Why it must never be allowed to rain men

Why it must never be allowed to rain men

Far from being a cause for joyful celebration, 'man rain' as it is described in the hit single - It's Raining Men (Homer Simpson's favourite song) would be a tragedy on a par with Hurricane Katrina, a tsunami, or an alien invasion of Canada.

It is a practical reality that few of the men would survive the fall from several thousand feet. Going out and letting yourself “get absolutely soaking wet” would in this case equate with allowing yourself to be thoroughly drenched in blood and gore and impaled with shards of human bone.

Among the surviving men the majority would be seriously injured, requiring urgent medical attention and, in the long-term, extensive physical rehabilitation. As somebody who investigates and writes on local health issues, I can say that the healthcare providers in my home town of Southend are ill-prepared to deal with an incidence of man rain.

It is likely that on the ground further casualties would result, either directly from the rain itself, or as a consequence of accidents caused by it. Would man rain be intense enough to bring down an aeroplane? I would like to answer 'no' but we all know that the real answer to this question is 'Yes.'

There would be extensive damage to property. Emergency services would be stretched well beyond capacity. It is likely that in some areas the rule of law would break down altogether.

In the aftermath of the man rain somewhere would have to found to store the bodies and the other disparate remains until such a time that these could be identified and the next of kin notified. Every death would need to be treated as suspicious until the police could rule out foul play in individual cases.

The Guardian newspaper would invariably pronounce the man rain as misogynist. For The Daily Mail it would be held up as yet another example of the government's failure to control immigration. The Daily Express would, with some wild leap of media logic, link it to the death of Princess Diana.

Disco music has a way of making mass tragedies seen acceptable (see The Trammps - Disco Inferno). We must condition ourselves to look past the catchy rhythms and infectious melodies and see the human cost that lies beneath.

The Parson's Hassock - Lady Margaret Seacombe answers your questions on matters of modern etiquette

The Parson's Hassock - Lady Margaret Seacombe answers your questions on matters of modern etiquette

In her new monthly column – The Parson's Hassock - Lady Margaret Seacombe bids a fond temporary adieu to her busy social calender of organising charity dinners and giving out the prizes for good attendance in school assemblies, to answer your questions on matters of etiquette in the 21^st century.

“A refreshingly modern approach to age old dilemmas” - Country Life

Dear Lady Margaret Seacombe

Last week my housekeeper walked in on a threesome involving myself and two other men. She is an unmarried, deeply conservative catholic woman and so was understandably traumatised by the sight of a trio of naked male bodies writhing together in an exquisite carnal ballet, choreographed by deep-seated, libidinous desires that are as old as mankind itself.

How can I apologise to her in a way that communicates that, in my eagerness to see Jason's and Roy's penises, I momentarily forget that it was 11am on Tuesday?

Bill (Clerkenwell)

Dear Bill of Clerkenwell

Bone china is the traditional gift for a transgression of the kind that you describe in your electronic communiqué.

Gladstones' of Old Bromptom manufacture a tea set for precisely this situation. The number of cups will relate to the number of partners who were engaged in group sex. In your case that will be three. The teapot represents the intended recipient of the apology. A design that in some way some way reflects their moral character and beliefs should be carefully chosen.

The nature of the other items included in the tea set will very much depend upon the sex act or acts that were witnessed by your housekeeper. In the interests of maintaining decorum I will not provide a full list here. Gladstones' have a private room where you will be able to discuss the incident further. The staff there are very discrete, broad-minded, and well versed in the colourful vernacular of the boudoir, and the lengths to which men and women will go to avail themselves of sexual pleasure.

You will be asked detailed questions which will be used to refine your apology gift.

The tea sets are made individually to order and may take upwards of three months to finish. In the interim, Gladstones' will send a card of apology to your housekeeper describing the gift and explaining in detail the significance of each item. Based upon some of the graphic details in your letter, which I have omitted here for fear of offending those of more timid sensibilities, I most strongly advise that you order the larger of the two sugar bowls.

Yours in earnest

Lady Margaret Seacombe

As part of my community service I must polish the ghost of Jeremy Bentham

As part of my community service I must polish the ghost of Jeremy Bentham

As part of my community service I must polish the ghost of the social reformer Jeremy Bentham who died in 1832.

