Sunday, August 19, 2012
The first bickering
But what actually will happen when he presents this evidence to the world? Firstly he will come up against the jealousy and infighting which goes on endlessly amongst all researchers in both the conventional sciences and the para-sciences; his method will be questioned and his honesty brought into doubt. Even if he is part of a ten-man time, all of whom are in total agreement about the evidence, this is how it will be. In fact in all likelihood the first bickering will take place amongst those ten.
From The Encyclopedia of Ghosts and Spirits
by John and Anne Spencer
Monday, March 28, 2011
A mug's game
A few weeks ago, something entirely unprecedented happened: I took a punt on a horse and it actually won. Proud was Dan as he swaggered into William Hill to collect the Saturday night beer kitty.
On the back of that, I decided to throw a few quid at the Cheltenham festival and see what came of it. Nothing outrageous, just a few pounds a day and cash my winners at the end of the week, see if I break even or even (heaven forbid) turn a profit.
First day, first race: winner; second race: winner. My goodness, I thought, how long's this winning streak going to last?
My answer came in the third race of the day when my chosen jockey dismounted his horse rather prematurely (not to mention spectacularly) and got trod on a few times by the rest of the field.
This setback notwithstanding, my spawny luck just about lasted the week and I made a profit of around £40, enough to pimp my new dive with a Playstation 2 (second hand) and a copy of Grand Theft Auto 3 (likewise).
***
Dan zooming across the Callahan Bridge from Portland to Staunton Island in a stolen sports car, suddenly realises he's made a classic 'Brit abroad' mistake and is in the wrong lane.
Wow, that's dangerous, I thought, somebody could have got hurt...
***
GTA3 is a very addictive game, but I'm more worried about the potential consequences of my Cheltenham success. The Aintree festival is looming and I may find it hard to stay out of the bookies.
Gambling is a very slippery slope and, as far as I can see, there are three stages:
1. You've got a pound change left over from your shopping so you spend it on a scratch card.
2. You take a punt on a horse you like the look of.
3. You're sitting in a piss-stained bamboo hut in the middle of some god-forsaken jungle, holding a gun to your temple with hordes of locals, screaming with bloodlust, wagering large sums of money on you blowing your brains out all over the wall. Your best mate is sitting the other side of the table with his underpants on his head and he can't stop crying.
Just before pulling the trigger, you recall that pound change in the shop and experience a moment's sadness, wondering what life would have been like if you'd bought some Jaffa Cakes instead. Then you remember that the price of Jaffa Cakes has gone up and they now cost £1.09.
You shake your head briefly, and pull.
On the back of that, I decided to throw a few quid at the Cheltenham festival and see what came of it. Nothing outrageous, just a few pounds a day and cash my winners at the end of the week, see if I break even or even (heaven forbid) turn a profit.
First day, first race: winner; second race: winner. My goodness, I thought, how long's this winning streak going to last?
My answer came in the third race of the day when my chosen jockey dismounted his horse rather prematurely (not to mention spectacularly) and got trod on a few times by the rest of the field.
This setback notwithstanding, my spawny luck just about lasted the week and I made a profit of around £40, enough to pimp my new dive with a Playstation 2 (second hand) and a copy of Grand Theft Auto 3 (likewise).
***
Dan zooming across the Callahan Bridge from Portland to Staunton Island in a stolen sports car, suddenly realises he's made a classic 'Brit abroad' mistake and is in the wrong lane.
Wow, that's dangerous, I thought, somebody could have got hurt...
***
GTA3 is a very addictive game, but I'm more worried about the potential consequences of my Cheltenham success. The Aintree festival is looming and I may find it hard to stay out of the bookies.
Gambling is a very slippery slope and, as far as I can see, there are three stages:
1. You've got a pound change left over from your shopping so you spend it on a scratch card.
2. You take a punt on a horse you like the look of.
3. You're sitting in a piss-stained bamboo hut in the middle of some god-forsaken jungle, holding a gun to your temple with hordes of locals, screaming with bloodlust, wagering large sums of money on you blowing your brains out all over the wall. Your best mate is sitting the other side of the table with his underpants on his head and he can't stop crying.
Just before pulling the trigger, you recall that pound change in the shop and experience a moment's sadness, wondering what life would have been like if you'd bought some Jaffa Cakes instead. Then you remember that the price of Jaffa Cakes has gone up and they now cost £1.09.
You shake your head briefly, and pull.
Labels: IMPENDING DOOM, PSYCHE, THE CREDIT CRUNCH
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Inauspices
I have been struggling a bit with superstition recently. For one thing, I've been training myself to step on three.
