I Saw Elvis In The Woods

No matter how hard I try I simply cannot muster a single ounce of sympathy for The Sun newspaper.

Last week, in what associate editor Trevor Kavanagh described as a "Witch Hunt", five of The Sun's journalists were arrested in connection with alleged corrupt payments to police officers (Gee Note: In order to get "scoopz" I guess. I highly doubt they were offering coppers cash for a neck massage or something). Coming off the back of the recent phone hacking scandal that saw the demise of their sister paper the News Of The Screws World, with fresh revelations arriving daily from the on-going Leveson inquiry in to media ethics (Gee Note: Which has seen witness statements for celebs such as Charlotte Church and Steve Coogan, all of whom have agreed that News International is home to a bunch of sociopathic scumbags), these arrests couldn't come at a worse time. True to form however, rather than hold their hands up and admit that they probably shouldn't have been doing something illegal in the first place, an article penned by the aforementioned Mr. Kavanagh instead criticised the police for… er… doing their jobs rather than receiving large unmarked brown envelopes and keeping quiet about it.

But then The Sun has always had a borderline personality disorder when it comes to those who cross them. Take the case of Chris Bryant MP. In 2003 Bryant was tasked with questioning then Sun editor and Rupert Murdoch acolyte Rebekah Brooks as part of the Culture, Media, and Sport Select Committee. During the interview he asked her if while under her stewardship either the Sun or the News Of The World had been involved in various improper acts. Brooks replied that "We have paid for police for information in the past" and had to have her bacon saved by colleague Andy Coulson who maintained that these payments were made lawfully. The Sun's response to the embarrassing faux pas? Fire Rebekah Brooks perhaps? Issue a memo banning all employees from saying stupid things in public? Call up some lawyers on the off chance that someone might take the idea of illegally paying police officers for information seriously? Well it was none of those things. Instead a series of articles were published mocking Chris Bryant, including one where the openly gay politician was shown posing in his underwear on a dating website. In that respect The Sun is a bit like the mafia. You don't mess with them, and should you be foolish enough to do so then they will come back at you tenfold. (Gee Note: It's just like Sean Connery said in The Untouchables. "They pull a knife, you pull a multi-national media empire". As true today as it was then).

Another issue with The Sun is that often the stories printed in it are about as far from the truth as Mel Gibson is from winning "Tolerant Gentleman Of The Year". Whether it be an article claiming that Liverpool football fans involved in the Hillsborough Disaster urinated on people's lifeless bodies, or one claiming Elton John hired rent boys and was such a diva that he had his dog's voice boxes removed so that their barks wouldn't keep him awake at night (Gee Note: No really. They actually printed these things. The Elton one they had to retract after he sued them for a £1million. And it took 20 years for them to print an apology for the Hillsborough piece. By which point circulation for The Sun had dropped to just 12000 in Liverpool. Which means that you could sell brown linen rags soaked in the Ebola virus for £20 a go out of the back of a camper van and it would still be more popular in Merseyside than The Sun) The Sun has always had a reckless attitude towards printing actual facts. Such is the case with the Siberian Woolly Mammoth.

On the 8th February this year The Sun reported that a live woolly mammoth had been captured on video. This video in fact.




Now you'd only really need to watch it a couple of times to come to the conclusion that it is not on the level. For a start there's something ever so slightly off about the creature, such as the way the head stays rigidly still, or the way it creeps forward despite only using one of its front legs, or - from the mammoth's perspective - the alarming lack of a dome on top of its noggin. Also I’m no expert in elephant behaviour, but I would guess that a pachyderm crossing a river would probably raise its trunk up a little bit in order to, you know, breath (Gee Note: Unless our furry friend is tired of living that is. In which case, DON’T DO IT MAMMOTH. YOU HAVE SO MUCH TO LIVE FOR. I mean sure, all your friends probably died in the ice age. And it can’t be easy getting a regular job being a giant wild beast with no fixed abode. And you can’t exactly pick up the phone and call the Samaritans, what with no opposable thumb or fingers to dial the number with. But it’s not like you're Bobby Brown or something. I mean that dude is a complete mess. Although it is understandable considering Whitney’s dead and that he’s spent the last several years taking drugs like he was a one man pharmacy. What I’m saying is Mammoth, things could be worse you know?).

But even without all that the alarm signs are aplenty. The fact that the video is inexplicably only 10 seconds long (Gee Note: “Hmm. This large previously thought to be extinct creature sure is interesting, but I’ve got to save the battery for Mika’s surprise birthday party. I wouldn’t want to miss catching his face when the stripper arrives. Oh it’s going to be priceless!”). Or that it’s blurry and out of focus despite this being 2012 and I can record a crystal clear film of a dog taking a dump across the street using just my phone if I wanted to (Gee Note: Not saying I would want to do that mind. I bet you would though wouldn’t you? Weirdo). Or that there’s a copyright stamp on the video, which means someone somewhere is trying to make some dollar dollar by promoting this footage. It all adds up.

They copyright is the biggest give away of all actually. For this is apparently the property of one Michael Cohen. If that name sounds familiar it is because (Gee Note: Like me, you are a fat nerd who spends way too much time watching pointless videos) about a year or so ago a news story about an alien being filmed in the Brazilian jungle broke, complete with a video which was also owned by Mr. Cohen. Like the mammoth one, it was obviously fake but garnered a lot of media interest none the less.

Which is probably why Mikey tried his hand at it again. And this time he shopped it exclusively to The Sun, who did no background checks whatsoever and ran with it anyway. Reads the article.

The jaw-dropping footage was caught by a government-employed engineer last summer in the Chukotka Autonomous Okrug region of Siberia, it is claimed.

Alas we never find out the name of the government-employed engineer, largely because he never existed (Gee Note: Although you’d think that making up names would be the best part about writing this piece. You could use anything. Chesty McHercules. Ivan Funtackle. Horty L. Wingjuzzler III. See? Pretty awesome right? It’s not even that hard. Honestly it took me three seconds to come up with those. It’s like these tabloid journalists aren’t even trying). In fact the video was never Michael Cohen’s to begin with. It was shot by a documentary film maker named Lou Petho (Gee Note: Hey that’s a pretty good one. Wait. What? Lou Petho is a real name? Well I’ll be damned), who was so annoyed by his footage being used against his consent that he made a video of his own.



Damn son. Shit just got REAL.

So Michael Cohen did something stupid and now may be sued for it. That something being, of course, taking someone else’s video and pasting a computer generated Mr. Snuffleupagus on top of it. But that’s not the point of this tale. Oh no dear reader. For that we have to go back to the article in The Sun.