I am compelled to perform this court-appointed punishment for a period of 8 months. At the end of this time I will be considered rehabilitated, the act of polishing having in some way redeemed my character and righted my errant moral compass.

To aid me in this my task I am given special ghost polish. The polish is made from rendered lemur bones. It is manufactured at a factory in Basildon and is sold in 100 litre drums that I must wheel along the corridors of University College, London, on a metal porters trolley.

Occasionally one of the professors at the college will usher me to one side and quietly enquire as to whether I might be able to siphon off a little of the polish: They are expecting important dinner guests and there is a ghost at home who must be made to look presentable. I am duty-bound to for account every last drop of ghost polish on a paper form, copies of which must be submitted to three different departments. I give none of it away. There are charities that offer ghost polishing services, although these use inferior lemur-friendly polishes made from synthetic compounds.

My supervisor impresses upon me the importance of regularly polishing the ghost of Jeremy Bentham. The more tarnished a ghost becomes the harder they are to clean. Jeremy Bentham's ghost is prone to fidgeting and sometimes wanders off. I follow behind with my squeaky porters trolley and my bouquet of dusters. When I am finished Jeremy Bentham's ghost emits a lustrous golden glow that attracts magpies. He must remain indoors until his aura has sufficiently dimmed.

When Jeremy Bentham died his skeleton was dressed in simple clothing, padded with straw, and placed in a sitting position inside a glass cabinet. His head was mummified according the practices of the indigenous people of New Zealand. The end result was macabre and so a wax head was attached to the body instead.

The ghost of Jeremy Betham is unhappy with this arrangement. He continually petitions me to include the reattachment of his head to his body as an item on the agenda at University College board meetings.

I inform him that I am not an employee of University College and have no influence over the agenda in any of their meetings. I am one of criminal classes convicted by a jury of my peers of selling a counterfeit stegosaurus skeleton to the Royal Society of Junior Palaeontologists.

With the end of my sentence approaching the ghost of Jeremy Bentham becomes agitated. He asks me who will polish him after I am gone. It will probably another community service worker. If there is no-one suitable then maybe somebody who is claiming job seekers' allowance will be forced to polish the ghost of Jeremy Bentham in return for their unemployment benefit, or the job will be offered as an unpaid apprenticeship.

It is the final day of my sentence. Me and the ghost of Jeremy Bentham journey across the road to the park on Gordon Square where we both sit in reflective silence. I watch the ghost of Jeremy Bentham as he is slowly dulled by traffic fumes. Around us the dusk gathers erasing the fine details of London. The end of the day and our time together is sketched out in abstract in the sad evensong of a blackbird, perched in silhouette, high in bare, still branches.

The five stages of grief are remarkably similar to the five stages of being attacked by a Eurasian Eagle Owl

The five stages of grief are remarkably similar to the five stages of being attacked by a Eurasian Eagle Owl

By Mark Sadler

Last Saturday, after leaving a friend's house in the early hours of the morning, I made a decision that would profoundly alter the direction of my life. Instead of taking my usual route home, following Larchers Lane to where it joins with Willmarck Boulevard, I opted for a bold diagonal course across a chain of neighbouring farmers' fields. This off-road detour would, I calculated, shave 20 minutes from my journey time. If judged correctly, I would emerge further along Willmarck Boulevard, just before the petrol station and the big roundabout.

It turns out that there is a good reason why more residents of Larchers Lane do not take this short cut: Unbeknown to me, as I entered the second of three large fields, I unwittingly strayed into the hunting territory of a Eurasian Eagle Owl. It was this giant bird of prey that descended like a fallen angel from out of the cloudy, starless night sky, its orange eyes burning with infernal hatred as it set about me in a blur of talons and feathers.

In the fraught melee that ensued, I had ample time to reflect upon how the emotional states that one transitions through when attacked by an owl of this particular species, are the mirror image of those described by the Kübler-Ross model charting the five stages of grief:

When the owl first struck I was overwhelmed by strong feelings of DENIAL. During the opening seconds of the assault I found it hard to admit that I was even being attacked! Instead I rationalised that the wind must have caught the hem of my coat and blown it over head.