In case anyone doesn't know, the cardinal rule of pedestrianism in England is "Don't tread on three", where there are three manhole covers laid out in a row. Should you tread on all three of them, great misfortune will surely befall.
Although, perhaps erroneously, I don't consider myself a superstitious person, I noticed I was being rather scrupulous in my observance of the unwritten rule. To put an end to this, I'm deliberately treading on three this week. It's worth noting that whatever misfortune befalls is unlikely to be as dire as the consequences of my continually veering to avoid manhole covers on crowded London streets.
***
In other omens, I took my lucky turtle out of my wallet the other day to find that his head had snapped off.
The lucky turtle was given to me by a Japanese student; I was told to keep him in my wallet and he would bring me money. His grisly decapitation may go some way toward explaining my current poverty.
In case anyone doesn't know, the cardinal rule of pedestrianism in England is "Don't tread on three", where there are three manhole covers laid out in a row. Should you tread on all three of them, great misfortune will surely befall.
Although, perhaps erroneously, I don't consider myself a superstitious person, I noticed I was being rather scrupulous in my observance of the unwritten rule. To put an end to this, I'm deliberately treading on three this week. It's worth noting that whatever misfortune befalls is unlikely to be as dire as the consequences of my continually veering to avoid manhole covers on crowded London streets.
***
In other omens, I took my lucky turtle out of my wallet the other day to find that his head had snapped off.
The lucky turtle was given to me by a Japanese student; I was told to keep him in my wallet and he would bring me money. His grisly decapitation may go some way toward explaining my current poverty.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Nocturnal symptoms
Dream tomfoolery and possible interpretations: last night, I dreamed I was in a passenger jet being piloted by the unlikely combination of Melinda Messenger and Gary Barlow.
Unlikely, not to mention inauspicious.
Melinda Messenger, as one might expect, proved to be absolutely duff at the piloting game, losing control and sending the jet into a nasty tailspin. Fortunately, Gary Barlow proved to be a dab hand at the emergency landing. The plane was a write-off, but the passengers were unscathed.
Potential interpretations of this dream:
1. Dan has some pretty retrograde views about women in charge of machinery buried in his subconscious
2. Dan's sanity is now officially at melting point
3. Gary really was the talented one out of Take That
Unlikely, not to mention inauspicious.
Melinda Messenger, as one might expect, proved to be absolutely duff at the piloting game, losing control and sending the jet into a nasty tailspin. Fortunately, Gary Barlow proved to be a dab hand at the emergency landing. The plane was a write-off, but the passengers were unscathed.
Potential interpretations of this dream:
1. Dan has some pretty retrograde views about women in charge of machinery buried in his subconscious
2. Dan's sanity is now officially at melting point
3. Gary really was the talented one out of Take That
Labels: PSYCHE
Saturday, August 04, 2007
On the subject of paranoia
The origianl classic quote regarding paranoia (or the one I first fell in love with) went along the lines of:
Paranoia is merely a heightened state of perception: most people are persecuted beyond their wildest dreams.
For years this enjoyed no competition as my favourite paranoia-related quote. Then, a few weeks ago, I finally had the chance to watch Darkman 2: the return of Durant.
Darkman, you see, has the scientific know-how to adopt other people's faces; a technique which he puts to good use, infiltrating the bad guys' organisation and causing well-laid schemes to go wrong. Durant (Larry Drake), aware of this, takes to seizing his henchmen's faces randomly, just to check they're not the good guy.
When a henchman with a smarting face accuses Durant of becoming paranoid, Durant screams:
"Paranoia is total awareness!"
and we have a new contender for best comment on paranoia.
***
For years I have been convinced that I am being subjected to extra scrutiny at airports. Particularly on the England to Japan leg of my annual return home. In 2005, I got pulled out of the boarding line at Heathrow by the nice young man who'd previously handled my check-in for an extra badge. Evidently, I am unable to differentiate between nice young men and neo-fascist twats. I've got yours right here, Adolf.
I got the third degree coming through Osaka as well.
Last year, Doris Day at KIX went through all of my bags, asking pointless questions about every damned item she could lay her hands on. Asked me which university I studied at, despite having my passport open to the page to which my working (that's right- working!) visa is attached in her hand. I maintained frosty civility, gathered my much-rearranged possessions and made my way through the arrivals gate to a welcoming party of three policemen.
Who proceeded to ask me all the same questions again.
This year, I felt sure I was going to get the cavity search: I was flying in from Amsterdam. I even said as much to my father as we supped an obligatory coffee at Birmingham International airport.
