too, something unforeseen that embryology had given him in addition to his wings and stripy bottom. Something grotesque and unnatural - self awareness. What was wrong with him? Well, there was nothing ‘wrong’ with him it was just that, unlike the other bees who mindlessly, automatically, did what bees do; which is chase after flowers and get drunk on nectar, this bee who we can call ‘Alex’ stopped in its tracks one day and asked itself a question. Yes, a question. Which was:

‘Why?’

Now lets make it absolutely clear right away that this is something that bees don’t usually do. Bees don’t normally ask questions, especially ‘why?’ questions. But this was Alex. And he was odd.

It just so happens that at this moment of exalted lucidity, at the moment when the ‘Why?’ question popped into Alex’s brain, he was in mid-flight returning from one of his cryptic jaunts. The shock (and it was a shock) of the thought sprouting was profound. Brain power that was normally used for controlling flight muscles, making minute adjustments to pitch and tilt, basically precious brain capacity that was used to keep him up in the air was now being siphoned off and diverted – to feed existential musings.

Poor Alex tumbled out of the sky until finally squishing himself onto the lens of a binoculars, the last neuron that fired before his untimely death had one thing on its mind: ‘Why?’

However, as so happens in a universe that is enmeshed with the fibres of cause and effect, faith and destiny, the binoculars belonged to a young Alexander who had been watching the bee in mid flight all along. Watching the little thing coursing across the brilliant blue canvass, its yellow stripy bottom in the throes of turbulence, before it suddenly lost control, fell out of the sky and smashed into his binoculars - Just like that. Curiously, (and many would suggest grander forces at play here), Alexander was so moved by this, for it affected him so deeply; the whole pointlessness of it all, that he too stopped in his tracks and wiping the green splattered smudge of Alex from his lens, he too uttered the cryptic words:

‘Why?’

Unlike Alex, whose life had ended at the moment of lucid discovery, young Alexander went on to not only answer the ‘Why?’ question, but also farther to answer the ‘How?’ question and when he’d dispensed with that he moved onto the next logical question which was the most important of all ‘where?’ question - as in ‘now that I’m done with all this philosophising, where shall I go for lunch? - All this by the age of thirteen no less and still fresh in his teens. This was remarkable going.

So the young Alexander Von Nutterboffin, of Bavarian parentage had considered and surveyed all. His gaze had entered the crypts of histories great Philosophers from Aristotle to Bertrand Russell, and with a petulant sniff of the nose he had dismissed them all in one insouciant breath: ‘theoretical tourists’ was his dismissive remark at the time. So he invented his own ‘Philosophies’ to rival and surpass those of the greats. These he wrote down in the form of a ‘Principia de Sum’ (principles of Existence). Which were as follows:

1) The vast majority of people are inherently stupid. There is nobody more stupid then a man who thinks that he has nothing else to learn
2) The vast majority of people are amazingly boring. That is because they are stupid and think they have nothing else to learn
3) It is rare to find a person who is not boring. If you ever meet this person you will instantly know, because you will fall in love with them
4) Love is blind

So it was that the young and brilliant Alexander Von Nutterboffin completed his transformation into an arrogant, insolent and brutish misanthrope who dismissed the company of people:

‘There tireless whinings, their stupid questions, their irksomeness…these non-entities, these so called men of Cain, these sanctimonious schmucks!’

The religious order too we’re not spared the wrath of his fiery tongue:

‘Pious busybodies, these exalted sexually oppressed old men with their lurid fantasies of bondage to the sky god, their false perdition, their false guilt’

As for women:

‘These coquettes with their profligations and their sluttings, and the besotted rabble that chase them in a paroxysm of nympholepsy…I have no time for this tediousness’

So it was that Alexander grew to wince whenever he suffered the humiliation of the company of men, the sanctimony of the church and the flirtatiousness of women. But that is not to say that he didn’t get noticed. He did. He was rather handsome, in the guise of a modern-Greek Adonis. Women flocked to him like pigeons, intrigued by his aloofness, his rebuttals, his disparagings and his rapt and brilliant mind. But he just swept them aside, like flies getting in the way of the grander stuff of life.

After his monumental Principia de Sum (which he characteristically kept to himself), Alexander moved onto his next project. He began spending inordinate amounts of time staring at things. He’d stare at the most bizarre things; objects you’d never bother looking at like rusted copper coins, or whirlpools on wall-paper, crinkles in napkins, goose-bumps, crusted faeces, peoples bottoms and he’d spend hours and hours doing it. Of course, this was not just fanciful idleness. There was a great discovery lurking, as always, behind this studious gawping.

The idea was that if you stare at something hard enough, which usually meant for long enough, than it no longer looked familiar. It morphed into something new and terrifyingly strange and alien. And then you could discover it all over again as you did for the first time as a child! But unlike a child you could now put to use an array of sophisticated mental equipment to unearth it, to snuff it out, to tinker and play with it. Just imagine discovering a bottom for the very first time! You can apply the same idea to words; look at them long enough and they start deforming and melting into unfamiliar shapes that you no longer recognise.

Alexander coined this phenomenon cognitive dissonance and then in a stroke of genius took it into a wholly new direction – the realm of the Human Condition. Look at humans long enough, stare at them long enough, marvel at them long enough, and they will unravel themselves before you. Untwine like threads. All there complexities thus reduced to a few bullet points.

And so we have the inimitable genius of Alexander Von Nutterboffin.


Coming soon...Part III – The vaults of the museum of modern-antiquities

Coming soon... Chapter II - Meet the funky and inimitable Dr Nutterboffin (deceased)

Homo Kashmiri...Chapter 1 - The British Museum of Modern-Antiquities

The 'British Museum of Modern-Antiquities' (an oxymoron if you ever needed one) lies on Gower Street in London's bustling tourist-land. It is mid-February and under a heavy leaden sky shredded by a squinting sun, the streets are thronged with the patter of the hordes; giggling Japanese with their digital cameras, Germans in full hiking regalia, Indians with their bored boisterous children and the students and academics from the nearby university in a variety of guises: goth, nerds, the clinically self-conscious, and the antediluvian professors; tweedy, dusty and anachronistic in a world of automobiles and cell-phones.