You see it is more than likely that the folks at The Sun knew this was all bobbins to begin with. And while as a group they may be morally reprehensible, as individuals themselves they are highly intelligent human beings. But they still decided to publish it anyway. One can only guess that it's because they put stock in the notion that a good yarn is more important than the actual truth.

Now while some may argue that the extra publicity generated by The Sun can only benefit things like Cryptozoology in the long run, inspiring regular readers to take an interest in woovy bezerk animals, in this case it has hurt a hell of a lot more than it has helped. Because even though The Sun may have exclusively printed the initial story every news organisation under the… er… glowing orange thing in the sky, from Fox News to the Huffington Post, have reported that the video is a hoax. And because of its high profile, it tarnishes those who do work within the field of undiscovered creatures by association. It doesn’t matter that most serious minded cryptozoologists like Loren Coleman and Karl Shuker thought it was at best a misidentified bear chomping on a fish. It doesn’t matter that most online forums and comment sections were filled with sensible people who, having been burned by stuff like this time and time again, were pessimistic about its chances of being legit. Because public perception is now “Hur hur hur look at those geeks who thought it was a real woolly mammoth”. And while it’s true that cryptozoology will never be respected by either the mainstream media or the scientific community, it’s a bit harsh that it should be dragged down just because Michael Cohen was looking to make a quick buck and because The Sun doesn’t care what it publishes as long as it gets people buying their paper.

So here’s the thing. Next time you pick up a copy of The Sun and see a startling exclusive headline about a dinosaur being caught on camera in Dorset or something, do yourself a favour. Put it down and buy another paper instead. It’s the only language The Sun really understands.

Here’s a quick tip. If you’re thinking of becoming a professional boxer, you need a snappy nickname.

You see the noble art of punching someone in the head - otherwise known as boxing - is about as close to those rinky-dink travelling carnivals as sporting events get. While on the face of it boxing is a battle between two brave warriors testing their strength and courage against one another, the reality is the world of boxing is ruled by promoters trying to make as much money as they possibly can. Now the easy way of doing this is to pair up the best fighters in their weight class, make sure you talk long and hard about how impressive both guys are, get them to talk some smack about each other, and then let them fight. However should the best fighters not be available at the time then… well… you have to get a bit creative.

Take the case of Peter Manfredo Jr. In early Spring 2007 “The Pride of Providence” was gearing up for the biggest fight of his career, preparing to take on the undefeated WBO super middleweight champion and proud Welshman Joe Calzaghe. Manfredo, the son of former World Kickboxing Champion Peter Manfredo Sr, had made his pro debut in 1999 and it had taken eight long years for his star to rise to the top of the super middleweight mountain. But how did he get there? Did he start knocking out perennial championship challengers like he was Mark Wahlberg taking on terrorists aboard a Boeing 767 (Gee Note: “Hey there terrorist. I like your beard. I had a beard like that in The Perfect Storm. Did you see that? Did you? Did you see that terrorist? No? Well, say hi to your mother for me OK?”)? Did he have a ball-bustingly great fight with a highly regarded opponent that was the talk of the sporting world for weeks on end, propelling his profile skyward at a rate of knots? Did he get in to a bar room brawl with 24 men and best them all within 52 seconds before running a comb through his hair and saying something cool?

Alas no. It was none of those things. Instead Manfredo appeared in a reality show on NBC called “The Contender”. The brainchild of Sylvester Stallone, The Contender pitted a group of pugilists against each other competing for a $1million prize. Plucky Peter got knocked out of the competition in the first round when he lost to the unfancied Alfonso Gomez. However thanks to a bout of chickenpox and contestants dropping like The Playboy Club’s ratings (Gee Note: BOOM. That show sucked. Turns out that if something is really boring it doesn't matter how many boobs it has. I know. Shocking right?) Manfredo was brought back in. Playing the comeback kid schtick to the hilt the show concentrated on Peter as he made his way to the final where, in true Rocky style, he went the distance with Sergio Mora only to lose via a controversial points decision.

A star was born. And it didn’t matter that he wasn’t really in Calzaghe’s league. Promoters put the fight together hoping to play off Manfredo’s “underdog” personality and that he was a home grown boy chasing the American Dream. Calzaghe agreed to the fight largely because Manfredo’s presence meant it would be covered by HBO, allowing him to showcase his skills to the lucrative US market. He even vacated his IBF title in order to take the fight.

So the scene was set and the talking was done. It was time for things to be settled the way they did in olden times. A bout of non-homoerotic, shirtless, fist fighting. Here’s what happened.




(Gee Note: If you want to skip to the important bit, it’s at 04:21 mm:ss. Although I’d honestly advise against that because then you’d miss the penguins. No really. Penguins. For, like, absolutely no reason at all. I mean none. It took me a while to get my head around it at first. Then I started think that more sports could do things like that. For example, if there’s some down time in the Superbowl, why not cut to a cow in a field going “Moooooo” for five seconds? Then everyone would be all "Did you see that cow?" and you could say "What cow?" and they would say "The cow! It was right there man! On the TV!!!" which you would follow up with "What cow? We're watching the Superbowl. Are you OK?". This would eventually end with you convincing everyone that they need a good lie down and then you can eat their share of the food. I call it the Cow of Win).

It took just three rounds for Joe to do away with Manfredo, and even if you claim the referee stopped the match a tad early, it was pretty clear that this was a mismatch of such epic proportions that it’s amazing Calzaghe didn’t give Peter a wedgie before placing his hand on his forehead and watching him swing his arms wildly.

Now this all has a point (Gee Note: I know. Amazing isn’t it? I actually think I’m going somewhere with all this waffling about folks walloping each other. You got to admit I’m determined). Before the fight no serious Boxing analyst or pundit gave Manfredo a hope in hell of winning. Everyone agreed that Calzaghe would hardly break a sweat, and likely finish it within six rounds. Obviously the promoter themself would have also known this. Which begs the question, if the contest was going to be farcical at best, why put the show on in the first place?

Well it’s because there was money to be made, either straight away or in the long run. If Manfredo had managed to somehow defeat Joe then it would be the Cinderella story of the century, with pumpkins turning in to huge piles of cash. If it went the way it was expected to then you’ve introduced Joe Calzaghe to the American public and can sell them on fights with him and legit top tier players later down the line. Either way, it’s a gravy train. In fact the only thing you have to worry about is a couple of anoraks complaining that Peter Manfredo Jr vs Joe Calzaghe was a waste of time.

So that’s why if you do decide to become a boxer you’ll need a pretty good nickname. Largely because a promoter is much more likely to book you if you have one. It’s not very easy to sell plain old Freddy Jones. Freddy “I’m going to tear your head off and then spit down your neck and then be mean to your pets be offering them treats and running away without giving them any” Jones on the other hand can be marketed. And the easier you are to market, the more money you’ll make. It’s the carnival school of business, just jazzed up a bit. You don’t have be a good boxer. But you have to have something that will make people pay to see you box.

