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    #81
    Me and the Missus were the other way round. Not football so much but she really liked watching other sports, rugby, athletics, tennis... Me, I have no interest in watching sport at all.
    bloggoth

    If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
    John Wayne (My guru, not to be confused with my beloved prophet Jeremy Clarkson)

    Comment


      #82
      The Reunion

      James Freeman had moved away from the area in his twenties when he found a job up North but always liked going back with his wife to visit his parents who still lived in the same old house where he was born and grew up. The area held some fond memories and he liked wandering around recalling old times. Much had changed beyond recognition but there were still some places that had not changed a bit, including the entrance to his old primary school. Most of the school buildings had undergone major changes but he still remembered going through that old brick archway at around 8.45 every school morning.

      Dad had been gone a few years and his mum was getting rather frail, so he had been thinking of moving back to the area for some time. After months of looking he managed to find a decent job in the area and his wife was happy with it. She was an accounting assistant and it wasn’t hard for her to find something. Changing jobs and moving is stressful but after a couple of months they felt settled in. They were a sociable couple and soon began to find new friends in the area. He liked going to see his mother who was not yet a burden, he loved her weird sense of humour.

      His journey to work took him past those old school gates and he began to wonder whether any of his old primary school friends were still around. Unlikely to track anyone down after nearly 40 years but he thought he’d have a search online for a couple of names he could remember, including his best mate Barry Campbell. He found an old pupils group on Facebook and it had a list. Unbelievably, there was a Barry Campbell and the date looked about right. He contacted Barry and soon got an invite round to the house he remembered visiting when he was a youngster, he must have inherited it from his parents!

      It looked just as he remembered, the garden, the furniture, everything, it was weird. Barry seemed weird too, not because his friend was no longer the Bazza he had known, just the opposite. Apart from appearance he seemed to be exactly the Bazza he had known and that was not normal for a 50-year-old. He kept talking about their past in an absurdly childish way and never gave any answers when asked what he had done since, just looked puzzled and changed the subject. Maybe there was something he didn’t want to talk about. Perhaps he had spent time in prison for some heinous crime or had some mental problems. Whatever the cause, James did not feel comfortable with him and soon took his leave. Oh well, you can’t turn the clock back.

      When he got home he did a bit more Google research and found nothing at all about the Bazza he knew. That was strange, at least he should have come up on the same Facebook old pupils group. He logged in. Odd, there was no mention of him anymore, had he unsubscribed because he did not want any more visits from old mates? Next day, he went to see his mother and told her he’d seen Bazza. His mother was still very with it and recognised the name immediately. “Bazza? You mean Barry Campbell? Are you pulling my leg love? There wasn’t a Barry Campbell, he was your imaginary friend” “You must be mixing it up with another name mum” said James, “Bazza’s real, I saw him yesterday”

      On the way home, he walked back past Bazza’s house; he’d call in again and suggest they go for a drink, he’d been a bit rude with his abrupt departure. He got there, and it was definitely the right address, but the house looked nothing like the one he remembered from the previous day, it had been extensively revamped. He rang the bell and a lady came to the door. “Is Barry in?” he asked. “Sorry, think you’ve got the wrong address” she replied. “Nobody called Barry here” Now he felt anxious for reasons he did not want to put into words. If his vivid memories of Bazza were false, then why should any other memory be true?

      He walked back home and called out to his wife. She was not there. There was nothing there in the house to indicate his wife or any other woman had ever lived there. He felt dizzy, things seemed blurred and unreal, and he was now in a total panic. He walked back to his mother’s place for some company and it was gone, the place he had lived in for over 20 years, replaced by a new housing estate. What the hell was happening? Not just Bazza who was imaginary, everything else was too. He turned around and it seemed that the whole world was fading away. Then there was nothing.

