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One for you, Russell.

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BOOMER

Speak up. I am listening.
I appreciate the energy
The thrust of your young voice.
But if you offer enmity,
To condemn my seniority,
then deafness is my choice.

I cannot help when I was born
And likewise, nor can you.
I am sorry I’m too old to work
But biology has burned me out
My pension isn’t paid for shirking
My bus pass helps me get about.

You give the ballot box a miss
We vote, to honour sacrifice
By those who’ve gone before;
Pushing for our polling rights
To bring us hope, some progress, light,
To make the rich respect the poor.

I cannot help my ancient state
In these, my autumn years
I understand your restlessness
With my contentment and old age
So make your cross within the box
And give voice to your rage.










Lucky Lucifer

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FIRST AMONG UNEQUALS


Should that foul weakness,
Religion, ever swamp this mind
Then I would find some credence
Almost some relief, in this stark belief:
That I’d been correct to throw away all hope,
Outlined by Alexander Pope:
"But Satan now is wiser than of yore,
and tempts by making rich,
not making poor."
As secular as I am,
Pope’s words possess some holy rhythm
In this unequal landscape,
This heartless schism,
Where all the power has gone
from aphorisms such as
‘The greedy rich
Are the poorest of the poor’
Yes, Satan rules,
And those still so naïve,
You who believe this insinuates
A moral revolution in the making,
Take a good look at yourself,
Put your Bible on the shelf;
We’re the fools they call ‘hard working’
Whilst they do all the easy taking.

RUSSIAN RAILETTE

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Russian Railette

I love Russia. I first went to Leningrad, as it was then, in 1959. When I returned as a writer in 2002 and again in 2005 to St. Petersburg, everything had changed. The Russians (well, some of them) had got what they wanted; a Thatcher-inspired market economy. My trip in 2002 was exciting for many reasons. I had been commissioned to write the biography of a forgotten British naval hero and submariner, Captain Francis Cromie CB DSO RN (1882-1918). The ten day research trip had been financed by Sagamagazine, who had also commissioned a serialisation of Cromie’s life. My travelling companion was my good friend photographer Graham Harrison, and we had been booked into St. Petersburg’s Baltiskaya Hotel. (BELOW)


    In 1915 Churchill had sent the Royal Navy to fight alongside the Imperial Russian Navy to harass German shipping in the Baltic. Cromie was a teetotal, non-smoking raconteur, musician, mediator, watercolour artist and great orator, loved by his crews and respected by the Russians. He soon made his mark, on one mission destroying 6 enemy ships in one day. He was decorated by Tsar Nicholas with the Order of St. George, the Tsarist version of the VC. Cromie was also a romantic. Although married back home in Portsmouth, he conducted an adulterous affair with a Russian socialite, Sophie Gagarin, and was a regular companion to Baroness Moura Budberg, (Liberal Leader Nick Clegg’s Great Aunt) who later became H.G. Wells’s mistress. What Cromie and the Admiralty hadn’t reckoned with, however, was the Bolshevik Revolution. When Trotsky and Lenin pulled Russia out of the war in 1917, his erstwhile allies, the Russian Navy, mutinied. Cromie eventually sent his 200 men home via Murmansk, after scuttling his flotilla of submarines in the Gulf of Finland. Deeply in love with Sophie Gagarin, he stayed behind as naval attaché in the almost deserted Petrograd British Embassy. During 1918, out of his depth, he became embroiled in an MI5 plot led by the so-called ‘Ace of Spies’ Sidney Reilly, to bring down Lenin’s government. When Red Guards raided the Embassy on August 31 1918, Cromie defended the building in a gun battle, and lost his life. He is buried in St. Petersburg.
    In order to cover all the locations in Cromie’s Russian adventure, I needed to travel south to Tallin in Estonia, where the good Captain had initially been based with his submarines. My colleague Graham decided to stay on at the Baltiskaya Hotel, and I had planned a round trip. It would include a train journey on the overnight sleeper to Tallin. After a day’s research in Tallin, I was to catch a ferry to Helsinki, where I would meet my brother Alexander, who has lived in Finland since 1982. I was looking forward to this, as we hadn’t met for 20 years. I would spend a day with Alex, then catch a train back to St. Petersburg, and continue my booking at the Baltiskaya.
    At this point in the new Russia’s economic history the Rouble was virtually worthless. With our wallets full of US Dollars, Graham and I felt like millionaires. The first class sleeper ticket for the trip to Tallin was an amazing £26. As I boarded the train at 9 pm, I realised that I was the sole occupant of the sleeper carriage. Apparently, no Russian travellers could afford this luxury. I was ushered on board by two stout, headscarf-wearing middle-aged babushkas in pristine white aprons. It was late June, and in St. Petersburg this meant ‘white nights’, when the sun would not go down until after midnight. The babushkas eyed me suspiciously as they presented me with towels and soap. My compartment, with its neat bed and table, was a delight. I settled in, and sat dreamily with my notebook as the lowering sun streamed through the window. Ah, the joys of the writing life … the pen moved across the pages, spilling thoughtful memories as the train moved through the Russian countryside. This was a thrilling night. I waited until the sun finally sank, pulled down the blinds, stripped off and turned in.

     It was about 1.30 am when I awoke. It was dark, and the train was stationary. I’d been aroused by a loud banging on the compartment door. Clad only in my underpants, I staggered to the door and opened it. I was faced with a trio of stern Russian border guards. Two tall, well-built men, both with Kalashnikovs, and a woman. She was straight out of Les Dawson; a squat, dumpy woman built like a wrestler with a face Les would have described as ‘like a bulldog chewing a wasp’. They pushed their way in. Their leader looked at my bed and my rucksack.
   “You … are Britishki?” I nodded.
   “Meester B-yanton. You have your visa?” I delved into my bag and produced the document and passport. They all examined these, muttering in Russian. The boss, half smiling, asked
  “What is business in Russia?” I explained I was a writer working on a biography. He nodded.
  “Where is your notebook?” I produced my leather-bound journal. He held it for a moment, then threw it onto the bed. “No. Where is your computernotebook?”
There were not many laptops around in 2002, but being from ‘the West’ they expected me to have one. When I told them I didn’t, they seemed incredulous.

   “You say you are rich man writer. Live in big house in London. But you have no computer notebook.” I explained that no, I didn’t live in a big house in London, and that I wasn’t rich I could not afford a ‘computer notebook’. They chatted among themselves again, and Les Dawson’s mother-in-law glared at me, then pointed to an A4 folder on the table. The boss stepped forward and picked up the folder. It contained several photographs of all the WW1 submarines Cromie had been in charge of. This new discovery saw all three gather around, staring wide-eyed as the pages were turned. They glanced back at me frequently as they babbled on in Russian. I could tell by the frosty atmosphere that I was now regarded as some kind of spy. The boss then grabbed my framed rucksack and began to empty it on the bed. Shirts, underwear, everything was scattered as they all delved among the laundry looking for more clues. Feeling stupid, standing there in my underpants, I explained as clearly as
I could that the submarines were British, from the first World War, and that I was researching history. They listened, and then went into another huddle. The boss faced me again and smiled sardonically.
    “You say you are big writer, live in big house in London but no computer notebook. You look at submarines. Where is your address in London?” Well, at least this time I’d gone from being a ‘rich’ writer to a big one. But the geography problem appeared persistent. I pointed at my passport, which the female bulldog still clutched to her ample bosom. She opened it and they examined the address.

    “It say here … Mans-field. Mans-field is London?” I explained that it was notLondon, but Nottinghamshire, and that Mansfield was the ancient heart of Sherwood Forest. At this announcement the two men broke into broad grins whilst the female Mount Rushmore retained her granite dullness. The boss broke into a chuckle.
    “Robin Hood!” he cried. Then his comrade wailed, “Sherwood Forest! Kevin Costner!”
Then the boss; “You know Kevin Costner? Is Robin Hood. Sherwood Forest. You know him?”
I took a risk. “Yes, I know Kevin Costner. Big hero in my town. Robin Hood.” He smiled, then said
    “I tell Buddha woman this!” He turned to the bulldog and, as far as I could discern, explained to her that I was one of Robin Hood’s merry men. The fact seemed to inspire no merriment whatsoever on her despondent visage. I was intrigued that he had referred to her as ‘Buddha woman’, which
I thought was a neat bit of bi-lingual descriptive patois for my benefit. Yes, I could see her as a Buddha. Buddha woman then gave the boss my Russian visa. He handed me my passport, and stuffed my visa in his shirt pocket. I was tired, almost naked and confused, and by now wondering what was happening and why this train was stationary in the middle of the night. I asked if there was anything else I could help them with.
   “This train now will go into Estonia. This is frontier. Russia finish here. You OK now, Meester B-yanton. You say hello to Kevin Costner, huh? Tell him me, Aleksander Shialpin, is big fan, huh?”            I agreed I would. The trio left. I stood, dazed, and began stuffing everything back into my rucksack. Then it dawned on me - they had taken my visa! I needed that to exit Russia and re-enter from Finland. Still in my underpants, I raced along the corridor and found my trio of inquisitors about to step from the train. As other startled passengers stared at this pink, porcine near-naked foreigner remonstrating with their state guardians I eagerly requested the return of my visa. But Comrade Shialpin shook his head.
    “No. I keep. Is only exit visa. Not entry and exit visa. You now leave Russia, I keep visa.”
I explained that I had paid over £300 through the Russian Embassy in London for an entry and exit visa. As the document was in Russian, I’d no idea I’d been sold a pup.
   “Then in Tallin, Meester B-yanton, you must go to Russia embassy and apply for new visa.”
I asked how long that would take. “Maybe two, three weeks.” The train was about to leave. I was panicking. This was unreal. The three faces stared impassively back as I spluttered;
   “What if I stay in Russia, go back to St. Petersburg, don’t leave Russia?” He pondered, the three murmured to one another. “I have discuss this with Buddha woman. She say OK, but you must get off train now.” I nodded eagerly. He gave Buddha woman my visa, and from her pocket she produced a tiny tin and a small rubber stamp. She held the opened document against the open carriage door, stamped it, and still as grim-faced as ever, handed it back to me. Shialpin then barked;
   “Train go in thirty seconds. Get off train now!”  I ran along the corridor, found my gaping rucksack, pulled on my shoes and raced back. I fell from the carriage onto the gravel siding. Wherever we were in this stygian darkness, there was no platform. The two male guards laughed as I hastily began dressing as my comfortable departing dream sleeper rumbled along the rails away into the night. Buddha woman wandered off and disappeared into some undergrowth at the side of the track.             I imagined she lived in a secret cave somewhere. Aleksander Shialpin and his colleague stayed with me until I’d finished dressing.
    “I have idea now,” said Shialpin. “You come now with us to railway station. In morning is train to St. Petersburg. I organise for you special ticket. Do you have American dollars?“ I said I did.             
 I followed them along the siding as we approached a long, low brick building with tall windows. It was obviously an ancient railway station with a low, shallow concrete platform. Above this hung rusting lamps which creaked ominously in the warm breeze. They cast a sickly yellow light from dim, fly-blown bulbs. The big double doors hadn’t seen a lick of paint since Stalin grew his moustache. They burst open and a female guard clad in camouflage fatigues and highly polished boots rushed up to us. I had flashes of James Bond scenarios. She was young, blonde and despite the uniform, shapely. But she had the same mirthless expression of Buddha woman, although she did have a Kalashnikov. A hasty exchange in Russian ensued, and suddenly she stepped behind me and began propelling me through the doors by jamming the barrel of her gun in my back. I tumbled down three concrete steps into a darkened room. The doors slammed behind me and I heard the lock turn. Now feeling like Michael Caine in The Ipcress File, I shuffled around in the darkness. There was a tubular steel chair and nothing else. I felt along the wall for a light switch. I found one, but there was no result.
I slumped into the chair and waited.
    
