Ghost in the machine - the reckoning

It was on Saturday 3rd November at 9:30 this year when I once again watched Ghostwatch.
This time I wasn’t watching it on BBC1, but on DVD.
This time I wasn’t watching it having been allowed to stay up later than usual on Halloween by my parents in my family home, but now in my own crib with friends at a Halloween party I was hosting.

***NOTE: The Following Contains absolutely loads of spoilers***

Certain aspects of the ghost investigation show have remained in my memory during all this time. Craig Charles entertaining the local neighbours all hoping to get on TV as part of the outside broadcast. Phone-calls from the public, reputing to be seeing ghostly images from the live feeds filming inside the haunted suburban semi-detached house. Phone-calls from the public describing their own clocks stopping, their glass tables shattering. The eldest daughter caught hoaxing poltergeist activity by the cameras. The live feed suddenly not being “live” at all but instead old footage looping, masking the chaos occurring behind it.

I never did see the end of the show. My mum deciding at the point of the BBC once again transmitting live scenes from the house, with all the carnage it was revealing, was the time I should be sent to bed. Terrified.

The next morning I asked my mum how it ended: “Michael Parkinson standing in the studio and all the TV cameras floating around him. The show was just a scary joke.”

The question was, would it all hold up since we know 12 years later it was simply what we now understand to be a Mock-umentary? Would we be able to see how a nation in 1992 was fooled and scared enough to make an unprecedented number calls of complaint during the broadcast?

(The telephone number shown on screen was intended to be a recorded message explaining the show was pre-recorded and not real, however the lines quickly jammed)

The BBC, after all, banned all repeats of the show for 10 years such was the reaction. So there must have been something in it.

Essentially, would we, sitting huddled round on the L shaped couch and full of New Zealand Beer and Pineapple Lumps, find something in it to be affected by?

The DVD version still maintains the ratio of a TV screen from 1992. It starts immediately with little fanfare and only a token graphic relating to the drama series it is part of. I can see easily how this token would be ignored at the time, subsumed into the grander beginning relating to it being a special live show on Halloween night.

The humorous comments from my guests start almost immediately. Not a great sign for it holding up under scrutiny. The sets look dated (although nostalgia kicks in and we find ourselves softening to it), the current furore and revelations surrounding the BBC and our more sophisticated understanding of this sort of TV (Most Haunted, Ghost Adventures) all lend themselves as easy targets early on.

The plot is thus:
The BBC has decided on 31st October 1992 to broadcast a live investigation into an apparent haunting taking place in a family home. The investigation is supplemented with a strong interactive element where viewers can phone in and discuss the events being shown as well as some expert analysis given by a parapsychologist in a BBC studio and a sceptic, watching from a studio in the US. Sarah Greene presents and interacts on behalf of the audience and studio in the home with the family, Craig Charles is outside on the street of the house, talking to other residents, Mike Smith is taking viewer calls at the banks of telephonists and, anchoring the whole thing, is Michael Parkinson.

This spirit has been, according to the current incumbent family, manifesting itself by banging on the house pipes providing it with the name, Mr. Pipes. There has also been reports of the eldest of the two daughters being particularly susceptible to the happenings, chiefly in sustaining multiple scratch marks on her face and talking in a voice not her own.

As the show goes on, evidence of strange happenings mount up and are summarily dismissed. Not least is this the case when cameras “catch” the eldest daughter hitting the pipes and the audience is led to believe this is the true culprit of the activity.

A narrative slowly emerges from neighbours and callers to the show of the area on which the house is built which has been subject to paranormal and sinister activity for many years, culminating in a possible child abuser killing himself in the 1960s in the basement of the house having been himself claiming possession by an earlier spirit of a Victorian lady and “baby farmer”, leading him to dress as a Victorian lady.

Finally the spirit, seemingly using the conduit of the TV transmissions and energy of the viewers, explodes in an act of malevolence with immediate consequences for Greene and her crew in the house. In the final minutes – me seeing them for the first time – the spirit essentially envelopes the house and enters the studio, leaving Parkinson alone, reading a nursery rhyme off the autocue in a manner to suggest he has been possessed.

Yep, Mike Smith, this is f**king mental.

Elements included to add to the realism are spot on:

• It is shot with shaky-cam and cuts to fixed remote-cams and also a sweeping tilt boom-cam (showing all the cables and background) – very much like Noel Edmonds’ House Party at the time.
• The presenters would be the sort of presenters expected to be doing this kind of harmless TV experiment, Sarah Greene is a safe pair of hands on an outside broadcast.
• For long periods, it is all rather boring and nothing much takes place.
• It is kept very much to the science and technology being used with no room for mediums or psychics channelling and over excited explanations – the pseudo-educational tone much in keeping with a BBC sober pop-experiment.
• “Viewers” calling in on sightings of the ghost on screen and subsequent discussion as to the chances of optical illusions being responsible, gives the idea of comfort to the actual viewers of the drama of there being others out there validating what they are seeing
• There is stuttered confusion and apologies when camera transmissions and VTs predictably fail at one stage.
• Craig Charles (the most natural actor of the presenters, cementing the notion Craig Charles is a constant fictional character of which Craig Charles plays using a very deep method acting technique) quips: “typical BBC” when he loses sound to the studio.
• It emerges much of the back story involves child molestation – the BBC would never be complicit with something of this subject voluntarily.

Elements to add to the horror are cleverly woven:

• The false positives providing “jumps” such as Craig Charles leaping from a cupboard and the cat at the French doors.
• Possessed children, toy bunnies being drowned and frightened adults are always disconcerting…
• ...As is animals acting up – Mr Pipes makes the local cats go mad when he is around (mainly because the man's pet cats were found eating his corpse after his suicide).
• The “ghost” is visible for fractions of a second throughout the show in corners, in reflections and in the crowds almost subliminally (with no TiVO box around, no way to double check).
• The ghost descriptions being noted as either male or female (playing to the idea of the baby farmer inhabiting the spirit of the cross-dressing child abuser).
• The final true positive of the twist of the looping footage masquerading as genuine live feed only to be taken down to see the middle of the horror of what is going on.

However, there are problems / tell-tale signs this is being played for gallows laughs, even if watched with a mind from 1992:

• The show literally throws every cliché at the screen regards supposed recorded poltergeist activity throughout.
• The acting, in places, is a little hammy (particularly with the daughters) and the script is clunky at times and, of course, contains no bad language.
• The interrogation of the daughter by Parkinson when she was found hammering at the plumbing labours the point far too much (in fact Parkinson comes over as a bit of a dick here – which I am surprised at him happily acting as, since this misconception of him could stick).
• The idea the BBC would continue filming when there was clearly distressing scenes going on.
• The way over top finale to the programme (although the build up still packs a gut punch).
• That the show would still end with credits rolling (there is an argument they would do this to calm the viewer?).
• It was shown on Halloween, after all.

There are parts of the show which today have become unintentionally funny:

• Michael Parkinson, the dick, seems at once fully sceptical and then again a firm interested believer during the numerous “analysis” discussion scenes as he sides which each expert and also shows a hard line in parenting skills at one point telling a “caller” they should send their child to bed if they are upset (perhaps in a direct instruction to those watching).
• Mike Smith appearing with more and more sheets of paper as the calls increase.
• Michael – Dicky of Dick Green – Parkinson, when it all kicks off, wandering about in and out of half-shot about the studio, talking to himself like a confused OAP left alone in PC World.
• That Mr. Pipes resides in the home’s glory hole (given the more coarse, vernacular meaning of the term. Hint: NEVER Google image search this term at work) just didn't stop being funny on each time it was referred to at my party, indeed the mother’s description of events and noises she experienced when at said glory hole had all sorts of juvenile sniggering in the room as the humorous highlight of the viewing.