      In the hospital the parents were grief stricken as the life support for their 5-month-old son was turned off. Their little boy had experienced so little of real life, but at least James Freeman had had 50 years of an imaginary one.
      Last edited by xoggoth; 24 July 2018, 18:28.
      bloggoth

      If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
      John Wayne (My guru, not to be confused with my beloved prophet Jeremy Clarkson)

      Comment


        #83
        A Fictional Heaven

        Ray was lying in bed in St George’s hospice, sipping an orange juice and contemplating his life. He knew he did not have much more of it ahead but at least it had been a pretty good one, a long and happy marriage, a couple of great children and a successful career as an author of detective fiction. He wasn’t up there with the well-known greats like James Patterson but he had made a decent income and had a substantial following. He knew from the fan mail that some of his fans thought his main character, DCI Jake Dickson, was one of the best in the modern genre. Some had even likened Dickson to a modern Sherlock Holmes in that he combined his great knowledge of all the modern sleuthing techniques with an astonishing insight. Ray was always flattered by that, as a child he had loved reading the Holmes stories.

        He felt no fear at all when his thoughts shifted to the future. He had always been a committed Christian and, unlike so many who paid lip service to its ideals, he had embraced the central tenet of love for his fellow man. He had always gone out of his way to help others, donating a good deal to charity and helping to promote worthy causes. He was convinced there was a heaven and had no doubt that he would soon be there.

        The day came less than two weeks later. He said goodbye to his family and closed his eyes, feeling a blackness close around him. Then came the light! He was drifting over an endless plain and experienced, in ways that that his limited human senses could never have comprehended, a vast panorama of beauty full of numerous happy souls. He was here in heaven! He kept drifting. Perhaps he was being taken to see god himself? He passed through a huge cloud and the landscape went much darker. Beneath him was grey scrub land covered in tiny square concrete buildings. It did not look like what he imagined hell to be, but it certainly wasn’t heaven. Maybe he was in Purgatory, but why did he deserve that?

        He found himself in a weed strewn street outside a dirty crumbling block, which was distinguished from the others only by a slightly larger size. An elderly man with a moustache, dressed in a suit that looked like something from the last century, came out of the door, hand extended. He looked familiar, but Ray could not place him. “Good morning. Mr Raymond Keating I presume. My name is Arthur.” he said in a posh voice that matched the suit. “Those who dwell above us have assigned me to inform you with regard to your new life with us, what it means and what is required of you” Ray opened his mouth to ask where he was and why he was here but before he could get a word out the man held up his hand. “Before I tell you anything it would be easier if I take you on a little tour and show you the truth regarding the things I have to tell you. If I try to tell you here, I fear you will find it hard to believe me”. With that he turned and strolled up the tatty street, signalling Ray to follow.

        They went a short distance along dismal streets and squalid alleys before reaching a decidedly cleaner square with a white central building. Arthur unlocked the main door and ushered Ray in. Then they walked down the corridor and opened the door to that blissful, beautiful place he had glimpsed before, the true heaven. Ray should have been ecstatic, perhaps this was his new home and that other place was just the equivalent of an airport check in. And yet, he felt he did not belong. The people here were strange, the way most looked and spoke did not appear natural and some did not appear to be human at all, they had exaggerated features, abnormal sizes or strange colours. A few looked like cartoon characters. He saw one gigantic man with enormous muscles and green skin. He did not get that close, but could have sworn it was the Incredible Hulk.

        They stopped in front of a small group of men. “Allow me to introduce you to some people you would love to meet, I suppose you could say this one here is a progeny of mine” He was a tall thin faced man in a long tweed coat and a deerstalker, smoking what could only be described as a Sherlock Holmes pipe. All the other characters in the group were also dressed as fictional characters he knew well from books and films. One of them was even made up as Dracula!