I smoked back then. 20 Chesterfields in Russia cost about 60p. I lit one up. In the pale glow from my lighter I was able to discern that this was some kind of booking hall, with a small, semi-circular  service window at one end. An hour passed by. Then my blonde jailer opened the door, stepped in, shone a flashlight in my face and left. She was replaced by Aleksander Shialpin and his sidekick. They came and stood by me.
    “Have you cigarette?” he asked. I offered them both a cigarette. They lit up. I asked him where I was.
    “Small place called Kingisett, near Estonian Buddha.” It was then that I realised that the title ‘Buddha’ had nothing to do with the Dalai Lama; it was his pronunciation of ‘Border’.
Now it was clear; the official rank of that grim, cheerless matron was ‘the Border woman’.
My two visitors finished their cigarettes and left. I looked at my watch. It was 4.30 am. I tried dozing but the chair was too uncomfortable. At 20 minute intervals the doors would rattle open, then my blonde jailer would stare balefully at me and leave. Soon dawn broke and I looked through the cobwebbed window. I seemed to be in some kind of Fiddler on the Roof country. Small, ramshackle wooden bungalows, smoke winding from tin chimneys. The odd, faint grunt of pigs and an occasional cock crowing. There was another door which led outside into all this rustic splendour, but it too was locked. Then, as the sky brightened, at 6.45 am the doors opened again and an old woman entered carrying a large basket of bread rolls. I suddenly realised how hungry I was. She took them over to the small, Gothic-arched ticket window, behind which a light now shone. The window opened and another old lady took the bread basket inside. I was disregarded by both women. At 7 am, Shialpin returned, this time on his own.
   “Give to me twenty dollar. I get you good ticket for St. Petersburg.” I handed over the money. He went to the little window, and then returned with a train ticket. He was then joined by a man in a different uniform, who I took to be a railway porter. By this time I was in dire need of the toilet. I asked where it was. Shialpin pointed through the window at a clump of bushes opposite the building.
   “There is toilet.” The railwayman stepped forward and produced a key. He unlocked the door and ushered me out. It was already warm, even though the sun was still low. I shuffled across the dirt track and into the thicket to relieve myself. As I did so, I looked back over my shoulder and saw the two men standing in the open door, watching. This whole experience was now taking on the characteristics of a bizarre dream. I felt dirty, careworn and tired.
Now having avoided a burst bladder, back in the station Shialpin begged another cigarette then handed me my rucksack. I wondered if he ever went to bed, and where he spent his night time hours.
    “Come with me now. Train for St. Petersburg arrive five minutes.” It was a fine morning. Birds were singing, the hot sun was beating down as we stood at the end of the platform. I wondered where the blonde Bond girl had gone, and imagined Buddha woman crouched in her cave somewhere over a cauldron of boiling bats. The big, long train hissed and rattled to a halt at the platform. I looked at the ticket. It seemed to indicate a sleeper carriage. Shialpin took me by the elbow and guided me to the further carriage along.
    “Here is for you. You share in with Russian in sleep cabin. Have good trip, Meester B-yanton.” We shook hands. He grinned. I climbed on board and stood for a moment. The door closed and I watched him through the window. As the train began to move, he smiled, waved, then shouted
    “Kevin Costner! Robin Hood!” And he was gone.
And so I never got to see my estranged brother in Helsinki after all. Nor did I carry out any research in Tallin. I searched for the cabin number, and when I found it, there was none of the quaint intercontinental railway luxury of the night before. It was a four-berth cabin, with each bunk occupied by a Russian paratrooper, with their luggage piled up on the floor between the bunks. The young men looked at me, seemingly disinterested as I lay my rucksack down with theirs, then stretched out on the heap of army kitbags and fell into a deep sleep, filled with dreams of Les Dawson’s mother in law, a blonde female soldier with a gun, Topol singing If I Were a Rich Man, and Josef Stalin painting some railway station doors.
    It’s a strange country, Russia. But I still love it.






Japanese Medical Advice

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RISING MEDICAL SON ...

No, I didn't write this, but it certainly made me smile. As someone who struggles with a weight problem day in, day out, I can't totally agree with everything said in this web-based piece, and the Japanese doctor's name eludes me. But I had to laugh. 

Q: Doctor, I've heard that cardiovascular exercise can prolong life. Is this true?
A: Heart only good for so many beats, and that it... Don't waste on exercise. Everything wear out eventually. Speeding up heart not make you live longer; it like saying you extend life of car by driving faster. Want to live longer? Take nap.
Q: Should I reduce my alcohol intake?
A: Oh no. Wine made from fruit. Fruit very good. Brandy distilled wine, that mean they take water out of fruity bit so you get even more of goodness that way. Beer also made of grain. Grain good too. Bottom up!
Q: What are some of the advantages of participating in a regular exercise program?
A: Can't think of one, sorry. My philosophy: No pain...good!
Q: Aren't fried foods bad for you?
A: YOU NOT LISTENING! Food fried in vegetable oil. How getting more vegetable be bad?
Q: Is chocolate bad for me?
A: You crazy?!? HEL-LO-O!! Cocoa bean! Another vegetable! It best feel-good food around!
Q: Is swimming good for your figure?
A: If swimming good for figure, explain whale to me.
Q: Is getting in shape important for my lifestyle?
A: Hey! 'Round' is shape!
Well... I hope this has cleared up any misconceptions you may have had about food and diets.
And remember:
Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways - Chardonnay in one hand - chocolate in the other - body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO-HOO, what a ride!!"
AND......
For those of you who watch what you eat, here's the final word on nutrition and health. It's a relief to know the truth after all those conflicting nutritional studies.
1. The Japanese eat very little fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than Brits.
2. The Mexicans eat a lot of fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than Brits.
3. The Chinese drink very little red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks than Brits.
4. The Italians drink a lot of red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks than Brits.
5. The Germans drink a lot of beer and eat lots of sausages and fats and suffer fewer heart attacks than Brits.
CONCLUSION: Eat and drink what you like. Speaking English is apparently what kills you.

WISE WORDS FROM A FINE MAN

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Often, as a writer, you can start the day feeling down, crestfallen and defeated. That's when you need to trawl through literary history to give yourself a transfusion of inspiration. I particularly love American writers; Thoreau, Melville, Whitman and others, but Mark Twain always hits the spot. The following arrived in my mailbox today from the excellent Mint News web site. I love it; it's raised my spirits. 

“Loyalty to country always. Loyalty to government, when it deserves it.”



Mark Twain is one of the most loved authors in the United States. His wit and sarcasm proved that his words were timeless pieces of the American experience. He’s an American icon. He was also a thought criminal. Twain was born in 1835, not too far from where Ferguson, Missouri currently sits. Had he lived in his hometown today, he would have been on the frontlines of the battle against the government“If you don’t read the newspaper, you’re uninformed. If you read the newspaper, you’re mis-informed.”
Today most of us know that most newspapers and television programs contain little, if any, accurate information.

“Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect.”

Consensus for the sake of agreement has led to the worst tragedies the world has ever known.

“If voting made any difference they wouldn’t let us do it.”

The consistent cynic, Twain was quick to tell his contemporaries that the American political system was a joke.

“The man who does not read has no advantage over the man who cannot read.”

Twain stressed education in much of his writing, but he also viewed education as something that occurred outside of the classroom and often was brutal in his condemnation of formal education.

“A lie can travel half way around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes.”
“It’s easier to fool people than to convince them that they have been fooled.”

Two separate quotes demonstrate Twain’s disdain for people who choose to bury their heads in the sand and accept facts presented by authorities.

“If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and man.”

Twain wasn’t exactly a believer in man’s positive nature. He expected the powerful to subjugate the weak. The difference between Twain and his contemporaries is that he didn’t approve of the practice.

 “God created war so that Americans would learn geography.”

There are several instances of Twain mocking the ignorance of the American citizen and how easily they are led astray by their government.

“Loyalty to country always. Loyalty to government, when it deserves it.”

He was fiercely protective of the American experiment, but only of the people. His perception of the government was that of a realist who saw a power hungry profession inhabited by power hungry people who made their livings by taking from the poor.

“The government is merely a servant―merely a temporary servant; it cannot be its prerogative to determine what is right and what is wrong, and decide who is a patriot and who isn’t. Its function is to obey orders, not originate them.”


Twain’s belief was clearly that the government was a child of the people. It derived its power from the people and should concern itself with bettering the lives of its people.

Music Laid Bare

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A STINKED-UP, DIRTY BUSINESS; BUT A LOT OF FUN (and a great read ...)

Last night I finished reading Simon Napier Bell's epic history of the music business, and rarely have I enjoyed a book as much as this. I've worked in this business, and I'm still working on the periphery, so it was satisfying to have most of my suspicions about the way the record companies were really managed totally vindicated. When I worked for Polydor and Deutsche Grammophon in the 1970s we were at the zenith of the age of vinyl, and our bosses in the industry were like 18th century pirates and buccaneers. Today there seems to be just one big piratical admiral left standing - Simon Cowell. I can't recommend this book enough, and rather than descibe it, here's the blurb from Amazon:

Simon Napier-Bell is a legend in the music business. Not only was he the manager of The Yardbirds, T Rex, Japan, and Wham!, and co-writer of the hit song You Don't Have to Say You Love Me but he also wrote one of the most lauded books ever written about post-war British pop music, Black Vinyl, White Powder. But Simon wasn't satisfied... He decided to tackle the whole history of the music industry, right from the beginning; from 1713 when the British parliament gave writers the right of ownership in what they wrote, until to today, when the worldwide industry is worth 100 billion pounds and is entirely owned by the Russians, French and Japanese. And it's brilliant. Bursting with memorable anecdotes and the kind of witty asides that only a real insider could make, among the many things you will learn along the way are: - How a formula for writing hit songs devised in the 1900s created over 50,000 of the best-known songs ever - Why the 'music industry' became the 'song racket', the 'singles business', and then the 'record industry'. But is now the 'music industry' again. - Why Jewish immigrants and black jazz musicians danced cheek to cheek to create the template for all popular music that followed! - How Hollywood bought the music industry in the 1930s - then suffocated it - How industry executives didn't realise till the 1950s that popular music could be sold to young people, and how they then lost their minds to the teenage market - Why rock music turned the traditional music industry on its head and never put it back upright again! - How rap, born from a DJs pleasant asides to his audience, became the music of hate and rape - and the biggest selling popular music in the world. Read Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay and you'll never listen to music the same way again.

BRITAIN 2015: THICK AND INFANTILE

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Powerless in the face of  Stupidity

What’s wrong with Britain in 2015? Well, here’s a prime example of the way our so-called ‘society’ has turned into a manipulated mush. Every day many of us are moved to sign serious petitions from outfits such as 38 Degrees, Avaaz and Change.com. We worry about the destruction of public services, we fight tooth and nail for the NHS.

 BUT TODAY UP TO 500,000 PEOPLEHAVE SIGNED A PETITION TO RE-INSTATE JEREMY CLARKSON AT THE BBC. 


Yes, folks, that’ll make Britain much better. Him and his two infantile 5th- form schoolboy mates, Friends of Cameron, Rebekah Brooks and Murdoch, Hammond and Mays, fulfilling their masturbatory fantasies over exotic mo-mo cars surrounded by a studio rent-a-crowd of sheep-like hangers on. So forget the NHS, forget transport, the bedroom tax, food banks, banking swindles, benefits being cut and homelessness. Why bother to even care? Let’s put our shoulder behind the Top Gear wheel and help a reactionary, insensitive badly dressed and allegedly racist millionaire, a man who said that Public Sector workers should be ‘taken outside and shot in front of their children’ to pocket even more money. I feel ashamed and useless in the face of such crass national ignorance.

Terry Pratchett: A Brightness Extinguished

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TERRY MEETS THAT CHARACTER: DEATH.