Note the spooky Halloween apples

Some of the quotes of the evening from my gathered party of guests as the show played on:

• “Look! Those apples are levitating!”
• “The smallest daughter is actually played by a midget. He ended up playing the part of Gimli in Lord of the Rings”
• “Glory-hole! Surely they knew what that was describing even in 1992!”
• “Is that BBC van Savile’s sex-dungeon on wheels?”

Viewing it as a ghost story only, it is not too chilling. Typical BBC fanciful faire and a little ridiculous. But adding in the element suggesting it is live, uncontrolled and genuine so convincingly for the audience raises it a level above. The key to proving this is surely if the BBC was to have periodically scrolled “This is a drama” across the screen (as was suggested at the media enquiry afterwards) then, to the effect, scares and meaning, it would have acted as a pin to a balloon.

Ghostwatch remains a hugely clever piece of fright night television but I suspect 2012 TV audiences are too wearisome against this type of hoax drama. Crucially, it is no longer the case of sitting watching alone or with family if you are young enough to be scared by it – the Internet allows a mass audience to discuss and come to wider conclusions as it is happening. The rouse would be up. True, if it was hosted by Derren Brown (no doubt with a less bombastic ending) some may fall for it once again but, by the TV review the next day, it would be hailed as a great piece of TV experimentation using the viewing audience as the guinea pigs (Brown is reported to have been influenced by Ghostwatch for his Séance).

All in all – if this was scheduled today, there would be every chance of the Twitterati calling shenanigans on it half-way through. And #parkyisadick being trending.

Interestingly, the mythology of Ghostwatch remains alive and well. The writer, in 2002, wrote an award winning horror short story sequel to the show (the BBC on the 10th anniversary commissions a return to the studio, which had been sealed off after the original Ghostwatch). Ghostwatch has its own YouTube channel. Each Halloween since 2010 people are encouraged to watch their copies at 9:32, when the show originally aired, and live tweet the event.

Writer, Volk, discusses the phenomena he has found of film students of a certain age writing degree theses about the programme. He sites some interesting aspects which are ripe for study:

• The Freudian aspect of the script noting of the name Mr. Pipes (Pipes meaning "blow job" in French) and his trademark “banging” encounters with all female single parent family in the house – he omits to elaborate on his naming of Pipe's lair.
• The act of the mother leaving her daughters in the home as she answered calls in the BBC van outside – reminiscent of the acts of mother’s when the site was a Victorian baby farm as a sign of the history of the site repeating in front of the viewer’s eyes?

So to answer my question, so far back up at the beginning of this blogette: does the original still have an effect?

Well, certainly the jokes and commentary from the room died to nothing in the final 10 minutes of the show as we sat watching and there was a consensus after that it remained disturbing – even simply on a thematic level.

Oh, and one of my friends – this year dressed as child friendly Fred from Scooby-Doo –was personally and deeply affected by what he saw, stating he would come to next year’s party dressed as: “a glory-hole”. May heaven have mercy on our souls next October.

You can prove anything with fangs

I have not got a Halloween post specifically for you, dear reader.
However, in a dark corner of my PC, I opened a dusty computer folder marked "Ideas for blog" and it creaked slowly open as JPEG creepies and GIF crawlies scuttled out from it. And in it, under the failing light of my torch, I found terrifyingly what I am posting tonight.

It is a TV review I wrote much earlier this year. Usually I would not have kept it, but for it being fully written and ready to go, felt I should hold on to it for a little while.

At the time it didn't make it onto the blog simply because I figured nobody else was likely to have watched a Channel 5 documentary called: "Mysteries of the Vampire Skeletons". Of course, now, there is even less likelihood of someone remembering it.

However, in lieu of my GhostWatch viewing still to come, I felt it was apt on Halloween to resurrect it.

....

There is an unwritten rule in Archaeology: If you don’t know what you are looking at, say it is “ritual” and move on.

Often, describing things as “ritual” is unsatisfying for the couch historian. Far better to have archaeology provide unbendable proof of vampires. So fair play to Channel 5 who commissioned the documentary “Mysteries of the Vampire Skeletons”.

The documentary set out to explain the reason behind burials found on the outskirts of an Irish medieval cemetery where the skeletons are in positions suggesting they were somehow broken up and each found with a stone in their jaws.

As clear a case of “ritual” as there ever was. Only that would be too… well, Time Team and, son, you’re Channel 5’s boy now.

“Mysteries of the Vampire Skeletons” was everything you hope for in a commissioned channel 5 documentary.

At once full of conjecture and speculation given to no counter argument – one professor immediately makes some extraordinary leaps of faith about how the bodies have been placed: their bones broken after death – “in those deliberate conditions those bodies could not possibly rise out of their graves”.

Another makes a statement regarding the act of placing a stone in a body’s mouth, “Almost as if there is an intentional act to prevent the soul from re-entering and re-animating the body”.

Far be it for me to counter an academic or two but I would think that being dead is a rather more deliberate condition to not being able to rise out of their graves. And no matter that the stone thing may well have been a result of any number of beliefs surrounding the specific people who were dead [perhaps – just spitballing – the stones were placed to prevent the soul from leaving the body and reaching Heaven] you just carry on and suggest the one that sounds the most like it is a vampire skeleton.

I feel like we are being led somewhere here.

An archaeological osteologist is produced next and is shown putting the jigsaw of one of the bodies together. Standing over it, she adds nothing but says everything with: “I like doing this work because you start to realise that this is the body of someone who used to be alive.” And then goes on, “I have not seen anything like this act of putting a stone in the mouth of the dead before. And you can see that this stone is heavy. I cannot piece together the front of the skull because it has been broken into too many fragments.”

The documentary missed a trick here – they could have easily claimed to have digitally recreated the man from the broken skull shards, ala CSI, where the computer outputted this:

And hoped no one recognised him as Vampire Bill.

Finally, she looks a little lost in thought: “It all makes you think what it did to end up in such a way?” Does she mean laid out on a mortuary table in front of a woman who has no concept that I can’t see weight? Or, that it had sucked the blood of a maiden in it’s time?

Which leads me on to the point which, absurdly, annoyed me most of all – this isn’t vampirism is it? I mean, there are no fangs. This more fits the facets of being a Zombie.

Undeterred, the documentary continues with 3 tales (2 being historical reconstructions) of occasions where bodies have been exhumed and desecrated due to them being perceived to be un-dead. One is from the middle-ages where two recently buried men were reportedly seen walking through the cemetery as animals. The 2nd is about a study made by a doctor from the Georgian era. The third a story is from modern Romania about a farmer who exhumed the body of a woman’s uncle at her request to remove and burn his heart to prevent him haunting her dreams: “I saw that the body was fat, when I stuck my knife into her uncle he groaned and when I threw the heart onto the fire, it crackled.” For some reason the contemporary story seemed less quaint and more creepy. It was probably the laughing and smiling old gnarly farmer telling the story with palpable glee at getting away with burning a human heart he had just cut out a corpse that did it.

The documentary was pained to point out the relevance of the telling this stories. The beliefs that the dead can rise and stalk the living have been around for many years and so the proposed link was that it is possible that they spread to Medieval Ireland. The key was the age of the burials.