As you approach the museum from the Euston Road end of Gower Street, you’ll pass the new hospital building on the right; its shiny-polished surfaces covered in protective bubble wrap and its jade matt windows bragging: ‘I am a hospital’ and ‘I am brand new!’ Behind it is the old hospital building it replaces; brooding under a shadow from its bigger brother. It is encased in a latticework of red ochre and has a head that is a jumble of spires and steeples like a Gaudi inspired mausoleum. When viewed under a swirling mass of angry February sky it looks terrifyingly sepulchral - a place for the living or for the dying; you wonder.

Farther on, beyond the university gates, is the ‘Centre for Tropical Diseases’ standing in an explosion of 50’s Art Deco. Supremely designed architecture is always timeless; not seduced by fads, always ‘La Mode’, never ‘out’ always ‘in’. The centre for tropical diseases was out of date the day it was unveiled to a horrified squirming audience.

As you approach the Museum of Modern-Antiquities from the side, you’ll notice the large white limestone wash dating back to the 1600s; now faded and mossy in the cracks. The building is constructed from large rectangular granite slabs, slammed together with Pyramid like precision. The building itself when viewed from the front is square, squat, rising three storeys, and wears an aspect of smug repose. A portico with columns and marble balustrades covers the entrance. The styling is simple; neat clean lines, classically shaped windows, and healthy proportions that please the eye. It’s highly likely that there is an element of deliberate contrivance in this as the architect, Sir Christopher Wren, was known to have been a patron of the ‘Golden Ratio’ – a mathematical theory stating that beauty is found in proportions that are multiples of Pi. The golden ratio can be found hidden in many of the buildings designed by the celebrated architect.

Surprisingly and perhaps curiously, there’s no signage at the front or anywhere near the building that announces to the casual viewer that this is a museum of modern antiquities. The only inkling of its importance is a vague washed-out frieze above the entrance; the ashen-faced Latin inscription severely blunted by weathering; but still legible. It reads (in English): “Here lies the darkest mysteries known to man, enter thy crypts and be damned!” The huge front door is made from tropical Rosewood. The grains and knots clearly visible and the whole thing is covered in a layer of gloss that emphasize its organic-ness and earthly provenance - so that it looks almost alive. The ornate brass fittings add to the sense of authority and permanence. A permanence at odds with the shape-shifting world outside. The world changes, people come and go; like seasons, like lovers, but amidst this transience, this bulwark door remains unflinching.

As you approach it, you feel as if you are about to leave this particular rabbit-hole and enter another rabbit-hole. Which in a way you are because inside this building lies the largest collection of modern artifacts and documents in the whole world. You wonder whether the absence of any self-promotion arises, in part, from a hyper-awareness of the Trustees to the ignominious history of the artifacts – you see many of the items kept in the museum were purloined during the Empire days when the British went on a ransack and therefore have a chequered past.

When you enter the building you’re relieved to find it is not overrun by grimy tourists or twitchy students. In-fact, to your delight and amusement, you discover that you are the sole patron. The three floors hold a sizeable collection, but that is not the reason you are here. So with haste you head for the man sitting in the reception area. He looks up at you wearily when you approach; his face slightly pudgy and dyspeptic. But he has keen eyes that hover around your face for a while searching for something before landing on one spot. You speak:

“Hello there, I was wondering whether I could see the ‘Dr Alexander Von Nutterboffin Collection’ please” and then you smile - for emphasis.

This is obviously an uncommon request and he is somewhat taken aback. You can hear the software in his brain whirring.

And you don’t let go of his eyes. The words rolling out of your tongue are precise, carefully measured with a slight weight on the ‘Co’ of collection. Your voice is smoky, rich and with texture; in short the voice of a tobacco smoking academic used to lecturing in large lecture halls. You continue staring at the man your eyes not wavering. There is a short-lived (and one might say furtive) glint of recognition in his eyes; as if he is in on the secret. He picks up the telephone and dials a buzzer. Then gesturing at the dusty leather sofa he says ‘If you would just care to take a seat sir, someone will be up to collect you shortly’.

So you sit and wait.

This is perhaps as good as any time to explain what you are doing here. Not many people know this but the collection held by the British Museum of Modern-Antiquities is divided into two sub-sections. That which is above ground, on public display for all to see, over three magnificent shiny floors. There is also that which is of much greater academic importance and therefore kept hidden away in dank underground catacombs deep within the bowels of the museum building. Some statistics: The items on display constitute 5% of the total collection held in trust by the museum. Thus 95% of what the museum holds is underground, largely unstudied and a potential goldmine. And here’s the best bit. The collection was bequeathed to the Museum in the 1800s when, the then owner, Sir Henry Waldport (a megalomaniac and empire builder) passed away. The Thatcher government in the 1980’s nationalized the Museum and the collection passed into public ownership. So, although nobody will tell you about the underground collection; for there are no signs in the lobby that point towards it, it is not mentioned in the literature or on the museum circuit tours, there is no mention of it on the museum website either, but if you ask, if you swagger into the museum and with a petulant wave of the hand ask to be shown it, the Museum has no choice but to oblige you. The ‘Dr Alexander Von Nutterboffin Collection’ is one of many veritable collections held in the underground vaults; a teeming warren of stifling chambers and tunnels deep below the London trafficscape.

But who is Dr Alexander Von Nutterboffin and why are you interested in him?

Coming soon...'Homo Kashmiri' (a novella)

Birthday Boy

Yes, it's that glorious time of year again I celebrate my slow ignominious crawl towards senility, dementia, dentures, the dreaded winter fuel bill and the grave.
But I for one won't be celebrating.
(I hear sighs of disbelief)
Well, why should I celebrate another milestone towards certain death?

An anal, toad-picking, moany-pants bore.

Oh, go on then:

'Happy B'day to Me
Happy B'day to Me
Happy B'day to Meee
Happy B'day tooooo Me'
(clapping and whooping)

All right, that's quite enough of that.

P.S: Horse and Hound ale house tonight if anybody would like to join us.

The Vagabond Photo Agency

The vagabond photo agency is a not for profit wedding photography organization (charity Reg No: 11345) service that charges absolutely no fees. Yes no fees. It especially caters for hard-up, poor and poverty stricken chartered accountants from the Cayman Islands who have minimum disposable income; a symptom rife in tax free offshore locations.

The charity organization is run by one sole individual; head strong, tough, a hopeless romantic, soft at heart, and inspirational person who instills fears in the hearts of the competition – who have no chance of competing with not only a free wedding photographer but a fucking world-class one at that.