        He turned to Arthur and asked why they were made up like that. “Now, Ray, perhaps I may explain. These are no longer fictional characters, they all exist. This is the real Sherlock Holmes, and it is I who made him. My Name is Arthur Conan Doyle. You see, this is what heaven really is. Mankind is to those above us what farm animals are to humans. We are kept on Earth only because of the things we, or at least some of us, produce for them. They cultivate us so that they can harvest the products of our creativity and imaginations and it is these that are turned into something real to live in heaven forever. You were not imagining things when you walked here, you did see the Incredible Hulk. All the popular fictional characters, from books, films and TV exist in this heaven, from Mickey Mouse to Miss Marple. They are all there and all real”

        Sir Arthur Conan Doyle turned and guided him back to the entrance to that dull place. That purgatory. He led him to a small, crumbling concrete building with just a bed and a sink. “I don’t understand” said Ray “If heaven is reserved for our creations, what are we doing here?” “I was coming to that” said Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. “Perhaps those above feel that some small reward should go to those who provide them what they want. Maybe they feel a little attached to us, as a dairy farmer might to one of his productive old cows. I suppose we should be grateful we exist at all, as far as I know, most humans who have never created anything of significance do not. More importantly, we have a purpose, there are jobs that need doing, you can’t expect the inhabitants of heaven to spend time doing things for themselves. We are the unpaid workforce.”

        Sir Arthur turned to go. “I’ll guide you through your duties over the next few weeks. We’ll get started first thing tomorrow. I think Gandalf’s drain needs unblocking.”
        bloggoth

        If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
        John Wayne (My guru, not to be confused with my beloved prophet Jeremy Clarkson)

        Comment


          #84
          The end of rubbish

          Some massive discoveries had come out of research to understand the nature of matter. Nuclear fusion began to provide the world with clean energy back in 2034. All the same, many people doubted what purpose CERN and other advanced research places probing the fundamental structure of the universe, funded by billions of taxpayers’ money, really served. Black holes, Dark Matter, proving the Big Bang, all very interesting if you are into that sort of thing but what relevance does any of it have to our every day lives?

          World governments with ever more stretched finances who funded these places were getting worried about the costs too and felt there should be more focus on reaping the immediate practical benefits. More and more, such research organisations were being pressured into setting up subsidiaries that focused on the practical uses of these esoteric discoveries. Black holes were of major interest. Most people, whose knowledge of such things had been obtained from watching Star Trek, thought of them as gigantic clouds at the centres of galaxies, sucking in everything in their path but a black hole can theoretically be as small as 22 micrograms. Approximately 0.0000008 ounces to the less scientific. Unless they were scientists working at CERN or some other advanced research place probing the fundamental nature of the universe, few people knew that.

          If black holes could be so tiny then, surely, they could be useful, provided of course it was possible to control them. We sent enormous amounts of non recyclable waste to landfill and were rapidly running out of landfill space. What if we could install a small black hole at every waste recycling centre and chuck all this stuff in it? Once the waste had passed the event horizon, i.e. the point of no return where nothing can be saved from the black hole, it would be compressed into a massive density. Huge amounts of waste could be stored in a tiny volume. Once the black hole had started to grow too big, a way would need to be found to destroy it. This would release enormous amounts of energy that could supply the neighbourhood with electricity. The waste would have been returned to basic compounds in a compacted form that could easily be re-used.

          It took a few years before the black hole waste disposal method became a reality in the lab. It took many more years before the principle could be applied in practice as most had major concerns at having black holes in their neighbourhoods, they had seen too many science fiction movies and were worried about being sucked in and consumed. It took a lot of trials in remote areas of the world to convince people that the principle was safe. Fifteen years went by before the black hole waste sites were available in most areas of the UK.

          The next step was already under development. Why did councils need to spend money on weekly bin collections? The solution was obvious. Soon citizens were being provided with special waste bins containing a small black hole. They could suck in almost a ton of household waste before the “event horizon” approached the container walls. When that happened, the smart bins automatically signalled the council that a collection was needed. Most households only needed it once a year. It was going great. There had not been a single catastrophe in 5 years and people had got used to it. It reduced their council tax, saved them the hassle of putting their bins out every week and they didn’t get bothered by smells and swarms of flies in the summer. Not only that, but the method provided energy and re-useable chemicals.