In a strange way Cryptozoology has a lot of similarities to boxing (Gee Note: Weren’t expecting that were you? Neither was I if I'm honest. Still we're here now. Might as well keep going). Cryptid’s names are an important part of their mythos. Take the Loch Ness Monster. Would dear old Nessie be as popular if she were known as “The Loch Ness Green Giraffe with Flippers or Paddles or something. I don’t know. Wait. Are you writing this down? Why have you drawn a face with its tongue sticking out next to where it says “Witness Statement”? I don’t think you’re taking this seriously.”? Probably not. But the Loch Ness Monster? That evokes something untamed, wild, slightly dangerous even. Who wouldn’t be intrigued by that?

Now Nessie with her longevity, her reported size, and her elusiveness has definitely earned her “Monster” status. But the problem here is even the slightly crap cryptids have grandiose titles. Like the “Enfield Horror”, for example.

Now if you’ve never heard of the Enfield Horror take a moment to picture what it could possibly be. A giant rampaging bat with blood dripping from its fangs perhaps? Or a ten foot lizard with a tongue made of fire? How about a normal man with a giant head that looks like a boiled egg left out in the sun too long (Gee Note: You know, like Newt Gingrich)? Whatever it is, it must be pretty scary right? Horrors generally are.

Well, here's the fizzle to the chizzle. On April 25 1973 in Enfield, White County, Illinois Henry McDaniel was kicking back in his pad minding his own business when he heard a commotion outside of his house. Thinking it may be a racoon or an opossum trying to get in, McDaniel did the sensible thing and grabbed (Gee Note: A broom and attempted to “shoo” it away) his .22 revolver with the intent of shooting the poor bastard right between the eyes (Gee Note: Oh. Sure. You could do that as well I guess). When he opened his front door he came face to face with a strange creature. He would later claim “It had three legs on it, a short body, two little short arms coming out of its breast area and two pink eyes as big as flashlights. It stood four and a half to five feet tall and was grayish-colored. It was trying to get into the house”. A little bit shocked McDaniel pulled the trigger over and over, claiming he emptied all four bullets in to the beast. Rather than do something sensible like die, or lunge forward in a fit of rage, Stumpy Tri-legs “hissed like a wildcat” before turning around and making its escape. By taking three jumps that covered 75 feet.

The Enfield Horror almost certainly looked nothing like this

The morale of the story? Never ever leap out from behind a bush dressed as a clown and carrying a meat clever in front of Henry McDaniel. Because if you did, you’d get your f***ing head blown off.

Eventually Henry calmed down and stopped shooting things long enough to call the police. Christ knows what he told them but they sent an officer to have a look around regardless. They reported strange scratches on the side of the building and prints on the ground that resembled a six toed dogs paw and measured between four inches across. Also, assuming all the tracks belonged to the same animal, it was judged that whatever it was could possibly have had a tripedal gait.

On May 6 McDaniel was woken in middle of the night by the sound of neighbourhood dogs howling their heads off. Again he grabbed his gun (Gee Note: Thankfully he didn’t own a bazooka, otherwise I’m guessing large parts of Illinois would be nothing but smouldering craters) but as he peered out in the darkness he saw the crazy sumbitch was someway off in the distance. "I didn't shoot at it or anything," he said. "It started on down the railroad track. It wasn't in a hurry or anything" .

The media started taking an interest in dear Henry and his wacky three legged friend, writing breathless reports of a monster on the loose. The hysteria became such that White County Sheriff Roy Poshard Jr. threatened to arrest McDaniel for causing a mass panic. In fact only a couple of days later Deputy Sherriff Jim Clark locked five men up for wandering around tooled up to the gills with firearms. These intrepid travellers claimed to have seen something grey and hairy in the underbrush and let off a couple of rounds (Gee Note: Gandalf? You bastards shot Gandalf! Now Frodo will never make it to Mordor to throw a ring in to a volcano for reasons that aren't entirely clear. You've doomed us all idiots). Two of the group said they were confident they had hit the thing, only for it to take off at one heck of a speed.

Even more curious, reports began to surface of a young boy named Greg Garrett. The Garrett’s were neighbours of McDaniel and on the night when Henry had first spied the critter, Garrett had been playing in his backyard. About half an hour before Henry went all kinds of Chuck Norris on its ass, the strange fiend rocked up to Greg Garrett and stepped on his tennis shoes, tearing them to shreds. Garrett, outrage by this, pulled out his revolver and shot at the creature. Nah, not really. Instead he freaked out and tore a path to his house, slamming the door shut behind him.

Then it was the turn of the professionals. Rick Rainbow (Gee Note: Who, let’s be honest, sounds like something a male stripper would call themselves) was at that time the news director of radio station WWKI in Kokomo, Indiana. Searching desolate places for anything suspicious, he saw something grey and stopped over near an abandoned house. Too far away to catch a good look at it, Rick grabbed his tape deck and made a recording of the strange high pitched wailing sound it made. The house wives favourite Cryptozoologist Loren Coleman soon arrived in the area to find out what all the fuss was about, and while he never saw the Enfield Horror himself he reported hearing the same noise while investigating the area surrounding McDaniel’s house.

But that’s where the story pretty much ends. As is so often with woovy bezerk wild things, staying power proved a problem. The sightings dried up, and the strange sounds stopped echoing through the night. Everything just went back to normal in that little part of Illinois. In fact the only other interesting event of note was that Greg Garrett was eventually shot and killed by his wife in what was deemed to be in act of self-defence.

So back to my original point. Because it was so scarcely seen and had such a short shelf life it would have been easy for… whatever the hell it was… to have been forgotten by the passage of time. But because it’s been labelled The Enfield Horror, and because Coleman has penned the odd article about it here and there, it remains a hot topic in some circles. Problem is, more so than any other cryptid, the Enfield Horror fails to live up to the hype. A seemingly bullet proof nuisance? Sure. A small scruffy kangaroo with either an extra leg or a surprisingly large penis? Possibly. But a “Horror”? Not even close.

Still if it is a kangaroo and - like so many of its brethren - it does happen to step in to a boxing ring, at least it will have a snappy nickname.

Hello. It's the start of a New Year. And so what better way to celebrate than by looking back at some of the stories that have intrigued us over the past 12 months? Well a better way would be to watch strippers and pirates fight to the death while snorting crack cocaine off the back of an albino dolphin, but I’m not a wizard so this is what you get.

Is it a bird?




A video showing a UFO supposedly hovering over Jerusalem sent the media in to a frenzy in February. Did this mean that we were not alone in the universe after all? No. Of course it didn’t. Don’t be silly. Instead it proved that on a slow news day any old tosh will get air time.