It is a lonely world; the world of the free wedding photographer. A dying breed. Not many of us around now-a-days. Most perished in starvation states in the 80’s. Those that survived the “starvation’ we’re killed off during the Nikon – Canon War of the 90’s. And the few rugged hardy types that weathered that storm finally perished with the onset of the camera mobile phone. Now any twat on the street can take a picture and call it art.

But the wedding photographer (especially the free one) is an obstinate breed. He can make friends easily, he can win praise, he can win plaudits, but he can never afford a good decent meal. For his pockets are lined not with the welcome sound of jangling cash but with bread crumbs stolen from the local bakery. It is a world not for weaklings. It’s tough out there. Dog eat dog. Man eat man eat dog. Man eat man eat dog eat rat eat KFC McChicken

Yes, I had rat last night actually. Braised on a smokey pyre of burning tyres from the ghetto kids. But that’s another story all together.

Photographypaysfuckall.com

Chasing Photons - Galleria de South Africa / Namibia

Planet Dulux - Galleria de South Africa (click on image to walk closer to the gallery)

Coming soon...Ross and Angie freakshow slideshow (featuring music by Queen)

Ross & Angie - music slide-show

(Music: Snow Patrol)

'if i lay here
if i just lay here
would you lie with me and just forget the world?'

Confessions of a serial digressor

Planet Earth to planet 'My Dear Reader' do you copy?

I repeat do you copy?

Clarification: by 'copy' i do not mean do you reproduce. Of course you copy as in reproduce, although you probably haven't yet. Although, a few little 'My Dear Reader' sprogs may germinate in the not too distant future...but i digress.....

as always...

i always digress...

in-fact digression is my birth right.

do you have a problem with my digressions? do you punk?

if you do, then please honour me with a duel.

i will win. i will beat you.

i will make you scream and squirm and make you wish you had never been born...

(or if you are a clearer minded thinker) that i had never been born...

but i digress

....again.

now, where was i?

yes, do you copy?

...not as in reproduce but as in...

...ah fuck it.

life's too short...

...but i digress...

...as always.

but i also...

procrastinate...

yes, i do.

...do you have a problem with my procrastinations?

do you? do you freakshow?

but...that is for later...

much, much later...

because i procrastinate

but i digress...

again

...as always

The turd world - (memory byte)

The train didn’t go very fast. We we're ambling along and the engine kept breaking down. All the passengers we’re cursing in Tamil. A Tamil cursing is a treat for the chuckle muscles; a sound like a ripple of diarrhoea. But they had good reason to curse; the delay had thrown a spanner in their plans. But for one passenger; the man with no plan, the delay was an unexpected luxury - an opportune moment to see ‘track-life’ up close and personnel – with a magnifying glass. Train tracks attract colonies of people very much like shit attracts flies. These people (god knows where they come from) then proceed to build pokey little dwellings next to the tracks with ruddy walls and tarpaulin roofs. A whole economy subsists along the track – an economy fueled by the train passengers. When people travel they’re usually flushed with cash and more importantly, they're less frugal then normal. Almost as if travel releases them from some invisible force - we've all experienced it. A behavioural trait exploited by airport departure lounges and the dreaded Duty-Free cash blotters. For the families living along the track this is a blessing and their life-line; an artery.

It got me thinking about grander stuff. Life (you, me, bugs, aliens from Mars) will make a living wherever a living can be got. You can go to the most inhospitable deserts in the world and still find that you are not alone. Someone else got their first; like for example the obstinate weeds with tufts sprouting through a dune crack. There’s life eeking out an existence miles below our feet; feeding off nutrients from the rock surface and powered by the earths geothermal heat. Human life is no different. We're all trying to make a living and there is a living to be made off railway passengers.

I looked out the window and saw the strangest sight - children, girls and boys, the younger one's naked, the older one's wearing loin cloths with stubby noses, we're leaping off the train carriages carrying pitchers of water. On every station they'd rush in and grab water from the sink in the toilet compartment. Then there we’re the people crouched all along the railway line outside. At first I thought they we’re simply squatting and watching the train go by. But then I realized that they we’re shitting. All we’re facing the train, squatting, with their lungi’s covering their privy members, shitting unhurriedly, fouling the tracks. One curious group, a man, a boy and a pig we’re in a row – each shitting in his own way. There we’re some more dignified folk though: one fat man, clearly of professional high-brow stature, was squatted at a greater distance from the train, an umbrella was held up by his manservant and he had a newspaper on his knees – shitting.

There’s something fascinating about public shit holes. In Tibet, they have outdoor communal shit houses like pubs. These are nothing but a row of holes in the ground which you squat over (struggling to hold your balance) whilst your ass is whipped by the icy winds warmed by the Tibetan plateau. The experience is rendered more comic by the fact that you can chat to your neighbour (shit mate), perhaps discussing the price of bread, your favourite brand of toilet paper or the wind-chill factor.

I don’t know about you but for me toilet business is a deeply personnel ‘business’ – in fact if you think about it, it is the most personnel thing we do. Even more personnel then sex – which involves a willing partner. The anthropology of communal shitting is quite fascinating. Perhaps one day in Tibet, whilst straddling a shit hole, I’ll write a paper on the subject.

When I look back to that sultry train cabin though, I remember feeling mildly disconcerted and intimidated by the shit stirrers outside on the tracks all smiling at me; its not pleasant to be smiled at by serial defecators - or maybe they we’re grimacing? Bloody turd world.

Knob World News

Ladies and gentlemen, Knobs and Knobettes, Reverends, Archbishops, Dali-Lamas, Mullahs, cute furry creatures from planet Waxbucket and anybody else reading this that I have missed out…

Greetings fellow Knobbers!

It is with gushing spunks of pleasure that I present to you the latest irreverent news from Knob World:

1) Knob Grater and Knobette Angie have finally decided to embrace the adage that one Knob is better then two – one knob to rule them all and in the darkness bind them – yes, congrats on the wedding guys! – Oh, and less I forget: fantastic pics from their wedding will be posted here shortly.

2) The Oxford English Dictionary has decreed that the term ‘knob’ is in such regular usage that it deserves to be part of the English lexicon. Knob is now an official word and defined by the Oxford Dictionary as follows:

A Knob : Member of the ‘Chartered Knob Club’. The term ‘Knob’ can only be used to describe members of the original Chartered Knob Club of the Cayman Islands that was founded by two revolutionary knobs; Knob Che Lyndon and Knob Che Wasim. The term cannot be used by members of the countless other counterfeit, copy-cat and unofficial knob clubs that have sprung up in the wake of the original club. The others are imposters, charlatans, men of disrepute and questionable parsonage and not real knobs at all but wannabe knobs; a bunch of sad losers who have nothing better to do in their spare time then to plagiarize respectable folk and hard working creative Knobs.