The cameras now follow the archaeologist managing the burial excavation. He is excitedly driving his car. “I am going to the research lab to get the results of the carbon dating of the bones!” Then a quick cut to his office where he renders the first part of the footage inexplicable and redundant: “I was actually sent the results in an e-mail.” He looks at the e-mail on screen – the camera slowly zooms in to his face and the screen, building tension, he points to some squiggly lines “We are looking at a crossover point of 740AD.”

Was this good or bad, it was impossible to tell. The narrator, thankfully, helps out: “This puts the graves some 300 years before the first recorded instance of a “vampire” burial. Could these graves be the earliest ever found of vampirism?”

No. There is no connection. There is no connection of time, of written or spoken history or religious tradition or of geography. None. No.

Academics giving half arguments, dubious evidence waved at the camera, weirdly drawn parallels from space and time and strange editing choices all geared toward the total narrative belief of the actual existence of vampires is a virtuoso channel 5 bit of fluff. Nonetheless, I simply don’t understand why these academics went onto this documentary, taking the wooden nickel, to give authority to this diluted historical nonsense. Perhaps it was ritual. Ritual humiliation.

"Quotable lines!"

One of the simple joys I have found in recent times is writing short film quotes to films I have made up. Inspired by Kim Newman’s brilliant twitter “Dungeon Quotes” series #edq, it is the perfect form for tweets to while away the time whether on the bus or in a queue.

Here is a selection you can feel free to quote to family and friends from films I have made up so far.


Bridicide!

Bridicide tag line: “She had to have the day to always remember, her bridesmaids vowed to give her the day never to forget”

Only these won’t be marriage vows. Oh no. These will be vows of killing.

“If I don’t start enjoying the best Hen Party of my life in the next ten minutes, I am going to make sure all the hens know about your dirty little secret. Don’t think I won’t tell them about you and Bobby.”
- Bridicide (2012)


“You see, I didn’t find your “prank” of hiring me an 82 year old stripper tonight very funny. So I called in a favourable wedding duty from the Best Man.”

“But the Best Man is also my husband!”

“Yes. And he is such a – rhythmic – dancer. Aren’t you, James? Don’t speak – we ladies don’t want you to show your big dagger like… wit! Ha ha! Hahahahaha!”
- Bridicide (2012)


“Be careful with how you are handling that knife for the cake, you fool! You are waving it about as if this dress has not been stitched by 3 blind seamstresses from Venice using threads sourced from the hills of Honolulu! I dare you to spill blood on this wedding dress!”
- Bridicide (2012)


“Damn, Tilly! Now we have to kill the videographer and throw his DVD into the acid just to be safe! How’s my fascinator?”
- Bridicide (2012)



Here is a full grindhouse style trailer for Lorna LOLZ then KILZ!

Lorna likes laughing out loud to friends’ social media updates – Lorna types out her giggles in the comment boxes.
L.O.L.
But When Lorna sees comments which don’t make her laugh, those friends become the prey in her social web.
Lorna LOLZ changes to Lorna KILZ quicker than throwing a computer sheep in… Lorna LOLZ then KILZ!
Rated R.


At first. Lorna certainly “likes” her friends' statuses. But then tagging them for real – with a ship's harpoon – becomes the only way.
Lorna LOLZ then KILZ!
Rated R.


“Who? I haven’t updated my status to that! Someone has hacked into my social network…” Lorna hacks into accounts... and flesh. When Lorna types out LOL you better watch out for it stands for LAUGH OUT LEATHAL in: Lorna LOLZ then KILZ!
Rated R.



And my personal favourite, essentially because I reckon I could get it made:
Clouds set to: Doom!

"Professor, it is almost as if the cloud dial has been purposely set to doom!"
- Clouds set to: Doom! (2012)


"Neil, you know what a reversal of mood in the clouds spell? DOOM!"
- Clouds set to: Doom! (2012)


"Sarah, we need to get to the Professor's lab before the clouds do. Now put that cheese down and GET IN!"
- Clouds set to: Doom! (2012)


I mean with lines like those, this film has to have an audience on Channel 5 on a Tuesday 2:30 in the afternoon, right?


It really is marvellous fun. You should give tweeting quotes a go too.

Sublimulous

The thing which makes us human? The difference between us and all other things?

The concept, production and performance of shadow puppets.

I don't see anything else having shadow puppets. In fact, the medium of shadow puppetry might be our unique trait in the whole wide universe.

But what also makes us human? The motivation of adventure!

To climb to the top, dive to the bottom, to traverse the widest, to travel the fastest, furthest and first. To do it for the only reason of trying to put a perfect fingerprint onto the surface of a blue marble. To high-five God on the most rad half-pipe ever. To push everything to the limit just to find out if it really was ever the limit in the to start with.

It is looking up at the vastness and counting the stars and then vow to one day visit them all.

Adventure is the human condition.

And theatre.

This was brought into sharp focus this week with the news of a man who is going to jump out a hot air balloon at 120,000 feet and skydive toward the ground in a space suit, breaking the speed of sound and hope to tell us all about it when he lands about 10 minutes later. It is, in every sense of the word, an awesome undertaking for a human.

To me it is a combination of this human condition of adventure poetically entwined (if such things can be poetic) with science to create something which is pretty beautiful. Standing, alone looking at the curvature of the earth, only able to hear your own breath in the pressurised helmet and leaping off surely captures the imagination of the spectacular and spiritual.

The very same morning I read about this epic feat I read of another one.

The quote which caught my eye from this 2nd story was this:

"This is on the very edge of what I believe possible"

That is some statement. Considering I would have thought falling from a height of 120,000 feet faster than the speed of sound was pushing boundaries, a man saying this of his own adventure, well, it must be special.

This man, Chris, got his idea when rowing in a lake:
Build a human sized hamster wheel and walk in it to propel himself 66 miles over the Irish sea from Wales to Ireland. For charity.

The very edge of what he believes possible.

Bet he was gutted when the news of the bloke jumping from space broke the same day as his. So much for the weeks of hype building up your effort, Chris.

The guy jumping to Earth has spent 4 years planning, training and exacting on the details to ensure the success of the multi-million dollar project.

Chris expects he might eat 60 Mars Bars when skippering the wheel he built in his shed.

It seems like a perfect case of the sublime to the ridiculous, but in actuality it is difficult to tell which is which. Both are idiotic with no little risk involved and, really, who can say which has more merit than the other when history records humanities great achievements? I say this: Which is truly the ridiculous one?

It's the hamster-man called Chris.

Follow diversion

Hello folks!
This a timely reminder to you all, if you want to read news, see lyrics and join in the adulation of my imaginery band, Greville and the Tombstones, please click on the band link at the top of the page.

Greville and the Tombstone's blog: where all the cool cats with an interest in gothic alt-country bands hang.

Ghost in the TV machine

When I was growing up, 3 things scared the living bejeezus out of me.

• The 1945 film, The Picture of Dorian Gray
• This song:
• BBC's Ghostwatch

2 of these things can wait for a later explanation.

I watched Ghostwatch for the one and only time back in 1992 and, if you saw my tweet tonight, you'll already know - I am so very happy to now reveal I ordered the DVD of Ghostwatch from Amazon last week. I am excited to find out if it was as awfully frightening as I remember.

From what I can remember of it, it was the Grimm fairytale to the later Disney-fication of the form with the more recent Most Haunted.

Once I watch it (possibly near the end of October...) I will be sure to report back. Through the medium, not Derek Ackorah, but of this blog.

They seek Bobby here, they seek Bobby there

The tailor from Bobby's Fashions in Hong Kong has offered to fly over next month to measure the management of my work up for suits.