No it’s not a f***ing bird you n00b.

In March DC Comics was forced to shut down its own message boards after an argument erupted between fans that was so vicious it threatened to destroy the universe as we know it. Apparently this “time out” was deemed necessary after an online discussion about whether Superman or The Flash would win in a foot race got out of hand. Stupid isn’t it? Everyone knows The Flash would kick Superman’s ass. And if you don’t agree I WILL KILL YOU WITH FIRE.


UFO > JFK

In April it was revealed that President John F Kennedy had requested information about the UFO phenomenon 10 days before he was assassinated, thanks to documents released by the CIA. This led to some people theorising that JFK got bumped off to stop him learning the truth about an alien cover-up. Although you would think that if that was the case then the CIA would keep quiet about it and, you know, bury the evidence. Not unleash it in to the public domain. It’s like they’re not even trying to hide it. Shameless bastards.


You should get yourself one of those.

2011 also saw a new TV show hit the airwaves in the form of The Beast Hunter. Hosted by the thinking cryptozoologist’s crumpet Pat Spain, it promised to do away with such things as “Blaire Witch style stuff”. Indeed the first episode got off to a promising start, until Pat ended up in the woods in the pitch dark freaking out at every slight rustle in the distance. Still if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.


The end is not nigh.

Harold Camping, head of the Family Radio Church, announced publically that the world would end on 21/05/11. The day in question arrived and, to the surprise of no-one save perhaps Harold himself, nothing happened. So Harold quickly went back to the drawing board and came up with 21/10/2011 as the new date of the apocalypse. When the world stubbornly continued on as normal on that date Harold, who had recently suffered a stroke, retired from his position as the head of the Family Radio Church and told a reporter that “God has not given anyone the power to know exactly when the Rapture will come”. So just so you know the morale of this story is “If Harold Camping can’t do it, no-one else can. Not even Jesus”.


I want to lick your brains.

In June it was reported the following request was sent to Leicester City Council under the Freedom of Information act


Dear Leicester City Council,

Can you please let us know what provisions you have in place in the event of a zombie invasion? Having watched several films it is clear that preparation for such an event is poor and one that councils throughout the kingdom must prepare for.

Please provide any information you may have.

Yours faithfully,

Concerned Citizen

The council had to admit that they were unprepared should the shuffling undead rock up unannounced in the midlands. Which led to Dick Cheney warning us all that unless everyone started taking the threat of necromancy seriously then we would be leaving ourselves wide open to an attack from Al-Qaeda. Probably.


Bill Pullman gotta eat.

Torchwood made its long awaited transition to America, and then proceeded to be nonsensical and horrible for 10 episodes. In the end it turned out that the antagonist for the entire series was a giant vagina buried deep in the earth. On the flip side of the coin, Doctor Who had a cracking 6th series followed by a Christmas Special that made the giant underground vagina seem almost Shakespearean. And there’s still no word on when or even if series 7 will air. Worrying times.


Whoooooooooosh

In news that made physicists everywhere tear at their hair and weep in to their cornflakes, in September it was announced that neutrinos had been recorded travelling faster than the speed of light as part of the OPERA experiment. Scientists everywhere freaked out, largely because this would seem to contradict Einstein’s theory of Special Relativity, a cornerstone on which much of modern physics theory is based. So OPERA repeated the experiment. And got the same result. Which means the only way this could be more disheartening for scientists is if Captain James T Kirk arrived from the future and kicked them all in the nuts while laughing at them and calling them nerds.


Yeti again. 





In December rumours started to surface that a honest-to-goodness Yeti had been caught in the Russian wilderness. Alas video footage soon emerged showing what was obviously a dude in a gorilla suit. Which just goes to show that if you want your hoax to succeed, you’d be better off outsourcing the special effects to ILM or Weta. Let the professionals handle it is what I’m saying here.


In memoriam.

Jimmy Savile – Now then. Now then. Now sadly no more.

Steve Jobs – Apple CEO.

Heavy D – Rapper

Nate Dogg – Rapper

Ryan Dunn – Jackass

Peter Falk – Just one more thing.

Pete Postlethwaite – Steven Spielberg called him the best actor in the world. He wasn’t. He was better than that.

Sidney Lumet – Director

Christopher Hitchens – British journalist

Jane Russell – Actor

Elizabeth Taylor – Actor/Icon


And finally…

2011 changed my life forever. I became a father to a healthy, happy, and beautiful little girl who surprises and delights on a daily basis. And “I Saw Elvis…” also managed to scoop the coveted “Best Writing on a blog” award at the Wales Blog Awards. No really we did. And the truth is we wouldn’t have done it without the support and kindness of our readers. So, from the bottom of my heart, I want to say thank you. You’re the best.

Wishing you a wonderful and prosperous 2012. Stay awesome.

Gareth.

Before we start I feel I have to warn you. I’m feeling a little flat today.

You see I’ve spent most of the day catching up on all the stuff I missed over Christmas. And so far it’s been one colossal disappointment after another. First off we have the rugby match between my home team the Ospreys and their fierce rivals the Scarlets, a game that the Ospreys not only managed to lose but was so poor in terms of quality that calling it “garbage” would be an insult to empty crisp packets everywhere. Then we had the news that some remains of the Pangboche hand had been discovered in Tibet London and had been DNA tested, the results revealing that it belongs to a human and not a bloody great big Yeti after all (Gee Note: Which, if you think about it, just goes to show that monks are as full of crap as everyone else. Yeah that’s right. I said it. Just because you walk around in a robe all day doesn’t mean you you’re any more enlightened than the rest of us. That includes you Jedi. I mean, sure, you may think you’re pretty badass with your laser sword and your mind control. But did you stop Darth Sidious corrupting young Anakin Skywalker and beating down the galaxy like it was a prostitute locked inside Mickey Rourke’s hotel room? Did you? DID YOU?!? No. No you didn’t. Instead we had to leave it up to the Ewoks to save our bacon. Ewoks for f***s sake. So now the entire galaxy is indebted to a load of teddy bears. Thanks a lot Jedi).

Following that we had the ball bustingly exciting news that a bona-fide Yeti had been captured by Russian authorities, only for it to turn out to be a man in a monkey suit (Gee Note: I imagine he gave up the goose when he spied a vet approaching wearing a rubber glove). And to top it all off I eventually managed to watch the festive episode of Doctor Who, and it was largely awful. Unless you happen to love boring trees being boring of course. If that’s you’re thing then this was the TV event of the year. Sadly as I have not recently had a lobotomy, it left me feeling cold and vaguely angry about wasting an hour of my time watching it.