3) For the first time ever the Knob Club will be bestowing annual ‘honorary knob’ status to a member of the human race who exhibits qualities indicative of Knobwiseness or engages in activities that promote the Knob brand. The following names have so far been put forward for this honour: Britney Spears, John Prescott, Grant Mitchell, and Buzz Lightyear.

4) The construction of Knob headquarters (Knob Tower) has finally been completed after much wrangling with the planning authorities, the religious lobby and the Chartered Knitting Club (which is next door). The Chartered Knitting Club has always claimed that we we’re blocking their view. Well, they can cotton-off the cardigan wearing cranberry juice sipping freakshows. Knob Tower is now fully erect. The state of the art building is located in George Town, Cayman Islands and features a ‘Knobamatic 2000’ in the spanking new shiny foyer for knob relief while you wait.

Not surprisingly the building has become a permanent fixture in many itineraries and a popular tourist attraction for single accountant men visiting the Cayman Islands and also features in the latest edition of the bestseller : ‘1,000 things to do before you die’. To commemorate this, our marketing department headed by Mr Wayne-Ker has released a limited edition ‘Nano-Knobamatic’ with diamond encrusted front – sure to be a favourite with bling bling Knobs from Hackney and Stoke Newington.

5) A member of the Knob Club has had their membership revoked due to unknobly behaviour:- the member in question was attempting to raise money for a children’s charity by dressing up in a knob costume – the knob court agreed that he was acting like a total dickhead.

6) Our beloved Master Knob will be venturing on a 6 month extended hippy trip across mountains, deserts, jungles, tundras, citiscapes and through hairy bushes where Knobs have not yet penetrated thus far. The trip will encompass Northern Pakistan, China, Mongolia, Tibet, Bhutan, Bangladesh, and Madagascar - where the bushes are known to be especially hairy and persistent. Master Knob hopes that the tour will be a wonderful experience, an opportunity to share ideals and ideas, promulgate the knob brand onto the natives, open up new markets for knob products, and not to mention consume foul tasting victuals and smoke a lot of stuff that does funny things to the brain – we all wish that Master Knob emerges relatively unscathed from this ordeal – especially after mud wrestling with the hairy bushes of Madagascar.

It is hoped that the tour will be as successful as his last official knob visit to Knob World in the Andromeda Galaxy; where he seems to have achieved near mythical status thanks in no part to his easy charm, effortless charisma, wry sense of humour and nobs of sex-appeal.

The Knobworld Population Department recently released figures that show that there was a 25% increase in baby birth rates exactly 9 months after Master Knobs visit. The head of the department Professor Haw-nee Scrow-Tums had this to say:

'It is most inexplicable! Either Master Knob gets around (!) or his mere presence has the affect of turning perfectly normal Knobettes into nymphomaniacs. Studies conducted in my lab under controlled conditions have conclusively shown that when knobettes (female Knobs) are exposed to photographs of Master Knob, skin conductivity increases by a whopping 20% - which is evidence of sexual arousal. Most inexplicable!'

7) Finally on a less frivolous note, a major Hollywood film studio has announced that filming will soon commence on the latest superhero flick titled: MightyKnob & MagicBush.
The movie has been billed as a sweeping love story, with epic vistas, huge sound stages, orchestral visions, a Pulitzer prize winning screenplay at its heart, and a huge phallus and bush at its poetic centre.

That is all for now from Knob World. For the latest updates on all things Knob related please visit : http://www.mightyknob&hairybush.com/.

Master Knob.

It's calling...Stage 1 (Pakistan to Kashgar)

Currently reading - Arthur Rimbaud (A biography)

Decadent 19th century French poet and enfant-terrible who penned some highly arresting and narcotic visual stanzas in his teens only to give it all up and then promptly disappeared. The toast of literary Paris in his teens whose poetry was suffused with vague multi-layered premonitions and innuendos; all written in a style that influenced many and pushed forward the boundaries of poetic license.

Regarded as the first rock star! - Indefatigable, moody, explosive, undecipherable, genius. After 10 years he was finally tracked down living in a hovel within the stinking walls of the ancient city of Harare, Abyssinia (Ethiopia) as a gun-runner for the Ethiopian Emperor, Menelik. By his own accounts he found life in Harare abysmal; bored with the drudgery, the stupidity of the town’s folk and constantly irked by their insolence and thievery; sick of the food and sick of their language.

They too found him peculiar; a white man with no past, who muttered a strange language and wandered the fly blown streets of this outpost from civilization. Contemporary accounts however suggest he learnt the Quran and Arabic and that he was happy living in the shit hole that was Harare and lived rather comfortably too; taking in a local woman as a mistress, dabbling in photography and amassing a small fortune from the gun running. Also, he found time to explore the unknown ‘Ogaden’ region and even submitted a rather prosaic (by his own standards) journal to the Society of Geographers in Paris for publication. An extraordinary tale of an extraordinary life.

‘I is somebody else’ (Rimbaud)

Coming soon...The Karakoram Highway et al (Pakistan-China-Mongolia-Tibet)

In the footsteps of Marco Polo, Ibn Batutta and the merchants of the Silk Road. From Northern Pakistan's wild Pashtun provinces (where the men are real men, the sheep are real sheep and the women suitably wild and exotic) and across the perilous Karakoram Highway that hugs the arid Himalayan steppes and onwards towards deepest, darkest, China. Thence to Mongolia and Ulan Bator and from whence to the fabled city of Shangri-La in Tibet (if it exists of course). A Journey of high-jinx, courage, majestic vistas, the tyranny of love and festering passions. A story of redemption, spiritual awakening, lots of Tea and the dreaded stomach bug. In search of the answers to the ultimate questions, like: 'What shall I have for dinner tonight?' or 'Am i being ripped off by this scummy hotel?' and 'Does this official want baksheesh?'- A motion picture shot in SLR Dulux® Dream clarity for the ultimate immersive experience.

New Adventures with my Retina

Blank Spaces of Windhoek

Current Location: Windhoek, Namibia.

I'm attracted to blank spaces. The sort of white space on a map that Marlow mentions at the beginning of 'Heart of Darkness'. Only the blank spaces hold any attraction, that is what I hank after - and so she undestood, because she didn't shake her head or look confused. Because she remained silent.

