Thursday, 16 September 2010

Running would be a good idea.

Hey. Remember the guy who said that Lady Gaga was part of the Illuminati, used to submit subliminal messages to the world for, er, no real reason? Well here's a follow up. By now you've undoubtedly heard about Gaga turning up to the MTV Video Music Awards wearing a dress made out of meat. (Gee Note: I know! It's, like, sooo shocking right? I was all kinds of "OMG!!1!!!!1!! Wat iz she doin????". But then I remembered it's Lady Gaga and I don't care all that much, and made myself a sandwich instead). Well this is a transcript of Lady Gaga describing the meaning of the dress to Ellen DeGeneres.

"It's certainly no disrespect to anyone that's vegan or vegetarian. As you know, I am the most judgment-free human being on the earth. It has many interpretations, but for me this evening, it's 'If we don't stand up for what we believe in, we don't fight for our rights, pretty soon we're gonna have as much rights as the meat on our bones'. And I am not a piece of meat."

Yeah. That's the evil genius right there. I mean it's so sneaky how she pretends to have absolutely no idea what the dress means, fumbles around like a koala bear wearing boxing gloves for the answer, and weakly comes up with "fighting for rights". If I didn't know any better I would think that Lady Gaga was wearing the dress simply as a way of generating publicity to promote her new album, and not trying to bend our tiny little minds in to buying more Coca-Cola and voting for the Republican party. Well played Gaga. Well played.

Moving on, the other week I was sitting on the sofa reading an article about a penguin's life in Antarctica (Gee Note: Turns out it's very cold) when for some unknown reason a burning question popped in to my head. Immediately I turned to the Future Ex-Mrs. Davies.

"Darling," I said "If you were a ghost, who would you haunt?"

"No one" she replied, looking up from her copy of Style Magazine.

"Really?" I said.

"Yes," she said. "It's a bit of silly question actually."

"Is it?"

"Sure. Think about it. The only reason you would haunt someone is if you didn't like them. You'd never intentionally want to scare someone you liked. And if you don't like someone, why would you want to spend any more time with them than you actually had to."

"I'm not sure it really works like that…"

"So, if I was a ghost I'd be drifting around Barbados stealing margaritas when no one was looking." Confident that the issue had been laid to rest she returned to reading about this season's must have footwear.

"Does that headline use the phrase "It" shoe?" I asked.

"Yes it does" she replied.

"Isn't that what you say when you sneeze?"

"Shut up dear."

That day I learnt two important lessons. Number one, I'm not very good at puns. Number two, ghosts make no sense.

For example, take Blue Bell Hill (Gee Note: Please. I take my Blue Bell Hill everywhere but it always finds it's way back. Awacka-wacka-wacka). Blue Bell Hill, or more accurately the A229 in Kent, is a stretch of road said to be haunted by a devilish ghoul. It appears to motorists as a young woman and, for reasons only known to itself, will often fling itself at moving cars like Jennifer Aniston and the front page of The National Enquirer.

Meet Maurice Goodenough. Mr Goodenough (Gee Note: Who sounds like he's a character from a 1970's animated childrens tv show about the dangers of not doing a job thoroughly) was a 35 year old brick layer who was on his way home from a hard days labour on July 13 1974, when he passed through Blue Bell Hill in the early hours. Tootling along in his automobile, he was startled when a girl suddenly appeared in his headlights. He broke hard, but could not avoid running in to her. In fact Goodenough would later state that colldiding with the figure caused "a hell of a bang". Shaken by the incident, Maurice leapt out of car and rushed over to tend to the girl, who had lacerations on her forhead and her knees. Attempting to flag down some passing cars proved futile, as none of them stopped to lend assistence. Unsure what to do, and with no telephone box nearby, Maurice covered the girl with a blanket he had in the boot of his car and raced to the nearest police station.

There he reported to the officers that he had knocked down a girl "roughly about ten years old" with shoulder length brown hair, wearing a white blouse. Maurice told the attending seargent that the "girl just walked out in front of me from the edge of the road". Obviously convinced by Goodenough's disturbed state, the seargent ordered a group of officers return to the scene with Maurice to ensure the poor lass received proper medical care. Arriving back at Blue Bell Hill approximately half an hour after the initial incident the party were surprised to discover no sign of a young girl. No trail of blood. No track or foot marks leading to or from the area. In fact with the exception of the disguarded blanket, itself left without a mark, it's as if the girl had simply vanished. Even stranger, further inspection of Goodenough's car revealed no damage to the part where the impact was supposed to have taken place. And as the following days arrived with no missing person's reports or anyone admitted to the local hospitals matching the girl's description, the authorities wrote it off as simply a late night driver having had one too many sherries before setting off on their journey. Maurice protested this however. "I'm not going mad," he said. "But where did she vanish? I'm still shaking from the experience."

That same night on the same stretch of road, husband and wife Allen and Gladys Painter were travelling back from visiting their daughter in Maidstone. Suddenly Mrs Painter spotted a girl in the road and alerted her husband. Her husband grumbled that he couldn't see anything and she should stop being silly (Gee Note: Tsk. Women eh? Always wanting you to drive responsibly and avoid running people over). Concerned at her husband's flippant attitude and convinced they were heading in to an accident, Gladys yanked on the steering wheel to avoid the person in the road, causing all types of chaos in the process. Coming to a stop Gladys saw that the girl had gone, while her still confused husband politely inquired just the hell she thought she was doing.