When a writer, artist or musician dies, another luminous avenue of creative originality suddenly ends and we are all the losers. Now another light has been extinguished; Terry Pratchett at the young age of 66. I was never particularly taken up with Terry’s literary fantasy of Discworld, but I admired him immensely for his quirky, inventive mind and, from a writer’s standpoint, his prodigious work rate. 70 books, translated into 37 languages. Now there’s a writer for you - a man grabbing his given talent by the neck and driving it along with joyful grace. I liked the way he dressed, his cheery demeanour, I was moved by the brave face he presented when faced with the grim challenge of Alzheimer’s, a cruel, cruel affliction made more bitter when it attacks an inventive artist. I never bought one of his works yet I feel diminished by his sudden absence.


    Terry’s exit, inevitably, for an agnostic, raises that perennial conundrum; if there is a God, (and my Jury left the room decades ago on this one), then what perversity he displays. He takes innocent journalists and allows them to be decapitated by his ‘servants’. He inflicts cancer on millions of innocents, lets children suffer. Is this some celestial, warped sense of humour?  Whilst corruption rages, bankers gloat over their bonuses, a simple, talented and creative man who never harmed anyone with his entertaining stories, is made to suffer and then removed from our lives. Ah, well, that’s the ‘Mercy of the Lord’ for you. So thank you, biology, for bringing Terry Pratchett into our world. If there is a heaven - I hope it’s called Discworld, because when Terry gets there, he’ll be the Great King. Thanks for being a writer, Mr. Pratchett.   

An Astronomy Anomaly: Patrick Moore the Hoaxer

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Hoaxed! 

How Patrick Moore pulled the wool
over the eyes of the UFO Community


Mention the name Lembit Öpik (left) these days, and this ex- Liberal Democrat  MP for Montgomeryshire usually conjures up an erogenous image of his dalliance with Rumanian pop tarts  the Cheeky Girls. But hang on. Lembit’s granddad was into celestial bodies of a different nature, and he’s a link, albeit a tenuous  one, in the more humorous annals of ufology. (Yes, honest, they do exist).

    Lembit’s grandfather was none other than astronomer Ernst Öpik, who left Estonia in WW2 to settle in Ireland. He was based at Armagh Observatory, where he worked with none other than the Sky at Night’smonocled, high-trousered space oddity, Patrick Moore.  In 1922, long before space probes, Ernst predicted correctly the frequency of Martian craters.
Ten years later he came up with a ground-breaking postulation that comets originated in a cloud orbiting far beyond the orbit of Pluto. Today this cloud is called the Öpik-Oort Cloud in his honour, and the asteroid 2099 Öpik is named after him. The crater Öpik on the Martian moon Phobos bears his name.
    As well as his interest in good time Rumanian girls, grandson Lembit is well known for his enthusiasm for searching for asteroids that may collide with the Earth. However, his grandfather holds another distinction. He seems to be the inspiration for a fictitious stargazer by the name of Dr. Egon Spünraas, created by Ernst’s Armagh colleague, Patrick Moore. Let the fun begin.
    In a Maida Vale bedsit one tranquil night in 1954, the 35 year old tenant was washing his dishes[i]. What happened next was enough to crack a cup and saucer, as a disembodied voice told him
     "Prepare yourself! You are to become the voice of the Interplanetary Parliament." A week later, with the bedsit’s doors locked and presumably with the pots all washed, an uninvited stranger materialised in the room. He was without a name, but known to be a ‘world famous’ swami, and he was the harbinger of a new life beyond the tea towel for the new interplanetary spokesman. Four decades later, a long way from Maida Vale, with no need of Fairy liquid, this ‘chosen one’ would be known as Sir George King, O.S.P., Ph.D., Th.D., D.D., Metropolitan Archbishop of the Aetherius Churches, Prince Grand Master of the Mystical Order of St. Peter, and HRH Prince De George King De Santori. Impressive nomenclature for a former taxi driver whose early oratorical prowess was gained by sermonizing  his passengers in the back of his cab on their lack of spirituality .
'Sir' George King, a.k.a. 'Master Aetherius'
    Fortunately, George King (1919–1997) had a head start to equip him for his inter-galactic role. He’d immersed himself in orthodox Christianity, explored spiritual healing, yoga and psychic phenomena. Apparently, the voice he’d heard that night was that of a 3,500-year-old Venusian known as ‘the Master Aetherius’.  King’s assigned mission was to tell the world to pull its socks up, make love, not war, and take better care of planet Earth. Soon, after a series of  successful speeches at London’s Caxton Hall, he had a growing army of followers. The Aetherius Society gradually became a global religion, with offices from London to Los Angeles, with its own journal, The Cosmic Voice. King would speak to his disciples whilst being ‘channelled’ by extra-terrestrial beings, known as Mars Sector 6, Jupiter Sector 92, Saint Goo-ling, and even Jesus Christ himself.  Scientific progress and the negative feedback on the inhabitable conditions on Venus, Mars and Jupiter from US and Russian  space missions could not dent Aetherian belief that these barren worlds were populated by superior advanced beings of high intelligence and supreme power.
    Yet if you can’t puncture irrational faith with practical science, you can always try humour. Laugh, and the world laughs with you, as the saying goes, unless, perhaps, that world is Mars or Venus. Before long, tongues firmly in cheeks, bona fide astronomers were on King’s case, with some hilarious results. Pre-Brians May and Cox, they included Britain’s most popular TV stargazer. Enter Patrick Moore, the man with a comical plan.
    The mid 1950s were Ufology’s heyday. Translated into 12 languages, Flying Saucers Have Landed, by George Adamski and Desmond Leslie was a massive best seller. But it had the advantage of silvery saucers landing in a California desert, where the wise and likeable fantasist Adamski met with a blonde, jump-suited Abba-esque Venusian who communicated telepathically, and, oddly enough, with his footprints, casts of which George duly took.
After all, one should never go into a desert without a bag of plaster of Paris. What Britain needed was its own Adamski, and proof that the long-haired blonde aliens didn’t mind a touch of good old British fog and drizzle. So, as George King was dealing with his new role as dictated from Venus and Mars, in London the publishers Frederick Muller got on the Adamski space wagon with an exciting scoop, Flying Saucer from Mars by Cedric Allingham.
     Mr. Allingham opened with a run-down of what UFO literature existed at the time, then launched into his captivating story of his close encounter of the third kind. He’d been ambling peacefully along in a remote corner of Scotland when a flying saucer landed close by. Out stepped the pilot, and Allingham engaged him in conversation, using sign language. It transpired that the Highland-hopping space jockey was a Martian.
As with Adamski and Leslie’s offering, Flying Saucer from Mars had a collection of photographs, which, unfortunately, weren’t up to Californian standards. The pictures, bearing similarities to Adamski’s, were out of focus, and one blurry shot showed the ufonaut walking away, with his craft out of the frame. The saucer had the characteristic dome, but this had what looked like a radio aerial vertically poking from it, (or, as some sceptics suggested, a wire to suspend it from). Never the less, we had a UK close encounter, and whereas Allingham’s writing style lacked some of Desmond Leslie’s florid flow, the writing was good enough and the story drew the attention of the press.

   However, Cedric Allingham seemed to be a bit of a mystery man. The science correspondent for the Sunday Express, Robert Chapman, was keen to interview the author, yet no one was able to track him down. Yet he did make one public appearance. It took place at a UFO club in Tunbridge Wells. The chairman of the club was none other than one of ufology’s favourite pillars of authenticity, a true believer, Air Chief Marshal Lord Dowding. Dowding was at Allingham’s one and only talk, and sitting alongside him was the man who had tutored the air chief’s stepson; astronomer Patrick Moore. Anyone present at that talk was privileged, because Allingham vanished into history when it was reported that he had died from tuberculosis in a Swiss sanatorium.
  
