Donkey

Donkey: Designed by Roman Diaz. Folded by backwards7.

My Life as a Junior Reporter for 'Pop Vision' Magazine

It was my Classics tutor at Eton who first noticed my talent as a writer and took it upon himself to nurture my gift. By the age of 18, I was a seasoned reporter, having worked my way up to the position of Features Editor at The Etonion Journal of Metallurgy. This venerable periodical, first published  in 1873, was initially dedicated to the study of minerals and metallic elements, but broadened its scope in the 1970s to encompass an exciting new generation of denim-clad, shaggy-permed, hard rock groups, who had united under the banner of “heavy metal.” During my tenure on the magazine I commissioned articles investigating the mineral lattices prevalent in the music of mid-period Black Sabbath and the trace metals existent in the founding members of Motley Crue. Collectively we attempted to definitively answer the, still as yet, unresolved question: What metal is Bruce Dickinson made of? I penned many of the articles myself, among them: Is Biff Byford from Saxon Magnetic? and Were Mercyful Fate’s Drums Forged by Iron Age Blacksmiths?  The journal, which is still published on the first Friday of every month, continues to be written exclusively in Latin.

After I left Eton I landed a job at Pop Vision – a magazine catering to the base musical tastes of the Proletariat. The culture at Pop Vision was very different from the hermetically sealed world of my alma mater. I was unprepared for how many of the staff, which included many of my former school chums, had adopted the speech patterns and mannerisms of East London gangsters. The word “Guvnor” was banded around with much greater frequency than I had anticipated. 

The bands I interviewed were different too. Talk Talk were oddly silent, while Mute Records artists were capable of holding court on a wide range of esoteric topics, from Hungarian existentialism, to the peculiar back-to-front plumbing that is a feature of many properties within the city limits of Los Angeles and gave birth to the term “shit cannon.”

Britpop was in the ascendency and I soon became a familiar face among the ranks of the Indie paparazzi, accosting Luke Haines from The Auteurs as he exited Camden branch library with a Sainsbury’s carrier bag filled with yellowing Danielle Steele novels, and then chasing after him down the street, calling out: “Luke! Luke! It’s Mark from Pop Vision. Say something acerbic!”

On another occasion I was dispatched to a skate park where the guitarist from The Bluetones had become trapped at the bottom of an artificial concrete dell. Watching his feeble, abortive attempts at scrabbling up the steeply sloping concrete walls, I was reminded of a spider trapped in a bathtub. Somebody threw down a guitar and told him that we’d fetch a ladder if he played Chasing Rainbows.

Writers at Pop Vision were encouraged to use their articles to air any political opinions they had. It was considered very bad form if you didn’t bad mouth Margaret Thatcher and the Conservative party at least once in every piece. Many of the articles published were the result of half-baked ideas – for instance I was once asked to conduct an interview with Stereolab in mono.

In 1997 the Pop Vision camera broke. After that no further photographs were printed in the magazine. The sudden absence of any pictorial content was passed off by the editor – Terrence Berkeley - as a Dadaist act of spontaneous deconstruction. When the office CD player ceased to function, a memo was circulated, informing us that any further single or album reviews would be penned as speculative pieces in which we would muster our latent psychic talents to describe the music contained on the CDs that had been sent for our appraisal. To aid us the Pop Vision office was relocated to a building in Kings Cross where three Ley Lines were said to converge.

It was this anti-listening to music policy that resulted in my description of Blur’s comeback single - Beetlebum - as “like being serenaded by a chorus of rowdy whelks, dressed in barnacle-encrusted Aaron sweaters, in a pub, in Leigh-on-Sea.”

I  resigned from the magazine in 1999 to work on my fathers estate in Buckinghamshire. As I left the office for the last time I passed a stark naked Brett Anderson from the group Suede, who was waiting in the lobby. It was early Spring. A single yellow daffodil drooped from the tip of his flaccid penis.  

Cast offs (part one)

Cast-offs: Pieces of writing that I submitted to websites, or elsewhere, that were either rejected outright or ignored. 

Submitted to Smoke: A London Peculiar on the 20th May, 2012 

The assassination of London in 1991

Brian Borrie vigorously grinds the heel of his palm against a raised white bump on the left lobe of his reddening chin.

“Gnat bite,” he says. “I’m trying not to scratch it with my fingernails.”