Did I think of you
when i sat with the 'Quiver Trees'
listening as those sounds
cast deep vents in the air
did i think of you?

Did i think of you
when i sat in the desert
watching sand grains
leap from the tips of
dune mountains
did i think of you?

Did i think of you
in the Lunar desertscapes of Namibia
where ancient Earth
collided with my weathered heart
did i think of you?

Current Coordinates

Current Location: Cape Town, South Africa
Starting tomorrow: Road trip across Namibia across 1600km of desert.
Health: Slight cough but healthy
Memory Cards left in Camera: 4GB.
Number of times I have been mugged: Nil (so far)
Things to consider for road trip: Fuel, Water, food and most importantly sufficient memory capacity for the Camera. Can't get memory cards in the desert...or so they say

There is beauty everywhere you turn
embers of life may wither away and burn
but the poetry of life will always be
you floating about in memories

To be or not to be...a swashbuckling vagabond

So what does it mean to be a swashbuckling vagabond eh?

The art of the vagabond

Day dreaming is perhaps the most empathic quality of the true vagabond. True is the vagabond who day-dreams often. You can measure your level of vagabondage by calculating the total amount of 'waking time' dedicated to bouts of day dreaming. In my case, I have tried and tested many combinations of possible work journeys. After a process much akin to Darwinian natural selection, I have settled for a journey that allows maximum day dreaming possibilities; a 20 min walk to the bus stop (through Ridley Road Market as the traders set up shop and the smell of fish mingles with the morning mist) followed by a comfy trip on the top deck of the 277.

Then there is work; about half of which is spent in deep reverie munching on wholesome thoughts. Lunch is obviously taken in fantasy land and the journey home too. Evenings are very rich with day dream pickings and dripping with big, fat, juicy day-dream berries that I devour whole and allow to dribble all over my cheeks.

This level of day dreaming activity probably places me on the upper echelons of the league of day dreamers. A true vagabond indeed! A Master vagabond.

So what does a swashbuckling vagabond dream about?

(sigh) Many things my dear friends. Many things. For when you have that much day dreaming time you can take liberties! - Well, a typical daydream journey for me to my local Kurdish off-license for a pint of semi-skimmed milk and a loaf of bread is an adventure indeed! - there is the 'hero' phase where one imagines oneself with super human powers; some sort of amazing ability that chicks really dig like being a wicked poet or having huge biceps; both equally effective with the cantankerous female variety.

Then there's the deep ponderings about the meaning of life and why most people are so inherently stupid. Man can be amazingly clever (microwaves, rockets, discovery of evolution, Nike trainers) but also really fucking stupid (like wars, and fighting, and racism and George Bush). I sometimes imagine being the sole person left on earth after a rather nasty alien invasion has wiped out the whole of humanity. All my friends included. However, If I'm in a good mood then humanity hasn't died but is waiting for me to rescue it from the clutches of death. Deep stuff indeed...

But there is a pattern. The true swashbuckling vagabond is really a rambler. Not only a methaporical rambler but also a rambler in the literal sense. He is not content with just rambling over the lush green of a perfectly done lawn. But also wants to sneak about the rough edges; poke around the bits that don't look so nice, where the grass is not so neat and not so green.

Most people I see on the streets are in a hurry. All they want to do is get from A to B. You can see it in the expressions of their creased faces; so serious, so adult, so grown up! - they have plans, things to do, places to go, gotta be here, gotta be there, must do this, must do that. Says who? On who's authority does it say you 'have' to do anything at all? Whereas, the rambler will take his time. Yes. You see time doesn't weigh as heavily on his shoulders. Oh no. He slows down. Looks around. Doesn't have anywhere to go to in particular. Doesn't have anything 'to do' at all really. But like a beacon in the swarm of ignoramuses, he lights the way to new possibilities, new experiences and new horizons. It's very simple you know. Life is. All you have to do is get lost in a Dulux® day dream ramble.

The day dreamer, the rambler, the swashbuckling vagabond are all but one of the same kind.

liferamble.com

Coming soon...South Africa!

In Memoriam:

I wander through each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

(William Blake)

I'm amazing you know

Just being a thought inside your head
Fills my heart with happiness
A mere thought! Just think!
Isn’t it wonderful?
That something of me
Lives in that pretty little head of yours
I admit. That I must struggle to compete
With the others; those other lofty thoughts
About handbags, shoes and what have you
But that’s fine by me
I don’t mind infidelity
As long as I’m there somewhere
In the background
Is better than
Not being there at all
But just think! How wonderful it is!
Through time and through space
Like magnetism
Across 1000s of miles
That I may just pop into being
Inside your head
Voila!
As a thought
Makes me feel rather special
That I can do that
Like with super powers
Like a super-hero - Wow!
I’m amazing you know
Really amazing
Didn’t you know that!

Coming soon…ii) Homo Kashmiri - the spine chilling mystery bit

What do a 10,000 year old relic gathering dust in the British Museum archives, a strange topographical depression in the Mangla Dam area of Kashmir, the mysterious death of world renowned archaeologist Dr Von Nutterboffin and a local village elder called Mr Sardar Jee Ghulab-Jamun (purveyor of syrupy balls and see-er of Djinns) have in common?

Well not much until a dashing super-sleuth connects the dots that link these clues to solve the pre-eminent mystery of modern times: ‘Where do Homo Kashmiri’s come from?’ (Not to mention drinking many Lattes on the way).

Find out soon…

Book review:
This is quite simply the best story you’ll ever read. Ever. Look. Forget reading anything else ever again yeah. Just read this. This is the dogs’ bollocks. I mean it.

Literary review:
Not since young William Shakespeare, has the English Language been graced with such brilliance. I am a fan. Nuff said.

Times Higher Education Supplement:
This should be recommended reading in all the syllabuses throughout all the English schools, on this planet. It burns like a candle illuminating all the crap that currently adorns the WH Smith bestseller list

The authors mother:
I know he is my son so I will try to be impartial and unbiased.
To all the writers that have ever lived and those that are yet to be born…don’t bother. Cos ya’ll pathetic when compared to the talents of my son. As a mother I say buy this book…please, make a proud mother happy and a talented son rich. Don’t be stingy borrowing it from the library or off a mate! Buy it!