On investigating the company's online site, I can see why.

Bobby's Fashions has the best slogan for a tailor.

God made you a man, Bobby's makes you a gentleman
 

And they are not all front, no lining. Bobby's have the suits to back up their majestic claim.

Browsing their styles, I have found a range of suits for my range of needs.

For when I want to be having a bourbon on the rocks at one of my famous "chick happenings" at the weekend beach house?

Hey! What's your groove, baby? Bourbon?
 

For when I need to read out the winner of the local community fete Lovely Legs Competition I have just judged?

And the winner is... I'd know them even with the lights out... my sister-in-law

For when I need to tie up a do-gooder who was trying to take down my evil processing unit hidden in a barn at my ranch?

Well, well, well, boy. We got ourselves a problem now, ain't we?

I might get Bobby to tailor me up!
Because mobile phones might go out of fashion, but fashion never goes out of fashion.

"I am looking at the fax right now. I'll fax it to you, if you like?"

Confessions of an unjustified gothic alt-country song writer

It started one time when I had nothing to tweet about. So I thought I would tweet a joke about “working on the album”. The joke being, for me, a lot of tweets come from bands, so why couldn’t mine? I hash-tagged it #grevilleandthetomsbstones as my quickly created fictional band name and then, again, with #thereisnoalbum just so I was not actually deceiving my followers.

It was taking up the thread I had begun on this very blog about a song I had written for my band which did not exist and just moving it slightly left, into the realm of Twitter.

Soon, I was using this idea of having a band as my default tweet when I had nothing much else to say: “Another track in the can #thereisnotrack #thereisnocan #grevilleandthetombstones”

Before long I was starting to incorporate parts of this parallel life dichotomy into more everyday tweets: “Guy beside me at train station carrying guitar case. Wonder if it is empty like mine? #thereisnomusic #grevilleandthetombstones” It was a bit of fun to keep me occupied.

In, admittedly, a bold move, I announced the name of my pretend band’s upcoming album on Twitter. I actually tweeted an actual picture that I had taken and spent some time putting words on as the cover. Along with the obligatory #thereisnoalbum

It’s not that I haven’t had the odd bash at some rhyming couplets late at night – and who here hasn’t – but I know nothing about writing songs. Before I knew it, I was writing songs for a band I did not have, for an album that was not getting made and posting them on my blog, just so I could continue making the same joke over and over about not having a band.

And you are more likely to get a friendlier response from pretty girls in bars when you say you are a Gothic alt-Country singer and writer for a band – even, when you alarmingly tell them that band is entirely in your head – than if you tell them you write poetry mainly about girl’s hair. Then offer to come up with some of that poetry right on the spot as you gently hold a lock of their hair between your thumb and forefinger. Yes, young women in the 21st century think poets are creepy, that’s just the basic science of evolutionary anthropology.

However, swiftly things were starting to run away from me.

Some friends started liking the lyrics.

I met the wonderful singer/songwriter She Makes War, who, admiring the integrity of being totally honest about an imaginary band, suggested I come up with a band logo and merchandising opportunities.

She Makes War even kindly tweeted about one of my songs!

Not long after, one of my good friends asked if they could join the band. I could have said: “of course!” and given them a “welcome to the fictional band” tweet. Instead, I invented an initiation where a Native American Chief has to re-name them for the band using visions through the spirit fire under a new moon, simply because I made up a fact of the Crash Test Dummies doing similar before releasing God Shuffled His Feet.

Another follower tweeted how important the 3rd album was to her during her angst years. I could have replied: “Ha! Good one! I see you are in on the joke here!” I could have not replied at all. Instead, I went with: “Wow! That is a rare album. I recorded it on C60 home tapes and sold it at jumble sales. #noididnt”

At one stage I tweeted and blogged the Tombstones were recording solo material as The Dark Throw. The ramblings of an utter delusionary.

I was starting to not be able to help myself.



Only a depiction of what could have been the vessel for the 3rd album

There was an instant at my office desk where I thought: You know? I could leave this job to concentrate on the made-up band full time. Spending sharp sunny winter mornings writing songs in sparse but comfortably furnished independent coffee shops as a mum-friendly circa 1993 grunge-light member of a band where fleecy, checked, lumberjack shirts are un-tucked and almost always unbuttoned to reveal round necked, washed-out t-shirts underneath. Ok, we might not be hugely popular, but we are establishing a solid cultish following, we’d get by on the recorded music and logo t-shirt sales, and most importantly I’d be free, dagnammit.

Yes, that would be quitting my tangible job for a not particularly successful band I have completely invented in my head!?!

It was clear this nonsense was getting out of control. It was not healthy.

So this is why I have decided – here and now – to put this madness to one side. Put this madness to one side, like a fox!

I have done a new blog site for Greville and the Tombstones! There is a link to it at the top of my blog. From now on, all Greville and the Tombstone posts, music, art and information will be blogged only there. Like sort of my blog shed.

What could be saner?

This Lore blog will return to what it does best – blogging of things I have seen on TV and the occasional discussion about my real life experiences and opinions.

And this is why I titled this bloggette: Confessions of an unjustified gothic alt-country song writer – because I needed to confess. My dealings with my imaginary band were tearing this blog apart. My blog was never intended to annoy readers with a pretend band. I needed to separate them. I had to say, Revelairs, I am truly sorry.

Well, this and because it is also, as I can exclusively reveal now! The title of Greville and the Tombstones 5th Album #thereisnotevenafourthalbum

It is likely a type of illness I have.

This is not a Press Release

Recently there have been rumours. Rumours on the threads. Rumours which have troubled fans of Greville and the Tombstones. Rumours of a magnetic tape circulating. Which is why, if I wanted to blog this press release today, then this would be it.

Is the band splitting up?

I can say with absolute certainty the band is not splitting. We are not going to be another La's.

What about the tape?

Alright, I was hoping this would never come into the public domain, but circumstance has laid it's cold hand on us.

This is a transcript from a recording discovered at the studios where Greville and the Tombstones are recording our seminal first album. It was meant to be destroyed, but was found in a bin, remastered using sell-o-tape and subsequently leaked out by probably Julian Assange, knowing him, currently staying with dance guru, Sash on his holidays. The date of the recording has been undetermined.

.................................................

[The tape warps the sound at the start and then we hear a voice cracking through for the first time]:

GT: OK guys, take five. We have just recorded our first number one record.
The T: [congratulating themselves with whoops]