We are standing, roughly waist-deep, in the middle of a huge patch of gently swaying nettles which, I am only just discovering, have evolved the ability to sting through denim.  The now overgrown, but once immaculately landscaped, gardens of Hinton Hall stretch out around us, having well and truly gone to seed. 

Situated incongruously on what is, at present, the border between the London suburbs of Tooting and Streatham, the 18^th century manor house is a ruin, broken down to its lower storeys, which poke out above the unruly foliage, like the carcass of an animal that has been dragged into undergrowth and picked almost clean.  Our entry to the property has breached a government-enforced quarantine order which has only periodically been infringed during its 21 year history. According to the pristine black ledger that we were both required to sign prior to being granted access, the last official visit occurred almost three years ago, in 2009. When my turn came to make my mark in the book, I added my name to a list of six previous signatories that, taken collectively, barely make an impression on the first page.

In the hope of better finding our way around the decaying estate, Brian had the foresight to acquire a map. Both the local planning office and the usually reliable British Museum had failed us on this account, leading us to throw ourselves upon the mercy of the Donald Dainty Museum. Located a few streets away, the blue plaque-adorned  childhood home of the now largely uncelebrated,  Victorian workhouse reformer, echoes with the reluctant footsteps of school parties on educational visits, tramping in loose formation along its bare-wood corridors, past roped-off studies and musty bed chambers that have been purposefully frozen in time.

Our borrowed map turns out to be at least twice the size of a standard OS chart, far too large to be handled in an outdoor setting. We only have it partially unfolded and already its rectangular panels have established a rebellious topography that amplifies the imperceptible breeze into something forceful, the insistent tugging of the wind making it difficult to manoeuvre the huge sheet without getting stung by the nettles. As a last resort we try laying it out as flat as possible on the bobbing heads of the plants, where it shifts about and bears no concrete relation to our surroundings, no matter how we orientate it.

Eventually we give up and fall back upon our still-crystallising knowledge of the property, making a last ditch attempt to establish the location of the manor and its various landmarks through a combination of observation and our own questionable sense of direction.  As we lurch around the former gardens, our precise whereabouts remain an enduring mystery that defies solution, the soles of our shoes connecting with what appear to be crazy-paved pathways, or the flat brickwork collars, fringing what were once flower beds. Here and there islands of rubble emerge from the rampant sea of tangled greenery. On occasion these ruins will achieve a momentary coherence, sketching out a lower wall, incorporating the bottom portion of a window frame that has been sheered off at a crumbling angle,  as if the architecture above it was gnawed away by some passing scavenger. 

Our clumsy and inept passage belies the solemnity of our location and its unheralded status as the site of one of the most audacious acts of sabotage ever committed.  On this spot, in the spring of 1991, two shots were fired that will one day destroy the city of London .

~

Our ad hoc investigation had staggered to a start last January at Simon’s - a bijou greasy spoon,  shoehorned into one of the terraced railwayman’s cottages on Greet Street. Nearby, the silver/grey canopy, enveloping the international platforms on Waterloo railway station with a repeated pattern of stretched ellipses and compressed rectangles, parted the surrounding metropolitan architecture like the swollen body of an overfed snake.

 The cafe’s favourable location means that, despite its basic fare and refusal to sell anything as continental as a panini or a smoothie, it remains busy throughout the day. A typical crowd is a cosmopolitan mix of regulars,  non-health-conscious commuters and confused tourists who, against all odds, have managed to lose themselves in the miniscule warren of well-signposted streets between the Arrivals and Departures hall at Waterloo and the thriving Southbank.

On that particular morning the booths were full to bursting point, the seated patrons crushed against each other on the orange/brown leatherette of the padded bench seats. Having shuffled our way to the front of the queue we made our selection from the more portable items on the menu. We took our respective purchases outside and ate them while leaning against the wall of an adjacent residential property, both of us pretending that we hadn’t noticed the laser-printed sign in the net-curtained front room window, politely requesting that we did not do so.

“London is alive, but London is dying,” said Brian archly, in those over-enunciated Shakespearean tones that he likes to use whenever he is attempting to  make a serious point. I passed his comment off as one of the pretentious, non-sequiturs that he sometimes employs as conversation starters. Instead I  continued to focus my concentration on avoiding the globules of tomato ketchup that were plummeting from the opposite end of my bacon sandwich, before splattering, a second or so later, onto the pavement in a halo of melted margarine. 

“...By which I mean that London is terminally ill.”