God:
er...I’m screwed…

On the Origins and Anthropology of Homo Kashmiri

(i) Introduction: The purple prose poetic bit

A bitter cold and a Baltic breeze flog the skin raw under a lukewarm sun. You look to the sky for warmth, but there is none. It stares back at you with an icy blue gaze that leaves scratch marks in the back of your eyes and icicles in your heart. On the Coventry road in Birmingham, men wander around in white skull caps that look like bald heads in the long distance. Their sallow margarine cheeks sprouting with bristles and their womenfolk walking in troops, slicing through the icy front dressed in svelte garbs that sway like sails. An armada of pushchairs, with little red nosed occupants, ply though the rubbish strewn street; pass the walls dunked in apple crumble and clotted with snails that look like tumours. They stop and ponder in front of bold stickers announcing cheap meal deals - good wholesome food for the little en's - who are more interested in the balloons next door.

The gardens no longer daubed with the sweet smell of frangipani, honeysuckle and dandelion but with the rough strokes of a wintry brush. The creepers have fled on summer holiday and the insects are languishing in Italy. The boughs tremble while their jaundiced leaves lie crumpled on the boggy earth; crunchy under your feet. It feels good when you walk over them; their muffled screams acting like shock absorbers when you crush them with your soles.

Winter, with its capricious moods and anaemic colours seems a poor child to the theatricals of the wedding hall. You watch, with straight faced sobriety, the wedding jesters marching in. A fanfare of reds, blues and greens from a medieval playhouse. You spot the bouffant haired ‘troubadours’ with their drums, the ‘prima donnas’ holding court in histrionic airs, the brides ‘troupe’ and the rest all ‘jokers’ and ‘clowns’ – all cutting a dash in an assortment of affected razmadazz.

It appears all so antiquated don’t you think? All rather odd against the backdrop of the red-bricked hovels they call homes and the bright yellow of ‘Morrisons’ – beaming at you like a good friend. A people wallowing in a past that no longer wants them; edged towards a future they’re afraid of. The wedding hall, a squat double storey building sitting on its haunches and looking rather glum in an area paved with low aspirations; like the figures skulking around its edges and meddling in the cracks. Off the radar – off the grid. In never never land.

The men inside monosyllabic and vacuous. Products of blissful ignorance and drudgery; inert philistines with brains minced through a food processor. You’re harassed by the regular mob with ‘get rich quick schemes’ and unabashedly quizzed on the latest tax scams. As if you would know. Luckily, the womenfolk downstairs are more salubrious and more then happy to have you. With hair done up in strange bobs and curtains. Smiles as wide as oceans. Sequined headscarves wrapping pretty little heads that bob with animated conversation. And cheeks like cranberries but that much sweeter.

(Continued...)

(Copyright: Global Anthropology Journal 2007)

Coming soon...The Republic of Cape Verde (The Cape Verde Islands)

On the origins of Homo Kashmiri (update)

The research paper : 'On the Anthropology and Origins of Homo Kashmiri' has been submitted for peer review. The research paper itself emcompasses data from a pot pouri of disciplines (some more disciplined then others) such as biochemistry, anthropology, archaeology, behavioural science, history, poetry, science fiction writing, and even takes some inspiration from the 'Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy' - that great repository of loonydom.

The research paper will be published after it has been carefully examined, dissected, pulled apart, put back together again, attacked with a microscope, bludgeoned with a hammer, drowned in sulphuric acid, and generally subjected to the toughest tests academia has to offer. If after such pedantic vetting procedures anything remains of this seminal piece of scientific research and beautiful prose writing, then it shall be published here.

The peer review is currently being carried out by the greatest minds and poets the world has ever known...many of whom are unable to function in polite society and are currently based in the 'Chesterfield care-home for the psychologically impaired'.

Coming soon...Me!

Foto-grafs of the Swashbuckling Vagabond...

Warning: Females may experience a certain tingling sensation and hot flushes upon perusal of the aforementioned images. This is perfectly normal and totally expected. If these physical affects are accompanied by strong emotional feelings then you are experiencing the on-set of, what is popularly known as, 'falling in love'.

Do not be alarmed. 'Falling in love' is a perfectly normal human past-time. In-fact I recommend it wholeheartedly.

Coming next week...'Research paper on an Asian wedding'

Next week I shall be publishing my much anticipated research paper on : 'The Anthropological Characteristics of an Asian wedding in Birmingham'
For the sake of scientific research I shall be popping into Birmingham (aka Brumistaan) for a spot of field-work at a Pakistani wedding. I hope to study the specie Homo Kashmiri in its natural habitat. Homo Kashmiri, once thought extinct, is endemic to northern localities of the British Isles. Characteristics of note include:

1) A penchant for driving down busy roads in 'souped up' vehicles with low frequency 'drum and base' sounds emanating from the windows. Apparently such machismo behaviour is designed to impress the female Homo Kashmiri ladettes - who go crazy for such testosterone overdoses

2) A most peculiar language that seems to have branched off from mainstream English. The language is popularly referred to as 'Englishtaan' and contains many unique words like 'chuddies' and 'innit'

Homo Kashmiri is also of interest to biologists who are perplexed as to how it has managed to stave off extinction for so long. Recent theories to explain this quirk range from the idea that it has survived because of strong inter-family kinship (best exemplified in the maxim: you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours) to the more fancyful idea that God has taken pity on this much maligned of species.

Homo Kashmiri can be found in pristine pockets of habitation (free from the malignant influence of outside forces) in Birmingham, Bradford, Rochdale and certain parts of Scotland (esp Glasgow). There is no fee to visit such habitats and their is currently much political activity to grant these areas 'Protected Status' - in-line with the 'African Serangetti Nature Reserve', 'The Bushlands of Swaziland' and the swamplands of the 'Bungo Tribe' in Northern Uzbekistan.

Richard Branson has also shown an interest in developing a 'Kashmirassic park' near Small Heath, Birmingham where for the price of a ticket, one can marvel at this idiosyncratic species. Afterwards, for a total immersive experience one may then frequent one of the popular 'Balti Houses' for authentic Homo Kashmiri fodder.

Coming soon...Calling all Knobs (Part III)

The exciting 3rd installment of the Knob Trilogy...cumming soon.
Find out what happens when our Knob Hero (me) meets the charismatic 'K3' in the Horse and Hound Ale House in Islington, North London...will they get on and raise their knobs in salute? or are we gonna see a cock fight?
Will our protagonist (me) manage to hitch a ride to the Andromeda Galaxy?
Will our dastardly, courageous, ravishingly handsome, sex-bomb of a knob (me) get to frequent the bawdy taverns and boudoirs of Knob City? (in the name of knob research)
Will our hero (me) discover the startling truth about his 'spontaneous knob awareness'?