So yeah, since Christmas decided to make its excuses and leave things have pretty much gone downhill quicker than Sonny Bono skiing. Although maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just grumpy that Christmas is over for another year and now I have to go back to my regular duties (Gee Note: As opposed to drinking beer all day and shouting at whatever happens to be on the TV). Maybe it’s the stress of it all. Being a new dad, not getting any orders for a signed copy of RAINBOWS ARE MADE OF CHOCOLATE BUT THEY DON'T WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT, living through yet another year when no one has found definitive proof of a sea monster or something cool like that, maybe it’s all just getting to me. Maybe I need a break from it all. A holiday perhaps.

But where to go? That’s the question. It will need to be somewhere I can unwind. Relax. Somewhere filled with enough positive energy to make the cast of Sesame Street look like a right bunch of miserable bastards. And it will also need a great big rock as well. Because nothing says “Here is a place you can recharge and feel connected with a higher level of existence” more than a great big rock.

Thankfully the answer arrived in the form of a link sent to me by a wonderful lass named Jenny.

Because out there somewhere deep in the Mojave Desert in California is The Giant Rock, which believe-it-or-not fits the bill perfectly. But don’t just take my word for it, ask the folks at Labyrinthina.com. Specifically an article written by Kathy Doore entitled “George Van Tassel's Amazing Integratron at Giant Rock”.

Now if you’re sitting there and asking yourself “Who’s George Van Tassel? And while we’re at it, what the hell is an Integratron?”, never fear brave reader. I have painstakingly taken the time and effort to reprint the important bits of the article here for you to read, as well as adding helpful notes along the way. No need to thank me. I do this out of love, not for any type of reward. I’m like Robin Hood. Except I don’t have a bow and arrow. Or ride a horse. Or wear tights on a daily basis. So not really like Robin Hood at all when you think about it. Anyway the article in question kicks off with…

To researchers, Giant Rock is significant for many reasons. For starters it was the home and workplace of the enigmatic George Van Tassel, known as (Gee Note: “The All-Night Delight” to travelling salesmen and truckers looking for some love on the road?) "Van" to his friends (Gee Note: Oh. OK).

Van allegedly made contact with extraterrestrials in the 1950's and was tutored by them on a variety of subjects, including human cellular rejuvenation leading to the building of a structure called "The Integratron”. (Gee Note: They also helped him out with his Math homework, and gave him the courage to ask Suzie Rubenstein to be his date to the prom. As well as showing those no good jocks a thing or two by defeating them in a game of basketball. It’s true. I saw it on the Lifetime TV Movie “Van and his alien tutor”, with Harry Hamlin giving the performance of the decade as Van’s best friend who happens to be an imaginary duck. If you haven’t seen it you should check it out. It’s emotional stuff.)

After arriving in California from Ohio in 1930, Van, a young pilot and engineer, lived with an uncle who owned an automobile repair shop in Southern California. One day during that period, he met Frank Critzer, a down and out prospector who needed to have his Essex car repaired. Van found the prospector to be an engaging fellow and the two of them soon became friends. Owing to Critzer’s financial difficulties Van agreed to repair the car for free. Critzer was even allowed to sleep at the garage while repairs were made to his car. Van's largess didn’t end there. He gave Critzer a trunk full of canned goods along with $30, which, as Van put it, was a lot of money then. In return, Critzer promised to include Van and the uncle in any mining claims he might make in the future. (Gee Note: Lucky Van wasn’t married at the time, otherwise he’d have probably have said something along the lines of “Hey Frank. Look I know it’s a bit difficult picking up chicks, what with you living in a car an’ all. So I was thinking, why don’t you have sex with my wife? No really. Why don’t you? Seriously I’d be happy to let you slip one to my missus. In fact, why don’t you go and send a meaty missile in to my wife’s red love zone right now? And when you’re done I’ll have a tray of freshly baked hot scones waiting for you”).

A year later, Critzer mailed a map to Van showing him how to get to Giant Rock - a massive boulder surrounded by a dry lake bed sacred to the native Americans, who called it the "Great Stone", the place where Critzer was living. Map in hand, Van set out to visit his friend. When he arrived, he was (Gee Note: Raped by a marauding pack of Grizzly Bears who were fraudulently sending maps to random addresses hoping someone would bite. This in turn taught Van a valuable lesson about being gullible) surprised to find that Critzer had dug under the massive boulder in order to carve out a place to live. He had made an alcove within the cavity to set up house.

During WWII, Critzer ran afoul of the government and was accused of stealing dynamite and later of being an enemy spy. Conflicting stories about this colorful character abound. But whatever the truth, a confrontation with the police resulted in his death in August of 1942. Interestingly, Van Tassel claims the prospector was an "advanced thinker" who researched innovative methods of manufacturing plastic. However details of that matter are sketchy. (Gee Note: There’s no real great mystery to Critzer’s demise by the way. Basically US Marshalls responded to anonymous tip that Critzer was a German spy and went to arrest him. When he refused to come quietly they set about bombarding his home with tear gas. Alas the dynamite which Critzer had in fact pinched was ignited by one of these tear gas canisters, and proceeded to blow the poor sumbitch to smithereens. Which suggest that he wasn’t really that much of an ‘advanced thinker’ after all. Unless of course by ‘advanced thinker’ you mean ‘dumber than a bag full of tortoises with astonishingly low IQs’).

During the ensuing years, Van Tassel became an aeronautical engineer, flight inspector, and test pilot (he'd obtained his pilot's license while still a teenager), and worked for Douglas Aircraft during the 1930s, and alongside Howard Hughes in the 1940s at Hughes Aviation as Hughes' personal flight inspector for testing experimental aircraft (Gee Note: “Hey. This helicopter we made out of silly string and nitro-glycerine doesn’t look very safe. Get George on the phone would you?”). During this time he continued to visit Giant Rock with his wife on vacation. In 1945, he made an application to the Bureau of Land Management to lease the property. And in 1947, he quit his job at a Lockheed aircraft plant and moved his wife and three daughters to the Mojave Desert near Landers, leasing four square miles of land surrounding Giant Rock from the government.

The area was covered with decomposed granite making it a natural site for a small airport where Van Tassel created Giant Rock Airport and Cafe, which he operated from 1947 until 1975. Howard Hughes was a frequent guest who flew in for the delicious pie that Van Tassels wife made (Gee Note: I hope “pie” isn’t some sort of euphemism).