I continued my studious contemplation of the ketchup-stained flagstones. A more determined psycho-geographer than myself would have already extracted reams of meaning from this abstract Morse Code, which, in more fanciful imaginations than my own, would have mimicked the blood spatter of an unsolved murder committed centuries ago upon this very spot. I was more concerned that none of it ended up landing on my new boots.

 “Basically, London is fucked.”

“Okay Brian, tell me why London is fucked.”

“Hmm”

With his free hand he reached into the pocket of the heavy grey duffle coat, that gifts him the manoeuvrability of a medieval knight in full plate mail armour, and removed a slightly desiccated sprig of ivy. 

I took it from him. The arrow-shaped leaves were somewhat smaller than normal. The creamy-white border around their dark green heart was smeared with a distinctive reddish tinge, as if it had recently been wiped against blood congealing on an open wound. The stems were covered in thousands of downy spines that prickled like pins and needles on the flesh when brushed in the opposite direction of growth.

“A legacy of the Falkland islands conflict,” pronounced Brian in the authoritative tones of a man who has recently come into possession of a large body of knowledge, that he is about to use as the basis for a lecture.

“In South America it’s known as the Perdición de la Ciudad. In this country we call it by the more prosaic moniker of Gorse Ivy.” 

He took an untidy bite from his All-Day Breakfast Roll – the contents of a fry-up, liberally doused in brown sauce and smooshed between two halves of an over-sized white bap.  A fold of slightly browned, fried-egg white momentarily trailed over his bottom lip before his tongue swept it back into his mouth.

“It’s what Toledo, Rome, Pisa, London and, unofficially, Paris and Hamburg all have in common. They are all terminally ill urban centres, infested with a parasitic climbing plant that eats cities alive.”

I handed the sprig of ivy back to him. He stuffed it roughly into the side pocket of his coat where it fought for space with a crumpled white linen handkerchief.

“Its sap is corrosive to most forms of metal and stone work. It forms extensive networks of initially very slender burrowing roots that expand over time and channel moisture into standing structures.  Eventually it will pull down any building it attaches itself to. Once it’s established it’s extremely difficult to get rid of without resorting to really toxic chemicals. At best you might be able to contain it and slow down the damage. The Hazardous Plants Census, conducted by Kew Gardens in 2011, concluded that 27% of all the buildings in the Greater London area are infested to varying degrees with Gorse Ivy. That’s up from 25% in 2007. In 2010 Gorse Ivy was cited as either the primary or contributing factor in the demolition of 82% of all condemned properties. In summary it’s a losing battle. London is like a sandcastle facing an oncoming tsunami that will one day wipe the city from existence.” 

I took advantage of his pause for breath to ask the obvious question:

“If this is such a threat to our way of life, then why have I never heard about it until just now?”

“Well, when the wonderfully composed and splendidly informative book, that I have recently been commissioned to write, hits the shelves I daresay that more people will be talking about it. In the meantime the question you should be asking yourself is: Who in their right mind is going to invest their money in a dying city? You have to understand Sam, that, behind closed doors, this is a massively controversial issue, involving scientists and lawyers and politicians, all with their own opinions and agendas.”

For the sake of brevity I will summarize the rest of Brian’s monologue and strike my inane interruptions from the record altogether: 

The relatively recent introduction of Gorse Ivy to the UK had been a parting shot fired by the instigator of a war that had long since ended, even though the resentment on both sides still seethes. General Leopoldo Galtieri was the Prime Minister of Argentina during the Falkland Islands conflict of 1982. By 1990 he had fallen from favour, been stripped of his military rank, and placed under house arrest.

It was around this time that the disgraced former peer - Dennis Embery, whose arms company had dubious ties with the Galtieri regime, took delivery of a pair of full-size ornamental cannons. These were said to be a Christmas gift from the former Argentine dictator, although they did not arrive directly from South America, but via intermediaries in Italy – leading some to lay the blame for what was to happen elsewhere.

Whatever the origins of the two cannon, Embery was evidently well briefed as to their purpose. He placed both guns on plinths in the grounds of his London home, facing in the direction of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament.

Had there been any visitors to the gardens of Hinton Hall during the spring of 1991 they might have admired these charming new additions to the outdoor furniture. Some keen observers might have also noted the frail strands of apparently blood-tinged ivy trailing from the barrels and commented on the poetic nature of such a thing. By this time Embery had decamped to his home in Henley.  He never returned to Hinton Hall and was found hung from the rafters of his bedroom in 1995, shortly after his treason was uncovered.