...and the question long exercising the minds of my (cultured and educated) readers:

'Will we finally see some knob action?'
Find out in a knob blog near you soon...

Some spiel on the Chartered Knob Club for Non-Members
The Chartered Knob Club (of Earth) was set up in the Cayman Islands under Royal Charter in early 2006. Her Majesty, in furnishing the royal charter, acknowledged the need for an exclusive organisation for like-minded and socially sophisticated Knobs. The Chartered Knob Club currently enjoys the membership of approximately half a dozen male members and a couple of honorary 'Knobettes' (female knobs) and is currently ranked 3rd in the world in a recent survey of average member IQ and ranked 2nd for member satisfaction (The Chartered Knitting club is ranked 1st for member satisfaction but only because their members enjoy a life-times supply of knitted cardigans).

The Installation of the 'Knobamatic 2000' in our headquarters will hopefully increase member satisfaction scores to 1st place. The Knobamatic 2000 is a revolutionary new vacuam suction device, designed by the Swiss Company 'Sukker UnLimited' and will provide instant knob relief for knobs in stress.

Privileges of membership of the Chartered Knob Club are many (which I won't list out here) but suffice it is to say, that membership is supremely exclusive (we don't just pick any knob off the street).

If you would like to becum a member please send a letter explaining why you feel you are a knob to the following email address: duluxdreams@hotmail.com

Calling all knobs (part II)

The Horse and Hound public ale house in Islington, North London is steeped with the accumulated crust of years of DNA. Some of the greatest thinkers the world has ever known have drunk here and no doubt left their DNA here too. A mere swab of any surface in the pub is likely to contain bits of great luminaries such as Lord Byron, Samuel Pepys, Oliver Cromwell, Mohammed Ali Jinnah, Bertrand Russell, E.M Forrester and John Smith of Macclesfield (the ‘almost’ winner of the 2004 Noble Prize in Chemistry who died a tragic death when he accidentally asphyxiated himself with his tie after a drinking session involving an inflatable sex doll and a pair of pliers) – but I digress…

Being a Londoner, I quite like a tipple myself and the Horse and Hound is no less deserving of my custom; it also has the added benefit of making me feel important due to the pedigrees that have drunken here. The Horse and Hound is also the first pub on Earth to host a most remarkable gathering of people. A gathering more remarkable then the ‘112th Annual Meeting of the digital watches are still cool club' (did they have digital watches 112 years ago?). A meeting fuller of wonderfully exciting people then the annual conference of ‘paper clip’ aficionados and more fun then the weekly meets for lovers of beetroot sandwiches. So, yes a most remarkable meeting indeed. I speak of none other then the first ‘knob-knob’ between the Galactic Knob Council and the Earthly Chartered Knob Club.

So there I was outside the Horse and Hound on a Sunday afternoon. I straightened my collars, tightened the knot in my dapper scarf, removed my Grado RS-60 headphones and swanked in…I had my satchel. I had my headphones. I had my Oyster card with £10 top-up, but I wouldn’t need it where I was going baby...and the world? And the world would never be the same again...(to be continued)

Excerpt from ‘Knob Tours’ - Tourist Brochure for Knob City in Andromeda
The headquarters of the GKC (Galactic Knob Council) is one of the most audacious buildings in the entire galaxy; or (depending on your views on Knobs), one of the most lurid. The building is colloquially known as ‘Knob Tower’. The outer structure itself was designed by the architects ‘Balls & Dickens’, and was so revolutionary that it required the invention of a new building material to enable the contractors to construct the huge knob that sits, almost elegantly, on the roof, in a pose of confidence and pointing to the stars.

Philosophers have been engaged in much academic ball bashing on the hidden meanings of the knob that adorns the roof of Knob Tower, that it is worth digressing here for a brief snapshot of some of the theories that have been propounded. Professor Edgar Kas-Tracion is firmly of the opinion that the knob is nothing less then public porn masquerading as high-art and unwittingly corrupting young minds. Members of the Jewish lobby are uproarious. Such blasphemy! What they objected to was not the knob par se, or its size, but the fact that it didn’t show signs of circumcision. On the other hand, Professor Sir Kom-Caesar is not as scathing, indeed he is rapturous and adulatrious in his remarks. For him the symbolism of the great knob on the roof is obvious, and here we quote:

“It is clear to me that the great knob pointing to the stars represents progress. But perhaps more importantly it is saying that behind every great discovery, behind every great thrust forward, behind every great man is’force de locomotion’ – the desire to impress the female species and bag a shag. Yes, sex and shagging underlies all of progress. It is sex that drives us forward and that is the genius behind the great knob on the roof of Knob Tower that looks to the stars, earnestly”

A discussion of knob headquarters would be empty without a word from an occupant of Knob Tower for their views on the matter:

“The knob yeah, my wife, she kinda likes it and all. See me, I don’t. I mean. It’s like, well when I compare mine with it; it’s not even life-size is it??! – (Snigger). What’s the point in that huh!!!” - (snigger and drooling).
Unfortunately we we’re unable to interview more cognizant occupants of Knob Tower who refused to be drawn into such an infantile subject matter...

On the eastern rim of Knob City, pass KnobDonalds, lies ‘Knob Cave’ – the sight of what is famously known as the ‘Knob Cumming’. To remind readers knob cave is the sight where 'K1' (the 1st Knob ever) gained Spontaneous Knob Awareness after spending four weeks holed up inside. The cave receives over a million visitors a year who pay homage at this most deified of sights. However, this has resulted in erosion to the cave floor caused by shoe wear and also (more disturbingly) by the theft of lumps of knob rock (not to be confused with the genital disorder). Not surprisingly the cave structure has become dangerously compromised. Engineers have been drafted in to fix the problem. One of the engineers is Dr Eric-Shun of the engineering firm ‘Doowex Booring Limited’:

“The entry of many knobs has weakened the walls of the cave; a process known in the scientific fraternity as ‘knob erosion’. We plan to stave off knob erosion by pumping the cave full of a specially designed binding agent called ‘Knob Matter’ which we hope will protect the cave for prosperity and from future knob abuse”
A few hundred yards from Knob Cave lies, what to many, is the spiritual heart of Knobkind – the church of Knobianity, where the faithful rub shoulders with fellow knobs in the Knobitual.