          What could go wrong? It started with rumours of people seeing the tiny black holes floating in their gardens. At first these were dismissed as hoaxes or imagination. Then more and more sightings were reported. The holes had been seen drifting and swallowing garden furniture and other items and there was a big rise in the number of cats going missing. The councils said it was quite impossible for the black holes to emerge from the secure containers and had sent officials to check those of some householders making such assertions. All the containers were found to be fully operational with the black holes safely contained inside. There was no likelihood of the black holes emerging from intact containers and, as for the idea that they could wander around and then go back to their normal resting place, that was clearly quite absurd!

          True enough, if black holes were the inanimate objects that they were supposed to be. Even with all that expensive research, they had not been totally understood. Maybe the scientific rationality behind it all was a bar to considering the other possibility. Perhaps if they had had a few biologists or priests at the research centres they would have. An inanimate object cannot find ways to escape a container whenever it wants to but a living creature with at least a little intelligence can. Even cats and dogs can learn how to open doors. Unfortunately, the denial went on for too long. The black holes not only had self-awareness and intelligence, but they could also communicate with each other in ways that even Stephen Hawking would not have understood. The community grew and soon it was ready to break free from the oppression of mankind.

          Twenty years later and mankind and almost all other life forms, as we know them, were gone from the Earth. The only signs of movement were the numerous black holes drifting over a barren land and consuming everything in their paths.
          Last edited by xoggoth; 19 October 2018, 17:56.
          bloggoth

          If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
          John Wayne (My guru, not to be confused with my beloved prophet Jeremy Clarkson)

          Comment


            #85
            PS Don't want any informed CUKers who understand this stuff pointing out the flaws in the above. It's a story for us idiots whose knowledge of such things really is limited to watching Star Trek.
            bloggoth

            If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
            John Wayne (My guru, not to be confused with my beloved prophet Jeremy Clarkson)

            Comment


              #86
              Originally posted by xoggoth View Post
              PS Don't want any informed CUKers who understand this stuff pointing out the flaws in the above. It's a story for us idiots whose knowledge of such things really is limited to watching Star Trek.
              wot? - in the space/time continuum??

              Comment


                #87
                The secret of St Hillary

                St. Hilary’s is a small historic Anglican church near Totnes, parts of it go back to the 14th century. It is of minor interest to tourists in that area, but the name has little meaning to most. Who bothers to check what a Saint did or why he was made a saint? Even most regular worshippers at the church didn't have a clue.

                That began to change when a derelict building nearby, once a cattery, was taken over by Jehovah’s Witnesses. After a year of slow renovation, the new Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses was officially opened, and it wasn’t too long before the doorstop calls started. At first most were reasonably tolerant of them as they always made the effort to be polite and avoid being pushy but, over time, it became apparent that there were a few in the group who would not take the first no as a final answer. After a few weeks they would call again and some in the parish reported numerous visits in the year.

                Some parishioners were talking about the problem at a parish coffee morning and a chap who belonged to the local history society told them a little about St Hilary. Hilary was the Bishop of Poiters in the 4th century, originally a pagan who converted to Christianity. One form of it anyway, for in those days there were major sectarian differences within the religion over the nature of the trinity. There were those who believed Christ was one aspect of god, part of the trinity. Most Christians, including Anglicans, believe this today. Then there were the Arians, who embraced a more logical view, using the word logic loosely, that, since he was born as God’s son well after creation, he was separate and subordinate to god. Today, this belief is mainly held by Jehovah’s Witnesses. Most would wonder, given the shared views on most other aspects of god, why this detail was of major importance. Perhaps it never was, but that’s human nature. We are always seizing on something to assert our superiority over others.

                Funny how small things can bring back the conflicts of the past. The Trinitarians of St Hillarys church were being bothered by those non-trinitarians from the Kingdom Hall down the road so why should they not get their own back? They weren’t being very Christian but then how many Christians are? A small group in the church parish began to get together secretly and plot their little revenges on the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Jehovah’s Witnesses do not believe in festivals like Christmas, which they consider to be based on pagan rituals, so late December was the ideal time to send canvassers round to their doors asking them to come along to mass to celebrate Christmas. Those thought to be Jehovah's witnesses were deliberately targeted. There was no huge animosity and it was all intended as a joke to begin with.