Even after I had finally come to terms with the stark truth - that I was being savaged by some kind of large, predatory bird with excellent night vision - I was unable to accept that my assailant was a Eurasian Eagle Owl. I refused to believe the living evidence before my eyes, that was hell-bent on raking deep bloody furrows into my face. Instead I conjectured that the south of England lay outside the normal range for an animal that is more commonly sighted on continental Europe, and that my attacker must therefore be another large bird – a nocturnal seagull, perhaps.

Hot on the heels of denial came ANGER. Over the course of four decades I have donated small sums of money, amounting in total to 10 pounds and 43 pence, to The Owl Enhancement Trust – a charity that is run by owls for owls. Donations from the public are used to promote issues affecting owls and to provide owl-friendly habitats, for example by constructing more derelict barns to encourage the spread of barn owls across the UK.

Many is the time that I have spoken favourably of both eagles and owls in public. Furthermore I have always openly challenged those who attempt to spread untruths or incite violence against these birds of prey.

Yet now, in spite of my philanthropy, I was being attacked like a common vole, under the cover of darkness, by an eagle/owl hybrid!

As my anger subsided and it occurred that I might very well come off second best in the struggle that was unfolding, I resorted to BARGAINING. I wrenched from the twisted pocket of my jeans a mixed offering composed of small change, faded milk-chocolate M&Ms, and used tissues. I cast these down onto the bare earth in the hope that they would provide adequate compensation for whatever transgression I had committed.

When this desperate attempt at mediation proved futile I lost heart and slipped into a DEPRESSION, where I recalled the lyrics of a song by Morrissey titled 'Charles Hawtrey is Snatched from the Set of Carry On Doctor by a Giant Tawny Owl'.

In this despondent state of mind, where the embrace of death felt preferable to the reality of having my flesh gouged by the sharpened talons of an enraged owl, I almost gave up. It would have surely been the end had ACCEPTANCE not come riding out of my existential darkness to save me. It was in this moment of clarity that I thought:

'I am being attacked by a Eurasian Eagle Owl. I am not okay with this, but it is happening.'

As I spoke these words to myself something changed: Our physical bodies seemed to fall away and the owl and I were unified as a single entity; one that was composed entirely of light and energy. I knew the personal history of my strigiforme assailant and the history all owls. Likewise my attacker knew my past and the past of all humans. Together we ascended through the earth's atmosphere, out into the solar system and beyond into the vast and unfathomable cosmos, where we now dwell, immortal and omnipotent, presiding over the secrets of the universe like a god.

The social justice warrior in four seasons

The social justice warrior in four seasons

A tanka cycle

Spring blossoms. I write

on bare skin in our combined

sexual juices

a fawning review of your

terrible video game.

Summer winds blow favours

from friends. Undeserved status

wealth and influence.

Your money buys the ink for

my pen that sings your praises.

Autumn rot. The body

that we pronounced dead rises.

I, a megaphone,

cannot drown its words or still

the voice of my enemy.

Winter snows. Our febrile

heat cracks the ice underfoot.

A cold spider web

showing through starved foundations

slowly pulls itself apart.

Three or four angels

Three or four angels

By Mark Sadler

I

The unlovely office block where I worked from the week that I left college right up until August 2014 is called Moorcroft House. This is in reference to an 18th century redbrick mansion that formerly occupied the site where it survived two world wars but was ultimately flattened beneath the jackboot of urban developers in the early 1960s. The block overlooks Lambs Passage; an L-shaped road located just north of the Barbican, painted on either side with double yellow lines and barely wide enough to accommodate a single lane of vehicle traffic. It is more of a glorified alleyway.

My desk was situated in an open-plan area on the second floor, adjacent to a row of windows. Several times a day I would rise from my chair and stare out through the darkened glass.

From this vantage point I would often see in the street below a gathering of three or four angels who would congregate at the same spot on the pavement opposite. A colleague of mine once remarked how peculiar it was for us to be looking down on them when in biblical writings angels are portrayed as descending from on high and typically remain aloof from the ground.

The angels were dressed as one would expect in flowing white or champagne-coloured robes. The only time I ever saw any variation in this uniform occurred a few days before Easter 2009 when they manifested wearing hard hats and with fluorescent safety jackets pulled over their vestments. I attributed this change in attire to angel humour as further along the road a trio of workmen dressed in very similar clothing had dug up a short section of the tarmac exposing the pipes underneath.