Van Tassel believed the rock's crystalline structure possessed great channeling power by virtue of its piezo-electric characteristics. In 1953, he began a series of weekly meditations in the rooms under the boulder where it was said the meditations led to contact with extraterrestrial beings. On August 21, 1953, a ship from Venus landed and a man wearing a jumpsuit stood at the foot of his sleeping bag, announcing “I am Solganda, and I would be pleased to show you my craft”. (Gee Note: To which Van replied. “Um… OK. I guess. Although how long is this going take? Howard Hughes has just been on the line. There’s an exciting new helicopter he wants me to be the first to fly.”). Van Tassel wrote that he was led to a hovering spaceship, and stepped into what he described as a “butter colored” light emanating from the underside of the craft. He was taken on a tour of the ship and told that he had been chosen to bring a message of peace and interplanetary brotherhood to his fellow earthlings. (Gee Note: Also his tight firm buttocks would give the ladies something to talk about. Phoooaaawwwrrrr) He was shown the principals of cell rejuvenation which later led to the creation of The Integratron.




Designed specifically to carry out anti-aging processes to prolong human life, the Integratron schematics called for recharging human cell structure using a powerful negative ion field. Although Van Tassel died before he could complete the structure (Gee Note: Wait. He died? Not much of a cell rejuvenator is it?), what was left behind continues to focus and amplify powerful geomagnetic forces running through its location, built over a large underground aquifer, while the unique all-wood construction created, sets up a resonant sound field (Gee Note: I have a similar thing at home. I call it “THE SHED”).

George Van Tassel called his Integratron "a time machine for basic research on rejuvenation, anti-gravity and time travel". The structure stood four-story's high and 55 feet in diameter. It was of non-metallic structure, sited over a magnetic vortex--an essential part of its functioning. Van Tassel erected a sign at the entrance which simply stated: “Integratron: Dedicated To Research In Life Extension.” (Gee Note: “If you’re looking for Mrs. Van Tassel’s “pie”, please use the rear entrance and have a credit card to hand”). The placement of the Integratron was chosen based on a complex set of theories involving the earth's magnetic field, with the Integratron's relationship to the Great Pyramid in Egypt and Giant Rock, presumed to be the world's largest freestanding boulder at the time.

With no written plans for completing the project, Van Tassel's family abandoned the site (Gee Note: Hi Bill. Bill? It’s Mary. Your cousin. Did you hear? Crazy-ass uncle Van died. Left you his alien building or whatever. Bill you still there? Bill?). The buildings at Giant Rock were vacated and gradually Vandalized until the Bureau of Land Management found it necessary to bulldoze the remains, leaving only the nearby dome intact as you see it today.

In his many hundred radio and TV appearances, George Van Tassel compared the Integratron to the Tabernacle of Moses. He claimed that he was instructed by a higher intelligence to build a 21st century version of the Tabernacle that Moses constructed, using the same positive power principle of the Great Pyramid of Giza, and was given the name The Integratron. He was told it would revitalize and rejuvenate the physical bodies of humankind. George Van Tassel openly shared much of the technology with his supporters and followers, but those close to him say he kept much of it secret, sharing it only with his closest, trusted colleagues. (Gee Note: They wants to take it from ussssss. The precioussss. Filthy hobitsesss wants it for themselvesss).


According to Van Tassel, the Integratron is located on an intersection of powerful geomagnetic forces that, when focused by the unique geometry of the building, will concentrate and amplify the energy required for rejuvenation and healing. In 2005, a geophysicist measured the earth's magnetic field for up to 15 miles in every direction from the Integratron and then inside the dome. She proclaimed that there is a significant, unexplainable spike in the earth's magnetic field in the center of the Integratron. (Gee Note: A geophysicist who didn’t want to be named apparently. Sad really. Obviously suffering from crippling shyness. Or as it’s known in the trade “the geophysicist’s curse”).

George Van Tassel's literature describing the project stated that the machine's purpose was "to recharge energy into living cell structures, to bring about longer life with youthful energy." He theorized that the body is an electrical device, and aging was a matter of the cells running out of power. The Integratron, capable of collecting up to 50,000 volts of static electricity from the air, would be a multi-frequency, electrostatic charger for the human body. (Gee Note: It’s amazing that no one had thought of pumping electricity through a human body before really. I mean it sounds perfectly safe and in no way potentially fatal).

The 16-sided Dome was built of wood and concrete and held together by glue and gravity-electrically neutral materials. The generating core was made of copper wire. Had it been placed into operation, candidates would have walked through the building, essentially a huge air capacitor, while wearing white outfits. The charges, distributed over a wide range of frequencies, would affect every cell. Integratron became a Noah's Ark, "a vehicle or vessel that could deliver a chosen lot of followers to a secure place. It's the dream as old as mankind to live forever and have some control in governing our time on earth." (Gee Note: I bet Mumm-Ra The Ever-Living was first in line. Was always on the look out for a wacky never dying scheme that one).

Recently honored with a dedication and historical monument by the Ancient and Honorable Order of E Clampus Vitus, Billy Holcomb Chapter, the Integratron today receives many visitors drawn to experience the Integratron's enhanced energy fields. An overnight stay at the Integratron is said to result in waves of peace, heightened awareness, and relaxation of the mind and body. (Gee Note: As well as the feeling of a great weight lifted from your wallet). Affectionately called "The Dome" by the Karl sisters (Joanne, Nancy, and Patty), who together own and operate the Integratron, say "Our work at the Integratron has been about honoring the old history and getting the story straight about George Van Tassel's life's work, what we call the New History of the Integratron, which we believe is about creating an environment that is a gathering place where science and spirit meet. We're dedicated to the research and the understanding of what the Integratron's gift to humanity really is." And many agree, including a very high-ranking Tibetan Buddhist lama who has been teaching out of the Integratron, purportedly sent there by His Holiness the Dalai Lama. (Gee Note: Which suggests that no one has actually confirmed that he was sent there by the Dalai Lama. For all they know he could just be a bald bloke in a dressing gown. “Heyyy. Whatchoo mean I ain’t no lama or nothing? I’d kick your ass if I weren’t all peaceful and shit.”).

So there we are then. Sounds perfect doesn’t it? I’m packing my bags as we speak.

Now where did I put my white suit?

Something funny happened to me the other day (Gee Note: Funny as in strange. Not funny as in Herman Cain’s run for President. Although, I’ll be honest, I was sad to see him go. Even if he couldn’t keep lil’ Herman under control, he was still brilliantly entertaining. Did you know he even finished his concession speech with a quote from the Pokémon movie? No really. Pokémon. I swear the world would be a much better place if all politicians took that route. Think about it. President Obama purposefully striding towards to the podium, placing his hands on either side with authority, and announcing “My fellow Americans. I just saw something on the television that pulled at the strings of my heart. It was a wildlife documentary about cartoons and people who say “wah” a lot. Anyway apparently a small turtle with surgically implanted water cannons needs to get to a particular forest otherwise he will lose all his power. And if the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles taught us anything it’s that there’s nothing more important than turtle power. So it goes without saying that this little dude needs our help. As such I’ve made an executive decision. Yeah that’s right. Suit up bitches, we’re heading out to Japan to lend a hand. Hold on Squirtle, we’re coming to save you”. And then President Obama marches away triumphantly to the sound of “Hail to the Chief”. It would easily be the greatest moment in human history is what I’m saying).