                They were offered leaflets with the church of St Hilary in the title. If nobody was in the leaflets went through the letterbox. Some Witnesses would know who St Hilary was and that was a plus, they would get the hint without there being any provable abuse. Those who did know spread the word and it was not long before the malicious intent behind the visits became apparent to many in the community. As the visits increased they saw it as more than just a joke. They resented it and would hit back. Visits by their own people, especially to those they saw as parish leaders, became more regular and more pushy. In retaliation, the St Hillarians, as they now called themselves, upped their own aggression.

                Hostility grew and soon it was not just limited to Jehovah’s witnesses and parishioners of St Hillary’s. Neither side were totally sure who was what outside their own communities and many of the people subject to these increasingly annoying visits were not religious or held other less traditional views. Soon other groups started to hit back in their own ways, going door to door with the main purpose of annoying others. Totnes is famous for being the UK’s New Age capital and various psychic remedies for all life’s problems were among the many different ideas being peddled Soon it all became the norm. People were getting several visits a day by all sorts of groups offering salvation, both spiritual and physical, in various forms and letter boxes were being stuffed with leaflets. One could not go to the shops without being pestered by people hanging around on street corners promoting their solutions to life's problems.

                Soon people began to get more than just irritated. Irritation grew into annoyance and annoyance swelled into anger. It was not long before the violence started. The 4th century had returned.
                Last edited by xoggoth; 22 November 2018, 21:56.
                bloggoth

                If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
                John Wayne (My guru, not to be confused with my beloved prophet Jeremy Clarkson)

                Comment


                  #88
                  Just to test this one, I wrote on the blog that nobody reads, and I can rarely be arsed to do, that Erdogan would be killed at 4.30 today. Fortunately (from my point of view I mean) it did not happen.
                  bloggoth

                  If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
                  John Wayne (My guru, not to be confused with my beloved prophet Jeremy Clarkson)

                  Comment


                    #89
                    Nostradamus returns

                    There was another silly story in the tabloids about the predictions of the so-called mystic Baba Vanga. According to those who believe in her abilities, 85% of the predictions by the blind and illiterate Bulgarian lady have come true although, when you look at what she is supposed to have said, that is a rather biased figure. Europe “ceasing to exist” is probably not quite the same as Brexit. More objective assessments, assuming that the predictions were not faked, put the figure at 65%. Some would think that is still higher than one would expect from chance, but it probably isn’t when you realise that most people are capable of rather better than 50%. Many predictions can be made based on current realities and probabilities, you don’t have to be a mystic to think that China could become the world’s dominant nation.

                    Still, Brian thought, at least she is not as vague as Nostradamus. “The great man will be struck down in the day by a thunderbolt. An evil deed, foretold by the bearer of a petition.” That could cover a lot of assassinations. It was probably all rubbish of course, he was a sceptic on such matters, but he always found this sort of thing interesting. Perhaps it was the fact that he had the same birthday as Nostradamus, day and month that is, not year, he wasn’t quite that old yet. You need to fill your retirement with something and reading up on mysticism, ghosts etc. is as good as anything.

                    Difficult to find much real information about Vanga but one or two things seemed a bit odd. She supposedly said that “At the turn of the century the Kursk will be covered with water”. The Kursk, a Russian nuclear submarine, sank in 2000. Hmmm. Probably a faked prediction or just a coincidence but who knows for sure? He wasn’t enjoying retirement and needed a little more purpose in life. There are all sorts of methods to train the brain, to achieve calm or to beat anxiety of depression, so perhaps there was a bit of brain in there that could be trained in other things. Perhaps he could turn himself into a mystic.