Telephone: Ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring

GT: I’ll take it!
[Click of receiver]
Hello? Greville talkin’. No, I am not a Tombstone. They are my band. No, I am not the manager of the Tombstones. I am Greville of Greville AND the Tombstones? Ah – uh-huh. I see. I see. Oh I will be sure to pass on the message. Thank you kindly.
[Pause]
So I hear you guys have booked another recording studio to record some sweet material without me?
The T: [murmurs]
GT: After all we’ve been through? The naming ceremony last week where you all received your Tombstone names from the Chief who called you after the visions he saw in the spirit flame of fire he lit in front of your faces? The Crash Test Dummies did the same thing too, you know, and they ended up recording just the best goddamn album in history.
The T: [Half-denials and then one voice, louder] It’s not what it seems…
GT: Oh, Squiggly Leaf, tell me: what is going on?
SL: Well, we like being in the band. We’d never leave it. It’s cool. But we want to try out some music of our own, without the confines of being a Tombstone and all that coolness it represents. Forming a separate band gives us that freedom.
GT: And you all feel the same as Squiggly Leaf? You too, A Bit Like A Sleepy Bear?
ABLASB: Sure, Grev. We all do. Me, Squiggly Leaf, Fish Or Goat and Ironically Fire.
GT: And what is this new band of yours calling itself?
IF: The Dark Throw.
GT: What on earth does that even mean, Ironically Fire?
IF: Well we figured you were the bright star, I mean your name is the first thing in the band name. So we were, like, the shadow thrown out behind you. The Dark Throw was what we called ourselves to connote the shadow.
GT: That’s actually pretty good. And what genre are you recording in?
FOG: Instrumental Country Gothic. A little heavier than what we are doing with you for this album. More slide guitar. We are going to have our name in silver on the album cover. That kind of music.
GT: That’s quite interesting. It could go places.
SL: And we figure we could be the warm up act for us at Greville and the Tombstones gigs.
GT: Good point. OK, I’ll allow this side project. If you mainly stick with my band, I’ll even give The Dark Throw some Twitter ups. But you are all forgetting one pertinent fact.
ABLASB: What’s that, Greville?
GT: You don’t play any music. There is no music making going on here. Greville and the Tombstones, have no tunes at all. We don’t do gigs. In fact none of you actually exist and this recording studio we are in? It is just an empty cardboard box I am shouting into while wearing headphones plugged into nothing, sitting alone in my flat.
IF: Fair point. But next time you’re on Twitter could you tweet the details of The Dark Throw’s booking down at the local Booze N’ Newz this Saturday?

.......................................................

At this point the tape stops.

So, you can clearly see after this, there is no need to worry about things. I'm fine.

My first review!

Actual review

"Ace new song from imaginary band"


 

What am I made of?

One night this week my lady caught me doing something. Something I would have continued to do if someone hadn’t walked back into the room.

It was after 11pm. Relaxed in the sitting room, I had eaten well and with just Laura Tobin telling me about tomorrow’s weather on the Television for company for several minutes, and the angle poised lamp light, casting elongated shadows over the furniture, I half slouched down on the settee and it just felt right, you know how it is, to consider my own body.

On walking in on my situation at hand, Mrs. Tombs stuttered to a halt: “What on earth are you up to?!?”

When I explained what I was up to, she told me it would only end with me having to be taken to A&E because I had pulled my own spine out my hips, at which point I would have to look a doctor straight in the eye and say I did it as a result of the curiosity of if I could taste my own knee.
And the doctor would not fully believe that.

So I stopped, knowing she was right.

Earlier in the day I was out at a family party. Not for my family, you understand. I got talking to a man called Marvin. Apparently he is known as a very boring man in this family’s circles and I was, by virtue of unwittingly standing next to him, taking a boredom bullet for the relieved family. Which explained why no one came up to us for pretty much all of the afternoon as part of the customary mingling processes these occasions usually present – despite my watering eyes.

This was despite the fact I liked him because he reminded me of a man from the 1970’s. He was a collection of straw yellow shirt, brown flannel tie with brown tint spectacles and had a moustache from a documentary featuring a father of two teenage daughters who had recently got a management position at the local BETAMAX factory.

This kept me amused during his in depth discussion at me about Ordinance Survey map scales. At some stage during a binary description of his 2nd family holiday in Austria, I thought: I wonder what my knee tastes like? I should know this, it’s my knee! I have never touched my own knee with my lips, mores my shame! I mean, it is my body and I am a grown adult, able to do things with my body if I want to, like simply tasting my own knees. When I get home, I am absolutely going to aim to find out. There is no right minded reason why I should not know this.

And I will tell you, I am glad I experimented with my body that very night. Shambolically convexing, lilting and tilting like an upturned wood louse on the couch, trying to taste any one of its 3, 8, however many knees. I am not proud I was seen doing it, don’t get me wrong. No one should be seen trying to taste their knee. But I did manage a little strained lick, though. The tiniest touch before by leg sprang back from my face.

For those of you wondering what it tasted of?
Wrist.

Gloom Pop, ba duba dop

Some people earlier this month were asking: "Greville, how many tracks are going to be on the upcoming Greville and the Tombstones album: It took the body parts of 7 men to make him but only 1 woman to break his heart, made from 3 men's hearts?"

And I said to them: "Look. There is no upcoming album. Because there is no band. Why do people keep asking about this? I tweet about there being no band all the time! I can't play an instrument and I have never sang in public. Not even along to anything. However, I will ask you this: how many tracks are on the greatest album ever made - God Shuffled His Feet, by The Crash Test Dummies?"

And they replied: "12, including the hidden track."

And I said: "There you go."

To be honest, I was thinking about not answering their questions anymore after this. Maybe if I just stopped mentioning I have no band at all, this nonsense would stop? I could then go on my own ways, far from this madness.

Later this month I met Laura - AKA She Makes War - who was in town performing at a couple of venues.

She Makes War describes her music as Dramatic Gloom Pop. Confusingly, Laura is not all that gloomy. Laura is rather effervescent and lovely.

Laura is also very talented and multi-skilled, busily writing and performing She Makes War songs and directing her own music videos. Laura is confidently pointing towards much of the interesting and vibrant relationship between musician and music fan using social networking.

Laura maintains a comprehensive online presence keeping all of her artistic credit as well as control of promotion and a business freedom.

She is also totally cool. We follow each other now on Twitter, you know.

I don't mind saying I was initially in awe of her. I mean, a real life cool musician person talking to me. Wow.

Naturally, in the course of conversation, I mentioned that I did not have a band. It was pretty much at the start of the course. Basically to impress her.

I explained that I had no band called Greville and the Tombstones, wasn't in the progress of recording an album nor was I performing any time soon. I mean, OK, I've written songs... with basically no musical accompaniment...

Not sure it did impress, but Laura was intrigued. She passed me her band business card.

Laura asked: "Do you have band merchandise?"

"No."

"You should think about it. You should come up with band art work and use it to sell things to your fans."

And immediately I did think about it. Because She Makes War also makes excellent suggestions.

Obviously there would be the Greville and the Tombstones cuff-links. For younger fans - Greville and the Tombstones knitted-to-scale figures. And ladies could purchase vest tops of a selection from a small colour palette. That would be something! Selling band merch!

Later on I saw Laura play as She Makes War. Fair to say, She Makes War made a terrific impression on the varied demographic in a small, traditionally apportioned old town bar. Laura has a mesmeric stage presence - very watchable, and listenable. She Makes War is exciting. I had a thoroughly good time and would like to see her perform again.

It is also fair to submit Laura has reignited my passion for not being in a band. I am almost certainly not working on a band logo in my head right now!

Indeed, here we sit, only a couple of weeks later, and I could announce the latest track for the album. If there was one being worked on. Which there isn't.

It is to a largely upbeat tune - something akin to Fall Out Boy's more commercial stuff.

Not sure where the inspiration for the lyrics came from, to be honest. It is funny how my songs seem to come from almost subliminal means. A half noticed drop of a leaf into a puddle, perhaps? Anyway, it's called: (I have a crush on) A Gloom Pop Girl.

(I have a crush on) A Gloom Pop Girl

All shade and hair in a twirl,

She plays songs of gentle doom.

The darkest star in the planetary constellation,

An electro-lightening complication,

I feel iron tide in blood as amps charge the room,

I have a crush on a gloom pop girl.

Because I like my castles in ruins,

I like my clouds coloured grey.

I like my birds to be ravens

And I like the desolate turn of the day.

The melodies uncoil and unfurl,

Misery, all is lost to her voice,

Melancholic comfort of warmth in midwinter coat

Heartbreak found of old love’s note

The subtle indifference of Hobson’s choice

I have a crush on a gloom pop girl.