Fast forward to November 8 1992. 54 year old coach driver Ian Sharp was, much like Maurice Goodenough, travelling through Blue Bell Hill in the wee hours of the night. Having just lit a cigarette to accompany him on the last part of his journey, he was gently crusing through the Kent countryside when a woman apeared before him off in the distance. Think she would move he continued heading straight forward only for the woman to run straight towards him, stare him dead in the eyes, and disappear under his bonnet with a thud. Screeching to a halt Sharp bolted from the drivers seat and apprehensively inspected the underneath of his car. Where he found…


Not a bean. Not a sausage. Certainly not the badly damaged body of a woman who'd just tried to take on two tons of motor vehicle and lost. A tad freaked out (Gee Note: And let's face it who wouldn't be? I lose the plot if the toaster unexpectedly pops) Ian scrambled around the surrounding bushes hoping to find something, anything, that would indicate what happened to woman he swore he'd just mowed down. But in the end he left without a clue.

Sharp headed towards his local police station in Maidestone, not far from the scene of the accident. Now 90's British coppers were a different breed to their 70's counterparts (Gee Note: Most noteably in that they no longer said things like "Cor blimey gov he's got a shooter", and "You! Put your clothes on and makes us a cup of tea. And tell loverboy there he's nicked!". Actually now that I think about it, I'm not sure anyone actually ever talked like that outisde of The Sweeney anyway). And so they didn't take this tale of a disappearing lady all that seriously. Sharp did manage to convince a couple of them to go back to the scene with him, but it was to no avail. There was nothing to be found, not even a dent on his car. The police declined to follow up with an investigation, and outside of a couple of stories in the local press, no one really gave it much thought.

Then exactly two weeks later, it happened again.

Christopher Dawkins was driving through Blue Bell Hill village, only a stones throw from where Sharp had encountered the phantom lady, at around 10.50 pm November 22. The 19 year old was on his way home to Maidstone when out of nowhere a woman wearing a red scarf ran in to the path of his vehicle. With no time to swerve Dawkins ploughed in to the figure, with the woman seemingly being dragged underneath.

"She ran in front of the car. She stopped and looked at me. There was no expression on her face. Then I hit her and it was as if the ground moved apart and she went under the car. I thought I had killed her because it wasn't as if she were see through or anything. She was solid - as real as you are."

Panicked, and unable to bring himself to look under the car, he got out and ran to the closest public telephone box and called his father. His father soon arrived, and Dawkins tearfully broke down. Doing what all good father's do, Daddy Dawkins put his arm around his son and managed to find a local resident willing to help them. Seeing the state of young Christopher, Marian Warburton offered to phone the police. When the boys in blue showed up they found Christopher obviously in a state of shock being tended to by his father and Warburton, the latter of whom was in no doubt that the boy had indeed been involved in a traffic accident.

But guess what happened next?

Well if you said Godzilla attacked Kent and Matthew Broderick turned up to fight him off then, ummm, no. That didn't happen. That didn't happen at all. If you said "The Police found no sign of a woman, an accident, or any damage to the car" then congratulations. You win our grand prize of a holiday to Jamaica (Gee Note: Not really).

Since then reports of the Ghost of Blue Bell Hill have leaked in to the media occasionally. The most common is a sighting of a woman at the side of the road who vanishes in to this air. But none have been quite so dramatic as the Sharp and Dawkins accounts. So, as always, we're left with the question of what the deuce was going on in November 1992 at Blue Bell Hill? Was it a gas leak causing people to hallucinate when driving along an unremarkable road? Two different people having psychotic breaks in the same area two weeks apart while operating heavy machinery? Leprechauns playing tricks?

Or was it a honest to goodness, white sheet over the head, moaning "Ooooooooo" in a spooky voice, ghost? If so why the hell is running at cars, scaring the bejesus out of innocent folks? Why does it's sole purpose of existence appear to be getting obliterated by moving vehicles? Why is it haunting Blue Bell Hill as opposed to floating around Las Vegas playing blackjack with Elvis, Frank Sinatra, and Mel Gibson's career? I mean when you think about it like that there can only be one logical answer.

Ghosts. They really make no sense.


Anonymous said...

And neither do you, my friend. Stick to stuff you really know about - which is to say save your breath full stop.

Gareth Davies said...

Hi Anonymous (if that is in fact your real name), thanks for reading. Two things though. Firstly I seriously doubt we're friends, as you sound like a bit of a dick to me.

Secondly, did you actually have a point? I mean I'm all for constructive criticism, but there's no actual content included in your post outside of telling me to shut up. Which begs the question as to why you bothered reading the post in the first place if it offended you so (to be fair this was written over two years ago and I honestly couldn't remember what it was about. Ghosts or something. I don't know, I've moved one since then). Were you forced against your will? Did the fairies make you do it? You know, the evil ones who dress in black and cackle all the time? If so, no wonder you're a bit miffed. If not however then... well... you're just being a bit of a plum to be honest.

Anyway, I look forward to your reply. Or not. Whatever