Robert Chapman did not believe this. He thought there was something fishy about the project, saying:
      “In my view, there is a strong likelihood that ‘Cedric Allingham’ is alive, in excellent health and far from repentant at having pulled a fast one on thousands of credulous saucerers.”But who was Cedric Allingham?
 In his book[ii]A Directory of Discarded Ideas, John Grant wrote:
     “I have good reason to believe that Allingham’s Flying Saucer From Marswas in fact written by a well-known astronomer . . . but have been sworn to secrecy.”  Years later, in 1985, Steuart Campbell and Christopher Allan, a pair of UFO sceptics, had similar thoughts and decided to do some digging. They concluded that ‘Allingham’ at least knew his astronomy, appearing familiar with the works of astronomers like H. Percy Wilkins and Patrick Moore.  He had obviously read the Journals of both the British Astronomical Association and the British Interplanetary Society, neither of which graced the shelves of W. H. Smith. So they checked the membership lists of the BIS and the BAA.  No Allingham.
   Oddly enough, Allingham’s name did crop up several times in various works by Patrick Moore. Considering Moore’s disdain for anything connected with UFOs, this seemed odd. A further revelation emerged. A journalist from Oxted in Surrey, Peter Davies, had been engaged to add a little semantic polish to one of Patrick Moore’s early books. Moore was living not far away in East Grinstead. The photographs in Flying Saucer from Mars include one of ‘Allingham’ standing by a telescope in a leafy garden.
The garden - in East Grinstead  - and the telescope, were Patrick Moore’s, and the man posing as Allingham is, in fact, Peter Davies, wearing the same disguise he used at the Tunbridge Wells UFO club; a false mustache, horn rimmed glasses - and a false nose. The mercurial Moore never owned up to what seems to have most certainly been a literary hoax, and whatever secret he had he took it with him to the grave. He did issue a warning to anyone accusing him of writing Flying Saucer from Mars that he would sue. Yet he never did. But although Britain’s favourite TV astronomer may have been laughing up his sleeve at Adamski and Leslie with this stunt, his irrepressible pursuit of a jokey hoax was far from quelled. Which will eventually lead us back to Dr. George King, but not before we enjoy a reminder of how Adamski and Leslie were themselves hoaxed in their own blockbuster UFO book.As a softening-up process, a tasty entree to prepare the reader for George Adamski’s main course, Leslie’s quasi-academic style was fairly compelling, although had he been more scientifically rigorous in his research he might well have saved some embarrassment. A good example of his scatter-gun approach was his inclusion of what had become a favourite “ancient UFO” story among the growing celestial crockery brigade. This was the Ampleforth Abbey sighting, said to have occurred way back in 1290. Leslie aims at authenticity by quoting the “original” text from the old monks in Latin, then gives a translation in English. He gives credit for the supply of this edifying nugget to a man with a name one might only expect to see in a black-and-white 1940s British public information film – Mr A. X. Chumley. It tells the story of two Ampleforth monks, Wilfred and John, and their abbot, Henry. They are roasting sheep when the crucial line of the Ampleforth Latin appears, with the sudden announcement: “res grandis, circumcularis argenta, disco quodum had dissimilis” (“Lo! A large round silver thing like a disk flew slowly over them”).
In his assessment for the Condon Report on UFOs for the University of Colorado, Samuel Rosenberg goes into some detail with his incisive dissection of ancient UFO sightings. For example, the Ampleforth Abbey “sighting” morphs bizarrely into the “Byland Abbey Sighting” as subsequent, post-Adamski authors clamber on to the gravy train. Whoever Mr A. X. Chumley was, he certainly had a sense of humour, for as the archivist at Ampleforth would have told Leslie (had he bothered to check the story), the “large round silver thing like a disk” and the rest of the “monks roasting a sheep” yarn turns out to be a joke perpetrated in a letter to The Times on 9 February 1953 – in a scurrilous communication sent in by two Ampleforth schoolboys. They made it all up[iii]. Talking of cod Latin inscriptions, Patrick Moore often mentioned a Roman urn on display in a museum, the location of which he never revealed, but he liked to tell us it bore the inscription
Iti sapis potitis andantino ne.
To get a handle on Moore’s impish sense of fun, just try moving the letters around and you’ll soon realise what a wag he was.
   So, UK saucers duly ridiculed, it was time to boldly go where no hoaxer had yet gone, into the peace-loving corral of the Aetherius Society. Once George had his organisation up and running, the Society's journal, Cosmic Voice became essential reading for adepts. In 1957, a series of articles appeared in the journal, all submitted by eminent scientists and physicists from various countries and institutions.  It seemed to readers, and King himself, that the interplanetary communications were being taken seriously. The lofty proclamations channelled through him from Master Aetherius, Mars Sector 6 and Saint Goo-ling (not forgetting Jesus) were having some positive effect, because these academic contributors were taking notice. Mainly foreigners, they had unusual names. They included the eminent astronomy lecturer Dr. Walter Wumpe, PhD., D.Sc., F.R.A.P.C., reporting on the Geophysical Year Programme. Other top academic names lining up to add kudos to Cosmic Voice were Dr. Dominic Fidler, Professor Huttle-Glank[iv],  other pillars of scientific academia including N. Ormuss, L Pullar, R. T. Fischall, E. Ratic, Dr. Hotère, Dr. Lupi, and Dr. Waathervan. Completing this list was a certain Egon Spünraas (remember him?) and two Dutch physicists, Drs. Houla and Huiezenass.
     Step forward the cool voice of spirituality, the cult-watching newspaper Psychic Weekly. The paper’s sense of humour was not as overcooked as that of the Master Aetherius - it was still medium rare enough to spot a cosmic joke in all its glory. John Grant’s Directory relates that “when it was rather publicly pointed out to King, in the newspaper Psychic Weekly, that he was perhaps the victim of an L. Pullar, he furiously cracked down on such spurious contributions to knowledge - accusing the British astronomer Patrick Moore, among others, of being the perpetrator of the hoax”.[v]  No doubt Patrick, sides splitting, was polishing his monocle in glee.
   Eventually plain old George King, Interplanetary Parliament Spokesman, needed to sound a little grander, so a Doctorate might do the trick. According to David Barrett, in A Brief Guide to Secret Religions[vi], King’s Doctorate came from "the International Theological Seminary of California, a degree mill with no accreditation." The Knighthood came later, (but not, it seems from Buckingham Palace). The Knighthood  was eventually bestowed on him by a certain Prince Robert M.N.G. Bassaraba de Brancovan-Khimchiachvili-Dadiani. The ‘Prince’, according to William Brynk of the New York Sun, “ran a bogus Order of St. John of Jerusalem, Knights of Malta from his faux-marble apartment (filled with equally genuine Louis XV furniture) at 116 Central Park South. If you had a passage fee, he had a gong for you, and hundreds of men and women with more money than sense each paid him up to $30,000 for his phony knighthoods.Prince Robert styled himself an "Imperial and Royal Highness." This is not bad: A Roman Catholic cardinal is merely an eminence. In a program for one of his ceremonies, held at Manhattan's Christ Church, he described himself as "Grand Master, Grand Chancellor, Grand Bailiff, and Grand Prior of the Knights of Malta." This was a few years before the prince vanished after his 2001 indictment for wire fraud.”[vii]
     One would assume that Dr. (Sir) George King would have claimed all these expenses from the Interplanetary Parliament’s Bursary.
   Hoaxing the UFO[viii], paranormal and psychic community can be fun, yet as this writer can testify, it is dangerous ground. The borderline between an obsession or cult and religion is to say the least hazy. Tread on a true disciple’s toes and you’re in trouble. However forteans, even with our sense of humour intact, want to believe. The question is, however, what exactly is it we want to believe? One has to remember that in the UK, spiritualism is a bona fide religion. Yet ever since the days of Houdini, the hoax and the fraud remain as the sceptic’s weapons, and they are frequently wielded.
   A report by Matt Roper in the Daily Mirror, on 28 October 2005 exposed a few unwelcome revelations concerning the most over-the-top, melodramatic current medium of them all, Liverpool’s Derek Acorah. Dr. Ciaran O’Keeffe, lecturer in the paranormal at Liverpool’s Hope University, was drafted on to Acorah’s TV show Most Haunted as resident parapsychologist. Dr. O’Keeffe, in speaking out, was in danger of committing media suicide, but he believed viewers should be enlightened as to the real nature of Most Haunted. In an attempt to establish whether or not Acorah was acting deceitfully, Dr. O’Keeffe came up with a ruse which he prepared whilst the team were filming at Bodmin Jail (alternatively Bodmin Gaol), an old prison on the edge of Bodmin Moor in Cornwall. This historic building dates from 1779 and was closed in 1927. He invented a long-dead South African jailer called Kreed Kafer – an anagram of Derek Faker.

   “I wrote the name down and asked another member of the crew to mention it to Derek before filming. I honestly didn’t think Derek would take the bait. But during the filming he actually got possessed by my fictional character!”
O’Keeffe made up another non-existent character for the shoot at Prideaux Place, Cornwall. This time, it was the highwayman Rik Eedles – an anagram of Derek Lies. It didn’t take long for psychic Derek to begin talking to the fictional outlaw. These are just a couple of the hoaxes Acorah fell for. Dr O’Keeffe’s summing up was pretty devastating: “In my professional opinion we’re not dealing with a genuine medium … all we are seeing is showmanship and dramatics.”
   Doug and Dave’s bogus corn circles, YouTube awash with fake UFO footage, phoney ghosts, cold-reading mediums, all these are simply aggravating speed bumps on the fortean highway that takes us over the hill to give us a glimpse of those genuine unexplained mysteries which add zest to our lives.  Yet as the wily old Patrick Moore has demonstrated, there’s nothing wrong with pulling into a lay-by now and again for a good laugh.




[i]This version according to the late Dr. Christopher Evans, Cults of Unreason,Harrap, London 1973.
[ii]Grant, John, A Directory of Discarded Ideas  Ashgrove Press 1981, Corgi Edition 1983
[iii]For more on this comical prank, Anselm Cramer OSB, Archivist, Ampleforth Abbey, gives a good overview at http://ufophenomenon.weebly.com/byland-abbey.html  
[iv] Dr. Christopher Evans, in Cults of Unreason, Harrap, London 1973 tells us that Dr. Dominic Fidler’s article entitled Mescaline and Flying Saucers‘was challenged for scientific inaccuracies by a Professor Huttle-Glank.’
[v] Grant, John, A Directory of Discarded Ideas  Ashgrove Press 1981, Corgi Edition 1983
[vi]Barrett, David V. A Brief Guide to Secret Religions: A Complete Guide to Hermetic, Pagan and Esoteric Beliefs
Robinson, London 2011.
[vii]WILLIAM BRYK New York SunMen Who Would Be Kings (Or Knights, or Counts) June 15, 2005
[viii]For a classic case of UFO hoaxing, the Warminster Photographs, go to http://magonia.haaan.com/1976/experimental-ufo-hoaxing/  Experimental UFO Hoaxing. David Simpson





                                                                                                                                                   

TAMÁM SHUD

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The Bizarre Mystery of the Somerton Man

I remember walking through Somerton Park, a suburb of Adelaide in South Australia, back in the early 1960s. The mainly residential seaside suburb is home to the Somerton Park Beach, and whilst enjoying a cold beer there that hot day, I had no idea that this was the location of what remains as the most perplexing mystery in Australia’s criminal cold case records; the enduring enigma of the ‘Somerton Man’, or as they refer to him down under, the ‘Unknown Man’.

In an age of high-tech CSI, DNA and advanced forensic science, we like to think we’re pretty clever at solving murder cases. There’s usually a clear motive, a list of potential suspects soon builds up. Was it the wife/husband? Was there a girlfriend/boyfriend? A mugger, a robber? The starting point is usually the identification of the victim. Yet what happens when absolutely no-one knows whose body it is? This is a mystery laden down with curious clues, hints and false leads, none of which provide an explanation or a conclusion.
Perhaps no-one noticed the smartly dressed middle aged man who stepped from the Melbourne train at Adelaide station at 8.30 am on the morning of November 30th 1948. It had been a long journey. He bought a one-way ticket for the 10.50 am train to Henley Beach, but the ticket was never used. He was carrying a small brown suitcase which he deposited in the station’s left luggage room at around 11 am. At 11.15 am he bought a 7d (seven pence) bus ticket outside the station for a bus going to Somerton, but he got off somewhere along the route. Some researchers suggest that he alighted at Glenelg, close to the St. Leonard’s Hotel. Between 7pm and 8pm that night several witnesses claimed to have seen the man. He stopped somewhere to buy a pasty. This much is known so far. Now the mystery kicks in.
December 1st in southern Australia is regarded as the first day of Summer. It was warm on the evening of Tuesday November 30 when a couple decided to take a stroll along Somerton Beach. John Bain Lyons was a local jeweller and as he ambled along the sands in the direction of Glenelg with his wife at 7 pm, 20 yards away (18.22 m)   they spotted a smartly dressed man reclining on the sand, his head propped up against the sea wall. He seemed quite relaxed with his legs outstretched and crossed. Mr Lyons had the impression that the man might be drunk, as the reclining figure lifted up his right arm which then fell back down. It seemed as if he may have been attempting to light a cigarette, but abandoned the idea.
The beach where the body was discovered, propped up on the rocks.

Half an hour later, a young couple were out for a walk along the Esplanade, and they had a view of the beach from above, and the reclining figure was still there with his left arm laid out across the sand. His shoes were clean and well-polished, his suit looked immaculate, yet it seemed an odd sartorial choice as beachwear. He appeared to be sleeping, but with a swarm of mosquitos around his face, inspiring the young man to comment “He must be dead to the world not to notice them…”