Because I like my castles in ruins,

I like my clouds coloured grey.

I like my birds to be ravens

And I like the desolate turn of the day.

My emotions transfix in bleak whirl

Pasted in a Victorian scrap book

Curled corners of pictures, the failure of glue

Blurred image inks distill into blue

Unevenly spread where these hands shook

I have a crush on a gloom pop girl.

Because I like my castles in ruins,

I like my clouds coloured grey.

I like my birds to be ravens

And I like the desolate turn of the day.

[Power chord moment]

Hey, hey, hey!

Oh, Hey!

Hey!

Gas lit film flickers away!

It sparkles down on your skin!

Danger but not feeling peril,

A vile of poison bottled in crimson,

A rusting shield under skies of gloomy weather,

I see we can get through this together

Now I know others share imperfect vision

I have a crush on a gloom pop girl.

Because I like my castles in ruins!

I like my graveyards overgrown,

I like my birds to be ravens

And I like my tombstones uneven and prone. 

I mean, what's all that about, eh? A psychologists dream!

Beautiful people are people too

I overheard a conversation between two women. It might have been one of the saddest conversations I have ever had the misfortune to have eavesdropped on. One said to the other:
"My daughter has almost finished her medical degree to be a doctor. She is doing really well, but she is finding certain things difficult. She knows she is too pretty now. She is having to make herself deliberately less attractive so she can concentrate on her finals without constantly being distracted with other students wanting to be around her all the time. She didn't ask to be so beautiful. It is such a shame."

Wow.

Let's just think about that fact: A girl born so unbelievably beautiful is uglifying herself on purpose, in order she becomes less popular. What cruel cards of fate the Gods deal!

What century do we live in where a young, exceptionally good looking girl has to stop GHD straightening her hair just to get a little time to herself with her laptop to become a medical doctor? The 1400's?!?

What this poor lass needs is a champion. A hero that's up for the fight. Thankfully, one such person exists. In the South of France.

Ms. Brick, a journalist, used her column some weeks ago to highlight this very problem for herself - also a very good looking person.

Brick, too, is afflicted with beauty. She is dragged down by the cursed consequences of her being stunning: Barmen point blank refusing payment for drinks, men on the street insisting to pay taxi fares wherever she exits the cab, boys forcing bunches of flowers into her hand as she goes about her business at the market - and the examples go on.

This may all, at first, appear lovely. But Brick is quick to say otherwise. Jealous friends, distracted males and resentful wives have made life unbearable. Women judge her, men can't help but want to be with her and wives are confrontational and hurtful.

Brick - despite the good fortune of having a name which conjures no connotation to beauty - claims she has lost out throughout life due to her face. Female bosses have overlooked her for promotions and friends have not let her be a bridesmaid because she would upstage the bride.

And why? Just because she is a woman who enjoys wearing short dresses, confessed in an earlier article to aggressively flirting with any man to get ahead in life and who, thanks to an older husband, hangs around a peer group some 10 years older than she is?

Brick has been reduced on occasion to dress down in jeans and a (in her words) "albeit pretty, demure top" just to get on with her day without attention. Now entering her 4th decade on this planet, Brick states she is welcoming her body's decline - to become like the other, older wives of the men she speaks to, whose bloom is quickly fading. In this way, Brick hopes to be seen for who she is, under her excellent skin and award winning bone structure.

As it turns out - folk were quite happy to tell her what she is seen as now, even before her bloom has over blossomed. Brick became the eye of a huge twitter storm. To paraphrase the response: it was not all supportive of her plight.

Things got so bad Brick went on TV to put her point across that most of the "haters" were women - thus proving her point (women make the lives of prettier women worse). "I am coming out loud: I am a beautiful women". But the Twitter-verse did not see reason. If anything - Brick had somehow made it worse.

Hell, even I partook in a little Twitter chat about her.

But - what if Brick was right. What if she is in a world of ugly people, like Bolt being in a world of slower at running people. But, unlike Bolt who gets adulation and sponsorship - she is shunned, talked about behind her back and responsible for domestic tension among her friends. And there is nothing she can do about it. I mean, at least Bolt could walk to places.


Indeed, you will have by now noted I have not linked to the articles nor posted a picture of Samantha Brick. This is for your own protection. I would hate for me to be the reason you are seen to be looking upon her and being responsible for your marital break-up, you trying force a bunch of flowers through your PC monitor to her or be turned to stone.

As a compromise I drew this picture:

This is equal to but not the same as the beauty of Ms. S Brick

If you really want to take your chances, feel free to Google her. But I want nothing to do with it.

Brick has to live with her face everyday. You don't have to. The burden must be awful.
The thing is, Brick clearly was onto something as the conversation I overheard at the start of this blog proved. Could it be Brick, by putting her gorgeous head above the parapet she has become the zenith point of this hitherto under-represented human rights issue?

I believe so.

Brick may very well be the Rosa Parks of very, very good looking women. In years to come she will be seen as the suffragette of younger women claiming the right to seek out attention from men through their good looks and fashionable skirts for their own selfish needs without guilt and harassment from those men's wives.

It may be too late for the poor, beautiful medical student, but we can only hope it won't be for the stunningly beautiful young doctor yet to come. We can only hope Brick, in highlighting this human tragedy, has somehow made a difference in allowing the girl even the remotest chance to carve a semblance of a reasonable life of being a doctor and terrifically good looking.

Track 5

There is no album. Here is the cover.

You know what it's like. Lunchtime at the office and it is a slow online news day so you write an Americana song you will never perform for the album you are not making with a band only in your mind.

I had intended this to be purely a time wasting device and a song that no one would ever hear. Not just because it will never be recorded but because I wanted it to be an album "Filler".



That track which automatically is FForwarded or skipped. It's sole reason and purpose, to fill out the song numbers on the back of the CD case. Occassionally, these tracks serve the added function of padding out the running time of an album. I call those tracks - "Underhand"

Album filler tracks are not ever designed to be listened to out of choice so usually contain throwaway lyrics (if at all - band instrumentals are the worst), more experimental sounds and a genaral feeling that we have entered into a mutual contract wherby the band won't play it at a gig so we don't need to listen to it enough times to work out which bits to move in unison to.

Clearly little time is spent bothering with them in the studio. This is in order, the fan hopes, to make the other tracks better and not to open more opportunity for group drug abuse.

Almost all albums have these filler tracks. Except for Best of's... and Now! That's what's, naturally.

Even some of the most popular albums ever produced have them. Oasis' (What's The Story) Morning Glory? Hey Now. Radiohead's OK Computer? FITTER HAPPIER.

In fact, here is FITTER HAPPIER. Feel free to scroll passed it to the rest of the blog. It is exactly what Radiohead would want you to do.



So, under this light, I felt a 15 minute run at making up a song over a lunchtime apple and mango smoothie would be ideal conditions to create my "filler" track.

My plans soon crumbled, however, when my good friend @jaffne said she liked it so much I had to publish the lyrics onto my Blog. I am not one to argue and so this is where we find ourselves.

Of course, I am not certain if this then makes this here's entire bloggette essentially a filler and, if so, I am then even less certain how I should be feeling about it. After all, I hadn't planned on anyone wanting to hear the song all the way to the end, let alone once - but I do hope people enjoy reading my blogs to their conclusion. It is mixed emotions, therefore, in posting this.

If I was a HAL9000, I'd be shunting folks out evacuation hatches like there was no tomorrow right now.