The angels always appeared pre-occupied by some inaudible conversation that one felt compelled not to interrupt. However there was an occasion when, as I passed by on my lunch break, I noticed one of the host looking in my direction as if inviting my questions and so I asked him: “Why do you congregate here on this spot in the heart of London?”

He replied: “We gather here because beneath our feet lie the remains of the poet William Blake.”

I responded:

“You are incorrect. The marker for the grave of William Blake lies in Bunhill Fields and his true resting place not more than 20 metres from the site.”

Then the second angel spoke:

“It is true that William Blake lies here beneath our feet. As a boy he ate of bread that had fallen from the heavens. That which sustained both his body and his soul was incorruptible and never left him.. It remains in the ground to this day where it radiates something of the heavens above.”

The third angel joined the conversation:

“William Blake died singing of the wonders he had glimpsed in heaven. In his memory we raised the pulpit spring upon this site. Alas, it has been forced underground and forgotten.”

It was then that I became aware of a fourth angel who seemed to exist only sporadically. He did not speak.

A few months ago I looked down from the window of the office and saw only bare pavement. The angels have not returned. Today as I packed my belongings and cleared my desk in readiness for my successor I have resigned myself to never seeing them again.

II

In the grounds of Fulham Palace, once home to the bishops of London, there lies the grave of an angel whose name is known but to god. A letter written by the bishop Edward Milbourn on the 7^th July 1812 records how the seraph had fallen from clear blue sky the previous afternoon. A local doctor pronounced its neck broken and the body was quietly buried.

The following morning the heaped dirt over the burial bristled with long white flight feathers. Milbourn ordered these removed and placed in a studded wooden trunk that he kept in his office. 

New feathers reappeared on the grave the following day and have done so every day thereafter. Every morning before dawn a caretaker removes them and places them inside the Milbourn trunk. When the trunk is full the feathers are transported to an un-named bank where they are stored securely in a vault.

I once asked bishop Angus Pomroy whether he had ever considered either exhuming the body of the angel or destroying the feathers, which must surely now be very large in quantity.

He replied:

“I would greatly fear the consequences for my soul were I to pursue either action.”

III

As you enter Bromfield's Tailory you will see hanging from the panelled wall directly adjacent to the door, a large tapestry. Its lower left corner is ragged from being brushed against by people as they enter and leave the premises. The piece as a whole is moth-eaten and riddled with holes. It is so filthy that it deflects all but the most determined gaze. However when subjected to scrutiny it reveals an image of the river Thames in London at some time during the 17^th century, the water teaming with a great variety of boats and sailing vessels.

The tapestry was woven by Mr Bromfield 17 years ago during a long convalescence. I asked him once whether he had considered repairing it and perhaps treating the fabric with a chemical that might deter future insect infestations. He directed my attention to a hole which had been gnawed clean though the threads and to a caterpillar that appeared to be in the process of weaving silk across the empty space:

“Am I to judge the work of god's hand as inferior to my own?”

One Sunday morning, while Mr Bromfield was attending mass, an angel entered the premises. He was carrying with him a black plastic bucket that was filled almost to the top with small coloured button badges – green, red, yellow, or blue, all decorated with pithy slogans.

He silently offered me one which I declined.

I explained to him my atheist convictions and my belief that angels do not descend to earth from the heavens but are the benign ambassadors of an alien race.

He nodded his understanding but still plucked a red badge from the bucket and handed to me. Printed in black ink across it glossy surface were the words: 'Hey! What's up?'

Upon Mr Bromfield's return I showed him the badge and inquired after its meaning. He pondered it for a few moments before responding:

“What you have to take into account when dealing with angels is that everything they say or do occurs within the realm of the avant garde. Which is to say that there may be some meaning or intent to their actions but its been buried beneath so many layers of imagery and symbolism the chances are you'll drive yourself mad trying to work it out.

“Trust me, I've been dealing with angels for over 70 years and unless they're waving a flaming sword in your direction I would take their behaviour with a pinch of salt.”

VI

While wandering back home through the sketchy pre-dawn streets of Chalk Farm I saw what appeared to be an angel approaching from the opposite direction. As we drew closer to each other I realised that what I had initially assumed to be a celestial being was in fact Francis Newth, the lead guitarist of The Wens. Like me he was returning from a party which he had attended in fancy dress.