But the man on the beach was in the deepest sleep of all. He was dead. The following morning, when the jeweller John Lyons emerged from the sea after a cooling swim, he was joined by two men and a horse as they gathered around the dead man, still in the same position as Lyons had seen him the night before, legs crossed and outstretched. There was an un-smoked cigarette behind his ear, and a half smoked stub resting on his collar. There were no signs of violence.
Three hours later the body was taken to the  Royal Adelaide Hospital, where Dr. John Barkley Bennett estimated the man had died, possibly from heart failure, at around 2 am. There was a dramatic twist, when the Doctor announced that he suspected the man had been poisoned. The dead man’s pockets were emptied but did not reveal much. To begin with he had no cash or wallet. What was found were two combs, a box of matches, a pack of chewing gum, a pack of Army Club cigarettes and seven Kensitas cigarettes. But there was another puzzle. Any maker’s name labels or tags in his clothing had been carefully cut away, and one of his trouser pockets had been stitched with orange thread.
A contemporary press report
The police had no leads as to the corpse’s identity. The local press reported that the man found on the beach was ‘E. C. Johnson’, but Johnson turned up alive on December 3rd[1]. A full autopsy and a post mortem were carried out. John Dwyer, the pathologist, found a quantity of blood mixed with the remains of the pasty in the man’s stomach. Further examination revealed the dead man had unusually small pupils, his liver was distended with congested blood, and the spleen was three times normal size. With these results, suspicions of poisoning arose. Yet no cause of death was found, and expert chemical analysis on the man’s organs revealed nothing. So who was this dead man? At the subsequent Coroner’s inquest, the evidence of one expert, who had inspected the man’s legs and feet, suggested his well-developed calf muscles and oddly shaped, pointed feet hinted that this man may have even been a ballet dancer.  The cadaver was preserved with formalin and a cast was made of his bust for future examination. The corpse’s fingerprints were taken and circulated around the world, but with no result.
Christmas 1948 came and went with the Unknown Man resting in the morgue. Then, in January 1949, the suitcase he had left at the railway station was discovered. When police opened it, the mystery deepened. There was a reel of orange thread. Of the few items of clothing, the name tags had been removed, but on three the name ‘Kean’ and ‘Keane’ remained. There was a stencil kit, the kind of thing used to stencil names on packing crates, a coat, stitched with a peculiar feather stitching, and a table knife with the shaft cut down, and six pence. Although the names ‘Kean’ and ‘Keane’ looked like good leads, the police could trace no-one, and the local press suggested that the labels were deliberately left as red herrings. Once again the investigation was stalled.
But the strangest evidence, which would give this case its mysterious title, came when the Emeritus Professor of Pathology at the University of Adelaide, John Cleland, was brought in during April 1949 to examine the corpse. Sewn into the waistband of the trousers was what has been referred to as ‘a secret pocket’. It contained a tightly rolled, small piece of paper bearing the printed words, ‘Tamám Shud’.  A reporter for the Adelaide Advertiser, Frank Kennedy, recognised the words as Persian. They were from a popular work written in the 12th century, The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. The two words come at the very end of the English translation by Edward Fitzgerald of this popular book of poetry, after the final verse, and mean, literally, ‘It is over’. The slip of paper appeared to have been torn from a book, and the seemingly fruitless hunt for the original copy began. The police began to suggest that this may have been a suicide. But there was much more yet to come.
The final words of this famous book are TAMÁM SHUD; 'it is ended'.
In June 1949 the body was buried in a plot of dry ground and sealed under concrete, a precaution in case it needed future exhumation. On July 23 a man from the Glenelg area visited the Adelaide Police station and presented a a very rare first edition copy of Edward FitzGerald's translation of The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám published in 1859 by Whitcombe and Tombs in New Zealand.. His odd story was that the book had been tossed into the back seat of his car by persons unknown. The torn extract matched the ripped space in the book. The identity of the man who found the book was kept secret, and has remained so.  In the back of the book police found five lines of letters written in pencil, and a telephone number. The number was that of a 27 year old nurse who had trained in Sydney's North Shore Hospital and now lived not far from where the body had been discovered.  Soon local media began to refer to the mysterious lines of letters as ‘code’. Was our man a spy?
Attention now focused on the new lead, the nurse. Her real name was Teresa Powell, but was referred to by the media as ‘Jestyn’. She appears to be as mysterious as the rest of the case, as her real name was not revealed until 2002. In 1949, when police interviewed her she gave a false surname, ‘Mrs. Thompson’, although it turns out that she wasn’t actually married. When shown the plaster cast of the deceased man’s bust, she thought that it might be a man she knew called Alf Boxall, yet wasn’t certain, although she claimed she once gave a copy of  The Rubáiyát to Boxall at the Clifton Gardens Hotel in Sydney in 1945 when he was serving as a lieutenant in the Water Transport Section of the Australian Army. Apparently she behaved very oddly when questioned, and almost fainted[2]. She need not have worried, because Boxall turned up, very much alive, and he brought his copy of  The Rubáiyát, a 1924 Sydney edition, with him. He knew nothing of the dead man and had no connection to him.
The extensive international publicity[3]rolled on as detectives around the globe investigated, but the man remains, to this day, unidentified. Yet as the Cold War developed, the attention focused on the possibility of poisoning, a favourite weapon in espionage circles,  and the strange ‘codes’ written in the back of The Rubáiyát.  The Adelaide coroner, Thomas Cleland, was informed by an eminent professor, Sir Cedric Stanton Hicks[4]that it was possible that a very rare poison had been used which would have decomposed ‘very early after death’. When Hicks appeared at the court hearing, he stated that the poisons he had in mind were so deadly and secret that he would not speak their names out loud, so jotted them down on a slip of paper and passed them to the coroner. They were digitalis and strophanthin. Hicks suggested the latter as the culprit. It originates from Ouabain, a Somali "arrow poison" which is also named g-strophanthin,  poisonous cardiac glycoside.Extracts containing Ouabain have long been used by Somali tribesmen to poison hunting arrows[5].
So, who was the Unknown Man and was he a spy? At Woomera, they were testing missiles and gathering intelligence. Our man died in Adelaide, which is the closest Australian city  to Woomera. Many see this as a connection. It is also possible that he caught his train at Port Augusta, which is much closer to Woomera. Then there is the bizarre pencilled ‘code’ in the back of The Rubáiyát. What does it mean?

WRGOABABD
MLIAOI
WTBIMPANETP
MLIABOAIAQC
ITTMTSAMSTGAB

Code specialists around the world, including some of the best intelligence experts, even astrologers, have been wrestling with these random characters for decades, so far, without success.  
There is still an aura of uncertainty around the nurse, ‘Justyn’ and her relationship with Alf Boxall. It seems that Boxall’s army career may also have involved military intelligence. Justyn died in 2007 and some believe that her real name was kept under wraps as it (or perhaps even her nickname) may have been a key to decryption of the ‘code’. Also, according to a 1978 TV documentary[6], when she gave Boxall her copy of The Rubáiyát she had written out verse 70:

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore—but was I sober when I swore?
And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
My thread-bare Penitence a-pieces tore.

 Just a young, romantic gesture - or something more cryptic?
In 1947, the year before the mystery man alighted in Adelaide, the United States Army's Signal Intelligence Service was carrying out Operation Venona, during which they discovered that the Soviet embassy in Canberra had been in receipt of top secret information leaked from Australia's Department of External Affairs. In 1948 U.S. banned the transfer of all classified information to Australia. Spies would have had to work much harder that year.
The more you dig into the murky undergrowth of Tamám Shud the denser the tangled roots become. For example, three years prior to the death of the ‘Unknown Man’ the body of Joseph (George) Saul Haim Marshall, a 34 year old from Singapore, was found in Ashton Park, Mosman, Sydney in 1945, with an open copy of the The Rubáiyát (reported as a seventh edition by publishers Methuen) laid on his chest.
Ashton Park, Sydney
It was recorded that he’d committed suicide by poison. However, Methuen only issued 5 editions of The Rubáiyát, so either this was a reporting error or a copy of the NZ Whitcombe and Tombs edition. It may be some kind of synchronicity or simple loose association, but a quick look on Google Earth reveals that Sydney’s Ashton Park is a short walk from Clifton Gardens. It was in Clifton Gardens, just two months after the dead Marshall was found with a copy on his chest that Jestyn gave Alfred Boxall a copy of The Rubáiyát. So who was Joseph (George) Saul Haim Marshall? It transpires that his brother was the famous barrister and Chief Minister of Singapore David Saul Marshall. Joseph Marshall’s inquest was held on August 151945. A woman testified at the inquest. She was Gwenneth Dorothy Graham. Within a fortnight of testifying,  she was found naked and dead in a bath face down, with her wrists slit.
Omar Khayyám seems to have had a lot to answer for.
Also in 1949, as the Adelaide police were still scratching their heads over the Unknown Man, at Largs North, just 12 miles (20km) along the beach from Somerton, where he’d been found, another bizarre case unfolded. A two-year old boy named Clive Mangnoson was found dead, his body in a sack, on 6 June 1949. It was established that the child had been dead for 24 hours. Keith Waldemar Mangnoson, his unconscious father, was lying alongside him. The man was taken to hospital suffering from exposure and weakness, then ended up in a mental institution. Father and son had been missing for four days. It gets even weirder; the two were discovered by Neil McRae, who said he had established their location in a dream the previous night. As with the Unknown Man, the coroner did not believe the boy had died from natural causes.
Then came the revelation by the boy's mother, Roma Mangnoson, that she’d been threatened by a masked man who almost ran her down outside her house in Largs North’s Cheapside Street. The man was driving a battered, cream coloured car, saying that "the car stopped and a man with a khaki handkerchief over his face told me to 'keep away from the police’ or else.'" She believed this to be connected with the fact that her husband had been to identify the Unknown Man at Somerton, who he believed to be someone he had worked with in 1939 named Carl Thompsen. Local dignitaries, including the mayor of Port Adelaide, A. H. Curtis, and J. M. Gower, the Secretary of the Largs North Progress Association received some strange, anonymous phone calls, threatening an ‘accident’ should they ‘stick their nose into the Magnonson affair’. The distraught Mrs. Magnonson was so affected by her meetings with the police that she required subsequent medical attention.
South Australia’s Major Crime Task Force still regard this as an open case. The Unknown Man’s bust is held by The South Australian Police Historical Society, and it contains strands of the man's hair. Unfortunately, after being embalmed the chemicals used may have destroyed much of the DNA. In any case, a recent request to exhume the body was refused. Witness statements appear to have disappeared from police files, and the suitcase found at Adelaide Station and its contents were destroyed in 1986. There have been approaches from people in Eastern Europe who believe the Somerton man might be one of many missing from the area during the Cold War. But it looks as if we may never know who he was and how he came to die on that beach. So let’s give the last word to our 12th century Persian poet, Omar Khayyám;
‘They change and perish all - but He remains…’ Tamám Shud; ‘It is ended.’


FURTHER READING:
ON LINE: As this is an Internet cause célèbre with dozens of links a simple Google of Tamam Shud will give you all you need.
BOOKS:
Feltus, Gerald MichaelThe Unknown Man, Klemzig, South Australia, 2010, ISBN 978-0-646-54476-2.
Greenwood, KerryTamam Shud - The Somerton Man Mystery, University of New South Wales Publishing, 2013 ISBN 978-1742233505
Stephen Kingfrequently refers to this case in his novel The Colorado Kid, which in turn inspired the series Haven.
Notes:




[1] By early February 1949, there had been eight different "positive" identifications of the body. Some thought it was a missing stablehand and two men from Darwin thought the corpse was of a friend of theirs, and others suggested he was  a sailor or a Swedish man. Police from Victoria suggested the man was from their state, as his the laundry marks were similar to those of dry-cleaning firms in Melbourne. Following publication of the man's photograph in Victoria, 28 people claimed they knew his identity.
[2] Retired detective Gerald Feltus interviewed Jestyn in 2002 and found her to be either "evasive" or "just did not wish to talk about it," He agreed not to disclose her identity or anything that might reveal it. Feltus believes that Jestyn knew the Somerton man's identity.
[3]http://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/result?l-publictag=Taman+Shud  this site offers a selection of press coverage on the case.
[4]Often mis-named as ‘Stanford Hicks’, Sir Cedric Stanton Hicks came to Adelaide in 1926 after an outstanding student career at the University of Otago in New Zealand, war service and a research studentship at Cambridge. He was appointed Professor of Human Physiology and Pharmacology from 1927, a position he retained until 1958 when he became Emeritus Professor. He was knighted in 1936 for his services to medical science.
[5] A sufficiently concentrated quabain dart can fell a Hippopotamus causing respiratory and/or cardiac arrest. Only one creature is immune to its effects; the Galapagos Tortoise.
[6]Inside Story, presented by Stuart Littlemore, ABC TV, 1978.






MURDER BY MAGICK?