The knobitual won’t be discussed here as it is quite complex but Knobianity, as a creed, has received much criticism from some of the older more established belief systems, who have realized that if there’s one thing they can’t stand more then atheists, its a young, rigorous, and what they perceive as, a snotty new up-start. These so called critics also point to what they call the ‘absurd’ and ‘loony’ basis of Knobianity.

Knob members have effectively silenced these critics (who are members of various belief systems themselves) by pointing to the absurdities inherent within their own belief systems such as the following:

i) The knob critics belief in an all powerful and omniscient man in the sky who created the whole universe (matter, galaxies, Peter Andre), but lacks self-confidence and needs constant reassurance on his divine providence and needs reminding of his greatness by requiring constant worship.

ii) This same being has given men and women natural feelings and emotions (such as the sexual urge and romantic love); but when you (surprise! surprise!) act according to these he will punish you forever and ever in the fires of a nasty place called Hell...but (now for the best bit) he’s only doing this cos he loves you!

Knobianity isn’t so strange now is it?

Coming soon...Travelogue of my trip to 'Knob World'

The grey morning peered through my bedroom window, took a look around, grumbled and then sat itself on my eye-lids. They fluttered open; muttering in the light and then shook my consciousness awake. My consciousness was not very happy about this as it was engaged in a softly-cushiony dream involving an evil lord of the dark, a beautiful princess called (obviously) 'Ashanti', and a heroic figure commandeering an army of knobs. My lips uttered blasphemy when the dream dissolved away: it was the best moment of the dream too; the knobs had triumphed and I, as their heroic leader, was about to ravish my prize, Ashanti, behind the cranberry bushes...

My disapointment snapped like an elastic eel when I realised that today was Sunday the 14th and what a momentious day too! For I would be meeting with 'K3' in the Horse and Hound Ale House and hopefully hitching a ride back to Andromeda. I jumped out of bed without a glance at the clock. One can't waste such a precious commodity as 'time' in bed. Action! Action! Action! - I ran to the shower and realised I was still wearing my socks from last night. I'd forgotten to take them off in anticipation of the morning to come; but the wine too was partly to blame...

'What shall I wear today?' was the main thought running through my mind as I scrubbed my teeth. I find that the 3 minutes I spend brushing my teeth are the most productive of the whole day as far as new ideas are concerned. I have stumbled upon some of my most revolutionary and brilliant thoughts whilst scrubbing my molars and today would be no exception: I'm wearing my funky poet blazer, a little scarf, my pointy black shoes and my brown semi-denim trousers (straight cut). I must admit all this Sartorial stuff has the singular affect of making me look like an intellectual giant and alludes to the sex bomb underneath...Poet extraordinaire, expert in headphone design and founder of the earthly incarnation of the Knob Club.

The message from the Radio Telescope was also nagging me in the background like a partly digested meal: 'spantaneous knob awareness' and only the '2nd known sponataneous knob awareness ever' - what did it all mean? I knew K3 would have some answers for me. What shall I pack in my satchel? After all I am going to the Andromeda Galaxy today...

Calling all Knobs

Fellow Knobs, the following message was received yesterday at 08:14 GMT from the 'Arecibo Radio Telescope' engaged in the NASA SETI (search for extra-terrestrial intelligence) programme in the rainforests of Puerto Rico:

...Message Starts

"Knobs of earth!...your attention please. This is Supreme Knob 'K3' of the 'Galactic Knob Council' head-quartered in the Andromeda Galaxy. Our agents have been monitoring band-width from your insignificant little green planet and have intercepted certain communications regarding a 'chartered knob club' established on a little patch of land on your planet. I believe the little squibble of land is known as 'Grand Cayman' (though what is so grand about it i can't seem to fathom - but i digress)

If this is indeed true then it is of great interest to us. You see it is very rare for 'Knob Awareness' to arise spontaneously on a planet; especially on one as insignificantly unimportant as yours. Usually, the seeds of knob awareness are planted by the Galactic Knob Council's interplanetary 'Education Department' headed by Dr Knobbernator and his theologians. Since, we are not aware of any such education programmes being conducted furtively on your planet; the inescapable conclusion is quite astonishing to say the least:

Knob aware ness has arisen, it seems, on your planet without any seeding or influence from external agents

If this is indeed the case then it will be only the 2nd known spontaneous knob awareness in the history of the Galaxy. The 1st being that historic moment right at the beginning when 'K1' suddenly emerged squinting from a little cave (where he had been holed up for weeks) and immortally proclaimed: 'To be a Knob or not to be a Knob. That is the question. I am a Knob'. The rest is of course history and taught to countless students in our Galactic Knob University here in Andromeda. The cave has incidently been purchased by the Knob Council and been converted into a 'Memorabillia Store' and is also a sight of pilgrimage for the more obstinate and die-hard knobs.

Anyway, SPONTANEOUS knob awareness requires a highly developed intellect and well evolved sense of 'Place' or 'Spatial Awareness' - that is spatial awareness of one's place in evolutionary history and within the greater cosmos.

The Galactic Knob Council would very much like to meet the esteemed members of the Chartered Knob Club of Planet Earth - we are very excited to meet such eminent knobs with such developed Knob-Sense.

In this regard we will be visiting the cultural and intellectual centre of your planet (a city called London) on the 14th Of this month. We will be traveling via 'Hyperspatial Needlecast' and will be convening in the 'Horse and Hound' Public ale house in Islington, North London (E8). Please honour us with your presence. We'll be the slightly odd looking chaps, with flowering garbs and an air of the 'Bohemian' about us. You can’t miss us!"

Supreme Galactic Knob K3
...Message ends


Guys, I will be attending this. Not gonna miss it! Let me know if you can make it. Should be wicked!
Master Knob.

Coming soon...Arm-chair god (a game!)

Let's explore the mysteries of life the universe and everything from the comfort of your arm-chair...we will go on a wonderful journey together and explore the nooks and crannies of the human condition to the weird stuff lurking at the edges of the universe; we will tackle the most profoundest of questions and emerge victorious; having surveyed all there is to survey, only to exalt: 'Ha! Is that all there is God?'

The great thing about this game we’re about to play is that it requires no prior knowledge of the subject matter (nuffink), no fancy laboratory equipment, you don’t need to possess a high IQ to participate, nor a pen, no paper, no computer, no books, nothing! All you need is to have lived approximately >13 years (or thereabouts) – and that’s it!

So get comfortable and let’s play Arm-Chair God!