I was at my desk, perusing the online editions of the daily newspapers, and came across an article about David Icke. The contents of which surprised me so much that I had to get up, find the nearest sink, and splash water on my face.

I should probably explain. For those not in the know, David Icke is a former professional soccer player and BBC sports journalist who completely lost his shit in the early 90’s and started going around claiming to be the son of God. When that didn’t stick, Icke took some time off to reflect and reinvented himself as a conspiracy theorist. And boy did he come out swinging. Reviving the dusty old NWO hypothesis for a new millennia, Icke put a novel spin on the idea of secret overlords making the rest of the world miserable and poor. While his peers were still claiming these sinister rulers of the planet were greedy privileged psychopaths, Icke instead painted them as… wait for it… evil aliens.

Not just any aliens you understand. These sumbitches are 9 feet tall, shape shifting reptiles that are able to pass for people by sacrificing the occasional virgin and making the human race as depressed as possible. You see that way they can feed off the collective negative energy pumped out by the Earth and are able to carry on their day to day roles of causing mass genocide and so on. These “Reptoids” were responsible for the Holocaust, 9/11, medieval witch hunts, the black death, the war in Afghanistan, the JFK assassination, the crusades, Twilight, Katie Price, and everything else in between. In fact if anything really awful has happened on this planet, you can bet your ass these slithering lunatics were behind it. Of course there’s not a shred of evidence to support any of this, but in situations like these all you need is the ability to shout loud enough and have a knack of blowing the tiniest details out of proportion to be a success (Gee Note: For example, “There’s a portrait of Queen Elizabeth I holding a snake! Which proves she’s a reptile! Because snakes are also reptiles! HOW CAN THE REST OF THE WORLD NOT SEE THIS???!!!??!?!?!?”). And, as it happens, Icke has both those attributes in spades.

However, the reason I had to dowse myself in liquid (Gee Note: Easy tiger) was that I never realised just how good a Snake Oil salesman David Icke is. According to an article in the Daily Fail Mail, Icke has recently sold out the Best Buy Theatre in New York, all 2100 seats of it. For £45 a ticket. £45. A ticket. Or, as my calculator puts it, a total of £94,500. Which, and this is the bit that really got me, is more money than I’ve earned in the past five years combined. Of course David won’t be taking all of that huge pile of dosh home to himself. The theatre itself probably requires a cut, and the cost of staging his… er… show (Gee Note: Show? Lecture? Call to arms? One man public service announcement about how meds for mental illness should be easier to obtain?) probably costs a fair whack as well. But even if Icke is taking home only half of the house receipts it’s still a healthy £47,250. Which is a very tidy wage for an entire year, let alone one day.

All this got me thinking. Obviously I’m in the wrong business here. I’ve been quietly poking fun at folks like Icke for nigh on four years now on this blog, and despite being recognised for my talents with a prestigious award my total net earnings from this escapade equal a big fat zero dollars. Nada. Nothing. Zip. In fact the closest I get to any type of monetary reward for this here web adventure is the occasional random email from a marketing type person. Every so often one will offer me a potentially free copy of a book with a supernatural theme, on the understanding that I write a glowing review on these very pages. Which would be fine except I’m a terrible liar (Gee Note: Just ask The Future Ex-Mrs. Davies. Once I told her I wouldn’t be able to take the bins out because I was being attacked by a shark. She soon saw through that one), and so if I end up not liking the product my only alternative would be to type something like “This book is really great! I was especially impressed by the binding. I’ve had it for three weeks now and almost none of the pages have fallen out. Pick up your copy today!”. I’m no expert but I would be willing to bet that quote wouldn’t make the dust jacket.

So after a whole three minutes of quiet contemplation, I’ve decided that things need to change. I need to change. No longer can I be content with receiving the odd email from friends telling me “That last post was OK”, or meeting up with relations every once in a while who’ll say things like “Oh sure. I’ve read your blog. It’s really… say how’s your daughter getting along?”. No. I’ve been kidding myself for too long now. This blog and I. We’ll never be successful. It’s time to go in a different direction. That’s right folks. No longer will I simply find stuff on the internet and add snarky comments. Gone are the days when I would cheerily wonder what brand of beer Bigfoot would drink (Gee Note: Although I’m pretty sure Biggy is a Coors Light type of man-monkey). You’ve seen the last of me trying to make weak jokes about psychic mediums. I’m giving all that up.

Instead, I’m going to become a conspiracy theorist/spiritual guru. Because, baby, that’s the where the money is. Bucket loads of cold hard cash are waiting to be given to me by gullible fools enlightened individuals who want to learn to truth about who REALLY rules our planet. And believe me, as soon as I’ve come up with whatever it is, that truth will shock you to your very core. Get ready to make your cheques out to “Gareth Davies” as I invite you to follow me on a very special path. A path that leads to a higher level of understanding. I can help you set your minds free, my friends. And together we can make the world a better place to live.

Problem is, I have no idea where to start with this new venture. So I guess I should be thanking the various Gods for Edward Alexander. AKA Maggador.

You guys remember Maggy right? Of course you do. A blonde bombshell of Scandinavian silliness, Maggador is one my favourite internet personalities of all time. Claiming to be a reincarnated alien (Gee Note: See? I told you he was awesome), he’s also a top notch conspiracy nut, and something of a dab hand when it comes to raising us humans to a greater plane of existence. Better yet, no matter how many times I’ve been a wee bit mean about him within the sphere that is blog, he always sends me a message along the lines of “Hey, you’re a funny guy. Good luck”. Which means that not only is he wise, he’s also forgiving. You know, a bit like Jesus. If Jesus had a pet monkey and made YouTube videos telling you to overthrow the government that is. Point being, he’s exactly the kind of chap I should be modelling myself on in order to make this new venture of mine a triumph.

So just what has Maggy been up to recently? Well it turns out that about a week ago he uploaded this video:






WOW! Lightening! Egyptian flute music! Badly synched audio! Maps! Maggy saying the exact same thing all over again except this time using some sort of distortion software to either make his voice sound deeper, or to fool you in to thinking you’ve accidentally ingested some sort of hallucinogenic compound! More maps! I bet you’ve just had your tiny little mind rocked to its socks, haven’t you? I know I have. If that trailer is any indication of what’s to come then I can’t wait for the full documentary.