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MURDER BY MAGICK
The Mystery of Netta Fornario: 
Iona's Occult Enigma



It could be the first page of a disturbing screenplay. We’re on a bleak, windswept remote Scottish island. At a spot known as the Fairy Mound, a crude cross has been carved out of the boggy peat. Upon this earthen crucifix, covered only with a strange cloak, lies the naked lifeless body of a young woman. A blackened silver chain with a cross hangs around her neck. She holds a knife in her dead hand. Her frozen expression is one of sheer terror, and both her hands and her feet are swollen and bloody.  But this is no screenplay. The year is 1929, and this is the opening scene of a bizarre and enduring mystery.
     The year 1931 saw the publication of a book with the astonishingly cumbersome title; take a deep breath … A Last Voyage to St. Kilda. Being the Observations and Adventures of an Egotistic Private Secretary who was alleged to have been 'warned off' That Island by Admiralty Officials when attempting to emulate Robinson Crusoe at the Time of Its Evacuation.  It was written by the Private Secretary to the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster,Alasdair Alpin MacGregor(1899 - 1970).McGregor was a travel writer, poet and expert on Scottish folklore. Unfortunately, like the ‘worst poet in British history’ William Topaz McGonagall, although McGregor was a decent writer with an elegant, ornate style, he was frequently parodied, especially by prominent Scottish writer Sir Compton Mackenzie, one of the founders of the Scottish National Party.
     Yet due to Alasdair McGregor’s total immersion in the more esoteric and mystical aspects of Scottish history we are able to thank him, and subsequent researchers, for his detailed descriptive account of one of the strangest of all Caledonian conundrums, a bizarre, unsolved occult murder in 1929 on the isolated, ancient island of Iona. If this had been a screenplay, it would have made a memorable companion to The Wicker Man. But let’s get back to the body on the fairy mound.
   She was the 33 year old Norah Emily Editha Fornario (known as Netta Fornario). Her mother was English and her father was an Italian medical practitioner, with whom Netta did not get along. This estrangement may have been due to the variance of opinion between a qualified doctor and a daughter whose idea of curative physiological efficacy was firmly rooted in the world of the psychic and the occult. Earlier in life she had joined the famous circle of practitioners in ‘magick’, the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, there to become a close friend of British occultist and author Violet Mary Firth Evans, better known as Dion Fortune (1890-1946).
Violet Mary Firth Evans, a.k.a. Dion Fortune
 
    Born inBryn-y-Bia, Llandudno, North Wales, Fortune’s nom de plume was inspired by her family motto Deo, non fortuna, Latin: "by God, not fate". Two of her novels, The Sea Priestess and Moon Magic, became highly influential to the faithful of the Wiccan religion, especially upon leading Witch Doreen Valiente[1]. Yet the work which has the most relevance in Netta Fornario’s struggles (Fortune referred to Netta as ‘Mac Tyler’) with the spirit world would be Fortune’s Psychic Self Defence[2],a manual on how to protect oneself from psychic attacks which would be published the year after Netta’s death.
    A serious student of the occult, Netta was a member of the Alpha et Omega Temple. This had its origins in the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, co-founded as an intended ‘elementary branch of the Rosicrucian Order[3]’ in London in 1888 by Dr. William Wynn Westcott, a London coroner and Freemason, and Samuel Liddell Mathers (1854-1918). Mathers' research had one ultimate aim; the ‘Great Work’ of self-realization. It was all-embracing, including the Tarot, Enochian magic, alchemy, ceremonial Magic, Kabbalah, astrology, Egyptian Magic and divination. Mathers, who had married Mina Bergson, sister of the French philosopher Henri Bergson, moved to Paris, and considered himself as the undisputed chief and leader of Golden Dawn. To be a member, one had to swear an oath to Mathers, but not everyone went for the idea. Mathers eventually forced Westcott in London to resign after accusing him of faking a document.
   The Golden Dawn attracted some bizarre hangers-on, (as well as intellectuals such as the poet William Butler Yeats) and one of Mathers’ young protégés was given the mission of retrieving the Order’s archives from Westcott. The ex-communicated Golden Dawners must have had a nasty shock when the loud, demanding emissary arrived at the  London temple at 336 Blythe Road, because it was none other than ‘the Beast’ himself, Aleister Crowley, dubbed by Yeats, who had also fallen foul of Mathers, as a "mad person whom we had refused to initiate". Crowley, in full Highland dress, brandishing a sword and wearing a mask, was met by Yeats on the doorstep and hostilities ensued. The Police were duly summoned to invigilate in a desperate confrontation which saw Yeats demanding Crowley’s arrest as an intruder, whilst Crowley waved his Claymore around insisting that Golden Dawn’s London adherents be evicted from the building. Eventually, Mathers went on to establish his own magical order, the Alpha et Omega, and in order add a dash of Celtic flavour to his background, augmented his surname with ‘MacGregor’. Although he finally departed for the spirit world in 1918, Alpha et Omega’s membership carried on the ‘Great Work’ regardless, led by Mathers’ widow, Mina, now to be known as Moina Mathers.
McGregor Mathers
   Netta Fornario’s good friend and fellow Temple initiate Dion Fortune had serious issues with Moina Mathers, claiming she was the victim of a magical attack. Fortune left Alpha et Omega and formed her own offshoot organisation which eventually became known as The Society of the Inner Light. Like Fortune, Netta believed telepathy was a defensive method by which people could be cured. Shortly before her death on Iona she sent a message to her housekeeper at her home on Mortlake Road, Kew, London, asking her not to expect to hear from her for some time as she had "a terrible case of healing on". Whether or not the healing was for herself or some other psychic victim seems unclear.
   Looking at the voluminous and arcane spiritual history of the Island of Iona, it is little wonder that this is where Netta would be drawn in order to embark on a psychic struggle with dark forces. The ‘dark force’ in question has been suggested by some researchers to have been Moina Mathers. If so, she was projecting her evil scheme from beyond the grave, because when Netta arrived on Iona, Moina had been dead for 16 months.
Off the West coast of Scotland, 3.5 miles long and one mile wide, the island of Iona is famous as the place where, in 563AD, the grandson of the Irish King Niall, St Columba, landed with 12 followers to found a monastic community and build their first Celtic
Moina Mathers
Church. With the usual zeal of unwelcome Christians, Columba set about converting the Scottish Pagans, and anyone else within missionary distance. He seems to have enjoyed much success. According to a survey in 1549 it became clear that Iona’s graveyard was the place to be for local leaders, because its graves include those of  48 Scottish Kings, 8 Norwegian and 4 Irish, including King Kenneth I, Donald II, Malcolm I, Duncan I, Macbeth and Donald III.
Columba had some odd ideas about the opposite sex. Like most patriarchal religionists, he was no champion of equal rights. For example, he banished cows from the island, claiming "where there is a cow there is a woman, and where there is a woman there is mischief".
When his work force arrived to start building his Abbey, the stonemasons’ and carpenters’ wives were kept apart with the cattle on the nearby long rocky island of Eilean-nam-Ban, ‘the Women's Island’, where they were billeted in in huts, the ruins of which are still visible today. Columba liked to spend time meditating on the Hill of the Angels - Cnoc nan Aingeal. The Hill of Angels is adjacent to the Sithean, the Fairy Mound, where Netta Fornario would meet her death. It has become known as Iona’s paranormal hotspot, and in the Bronze and Iron Ages the surrounding hills had been the centre of pagan rituals.
   For a pioneering Christian, Columba certainly seems to have had a cruel streak. Legend has it that he insisted that he needed to bury a living person in the foundations of the chapel. This is not a vacancy everyone would apply for, but Columba’s close friend, Oran, volunteered to be buried alive.  During the burial ceremony, however, Columba asked for Oran’s face to be uncovered so that he could say a last ‘goodbye’ to his friend. By this time, and hardly unexpected, Oran, who was still alive, had gone off the idea of his cadaver propping up the foundations. In no uncertain terms, feeling rather upset down there in the pit, he’d changed his mind. So much so that his Christianity took leave of him and he began blaspheming, so Columba had him covered up again, and, apparently, poor Oran’s bones are still down there. St Oran’s Abbey was duly built and was restored in the 20thcentury, so mind where you tread.
    

Towards the  end of the 8th Century AD the illustrious Book of Kells[4]was produced on the island. But the Monks were in for a nasty shock, when those sons of fun, the Vikings, arrived. Murder ensued, and plunder saw many of their treasures stolen. In 1203, Ranald, son of the mid-12thcentury Scottish warlord, Somerled, invited Benedictine monks and Augustinian nuns to settle on Iona. The so-called ‘Black Nuns’[5] under Prioress Beathag, followed the teachings of St Augustine of Hippo, in Egypt, who died in 430. Following the reformation the abbey remained in ruins until 1899.
Iona is indeed a mysterious place packed with spiritual and religious significance, with Templar knight gravestones, Megalithic remains and prehistoric burial sites. The island has been referred to by many as a boundary between life and death. It was a place where the living often arrived to prepare for their final journey. Perhaps this strange aspect of its history is what attracted Netta Fornario.

A JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS

The newspaper The Scotsman, of 27 November 1929 described Netta as ‘This alien woman, who dressed in the fashion of the Arts and Crafts movement - with long cape and hand-woven tunic …’ As being a ‘magician’ wasn’t what we’d call a ‘proper job’ back then, one has to wonder where wizards found the time, and indeed the money, to follow their craft and set up temples in such expensive locations as London. Undoubtedly most of them had private incomes and came from well-heeled families. As to Netta’s means of support, although she was a writer and journalist[6] of sorts, there is a very interesting snippet of information which can still be accessed on line[7]from the New Zealand newspaper The Otautau Standard and Wallace County Chronicle, Volume V, Issue 214, 8 June 1909, Page 7. It reads:
            ‘The will has just been proved of Mr. Thomas Pratt Ling, of Bracondale, Dorking, tea merchant, in which he left £12,000 upon trust for his granddaughter, Marie Nora  Emily Edith Fornario, provided that she shall remain under the guardianship of his  son George or other person approved by his trustees and shall not forsake the English  Protestant Faith, or marry a person not of that Faith, or marry a first cousin on either her father’s or her mother’s side, under penalty of losing one-half of her interest in  this sum, and he also provided that the income should be paid to her in the United    Kingdom, unless for a cause to be certified by medical certificate, or other cause to be  approved by his trustees, she shall not be in the United Kingdom.’

Whether or not Netta had access to what was then a substantial fortune (considering the demand to remain a Protestant) is unclear. According to Netta’s Kew housekeeper, Mrs. Varney, her tenant always seemed a bit unorthodox, yet cheerful, but stated she had no faith in doctors. Mrs. Varney also said that 'she was always curing people by telepathy'. When Netta announced to her housekeeper that she was about to embark on a 90 day fast, after a fortnight Mrs. Varney talked her out of it.
    She knew from Netta that because of her interest in the occult, she had planned to go to Iona. She left Kew at some time in September 1929 accompanied by a lot of luggage, as well as furniture in packing cases. Mrs. Varney suggested that there was enough to furnish a house. When she finally arrived on Iona, she went into lodgings with a Mrs MacRae in Traymore. Mrs. Macrae told Netta tales of Iona’s mysterious happenings and in return the lodger impressed her with her knowledge of the occult, referred to by Mrs. McRae as 'mystical practices'. Apparently Netta walked across the Island’s beaches and moorland each day, and at night went into trances, trying to make contact Iona’s 'spirits'.
The Abbey Cloisters


    According to the version told of her death by Alasdair Alpin MacGregor[8] in 1955, his information came from friends Lucy Bruce and Iona Cammell, who lived on Iona. The Cammells were part of shipbuilding family, Cammell-Laird.  It lacks some of the more sensational aspects of other accounts, and, rather oddly, landlady Mrs. McRae seems to have been replaced by a Mrs. Cameron. On Sunday 17th November 1929 Netta started to act more strangely.
 “Before long she was installed with the Cameron family, at Traigh Mhor, their little  farm situated lonesomely at some distance from the island’s village and the customary ferrying-place … Time passed: and the strange lady with the strange look in her eyes  and the strange ways seemed to be getting stranger. Mrs Cameron became positively alarmed when she mentioned that, if she went into a trance, she might remain in it for a week or more, and that, in such an event, nothing in the nature of medical aid was to be summoned. Her face now showed nothing of the repose the islanders had noted when she first arrived in their midst. That expression had given way to one of dire distress; and she now spoke hurriedly, if not indeed a little incoherently. At length she told Mrs Cameron that she must quit the island immediately. She had no time to lose; and she must pack at once. Whence came this urgent call, they could not understand.   No postman had brought her any letter; and nobody could remember her having  received a telegram. Recognising her piteous plight, the kindly Camerons assisted her with packing, though it happened to be a Sunday, and they felt themselves contravening the Fourth Commandment. By late afternoon all her belongings were            ready to be transported to the pier. As she knew there was no way of leaving the island on the Sabbath, she retired to her room to rest. The hours went by; and towards  evening she quietly opened the door to tell Mrs Cameron that her hurried departure no  longer seemed necessary. The household noticed that her face, now weirdly pallid, bore an expression of resignation rather than of distress, as though she had just  emerged from some stupendous ordeal. She had become quite old in a few hours. The    Camerons helped her to unpack, and to settle in once more. Early that night, after chatting pleasantly and rationally with them, she retired to bed.”
There was further concern when Netta’s landlady noticed that the silver jewellery her guest had been wearing had turned black. Another report states that she ‘had to leave for London immediately’,  adding that 'certain people' were disturbing her telepathically, and went on talking incoherently about a 'rudderless boat that went across the sky' and 'messages she had received from other worlds'’.
When her landlady knocked on Netta’s door on Monday morning there was no reply. She was missing.  Her body was found a day later close to an ancient village ruined village. Later, stories began to circulate about sightings of strange blue lights near to where she was found, with further reports of a mysterious man wearing a cloak.
The Fairy Mound