I disembarked at Osaka, and they just waved me through. Waved me right fucking through.
I walked fast towards the train terminal, head down, mind racing.
They know I know. Somehow, they know I know.
Either that guy at the next table was listening and told them to abort the mission or...
...Jesus, no: not my own father...
***
Just a little something to keep that fire of fear burning in my heart: one of my students (I think she's about six) has taken to wearing something round her neck when she comes in my class.
It's an adorable Hello Kitty baby monitor: one of those two-part things parents keep so they can hear if their offspring is choking to death upstairs in the cot while they're watching The Bill or Casualty or similar.
And it's switched on. I'm not even joking.
Which means somebody, somewhere, is listening. And even if it's the mother, that doesn't make it OK: what's she expecting to hear?
Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you. One of my father's oft-repeated gems.
Paranoia is merely a heightened state of perception: most people are persecuted beyond their wildest dreams.
For years this enjoyed no competition as my favourite paranoia-related quote. Then, a few weeks ago, I finally had the chance to watch Darkman 2: the return of Durant.
Darkman, you see, has the scientific know-how to adopt other people's faces; a technique which he puts to good use, infiltrating the bad guys' organisation and causing well-laid schemes to go wrong. Durant (Larry Drake), aware of this, takes to seizing his henchmen's faces randomly, just to check they're not the good guy.
When a henchman with a smarting face accuses Durant of becoming paranoid, Durant screams:
"Paranoia is total awareness!"
and we have a new contender for best comment on paranoia.
***
For years I have been convinced that I am being subjected to extra scrutiny at airports. Particularly on the England to Japan leg of my annual return home. In 2005, I got pulled out of the boarding line at Heathrow by the nice young man who'd previously handled my check-in for an extra badge. Evidently, I am unable to differentiate between nice young men and neo-fascist twats. I've got yours right here, Adolf.
I got the third degree coming through Osaka as well.
Last year, Doris Day at KIX went through all of my bags, asking pointless questions about every damned item she could lay her hands on. Asked me which university I studied at, despite having my passport open to the page to which my working (that's right- working!) visa is attached in her hand. I maintained frosty civility, gathered my much-rearranged possessions and made my way through the arrivals gate to a welcoming party of three policemen.
Who proceeded to ask me all the same questions again.
This year, I felt sure I was going to get the cavity search: I was flying in from Amsterdam. I even said as much to my father as we supped an obligatory coffee at Birmingham International airport.
I disembarked at Osaka, and they just waved me through. Waved me right fucking through.
I walked fast towards the train terminal, head down, mind racing.
They know I know. Somehow, they know I know.
Either that guy at the next table was listening and told them to abort the mission or...
...Jesus, no: not my own father...
***
Just a little something to keep that fire of fear burning in my heart: one of my students (I think she's about six) has taken to wearing something round her neck when she comes in my class.
It's an adorable Hello Kitty baby monitor: one of those two-part things parents keep so they can hear if their offspring is choking to death upstairs in the cot while they're watching The Bill or Casualty or similar.
And it's switched on. I'm not even joking.
Which means somebody, somewhere, is listening. And even if it's the mother, that doesn't make it OK: what's she expecting to hear?
Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you. One of my father's oft-repeated gems.
Monday, November 29, 2004
Well, duh
Maybe I think too much.
Today, I caught myself thinking how much better the world would be if the subway ticket gates flashed up the message: "PASS FRIEND" when you inserted your ticket, instead of this "THANK YOU" chod.
I was, of course, in a subway station at the time.
Today, I caught myself thinking how much better the world would be if the subway ticket gates flashed up the message: "PASS FRIEND" when you inserted your ticket, instead of this "THANK YOU" chod.
I was, of course, in a subway station at the time.
Labels: PSYCHE
Monday, November 01, 2004
Halloween part II- The Dream Warrior
So, on too the not-so-subtle influence of cheese on the evening's proceedings...
Basically, it's a well-known half-truth that cheese before bed gives you nightmares. The closest I've heard to a scientific fact based on this is that, due to the difficulty the body experiences digesting cheese, your sleep can become quite fitful.
Well, six and a half hours of cheese and horror flicks were more than capable of messing up my night's sleep- I woke up several times, with a taste like tin on the back of my tongue and I had all sorts of weird and wonderful dreams.
This one was the best...
It appeared that I was a knight errant, on horseback, in the courtyard of a wonderful castle. However, all was not well: an angry Dragon was laying siege to the castle and the knights of the kingdom were trotting out to do battle with the foul beast, one at a time. If you're thinking that this sounds like a grave tactical error, you'd be right.