And then of course we have Jim Corr (Gee Note: Or as most people know him “That bloke from the band with all the pretty women”). Corr, the former guitarist from popular beat combo The Corrs, recently caused havoc in his native Ireland by claiming 9/11 was an inside job on national television. Which, if you’re looking for a comparison, is a bit like Fab Morvan from Milli Vanilli publically announcing that JFK was shot by a unicorn with a bad attitude. Even better when the news broke that Osama Bin Laden had been killed by a bunch of kick ass marines in May this year, Corr immediately took to twitter and claimed that it would be difficult to kill Bin Laden as he had already died some ten years prior.

But here’s the beauty of this. Anyone with half a brain would work out pretty quickly that unless Bin Laden was a freakin’ zombie, it would be pretty tough to produce a time sensitive video of him in August 2007 had he snuffed it in 2001. But Jim can afford to claim things like this because he probably knows full well that no serious minded journalist will challenge him on it. Instead at worst he’ll have to endure some “phew what a loony” type snickering from tabloid headline writers, while his target audience will lap it up like thirsty dogs.

And that’s the one thing Icke, Maggador, and Corr all share in common. Because once you’ve put your mind to becoming a conspiracy theorist you can pretty much say whatever you want to and get away with it. Throw in some bogus history and a slide show and - BOOM - you’re making more money than a Kardashian divorce lawyer.

With that in mind, prepare to have your universe shattered. We here at I Saw Elvis In The Woods proudly present to you a serialisation of the new soon-to -be smash hit best seller “RAINBOWS ARE MADE OF CHOCOLATE BUT THEY DON'T WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT.” written by me, Gareth Davies (Gee Note: And don’t think I’m serialising it here just because nobody else wanted it. Nuh uh Jack. All the big ass newspapers were after it. Rupert Murdoch was practically blowing up my phone to get it for The Times. “Strewth mate” he’d say, “You’ve got to give me the rights to for your new book, you great big galah”. In the end I had to tell him “Rupy, dearest, you know I would. But the people who read I Saw Elvis on a regular basis, all six of them, they’ve been really good to me. I have to give something back. You get it don’t you?”. Unfortunately this upset Murdoch so much that if you ask him about it now he’ll tell you he’s never heard of me. Bit childish really).

CHAPTER 1


Friends. If you’re reading this you probably think you’re awake. Unless you’re sleep reading. In which case, you might not think you’re awake. Or you might think you’re awake when you’re actually not. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure sleep reading is a real thing. Look I’m getting off topic here. The point is you think you’re awake when you’re reading this, but you’re not. And it has nothing to do with sleep reading. You were not awake when you got out bed this morning. Or the day before. Or the day before that. Or the day before that one. In fact you’ve been asleep your whole lives. And not in a fun, dreaming about a sitcom starring Tony Danza and the kid from Jerry Maguire, kind of a way. I’m talking about a constant nightmare. A nightmare that’s so nightmarish, you don’t even know it’s a nightmare. You actually think it’s pretty good for the most part. You may not even to be willing to accept that this terrible nightmare is a nightmare at first, due to it being so terrible that you don’t even know it’s a nightmare. But your life is a nightmare. A terrible one.


Before you go all wacky and start running down the street naked, you need to know why your existence is in the gutter. The good news is it’s not your fault. You see the world is secretly controlled by an exclusive group who are purposefully making your life rubbish just to amuse themselves. Now you may be reading this thinking “My, that doesn’t sound very likely”. If you are, let me ask you this. Do you own that Ferrari you’ve always dreamed of? No, of course you don’t. And even if you do, do you own two of them? And if you own two, why don’t you have three? Or four? Or seventeen? It’s because this shadowy organisation has been holding you down your entire life, denying you such things as spiritual enlightenment and Ferrari’s. The bastards.


But luckily for you I am here to WAKE YOU UP. You’ve been living in a fake reality for too long now, a reality where you’ve probably been walking a lot more than you have to due to the lack of Italian sports cars. However I am not naïve or simple minded. I do not expect everyone who hears what I have to say to be able to fully comprehend it. But for those who choose to stay ignorant I will simply state that a day of reckoning is coming soon. At which point you’ll look back at these passages and realise that I was right all along. What I’m saying is, this is your chance to get in on the ground level here. It’s like when you hear a new band on the radio and you’re all “Hey that’s a pretty good record” and on an impulse you buy the album. And then you realise the band is actually all kinds of amazing and you’re like “Hey this is band is really great. I wonder why nobody knows about them?”. And then six months later everyone you know is talking about how great they are, and they release a second album which is pretty much the same as the first one, and you don’t like them anymore because they’re “not as good as they used to be”. Well, this right here is your chance to figuratively “buy that first album”.

So yeah, the secret rulers of Earth that are keeping YOU down are everywhere. They have infiltrated every section of society, from that Café you went to once where the waitress was looking at you funny, all the way to The White House. Many influential figures including President Obama, Queen Elizabeth II, David Cameron, Ryan Seacrest, Brad Pitt, Meryl Streep, Lady Gaga, Christopher Biggins, and three time figure skating World Champion Elvis Stojko are not who they claim to be. In fact they’re not even human.


No. These imposters are passing themselves off as human when they are actually highly intelligent birds. Yes birds. As in Ostriches and Emus. Puffins. Wrens. Peregrine Falcons. That type of thing. All cleverly disguised by wearing a combination of movie make up and animatronics. Birds previously ruled the Earth over five thousand years ago when they were all dressing up as dinosaurs. In fact back then the only group of dinosaurs that weren’t secretly birds as well were the Stegosaurs. Alas a Stegosaurus brain is only the size of a walnut and so they NEVER realised that some of the other dinosaurs had feathers despite them supposedly being lizards. 





When the stegosaurs became extinct after the birds had killed them all and used their plates as surfboards, the evil overlords of the planet took a different route. Some of them reverted to their natural form to act as spies on a new race of evolved apes called humans. Others started disguising themselves in order to manipulate the humans every chance they got. Because of their superior skills, such as the ability to point at things and pick tiny specks of stuff off the ground with their mouths, birds quickly rose to the top of the human power structure. And they have remained there ever since. The TRUTH is that birds have been lying to you from day one. So while you go through your humdrum life by watering your pot plants and painting your fences, the birds are becoming more and more powerful with each passing second. Name any politician and the chances are they are a bird in a man suit. Apart from George Osborne. He's human believe it or not, just a very very stupid one. The point is it doesn’t matter which political party you vote for as they’re all frauds anyway. DEMOCRACY IS A LIE. A BEAKY FEATHERY LIE.

The serialisation will continue next week and cover such topics as “Birds are up to no good. The proof” and “How to tell if your neighbour is a bird”. If you are interested in securing a signed copy of RAINBOWS ARE… ETC please send me your details and a bundle of unmarked notes totalling £300. It would make the perfect Christmas gift for a loved one.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to call the Best Buy Theatre in New York. After all, they’ll definitely want to book a guy like me, right?