At a book launch the following week I relayed this story to my friend Jon Horsman who is a professor of logic at Woodford college in Dulwich. He asked me:

“But how do you know that what you saw was not an angel disguised as Francis Newth disguised as an angel?”

I considered inquiry at length and found that I could not answer him.

Horsman took full advantage of having knocked me intellectually off-balance and seized the opportunity to have sex with my girlfriend in the cloakroom - an incident that I was only made aware of four months later.

Today, at 6:52am, I entered Super Power-Up Mode

Today, at 6:52am, I entered Super Power-Up Mode

Dear human reader, search-engine web-crawler, or itinerant porn-bot,

I am writing to you this evening on a matter of great import.

At 6:52am on Monday 1^st September, 2014, a fortuitous set of circumstances, which I will describe in greater detail below, allowed my upward transition from Ordinary Life Mode (OLM*) to an elevated state of being known as Super Power-Up Mode (SPM).

Although this enhanced state lasted a mere 30 seconds the discrepancies in time perception between OLM and SPM meant that for me events taking place within this half-minute window seemed to be unfolding over the course of several hours. This afforded me plenty of opportunity to explore my modified environment and make detailed observations, some of which I will attempt to describe, though words alone will not do them justice.

(*more commonly referred to by people over the age of 40 as “Mode Five”)

How did you enter Super Power-Up Mode?

At 6:50am I exited my study which is located on the upper floor of my home. Having ventured onto the landing and established that there were no patrolling ghosts in the vicinity, I noted an unbroken line of yellow pep pills, each spaced a uniform distance apart, arranged along the middle of the carpet, starting at the closed door of the spare room then trailing down the stairs before disappearing around the corner into the hallway/lobby. Working from the beginning of the line I immediately began to eat the pills one after the other. After I had consumed around 50 (which by my estimate comprised just over two-thirds of the pills in total) a crude electronic fanfare sounded and the words “Super Power-Up Mode!!!” flashed repeatedly before my eyes. It was at this moment that a gnarly electric guitar riff began to play on a continuous loop.

You must have shit yourself! What is Super Power-up Mode like?

I did not shit myself. Such a thing would not be possible in Super Power-Up Mode where the laws of the universe are altered in a such a way that the outcome of any action you attempt can never be anything less than objectively awesome.

Scientists who have studied this parallel reality have concluded that the ambient levels of fail in Super Power-Up Mode stands at around >0.001% (for more information read Super Power Up Mode is Mostly Made Out Sex and Win – Dilkes & Townshend – East Anglia Journal of Transitory Modes, Vol 14 Issue 9). This is opposed to the 79% fail that comprises Ordinary Life Mode, which is often said to be “made of fail” by those with a fondness for hyperbole over facts.

Below I will outline my main observations of Super Power-Up Mode:

1. Upon entering Super Power-Up Mode I immediately became aware of long dead friends and family surrounding me, embracing me, warmly shaking my hand and congratulating me on my achievement. In that moment I was taken by a most peculiar sensation – a melancholy blend of aching sadness and soaring joy that surged through me as, one by one, I was reunited with those who I had thought lost to me forever. “Help us for we are damned to wander this curse-ed realm for eternity,” spoke one of the shades as a gathering wind blew them all from my sight.

2. Having regained my emotional bearings and wiped the traces of spittle from my reddened cheeks, I realised that my clothes had changed. I was now wearing on my top half a flared navy-blue jacket with epaulettes that had been cleverly fashioned from a pair of living raccoons. Occasionally these raccoons would detach from my shoulders and launch themselves high into the air where they would snatch pocket watches that were suspended from fixed points in the sky. Initially I assumed these antique timepieces were a means of extending the length of my stay in Super Power-Up Mode. However closer inspection revealed them to be ordinary watches of the kind that might have been worn by a Victorian gentleman.

Back in Ordinary Life Mode I attempted to sell some of the watches on Ebay. This resulted in a visit to my home from the local police who informed me that four of the timepieces I had put up for auction had been reported stolen. It seems that unscrupulous thieves are using Super Power Up Mode as a convenient place to store their pilfered goods. These thieves clearly had not taken into account the heightened scavenging tendencies of my raccoon companions. It is advisable that any the watches harvested from the blue skies of Super Power-Up Mode are handed in to the police upon your return so as to avoid the possibility of a criminal record.