By 1994, Hinton Hall had become so overwhelmed by Gorse Ivy that a survey carried out by court order pronounced it beyond repair. Brian showed me a photograph of the property that had been taken by the surveyors, depicting one side of the house completely and utterly engulfed by a rising tide of greenery. It brought to mind an oil painting that I once seen of a kraken pulling down a tall ship.

By this time the ivy had spread to neighbouring buildings on Rose Lane and Playford Close. These too were eventually scheduled for demolition, although that did not stop the climbing plant from gaining purchase elsewhere and slowly but surely spreading across the capital.

The following year the British intelligence service came into possession of sketchy documentation outlining Galtieri’s plans for a covert strike against London. These were handed to the conservative MP, Edward Vane, by an Israeli delegate, during a trade visit to Florence.

~

Outside the Simon’s cafe, I swallowed the last of my bacon sandwich and licked the salty grease off my fingers.

“Brian, If you call your book ‘London is Fucked,’ I promise that I’ll buy ten copies.”

~

“Here! Sam! It’s here!”

Brian is franticly clearing away a patch of briars and nettles, patently oblivious to the damage that he is doing to his bare hands.

Twenty feet away, I force an ungainly passage through the tangle of plants, the abundant frothing cuckoo spit, that makes the garden appear rabid, clinging to the sleeves of my jacket.

The barrel of the cannon is badly askew on its mount. Chips in the black paint have been colonized by rust. The muzzle is capped with a metal plate that has been very securely welded in place.

 “It’s smaller than I thought it would be,” I wheeze. Evidently something in that mass of vegetation is aggravating my asthma.

“It’s in poor condition. Frankly I’m amazed they left it here.”

“I can’t see any ivy.”

“I very much doubt that you would find any. When they first discovered it, they absolutely deluged the place in pesticides. That’s brought about its own set of problems. You only have to look at the birth records for this area. There’s a very, very high number of defects...”

He glances around the garden.

“...I expect the other one must be nearby,”

We pause for a moment, each of us lost in his own thoughts. My wheezing subsides to a thin, high-pitched whine that is almost drowned out by the background noise of the swaying trees bordering an adjacent property; a sound like fast-flowing white water cascading over small rapids.

“I know that you don’t take this as seriously as I do, Sam, or take anything seriously, but you should because this really is the beginning of the end for London. Big Ben, Foyles, Saint Pauls, the Canary Wharf tower – all those places you love. I promise you that, one by one, they will all fall.”

Brian so often comes across as a caricature brought to life that I find those moments when he descends to a human level excruciatingly awkward. In that craven manner in which men have traditionally sought to avoid openly acknowledging each other’s emotions, I scan my surroundings for something to focus my attention on. Finally my eyes alight upon a discarded copy of the Walthamstow Gazette that is poking out among the nettles. The headline reads: “GOODBYE DOTTY!” I actually remember the story from a few weeks ago – a fond farewell to a popular racing greyhound.

Nearby, a solitary magpie launches itself from a twisted column of red brick, its initial straight and true course rounding off into a graceful curved descent into the undergrowth, like an arrow that has fallen short of its target.

In search of Graham: The Great White Shark who infected me with HIV

I can’t remember much about the attack. I have been told by spectators who watched in horror from the shoreline of Cottesloe Beach, while filming on their smart phones, that, prior to the incident, I had cut a commanding figure, standing astride the shell of a leatherback turtle, reciting passages from Finnegan’s Wake for the edification of a circling school of Yellow Fin Tuna.  Seconds later a tremendous blow pitched me into the foaming surf that was already tinged pink with my blood.

It was 2007. I had been spear-heading a radical conservation project aimed at educating marine life on the Western Australian coast. Thousands of miles away on High Streets up and down the UK, students in green tabards were out fundraising  on my behalf, affecting hitherto unseen levels of twattish behaviour in their attempts to prise personal details from passing shoppers, who they bombarded with inane factoids, e.g. 90% of sea lions haven’t read The Glass Bead Game or anything by Andre Gide.

My day had begun auspiciously. As I stripped naked before the breaking waves, the shadow cast on the sand by my massively proportioned genitalia acting as a sundial, I was approached by an Australian man, who had been barbecuing shrimp and drinking tins of Fosters nearby. He was in his early 30s and had sandy blonde hair. His sun-bronzed skin had the texture of leather. The corks, dangling on short lengths of string from the brim of his hat, danced merrily in the light breeze as he warned me of the “bonzer” shark that had been sighted at a nearby bar earlier that morning.