   She was found on the Fairy Mound to the south of Loch Staonaig.  Apart from a black cloak she was naked, lying on a large cross cut from the turf with a knife which was nearby, but some reports say she was holding a knife, or, alternatively, a large steel knife or ritual dagger was found close by. Aspin MacGregor tells us: “Not until the afternoon did Hector MacLean, of Sligneach, and Hector MacNiven, of Maol Farm, find her. She lay between the Machar and Loch Staonaig, in a hollow in the chilly moor”. Around her neck was a blackened silver chain with a cross and there were scratch marks on her body and her feet and hands were bloody. Her death certificate indicates she died between 10.00pm on 17th and 1.30pm on 19th November 1929. Many versions of the story say her death came through heart failure, but given the wild, raw weather of the location exposure and hypothermia seem more likely causes. She was buried by the islanders on the following Friday.
What really happened has never been established. Some suggest she was schizophrenic and had imagined she was being psychically attacked. Perhaps it was some form of suicide. However, her good friend Dion Fortune wrote of her in Psychic Self Defence;
            “ … it appeared to me that ‘Mac’, as we called her, was going into very deep waters, even when I knew her, and that there was certain to be trouble sooner or later. She had evidently been on an astral expedition from which she never returned. She was not a  good subject for such experiments, for she suffered from some defect of the pituitary body. Whether she was the victim of a psychic attack, whether she merely stopped out  on the astral too long and her body, of poor vitality in any case, became chilled lying thus exposed in mid-winter, or whether she slipped into one of the elemental   kingdoms that she loved … who shall say? The information at our disposal is insufficient for an opinion to be formed. The facts,   however, cannot be questioned, and remain to give sceptics food for thought.”

In 2001 author Dr. Ron Halliday, a leading investigator into the paranormal who has written about the case in his book Paranormal Scotland re-examined the case of Netta Fornario and believed she may have been 'killed by black magic'. He came to a similar conclusion to Dion Fortune’s, that she may have been ‘out of her depth.’
As in all cases like this, cold logic and common sense can often provide a less than mystical solution. But death by telepathy? Death by psychic attack? Could it be possible? The CIA thought so and invested in such a project. Does telepathy work? As forteans we keep an open mind, but there is a coda to Netta Fornario’s sad tale. It came from Netta’s father in Italy. On December 5 1929, The Scotsman reported: "He was unable to account for his fears, yet could not shake off the feeling that something was wrong. Two days later a telegram arrived announcing that the dead body of his daughter had just been discovered."
We shall never know what really happened. But as Lord Byron said; “Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil.”

 FURTHER READING:
Geoff Holder’s Guide to Mysterious Iona The History Press; 2007
In British Library there is Memories of the Deep: Four sea idyllswritten by M. Fornario, author Gertrude Bracey, London: Boosey & Co, 1917.

NOTES:




[1]Unusual for a Witch, according to www.doreenvaliente.org “Doreen made posthumous history in June 2013 when the city of Brighton and Hove awarded her a blue plaque to commemorate her life and honour her achievements. The plaque is the first in the world awarded to a Witch and the building upon which it has been placed, where she lived for many years in Brighton, is thought to be the first council block in the UK to have a blue plaque as well, making double history. “

[2]Fortune, Dion:Psychic Self Defence Red Wheel/Weiser; Revised edition edition (2001)

[3]Still going strong today, you can join The Rosicrucian Order, AMORC, which is a community of Seekers who study and practice the metaphysical laws governing the universe www.rosicrucian.org

[4]The Book of Kells (Irish: Leabhar Cheanannais) sometimes known as the Book of Columba, is an illuminated manuscript Gospel book in Latin, containing the four Gospels of the New Testament together with various prefatory texts and tables.

[5] Iona was one of only two Augustinian nunneries established in Scotland. The other was at Perth. The nuns wore black habits; the Gaelic word for nun is cailleach-dhubh, ‘the veiled and black-robed woman’. The locals on Iona called their nunnery an eaglais dhubh, ‘the black church’.

[6] A good example of Netta’s writing, her review of an opera, The Immortal Hour - by Rutland Boughton (1878-1960)can be found at www.servantsofthelight.org/knowledge/fornario-immortal.htmlShe also appeared in the Occult Reviewin 1928 where she published ‘The Use of Imagination in Art, Science and Business’

[7]Netta Fornario’s inheritance notice can be seen at http://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz 

[8]MacGregor, Alasdair Alpin see his The Ghost Book: Strange Hauntings in Britain, Robert Hale, London 1955.

YOU CAN READ ALL KINDS OF OTHER STRANGE PHENOMENA IN 
THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF UNEXPLAINED PHENOMENA by Roy Bainton
Published in the UK by Constable & Robinson, USA by the Running Press Inc. 600 pages of bizarre mystery.


The Vanished Lighthouse Keepers

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The Weird Mystery of Eilean Mor

The Eilean Mor Lighthous at night
What happened to the lighthouse keepers?

Eilean Mor is one of the principal islands in the Flannan Isles, also known as the Seven Hunters, a lonely cluster about 20 miles (32km)  west of the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland. Although it means ‘Big Island’ in Gaelic, at 39 acres this isn’t a massive place, but for sailors a forbidding one. It rises 288 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, with perilous sheer cliffs up to 150 foot high. It was here in 1895 that work began on a 75 foot high lighthouse, and from 1899 it commenced beaming a guiding light to sailors up to 25 miles out at sea. In 1971 the last crew of keepers left and the light was automated, and it still shines on today.
 More fiction and speculation has been churned out over this genuinely strange story of vanished lighthouse men than any other island-bound maritime mystery. I was cajoled by some of its less steadfast aspects when writing about it several years ago, relying on versions told by such romancers as Vincent Gaddis in his none the less fascinating Invisible Horizons (1965).  Some of what has been passed off as fact for the past century appears to be anything but. This is regrettable, because the story needs no such embellishment – its truth stands alone in its genuine weirdness. 

As well as Gaddis and others, we can blame the colourful imagination of Wilfrid Wilson Gibson (1878-1962), a prolific poet and close friend of Rupert Brooke. His 1912 ballad, Flannan Isle lies at the root of much of the unnecessary detritus this puzzle has gathered down the decades.
Yet, as we crowded through the door,
We only saw a table spread
 For dinner, meat, and cheese and bread;
            But, all untouched; and no-one there,
            As though, when they sat down to eat,
            Ere they could even taste,
Alarm had come, and they in haste
            Had risen and left the bread and meat,
            For at the table head a chair
Lay tumbled on the floor.
There are shades of Conan Doyle’s fictitious rendering of the Mary Celeste here, and things are not helped by a later stanza which goes:

And how the rock had been the death
            Of many a likely lad:
            How six had come to a sudden end,
            And three had gone stark mad:
            And one whom we'd all known as friend
            Had leapt from the lantern one still night,
            And fallen dead by the lighthouse wall:

Eerie hints of creeping madness, shifting personalities, the wages of loneliness and isolation. Meat and drink to a poet. The three keepers, James Ducat, Donald McArthur and Thomas Marshall, were at the end of a 14-day shift in December 1900 but had been prevented from leaving the island due to bad weather. A passing ship, the steamer Archtor, had found it odd on the night of December 15 that the lighthouse, which was normally visible for 25 miles, was unlit. When the relief tender, the Hesperus, set off to the island, the weather, with mountainous seas, had been so bad that they had to stand off for some time, but when they did finally get a man ashore, the truth became evident, as this telegram of 26th December 1900 reveals, sent by Captain Harvie, the master of the Hesperus, the Lighthouse Tender:
‘A dreadful accident has happened at Flannans. The three Keepers, Ducat, Marshall and the occasional have disappeared from the island. On our arrival there this afternoon no sign of life was to be seen on the Island. Fired a rocket but, as no response was made, managed to land Moore, who went up to the Station but found no Keepers there. The clocks were stopped and other signs indicated that the accident must have happened about a week ago. Poor fellows they must been blown over the cliffs or drowned trying to secure a crane or something like that. Night coming on, we could not wait to make something as to their fate. I have left Moore, MacDonald, Buoymaster and two Seamen on the island to keep the light burning until you make other arrangements. Will not return to Oban until I hear from you. I have repeated this wire to Muirhead in case you are not at home. I will remain at the telegraph office tonight until it closes, if you wish to wire me.
Master, HESPERUS’
All the real, genuine documentation of this case, including the above, is available at the Northern Lighthouse Board’s website www.nlb.org.uk/However, you’ll not find any of the other revelations which have clung to the yarn as told by Gaddis and others. One of the strangest is Gaddis’s inclusion of entries from the log kept by the lighthouse men, the source of which he attributes to an article by Ernest Fallon in the August 1929 edition of True Strange Stories magazine. It was by repeating these entries when writing this story some years ago that I incurred the displeasure of the Northern Lighthouse Board. Regrettably, the following words are still being peddled by many ‘unexplained’ websites today: 
December 12th: Gale north by northwest. Sea lashed to fury. Never seen such a storm. Waves very high. Tearing at lighthouse. Everything shipshape. James Ducat irritable. (Later): Storm still raging, wind steady. Stormbound. Cannot go out. Ship passing sounding foghorn. Could see lights of cabins. Ducat quiet. McArthur crying.
December 13th: ‘Storm continued through night. Wind shifted west by north. Ducat quiet. McArthur praying. (Later:) Noon, grey daylight. Me, Ducat and McArthur prayed.’
December 15th: ‘Storm ended, sea calm, God is over all.’