                    His first search in Google brought up an article “How to be a mystic”. It was a good start and, surprisingly, some of it looked rather sensible. “look for order in the world rather than emphasizing differences”, “avoid distractions and complex schedules”, “avoid the materialist trappings of some religions” Even if he did not end up as the new Nostradamus, perhaps it could help him out of his recent lowness, the basics did not seem much different to various recognised therapies for depression. He settled back in his sofa and started to try and make sense of it. With a couple of large vodkas of course, what better guide was there to the inner self?

                    He found various other articles and a good book and had been at it for a couple of months. He found the whole thing rather relaxing and helpful and felt a lot better although, disappointingly, he could still not foresee the future any better than anyone else. Would he ever manage to be the new Nostradamus? But, thinking about it, he had not actually tried. He had assumed that, as he mastered the techniques, these predictions of the future would automatically pop into his head but maybe it didn’t work like that. Taking a course does not give you results, you have to practice your skills and accept that you will make many mistakes before you get good at something. That’s what he would do! Every evening he would spend one hour attempting to predict things and write down whatever popped into his head. He would make sure that they were mostly events in the near future, no matter how insignificant. That way he would be able to check what progress he was making, catastrophes in the next century would not be much help.

                    He did not have any success at first and was thinking of giving up but then there was an odd match. He had imagined a bird hitting something and the next morning a pigeon flew into his window. Probably coincidence but soon he was not so sure as the accurate predictions became more frequent. In one week, he predicted a major train crash, the resignation of a top politician, a terrorist attack in Italy, an unlikely win by an underdog football team and various little things in his own life, including his garage door getting stuck.

                    Maybe he could be a famous sage. He started posting his visions on Twitter. He did not have many followers, and nobody seemed to take much notice. He got derision from the few that did comment. “Yeh right!” said one “Not as if politicians resign much these days, do they?” That was the problem, his predictions were too vague. He would need to concentrate more. Whenever he had a vision, he would not just write it down, he would stick with it, try and probe deeper and get more detail.

                    A few weeks later and his thoughts were as nebulous as ever, he was on the point of giving up again. He was very tired and went to bed early. Suddenly, just as he was about to fall asleep, he was hit by an enormously detailed vision, he knew the date, the time, the place and the person. It was if he was actually there. He could not resist the temptation to get up and post it on Twitter. “The president of Turkey, Recep Tayyip Erdogan, will be shot dead by a renegade security guard tomorrow morning, Friday, 21st of December at 8.15 UK time”. Then he went back to bed and passed out, totally exhausted. He had no recollection of posting the comment the next morning and it was not until he saw the breaking news on the BBC Breakfast program that he remembered his Twitter post. Oh god! A false prediction would get just him laughed at but a correct one like that? He needed to delete the post! It was too late. The police were banging on the door.

                    His Twitter post had been reported by one of his few followers. In the police’s view, nobody could have known in advance about the assassination in such detail unless they were involved. It was a hard few months. He was interrogated and had every aspect of his life looked into. Fortunately, they could find no evidence whatever that a retired British dentist with an interest in gardening had any connection with Kurdish terrorists. His lawyer’s suggestion that perhaps his Tweet had been hacked by persons unknown to show a false date and time was most helpful.

                    Despite all the stress he had suffered, the predictions kept coming into his head and they got more and more accurate. He did not need to read the news much anymore as he already knew what was happening in the world before it happened. Then he had had a great vision! Next week Tony Blair was going to get stabbed. Great! He would post it on Twitter, but this time he would be much more careful. Nostradumus was a sensible guy, he deliberately obscured his real meaning for a reason, to avoid offending the powers that be. He would do the same. He wrote his prediction:

                    “One in rage to the East with power across the water will feel the point”

                    They couldn’t get him on that one.
                    bloggoth

                    If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
                    John Wayne (My guru, not to be confused with my beloved prophet Jeremy Clarkson)

                    Comment


                      #90
                      Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!

                      Looks like the change in ISO-8859-1 to UTF-8 character encoding has messed up a few things above.
                      bloggoth

                      If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
                      John Wayne (My guru, not to be confused with my beloved prophet Jeremy Clarkson)

                      Comment

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