I showed him the four shark’s head tattoos on my upper left arm, each one indicating the life of a shark taken with a single punch to the face. He nodded in silent awe of my bare-handed shark-fighting prowess.

“You are a true credit to your nation,” I said and then kissed him tenderly on the brow in the manner that has long been the custom of my people.

The man was not there when they carried my bleeding body from the indifferent ocean. (While I was recuperating in hospital I received a get well card from him apologising for his absence. Immediatley after our meeting, he had gone home to watch the latest episode of Neighbours and then listen to some Midnight Oil albums).

I am told that I was saved that day by the ghost of Rolf Harris. He tenderly gathered me in his arms and carried me 70 miles on foot to a hospital staffed by former Aussie soap actors and actresses who had retrained as nurses and doctors . It was Dr Vanessa Downing - the actress who had originally played Pippa Fletcher in Home and Away who I credit with my miraculous recovery.

I was later informed by another doctor that my attacker had infected me with HIV.

“You will never be able to touch your toes again because both of your legs were wrenched off below the knee,” he added, as he left the room.

I have since read that the majority of Great White Sharks living in Australian waters are habitual heroin users, with many hooked on a potent variant of the drug known as ‘Rottnest Red.’ There is an enormous  problem with them stealing things off boats to pay for their habits. The Shark who had attacked me had most likely contracted the retrovirus as a result of sharing needles with another infected shark.

In the years that followed I thought about the shark who attacked me many times. I wanted to ask it why it had infected me with HIV. I also wanted to meet other people who had contracted the HIV virus as a result of shark attacks.

Jason has been haunted by the spectre of HIV ever since he was attacked by a Great White Shark at an indoor public swimming pool in Romford. He seemed keen to talk about his experiences of living with the disease, however when I began mentioning sharks he stopped returning my calls. He later emailed me the following statement:

  

“I was infected with HIV as a consequence of years of intravenous drug use. It was a dark time in my life for which I have paid a heavy price - the end of my first marriage, my continuing estrangement from my two children who I love more than I can put into words, not to mention the distress my poor choices caused to my parents, whose house I burgled on three separate occasions in order to raise money to fund my drug habit. I have never been attacked by a shark. To my knowledge Lamniform sharks such as the Great White are incapable of being infected by the HIV virus or transmitting it to humans. Your thoroughly tactless and ignorant line of questioning is both absurd and offensive to myself, to anyone living with HIV and to our brave marine biologists who put their lives on the line time after time in order to protect the freedom that we take for granted. Please do not contact me again.”

Reading between the lines I surmised that Jason was either in denial about his shark attack, or more likely was being held at gunpoint by a shark and was unable to communicate freely. I contacted the police voicing my suspicions, phoning it in as a 447 (the police radio code for a man being held at gunpoint by a shark) on the off-chance that Jason’s kidnapper might be listening in on my calls. The police in turn pretended not to know what I was talking about and later arrested me for wasting their time.  

I soon found other victims of shark attacks who like myself had been infected with HIV.

Jane is a 54 year old librarian from Harlow. She was diagnosed HIV positive in 2009, following a shark attack that occurred as she playfully jumped over a puddle in Kensington Gardens. It is a little known fact that the majority of shark attacks take place in no more than 2cms of water, with 40% occurring while the victim is drinking from a glass of water or fruit cordial. 

Jane and I spent the afternoon leafing through a big pile of library books about sharks, searching for photographs of her attacker. Like Jason, she remained in denial about her attack. In The Junior Oceanographer’s  Book of the Sea she pointed out a picture of a cuttlefish who she claimed to have married to in 1987 and divorced three years later.

I had almost given up hope of ever finding my attacker, when out of the blue I received a call from an AIDS hospice for pelagic sea creatures in Melbourne. I immediately booked passage on a series of trains boats and buses. Eleven weeks later I arrived at the hospice. It was here that I met Graham – the shark who had infected me with HIV - for the second time. As soon as I laid eyes on him any anger I felt evaporated. I asked him how he was doing and we watched the latter half of The Truman Show together.  He apologised for attacking me:

“ I was troubled young shark who fell in with a bad crowd. I’m doing everything I can to make amends for my past transgressions.”

