Here There Be Monsters!

The Hound of the Baskervilles is a true story!

Well, not really, but Arthur Conan Doyle did base his Sherlock Holmes novel on the Dartmoor legend of the Beast of Bodmin. Doyle stayed a while in Princetown, Devon, on the moors, and heard the legend of the ‘Beast of Bodmin Moor’ from his pal. Bertram Fletcher Robinson.

There have been sixty reported sightings of the Beast - a five-foot long black panther-like creature with yellow eyes - and coupled with the numerous reports of mutilated livestock, the police decided in 1995 to investigate its existence.

Of course, they found nothing. Monsters don’t exist. Ha! It’s all just stories.

But then, not long after the po-po concluded that there was no Beast, a young boy found a leopard’s skull on the banks of the River Fowey in Cornwall.

Oh my Dog! Monsters DO exist! It’s all real.

Then the Natural History Museum discovered that the skull had made it into the country as part of an imported leopardskin rug.

Spoilsports.

But then Benjamin Mee, the owner of Dartmoor Zoo, said that in 1978 he was expecting a delivery of five pumas from the closing-down Plymouth Zoo and only two arrived. The owner of Plymouth Zoo, Mary Chipperfield, apparently had a breakdown of some sort and couldn’t bring herself to give over her favourite pumas to another zoo so she released them into the wild.

This was okay, because it was 1978 and releasing ‘exotic species’ into the wild wasn’t illegal until 1981. Good thing it wasn’t these days - Imagine the twitterstorm after she tweeted it on Twitter, the twit!

Her husband denies the story, and Mary passed away in 2014 so she can’t argue.

Even now police get reports of “a tiger on the loose” or a “beast digesting its dinner in my back garden” in Axminster. A Google search will reveal dozens of photos and videos allegedly of the Beast. In October 2016 giant paw prints, 4 inches wide like those of a lion, were found in Cornwall.

But Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t hear any story about an escaped zoo animal. He died in 1930 - long before Mary Chippenfield claims to have let the cats out. So what Beast was his mate talking about?

YOUTUBE VIDEO HERE:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XsncL2sJvFE

the God of Garbage

it was around 8.19am when the God of Garbage revealed himself to me. i was in the greenhouse, having a coffee and a smoke, when the bin in the corner stood up.

he wasn't tall. maybe a head and shoulders shorter than me. he was made up of dirty napkins, crusts of bread, and a Coke can. he was wearing a bin bag. his voice was normal, but i couldn't place the accent.

i said, "Hello." he replied, "Can I pinch one of your fags?" so i rolled up a ciggy for him and he sat down across from me.

he asked, "What are you writing?" i told him it was my journal. "A diary?" he said, "I keep one too." he seemed pleased that we had something in common.

he sucked on his cigarette and ate the butt when he was done. then he reached into the ashtray and started munching on the rest of the debris.

i rolled him another smoke.

"Thanks," he said, "I hate all this fresh air."

he finished that one same as the last. then he waved goodbye and climbed back into the trash.

a summer's day

trousers rolled up like Huck Finn. straw hat shading his face. glass of lemonade and a cigarette. a gentle breeze keeps him cool, as does Van Morrison on the radio.

the cat sleeps in the shade, too soporific to chase the birds in front of his nose.

he regards his toes. they look rotten. his pasty feet have been cooped in socks and shoes for months. but now they're free. soaking sun. shoeless. liberated.

he surveys the garden. flowers in bloom. colourful explosions frozen in the heat.

on a day like this there are no troubles in the world. he feels sunk in contentment. he sighs heavily. releasing any tension from the day's work. he sits up. stretches. arches his back and wriggles his toes.

time has stopped. he writes in his journal. filling a page even though he's written today already. he sips the cold lemonade and considers rolling another smoke.

a butterfly zig-zags past.

he thinks of stolen fragments of a day.

with no one to please but himself.

Broke Lads & Annoying Ads

I ride the bus because I’m way too important to drive myself. Also I get to read a book, listen to music, and have strange conversations with the other proles.

What is it about bus drivers? They have a fairly easy job - no heavy lifting, no boss in their face all day, a place to sit - so why are they always so surly?

Anyway. I’m at the bus stop, in the rain because this is England, and maybe it’s my mood that causes my irritation and not the sad lame stupid poster for Ladbrokes. “When you know,” it proclaims, “You know you know!” or “When you win it’s skill. When you lose it’s bad luck.”

Underneath each pearl is their slogan: This is the Ladbrokes Life!

So going down the betting shop in a tracksuit to spend your dole money is a lifestyle choice? Ah, now I understand.

Maybe hanging around outside Tesco swigging a Special Brew tinny and leering at schoolgirls is too.

And the bloke swaggering down the road with a badly behaved staffie shouting abuse at his pram-pushing teenage missus is a cultural icon 

As British as bangers and baked beans.

“When you win,” the poster tells me, “Get them in.”

This is the Ladbrokes Life!

I’m not sure if the Ladbrokes media boys are trying to be ironic, but I wouldn’t think their customer base would have much insight into such subtleties. In fact, I can only imagine the guy chucking his benefits cash on football results and horses would get a kick out of seeing a version of himself splashed over a bus stop wall.

It’s truth in advertising. Too much of it.

Next we’ll get a “Citybus Legends” campaign - A guy with greasy hair and sweat-stained armpits telling you he doesn’t have change for a tenner; or grinning through yellow teeth as he watches you running for his bus and drives off just before you get there.

Singsong from the Grave

So they found an unreleased song from back when Michael Jackson was black and now it’s all I’m hearing on the radio.

The tune’s alright, I suppose. Kind of average. But finding an old song of MJ’s is like discovering Jesus’s journal. Just think how many updated copies of the Bible they’d sell.

I wonder if the music video will be old clips of MJ or if they also found a tape of undiscovered home movies. We’ll be treated to Jacko turning burgers on the barbeque, unwrapping a pair of socks under the Christmas tree. Maybe there’s one of his pet monkey Bubbles biting his finger. That’s sure to get £250 on You’ve Been Framed.

You just know they’re gonna milk it for every last dollar. Flog that dead horse. Yeeha!

His nephews have even jumped on the gravy train.

In case you don’t remember, he had three nephews - his favourites according to them - who called themselves 3T. They had one song that only got airplay coz Mike sang along with them. And if I remember correctly: It was shit.

But now they’re back! For real. I saw them on Celebrity Juice and everything. It was like Alvin and the Chipmunks reached puberty. And then got wrinkly. But didn’t ever change their hairstyles. I haven’t heard their new song yet but I’m betting they’ve got MJ in the background somewhere. Just to be safe.

The thing is, if MJ’s old new song wasn’t good enough to be released in the 80s then what makes anyone think it’s half decent now? He’s probably moonwalking in his grave.

I say let the guy rest in peace.

Don’t make our last memories of him be some mediocre B-side track that he figured no one would want to hear back in the day.

It’s disrespectful.