Anyway, here is my latest song for the album that does not exist.

-TRACK 5-

Every girl is a fairytale

But you’re hard to read

You wear hurt as gems of adornment

Eyes searching for shore on a sea of torment

Your flattery deceives

Oh – oh – oh

You have a cloak to hide a dagger

You hide a frown behind the laughter

You short out the Sun with your dark matter

Oh – oh – oh

Eat the apple, Snow White

You will be alright

I want to be the one who kisses you awake

The guilt and the pleasure

Without one the other cannot measure

Keep both as close as stolen treasure

Oh – oh – oh

Eat the apple, Snow White

You will be alright

I want to be the one who kisses you awake

The mirror on the wall

I don’t think it knows you at all

When it reflects on your beauty and grace

It’s blinded from your horror by your fair face

Your lips betray your words

Oh – oh – oh

From the tower let your hair down

From the cage lay the bone down

From the castle shoot the king down

Oh – oh – oh

Eat the apple, Snow White

You will be alright

I want to be the one who kisses you awake

The girl who burns the vowels out of my lore

You are the wolf who howls at my door

My darling fairytale wh**e

Oh – oh – oh

Eat the apple, Snow White

You will be alright

I want to be the one who kisses you awake

Felix loves the smell of napalm in the morning

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/gallery/2012/jun/04/orvillecopter-flying-helicopter-dead-cat?intcmp=239#/?picture=391110895&index=3

Sometimes there are just no words. Sometimes there are the words. And sometimes those words are:
A guy has taken his dead cat and stuck a remote control helicopter up it.

Yep. That's that summed up.

Can you imagine if you are not too keen on cats at the best of times? Now knowing they might be able to hover and come at you at head height, before turning 180 degrees for another, strafing, pass? You'd never open your windows again.

Mr. Jansen calls his dead cat-copter "art". It may well be. Equally, it may well be an aberration to nature. I am not certain anyone would disagree that it is contemporary macabre.

The one thing beyond doubt is Mr. Jensen has surely created the must have toy for Christmas 2012.

Kids would LOVE this!

And if Mr. Jensen is bright, he needn't be a one trick pony. His pony could also have the chassis of a couple of children's electric scooters welded together.

Scalextric Hamsters, anyone?

Stuff the robotics of a Furby into an actual owl.

Sh**ing simple.

Here's another one: Glue a toad to the board game, Operation.

If Mr. Jensen has contributed to the world with his Frankenstein creation then, if not art, it is: You can literally put anything in an animal, if it is big enough.

Hey, God! It’s me, Greville. God? Pick up! I know you’re in!

So here it is! Finally! In a pause from my 99th longer than AntAndDec saying the phrase: "And the winner of X-Factor, 2004, is..... ..... Steve Brookstein!" I have finally gotten round to publishing this, my 100th blog.

One, Zero, Zero, Baby!

I find that many of these momentous occasions are marred with self sycophancy, indulgence and an altogether misplaced importance of the stock and significance of the blog. Often there are attempts to shoe-horn in knowing inside jokes for the fanboys and cameos from past characters.

Half the battle in trying to avoid these cliches is recognising them in the first place.

So instead of all that let me simply say many, many thanks for reading. I know a few of you have been with the blog from the start. You've been through the good times of William Shatner singing clips, the not so good times of some blogs that must have been a trial to get through just to read given how hateful of myself I felt in writing them for you - and of course the TV reviews. And now look at us! Older, on Twitter, one of us recording a hit album with their band "The Tombstones". Exciting times are ahead moving into the 2nd century of the Lore!

Now, since I am here, I may as well write something. To God.


Hey God, 'tis Greville here.
HI GREVILLE - HOW'S IT HANGIN'?
Not, bad, my man.
SO, WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?
I just wanted to give you some advice. It's time to do something big, you know, it's been a while.
I WAS THINKING ABOUT DOING SOMETHING. IT SEEMS THAT IT MIGHT BE TIME FOR THE SECOND COMING. MANKIND HAS TWITTER AT ITS FINGERTIPS, IT SHOULD BE EASIER FOR ONE MESSIAH AND 12 FOLLOWERS TO START SPREADING THE WORD.
That would be all well and good as an ineffable plan - if we were in 2006! God, you've missed the boat on Twitter. For a start 12 followers is rubbish. I mean, Jeezus, I've got 30! To be honest, Justin Bieber has Twitter sewn up anyway. Giving hollow, saccharine parables in 140 characters or less as equally as he does self-promote his highly produced music, Justin is as close to a Holy Spirit to his younglings as you can get. He even has you beat for the name of his followers: Beliebers. I mean that's astonishingly clever. Disciples? What's that? That ain't a killer pun on your name. I think that modern technology and trying to connect mankind to your message through it, is not cool. You have not moved with the times and it sort of shows whenever a Christian band uploads their budget free video on YouTube - it is pretty uncomfortable. You should avoid it all costs.
I AM COOL. I REMAIN HIP TO THE BEATS OF MY PEOPLE. YOU LOOK DOUBTFUL. WATCH THIS: YO! KURT! HOW'S IT GOING? TIRED FROM ALL THE SPINNING YOUR DOING ABOUT WHAT COURTNEY IS DOING TO YOUR LEGACY? SMILEY WINKY FACE. SEE?
Ok, not only was that in a little bad taste, I mean Kurt is a pretty cool guy to get up here... but no one actually says “Smiley Winky Face”. It’s an emoticon, you know, for implying the emotion of the sender of an electronic message.
OH. ESS SHAPED MOUTHY FACE.
So here is what I am thinking - write some new Commandments.
WHAT? WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE ONES I DID?
Nothing, really, God. The ones you did back there in the olden times were good. Fine for the purpose. But just as Microsoft updates its Internet Explorer, even though the old one did a reasonable job, you need to move those Commandments on. People expect that thing now.
DO YOU HAVE AN EXAMPLE?
Thou shalt not covet your neighbour's wife? God, let me tell you, that happens all the time these days. Coveting is fine. As long as you don't touch. That should be the revised Commandment right there. And a lot of the others, frankly, are a bit self-serving of you, if you don't mind me saying? A bit "attention seeking".
I'M GOD!
Exactly. Now - Twitter, ironically, could have been ideal for handing down the new Commandments - but there are already about 43 "God's" signed up already doing that, so you need to go old skool but bigger. You know what you should do? You should totally burn them commandments into the moon. Imagine that!? Writing on the f***ing moon!
OK, GREVILLE, I'LL MAKE A START *cough*
You're not... erm... doing anything? You're just leaning back on your chair a bit more. Are you going to do them? I mean, this is sort of in your job description.
I AM THINKING ABOUT THEMES. IT'S HARD YOU KNOW. YOU CAN'T JUST COME UP WITH - WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?
That - behind you - what is it?
NOTHING, THERE IS NOTHING THERE. DON'T EVEN WASTE YOUR...
It is something - look it is behind your desk. Half hidden under that small fluffy cloud. Let me just blow that cloud away, that's odd the cloud's been tethered down on top of it with rope... I'll just untie... there we go!
OH THAT? I'VE NEVER... I'VE NEVER SEEN THAT BEFORE.
You've never seen it before? But your omnipotent!
I AM NOT! IT'S ALL WORKING TREMENDOUSLY, LET ME TELL YOU THAT. SURE, SOMETIMES WHEN I GET STRESSED...
No! I mean you know everything!
AH, SORRY I THOUGHT YOU SAID... THAT'S NOT IMPORTANT NOW.
So what is it? Why is it at the back of your office, behind your coat stand?
IT WAS HERE WHEN I GOT HERE.
What?!? I'm not... Ok, I am going to set it upright. It's like a robot.... Ah, it's got a plug...
DON'T PLUG IT...
Ho ho! Wow! Look at it go! It's magnetic tape whirling away. Oh! A card has just printed out it's feeder!
IGNORE IT!
Hey - its having a go at doing some rules. Hee, hee! It thinks it's You! I tell you what it's not bad at it you know. It's printing more. This is pretty cool, and it's really quick! I bet it's overheads are negligible.
Listen to these:

1. Be courteous to each other

2. Do not take what is not yours to take

3. Look after your health

4. Accept difference. You are all squishy wonderments in the eyes of the Universe

5. When there is opportunity for compassion, take it

6. Strive for knowledge, seek and embrace joy

7. Contribute to the world in all the ways you can

8. You can look, even imagine a little, but never touch your neighbour's wife

9. Do not buy MAC. God is a PC

10. Worship and adorn always LOBOS!

Ok - back to normal with 101 guys, promise!