“It’s okay bro,” I said.

One of the nurses, taking note of my compassion remarked:

“You are a wonderful man to forgive Graham after he almost killed you and infected you with HIV.”

“Yes I am,” I replied modestly.

Graham died in my arms the following day. Before his death he carved a poem into the flank of a manatee. It stands as a fitting epitaph for the life of a shark who went badly after the rails, but who found redemption at the 11^th hour.

My home is in the Ocean

By Graham

Seal

Seal!

Bloody, toothy, toothy

Blubber, toothy blubber

Warrrrghhh!

August is mating season for ghosts

August is mating season for ghosts.

Nine months prior to this annual event,  the world’s population of ghosts will undertake an amazing migration from their home in the South Pole, to their breeding grounds in abandoned barns, windmills and canal boats along the Norfolk Broads. There are three main species of ghost all with complicated Latin names that, when spoken, will open the door to hell. There used to be a fourth type of ghost, but it was killed and eaten in large quantities by hungry sailors, during the 1800s, and is now extinct. In the South Pole, ghosts are often mistaken for Polar Bears, even though polar bears are not indigenous to the region and ghosts have no actual fur. Up close there is actually little resemblance. 

As they head northwards, the migrating ghosts frighten even the world’s hardest trawler crews and terrify penguins. When they reach the Saharan plains of Africa their ectoplasm is thawed by the parched desert winds, which carry them onward to Europe and eternal victory.

Ghosts who stray across the border into Germany are regarded as poltergeists and are subject to complicated laws and protracted bureaucratic procedures. The German people are a proud race and don’t stand for any nonsense from ghosts. Ghosts who cross the road in front of cars in Germany, allowing the moving vehicle to pass through their incorporeal form, risk being sent to ghost jail.

In England some people are racist against ghosts. The spectacle of ghosts mating is one that should be regarded with a childlike sense of wonder, while absent-mindedly humming the chorus to the Simply Red song - Stars - under you breath. Ghosts enjoy eating tapas.

Here are some questions that I have been sent regarding ghosts:

Mrs May, of Pinner, in North London, wants to know how to attract ghosts to her garden.

Dear Mrs May. I would recommend leaving some old flower pots and roofing slates around the place. Ghosts love to move stuff like that around. Another tried and tested tactic is to position a football or frisbee in the middle of your lawn or patio, while expressing your hope that it will remain in this exact spot overnight. While you sleep, mischievous ghosts will more than likely hide this 'valued' object under some compost, or leave it buried in the throat of your elderly neighbour, Beryl.

Here are some more questions that I have been sent about ghosts:

Miss May, from Pinner, in North London, writes: “Thank you for your response to my question regarding how to attract ghosts to my garden. There are now too many ghosts and they have murdered my elderly next door neighbour Beryl, so I would like to get rid of them please. Also, my husband has divorced me, so I was wondering whether you would like to go out for drinks sometime.”

Dear Miss May. I recommend that you visit your nearest cathedral on the pretence of worshiping  Jesus or doing some brass rubbing. When nobody is looking, perhaps while a hymn is playing or the collection plate is being passed around, remove one of stone blocks from the walls. Grind it up in a food processor and then sprinkle the stone crumbs around your garden. These crumbs are a slow toxin for ghosts, who will carry them back to their underground nests where they will poison the ghost queen. In a few days your ghost woes will be a thing of the past. I would love to meet you for drinks. The 22^nd is good for me, at the bar next to that row of shops.

Jenny Conner (9) of Bracknell writes: My father and my wicked stepmother (who is really a hideous troll) have an old wishing well on the grounds of their converted farmhouse. I would like to trap a ghost down there to show to my friends, and also for a school project.

Dear Jenny. I once lured the ghost of a Victorian child into my home with the false promise that I would show it some puppies and allow it to drink a small amount of shandy from the two litre bottle that I had purchased from the Off Licence. Remember, if you throw glitter at a ghost, it will stick to its ectoplasmic form. You will have a sparkly ghost that you can takes pictures of and put on your Myspace page!  

Finally Mr Badger of Skipton writes: I think that I might be a ghost, as ever since converting my record collection from vinyl to MP3 I find it impossible to physically pick up any music. Also my family run screaming from the room whenever I make an appearance.

Dear Mr Badger. I think that you are a ghost. LOL!

That is all that I have to say at the moment on the subject of ghosts. Can somebody please bring me a margarita and a soft-boiled egg.