3. In addition to my two normal arms which I keep beside me at all times Super Power-Up Mode gifted me with six additional arms which manifested as ghostly overlapping appendages. While my original arms busied themselves with mundane tasks my new phantom limbs engaged in all many of frippery sewing half-finished quilts, playing whatever the collective noun is for a group of xylophones, and engaging in light office and administrative duties. On those occasions when this flurry of disparate activity became a blur, the word “COMBO” followed by a multiplier would flash-up in front of me. The highest combo multiplier I achieved while in Super Power-Up Mode was x14. The next time you enter Super Power-Up Mode why not see if you can beat my high score.

4. A physician who was monitoring my vital signs for the duration of my stay in Super Power-Up Mode noted that my green health bar (which is used by doctors to gauge the well-being of their patients) had turned red and had expanded so that it was twice its normal size. An analysis of my blood taken during this episode indicated that, for a period lasting around five ordinary seconds, I also entered the complimentary state of Invincibility Mode. During this time I was immune to every known virus and all but the most aggressive forms of cancer. As my doctor put it: “If god had chosen that moment to punch you in the groin, he would have walked away with a sore fist.”

5. In Super Power-Up Mode I am able to perform a handstand, a feat that I find impossible in Ordinary Life Mode.

6. In Super Power-Up Mode making physical contact with trees causes them to momentarily become featureless silhouettes that rapidly flash blue and white. Striking them while they are in this state causes their canopies to shiver and eject showers of gold coins. I gathered some of these coins in a wheelbarrow and took them to my bank where the teller informed me that they held no monetary value. My theory is that this coinage is representative of the currency of an internet-based nation which has thus far eluded discovery. I vow to locate this civilisation and live among its people until such a time that the diseases I carry with me wipe them from existence.

7. The number '7' does not exist in Super Power-Up Mode.

8. There are many species of animal that are indigenous to Super Power-Up Mode. Swatting at these creatures causes them to evaporate in clouds of coloured vapour releasing points which can be redeemed at participating petrol stations. Strangely these points cannot be off-set against the cost of petrol. During my time in SPM I was able to identify nine new species of moth, previously unknown to science, and able to render eight of these extinct, earning me enough points to purchase a four-bar Kit Kat in Ordinary Life Mode.

9. There are no motorised vehicles in Super Power-Up Mode. Any long journeys are undertaken either on foot or on the backs of lions all of whom are carbon neutral and emit no harmful greenhouse gases. Unlike their African counterparts who dine on gazelle, antelope and wildebeest, the lions of this realm recharge by standing adjacent to immense sentient gemstones that rise up out of the ground and exude waves of powerful energy. In return the gemstones benefit from the lion's protection from leprechaun prospectors.

My friend Murial say that Super Power-Up Mode is addictive and that all those who return from it do so as empty shells of human beings. Is that true?

I am confirm that your lover Murial is correct, or at least she is in my case. I would happily betray both Queen and country for another another 30 seconds in Super Power Up Mode. Evidently my family soon grew weary of witnessing the varied tawdry and sordid acts that I was willing to perform for a chance of returning to my earlier state, as this afternoon they staged an intervention.

As of this evening I will be entering rehab where I will undergo intensive group sessions as well as 'Venezuelan Bark Spider therapy' where you offload all of your problems onto a South American spider that makes a reassuring nodding gesture whenever it feels threatened.

My other friend Erzbet, who is prone to making wild claims, says there is such a thing as Ultra Power-Up Mode which is even more awesome than Super Power-Up Mode!

Your friend Erzbet is a liar and a fantasist. To enter Super Power-Up Mode is to become one with the omnipotent and divine. To experience anything even remotely similar in Ordinary World Mode you would have to lick the naked body of god starting at the toes and then slowly working your way up. There can be no greater feeling than that experienced in Super Power-Up Mode!

Is their a cheat code that will grant me access to Super Power-Up Mode?

There is no cheat code. To gain access to Super Power-Up Mode you must first prove yourself worthy by eating 50 pep pills while avoiding the roaming ghosts. Many have tried. Very few have succeeded.