If you're having girl problems, I feel bad for you son, I got 99 blogs...

I found myself in a James Cameron movie the other day. I didn't mean to be there. I was looking for BBC i-player on my PlayStation.

uk.playstation.com

I registered onto the PlayStation Network and the next thing I knew I was presented with a menu to select my avatar for PlayStation Home. PlayStation Home is a free roaming virtual cityscape where PlayStation Network users can go, explore, play games and interact with others they find there through their own avatars. I am sure it is Utopia built exactly to the specifications of an American geek.

I registered, the first menu bar informed me, luckily in the hour I could choose a sponsored theme avatar. I could either enter this ethereal quasi-world as a human person or in the guise of a giant spray can of Lynx Deodorant with legs. I chose the humanoid because, ironically, I didn't want to repel anyone.

Selecting gender, hair type and eyeball length was simple enough. Then up popped a menu for my avatar's attire options.

I spent longer scrolling through my avatar's wardrobe of clothing than I do when I am getting dressed to go out. Into the REAL world. Where REAL people judge me.

I actually pondered if I, through the embodiment of my avatar, could pull off sneakers with combats. In REAL life I select the necessary items of clothes so I don't get funny looks/arrested that happen to be nearest the door. Now I was scrolling between a grey jumper and a green polo shirt 5 times like a mild form of OCD.

Once I settled on an outfit, I confirmed my choices and was transported into Home. I was on a plaza precinct at a shoreline.

Home is, in fact, the best single example of what would definitely happen if the real world adhered to the physics of cartoons and combined with the moral values of Twitter.

Yes, PlayStation Home is a godforsaken place.

Basically, if everyone in the real world, outside the TV screen, was s(h)macked clean off their nips all day, like the addled bloke I saw a few hours ago who periodically jabbed an accusingly pointed finger at the postcard carousel display outside a corner shop while simultaneously spinning it round with his other hand at breakneck speed, conveniently ignoring his senses informing him of everything else around him, such as the tourist wondering if he could be swift enough to pick out a postcard [Which incidentally leads me on to: why do hard drug addicts insist on wearing grubby sports fashion? They are fooling only themselves with that] then there would be no difference between this and PlayStation Home.

If you don't believe me, there is plenty of footage on YouTube to back this description up. Look at this video [from around 2:30 you begin to get the idea] :



No one is having fun when you instruct your avatar to dance. Trust me.

My avatar - clean-cut, colour and textile super co-ordinated - and I both looked around feeling like the guy taken on a Star-Trek away mission wearing the red top who the main cast keep getting his name wrong until they eventually settle on “buddy”.

We stood motionless as tens of other avatars mainly walked into street furniture, their bamboozling avatar names floating above their heads, or stood like mine, in uncertain wonder at the polygon crowd chaos, our bamboozling avatar names floating above our heads.

I began to take my avatar about the streets. BBC i-Player had to be around somewhere.

I wandered until I got to the Fair Ground Zone or whatever it's meant to be. It was not as well populated which was a relief, but generally avatars seemed more intent on avoiding contact more than anything. I suppose we all had our reasons.  Possibly the strong suspicion that everyone was not who they might seem.

That avatar shaped and coloured in as a hot nurse? Definitely a 45 year old man who lives in his parent's basement between night shifts at the old meat compressor factory. That innocently apparelled man other than the out of place cowboy hat? FBI Agent. The huge dude with the afro throwing gang signs by himself? 12 year old from Dorset.

As For me? I just wanted to watch this weeks' episode of the Apprentice on my PlayStation.

Home is a world populated wholly by lunatics and people who just want to find the way out. I think that sums it up.

I took my avatar to a bench and gave him a seat. There was no legitimate reason for this. He doesn't get weary and I was already sitting down. Two avatars in the middle of the street, one dressed as a panda angel [I kid not] and one looking like a reject from a boy band were grinding hard at each other as close as the spacial impact coding would allow, in my vision. It was both deeply depressing and disgusting. I got my avatar up and moving into the fun park.

And as God is my witness I had a go on the Ferris Wheel. Jeezus.

Of course I didn't actually go on a Ferris Wheel. I pressed X and my avatar stepped on and sat down in one of the booths. Then my avatar and I went round on it for 6 or 7 minutes. That was 6 or 7 minutes of my actual REAL life spent, I guess supposed to be enjoying the experience of sitting watching a representation of me enjoy a ride on a Ferris wheel that I had made it get on because I didn't want to watch... whatever... that was with the panda thing back there.

And I felt like I had formed a bond with my avatar. I didn't want our relationship to be sullied by him thinking I enjoyed watching that kind of futile act of perversity now animating some 60 feet below us.

If Oscar Wilde had his writing career over again today, he would undoubtedly write the modern schlock novel, The PlayStation Avatar of Dorian Gray.

Dorian would be out in the world, dancing at people, dancing by himself, giving meaningless gestures in crowds, hanging about arcades, making sexualised approaches to anything with legs and wonderng if he has the ability to jump over this bench that he just can't seem to walk round, while his avatar grows unhappy, scarred, old... his blue T-shirt with white under shirt becoming splattered with photo-realistic blood customisations of real life murders of those who learn of Dorian's secret.

After the 4th revolution, and my avatar doing a spectacularly creepy impression of a horror character dawning on me: it being the only "person" riding round and round on a slightly rusty, creaking and dated Ferris Wheel, I decided that none of this going on was worth The Apprentice.

I took my avatar to his minimalist apartment overlooking the sun kissed marina.

Every avatar gets an apartment in Home. You can "invite" other avatars over to it. Why, I genuinely haven't a clue. You can store more options and accessories in a chest of drawers there, I think. By far the best feature of the apartment, as I could make out, is you can sit on your IKEA styled sofa and contemplate how you ended up here, without interruption.

In your apartment, you can arrange your furnishings how you like. But, being a virtual world, you are not presented with a floor plan schematic and able to point and click to where you want the chair, no, Home provides you with the full immersing joy of having to grab and drag the chair across the floor in real time. Thereby wasting my REAL time.

Once I dragged my chair about for a bit [is this one of their online Home games that Sony rave about?] I could take no more. It was time to end it here.

I walked my avatar to his veranda and got him positioned to gaze out over the coded clear sea, listening to the Wav. File of clinking boat moorings.

And as I left him there to wonder how he came to be placed in this strange place and if his next leap would be his leap home, I swear I heard Simon & Garfunkle's Sound of Silence play, tinged with foreboding, in my head.

Honestly, they should make prisoners play it in their cells