I don't know how the batting order was being decided, but the guy before me (Sir Gideon the Flammable, or something) met an excruciating and premature end, so it was my turn to have a go at the monster. As I came over the drawbridge, the Dragon roared angrily and reared up on its hind legs.
This was a big Dragon.
So big, in fact, that when it reared up, its head touched the Moon. According to my research, that means that the Dragon was at least 239,000 miles long. I suddenly began to feel that this wasn't going to be an entirely fair fight.
So, the Dragon arched its back, then swooped down towards me, like- well, like an impossibly huge Dragon descending rapidly from above. This was a truly magnificent sight. So magnificent, in fact, that I decided to get the hell out of the way.
This proved a wise move on my part: the Dragon's head smashed down into the castle, reducing the building to what looked rather like a huge pile of baking powder and presumably killing all of the knights and maidens within.
I was fortunate enough to wake up before the Dragon caught up with me.
Basically, it's a well-known half-truth that cheese before bed gives you nightmares. The closest I've heard to a scientific fact based on this is that, due to the difficulty the body experiences digesting cheese, your sleep can become quite fitful.
Well, six and a half hours of cheese and horror flicks were more than capable of messing up my night's sleep- I woke up several times, with a taste like tin on the back of my tongue and I had all sorts of weird and wonderful dreams.
This one was the best...
It appeared that I was a knight errant, on horseback, in the courtyard of a wonderful castle. However, all was not well: an angry Dragon was laying siege to the castle and the knights of the kingdom were trotting out to do battle with the foul beast, one at a time. If you're thinking that this sounds like a grave tactical error, you'd be right.
I don't know how the batting order was being decided, but the guy before me (Sir Gideon the Flammable, or something) met an excruciating and premature end, so it was my turn to have a go at the monster. As I came over the drawbridge, the Dragon roared angrily and reared up on its hind legs.
This was a big Dragon.
So big, in fact, that when it reared up, its head touched the Moon. According to my research, that means that the Dragon was at least 239,000 miles long. I suddenly began to feel that this wasn't going to be an entirely fair fight.
So, the Dragon arched its back, then swooped down towards me, like- well, like an impossibly huge Dragon descending rapidly from above. This was a truly magnificent sight. So magnificent, in fact, that I decided to get the hell out of the way.
This proved a wise move on my part: the Dragon's head smashed down into the castle, reducing the building to what looked rather like a huge pile of baking powder and presumably killing all of the knights and maidens within.
I was fortunate enough to wake up before the Dragon caught up with me.
Labels: PSYCHE
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Crikey
This is a dream I had last night. What it says about my current mental state, I simply can't tell.
Nothing good, I imagine.
So, my dream was of the weather section of a news programme. The weatherman was issuing a live tornado warning, from the somewhat foolhardy position of the top of a very steep cliff, with the tornado rapidly approaching from the sea.
No sooner had he commenced speaking, than the tornado whipped him off the top of the cliff, as cleanly as a player taking a piece from a chess board. The luckless weatherman was carried back and forth across the cliff face by the whirlwind, like a cockroach in a vacuum cleaner.
Then, by an amazing stroke of luck, the tornado deposited him, unscathed, in the topmost branches of a very tall tree which stood on the clifftop.
Unfortunately, he was so dizzy from his ordeal that he fell out of the tree, hit the ground with a bone-shattering crunch and bounced over the edge of the cliff, plummeting a couple of hundred feet into the choppy waters below.
At this point, the newscaster, apparently unmoved by the weatherman's grisly demise, announced that it was time to go over to the sports desk.
And I woke up.
Nothing good, I imagine.
So, my dream was of the weather section of a news programme. The weatherman was issuing a live tornado warning, from the somewhat foolhardy position of the top of a very steep cliff, with the tornado rapidly approaching from the sea.
No sooner had he commenced speaking, than the tornado whipped him off the top of the cliff, as cleanly as a player taking a piece from a chess board. The luckless weatherman was carried back and forth across the cliff face by the whirlwind, like a cockroach in a vacuum cleaner.
Then, by an amazing stroke of luck, the tornado deposited him, unscathed, in the topmost branches of a very tall tree which stood on the clifftop.
Unfortunately, he was so dizzy from his ordeal that he fell out of the tree, hit the ground with a bone-shattering crunch and bounced over the edge of the cliff, plummeting a couple of hundred feet into the choppy waters below.
At this point, the newscaster, apparently unmoved by the weatherman's grisly demise, announced that it was time to go over to the sports desk.
And I woke up.
Labels: PSYCHE