The island from the air: A wild and lonely place.
There are distinct echoes of Gibson’s poem here; ‘And three had gone stark mad’ Gaddis and others claim that these entries were all written in Marshall’s handwriting. The archives of the Northern Lighthouse Board do not corroborate this at all, the handwriting was Ducat’s, and the log seems to have only been kept up to the 13th. There were some final brief notes by Ducat in chalk on the slate written about weather conditions at 9am on the 15th. Whatever befell the men possibly occurred between then and the night of the 15th. Nautical logs are not personal diaries. Any man writing about praying or God, passing facile comments about his shipmate’s moods or even using phrases such as ‘sea lashed to a fury’ would have faced more than a few questions from his practical, no-nonsense superiors ashore. Vincent Gaddis was a decent and highly entertaining writer, but his penchant for invention included such contrived conversations as ‘Looking forward to shore leave?’ asked the skipper, smiling. ‘Aye’, Moore answered, ‘It’ll be good to be back on land for a space where you can see people, talk, and have a drink or two. ’Tis pretty lonely there some times.’ Gaddis wasn’t there; how could he describe a ‘smiling’ Captain or report conversations? These little verbal excursions in his work might add colour, but they’re bogus, and none of these words appear in any of the documents held by the Northern Lighthouse Board.
Yet my original resort to the creepy log book entries had another result. In 2006 I was contacted by none other than Cyril Nicholas Henty-Dodd, (1935 –2009), better known as Simon Dee, one-time high profile British television interviewer and disc jockey who hosted a twice-weekly BBC TV chat show, Dee Time in the late 1960s. (Some suggest that that Dee was the model for the Mike Myers character Austin Powers). Dee was keen to produce a documentary about the Eilean Mor mystery, but when I stripped it back to its factual basics, mysterious though they are, he expressed his ‘bitter disappointment’ and I heard nothing more.
The mystery of the log entries remains. Where did Ernest Fallon get these from? We must conclude that they are an invention. If not, and somewhere they exist, then they are genuinely strange. But Fallon wasn’t alone in his embroidery. Children’s author Carey Miller in his 1977 Mysteries of The Unknown includes the story that when the man, Moore, is sent onto the island from the Hesperus, when he ‘opened the door of the lighthouse three huge birds of an unknown species flew out to sea from the top of the light’. There is no evidence to support this. As ever, for the newspapers of the time this sinister event presented a field day for inventive journalism. It began with a report in The Scotsman dated December 28 1900, stating that one of the cranes on the island had been swept away by the severe weather. The official report contradicts this. Then the Oban Timesweighed in with three misnomers on January 5 1901. They reported that there was a half-eaten meal on the table in the lighthouse, (other reports even tell us that it was mutton and potatoes) that a chair had been pushed back as if its occupant had arisen in haste, and that there was an oilskin found trapped in the wreckage of the island’s west crane. The first two claims are entirely spurious and the third appears nowhere else, and in any case, even if the sea had swept away one of the keepers, the loss of his oilskin seems unlikely.
            So the question will remain forever; what really happened? All manner of suggestions have been presented down the years. The paranormal lobby have been busy creating legends of the ‘strange atmosphere’ and peculiar history of the island. Even piracy has been suggested – although they would have been a pretty dumb bunch of Jack Sparrows to attack Eilean Mor. The inevitable sea monster has been cajoled from the deep, time slips, other dimensions, and the evergreen favourite, alien abduction. What a bunch of Venusian tourists would want with three horny-handed Scottish lighthouse keepers is beyond imagination. If their disappearance was not supernatural, then the culprit must surely be the sea. Even though the lighthouse stood over 300 feet above sea level (91m) the sea at Eilean Mor was so violent at times that spray lashed the top of the light. The jetty was reported as battered and the rails were twisted. Perhaps two men had gone out in a storm and a third had seen a huge wave coming and gone out to warn them, with tragic results. We’ll never know. Freak waves are not restricted to Pacific tsunamis. When I sailed through a hurricane in the Pacific, I had no idea how high the waves were, but they towered above the ship like mountains. Two vessels in the South Atlantic in 2001, the MS Bremen and Caledonian Star, both encountered 98ft (30m) freak waves. Bridge windows on both ships were smashed, and all power and instrumentation lost. In 2004, the U.S. Naval Research Laboratory ocean-floor pressure sensors detected a freak wave caused by Hurricane Ivan in the Gulf of Mexico. From peak to trough it was around 91ft high (27.7m), and around 660ft (200m) long. The open sea can be a terrifying place.
The mystery of Eilean Mor continues to inspire creative writers and musicians. Part of Gibson’s poem is quoted in Horror of Fang Rock, an episode in the Dr. Who series (complete with the misspelling ‘Flannen’). The Genesis song The Mystery of Flannan Isle Lighthouse is featured on the band’s compilation Archive 1967-75. The missing men inspired Hector Zazou's song Lighthouse, subsequently performed by Siouxsie on the album Songs From the Cold Seas, and the opera The Lighthouse by Peter Maxwell Davies is also based on the incident.
In 2000, exactly 100 years after they disappeared, silence fell for one minute on nearby Breasclete, west of Lewis, in honour of the three men, in an event covered by the BBC in Scotland.   A reporter with BBC Radio nan Gaidheal in Stornoway, Alasdair Macaulay,  who had researched the incident, said: ‘I have heard about a woman at Crowlista in Uig who had been hanging out her washing on that day. She was said to have seen a massive wall of water coming in from the west. She apparently ran back to the house as this large wave hit the shore. Her washing and washing line were said to have been swept away.’
Such is the all-consuming power of the sea; merciless, inhuman, and forever mysterious.

There's more mysteries like this than you can shake a stick at in the 600 pages of  THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF UNEXPLAINED PHENOMENA
(Constable & Robinson.Little Brown, UK) or Running Press Inc. USA.

Dani de Morón y Kike Terron - Bulerías

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Now that Paco de Lucia has gone, who might replace him? This man is a good contender. I watch this then turn to my own guitar like a man who has had his fingers run over by a tank. If only I'd realised, 50 years ago, that Chuck Berry was just a saint. The true Gods are where they've always been, in Spain. How liberating for your soul must it be to be able to sit down and play like this?

Lies and Politicians

Culture and Politicians?

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 Vote for me: I'm cultured.

It is generally expected of local press contributors in the run-up to this election to steer clear of mainstream political bias and let the candidates fight it out among themselves. Yet there are other facets to the lives of party leaders which get overlooked when we’re trying to assess their overall character. In a recent interview in a major Sunday broadsheet, UKIP’s Nigel Farage made this proud boast: “I don’t read books, I don’t watch films and I don’t listen to music.”

FARAGE: HIS ONLY CULTURE IS THE YEAST IN HIS BEER.

Well, life must be dull with only politics, cigarettes and a pint. So, what about the musical tastes of Messrs. Cameron, Miliband and Clegg? David Cameron’s all-time favourite record is, surprisingly enough, Benny Hill’s Ernie,The Fastest Milkman in The West.  He also loves This Charming Man, by The Smiths. What a broad taste they must have in the dormitory at Eton. Yet The Smiths are politically diametrically opposed to everything our PM stands for, to the point where Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr made the futile announcement “I forbid Cameron to like our music”. Yet Call Me Dave also likes Bob Dylan, REM and Radiohead. And his favourite book? The River Cottage Cookbook by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall.
Ed Miliband’s favourite book is The Hitchhiker’s Guide to The Galaxy. He’s musically moved by South Africa’s national anthem, Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika,William Blake’s Jerusalem and Robbie Williams singing Angels. As for Downing Street’s classroom monitor, Nick Clegg, his favourite book is The Leopard, by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa - a novel about a Sicilian nobleman. He loves David Bowie’s Life on Mars and as well as a bit of Schubert and Chopin, shakes his booty to Waka Waka, the 2010 World Cup song by Shakira.

THE 'BOY BAND' FROM HELL?

I think we can guess at the cultural choices of Scottish and Welsh nationalists. There’ll be a few jigs and reels, bagpipes and choirs involved, a bit of Robbie Burns and maybe some Dylan Thomas.

So, we all have a civilizing side to our character. Even politicians. It might be movies, X-Box games, sport, YouTube, 50 Shades of Grey, Beethoven, hip-hop or Heavy Metal. Alongside our other beliefs, political or religious, they all go into making us who we are. Britain has given the world so much culturally, so it comes as a sad surprise to learn that our universities are suffering with major cuts to the Humanities - literature, philosophy, etc., with all the new funding going to business and science. Education Secretary Nicky Morgan has already advised students to avoid the arts. Which inevitably takes us back to Mr. Farage’s non-cultural claim. 

I couldn’t help thinking of Herman Goering’s outburst “When I hear the word culture, I reach for my gun.” (a line written originally by German playwright Hanns Johst for Hitler’s birthday in 1933.) Maybe, therefore, after the election, whoever is in government might take on Groucho Marx’s version: “When I hear the word culture, I reach for my wallet.” 


The Holy Lance PART 1

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Himmler’s Holy Lance:

Part 1: 

‘The characteristic thing about these people
[modern-day followers of the early Germanic religion]
 is that they rave about the old Germanic heroism,
about dim prehistory, stone axes, spear and shield,
but in reality are the greatest cowards that can be imagined.’

Adolf Hitler Mein Kampf (1926)



There are probably many people who think that Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code is real history. There are others who get what history they know from Indiana Jones, and when it comes to the Nazis and the occult, a man called Trevor Ravenscroft, who we shall meet eventually, has much to answer for.
The Third Reich, which Hitler proclaimed would last 1,000 years, ended in ruins in just less than 15 years. One would think, when considering the number of books, films and documentaries it has spawned over the past 70 years that what Hitler actually meant was that we’d no doubt remember the Reich for a millennium. Black SS uniforms and swastikas continue as entertainment dynamite. There is nothing in humanity’s vast lexicon of evildoing to match 1933-1945; the period remains as an inexplicable phenomena of the first order.
However, the melodramatic portrayal of the Nazi regime, due to such strategic military innovations as Blitzkrieg, and the cinematic propaganda of Leni Riefenstahl (1902-2003), gives new generations of viewers the impression that the Third Reich was a highly organised, tight-knit machine which, had it not been for the last massive push of D-Day, might well have seen us all speaking German today. The reverse is arguably true. Each member of that gang of inglorious bast*rds, Hitler, Himmler, Bormann, Heydrich, Eichmann, Hess, et al, occupied their own nasty individual spheres of competing influence, each man played off against the other by Hitler. Germany’s early military success was down to a combination of rapid and efficient re-armament, conscription and an audacious, traditional generation of dedicated Patrician generals and field marshals who obeyed orders. If their arrogant leader had only listened to them, he might not have ended up as a crispy corpse outside his bunker in 1945.  The Fuhrer himself may have swayed the masses with his vitriolic oratory, but if we take a closer look, it becomes apparent that once he’d achieved power, he became a lazy man. He slept in late on his many retreats to his hideaway, the Berghof at Obersalzberg, where he spent many hours watching cowboy films. When German troops on the coast of Normandy saw the massive D-Day armada approaching, the High Command tried frantically to inform Hitler in Berlin, but was told by his staff that he was in bed and they didn’t dare to disturb him. Hitler was probably dreaming, something he had done ever since leaving the trenches in World War 1. Unfortunately, his charismatic messianic abilities transformed his nocturnal reveries into a waking nightmare for the world.
Much has been written and filmed about the Nazis and the occult, and even I believed a lot of it until recently. But as new research and documentation comes to light, it seems that much of the ‘Hitler possessed by demons’ literature is nonsense. He was just a very bad man. Yet there is one undeniably central character in the regime that lingers on as the very epicentre of all the stories of Nazi mysticism, and he remains as fascinating as ever; Heinrich Himmler (1900-1945).
His Swedish masseur, Felix Kersten, (1898-1960) was probably as close to the Reichsfuhrer-SS as anyone in the Reich. Yet Kersten held no misapprehensions about the nature of his client. In his memoirs, The Kersten Memoirs, 1940-1945, (1956) he gives a chilling description of the architect of the Final Solution:


            ‘His eyes were extraordinarily small, and the distance between them narrow, rodent-like. If you spoke to him, those eyes would never leave your face; they would rove over your countenance, fix your eyes, and in them would be an expression of waiting, watching, stealth … his ways were the ophidian ways of the coward, weak, insincere and immeasurably cruel. Himmler’s mind was not a 20th century mind. His character was medieval, feudalistic, Machiavellian, evil.’
Apart from his predilection for mass murder, many of this failed chicken farmer’s hobbies would sit easy with today’s generation of ‘New Age’ enthusiasts. He was well into the legend of Atlantis, a vegetarian who thought he was the reincarnation of Germany’s King Heinrich ‘The Fowler’ (876-936 AD) and was a dedicated believer in homeopathic and herbal medicines. He saw to it that Germany’s entire mineral water bottling and distribution industry was nationalized under the SS economic administration department. He inflicted a diet of porridge and leeks on his Aryan SS corps, and made sure that every concentration camp had a herb garden.
The Nazi view of science is, in retrospect, ridiculous. They replaced psychology with an occult gumbo which mixed a helping of the mysticism of George Gurdjieff, (1877-1949) the theosophy of Madame Blavatsky (1831-1891) and all the archetypes of Nordic mythology. Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity was utterly discounted for one main reason – it was ‘a Jewish theory’ therefore had no value. Newtonian physics were rubbished and were substituted by a cosmic force called vril, with a nutty geological concept known as ‘the hollow earth theory’, and the central pillar of National Socialist pseudo-science, the wacky doctrine of eternal ice. The immensely popular Welteislehre (World Ice Theory), also known as Glazial-Kosmogonie (Glacial Cosmogony) was proposed by Austria’s Hans Hörbiger (1860-1931), a much-respected steam engine designer,  engineer and inventor. In 1894 Hörbiger patented a new design for a blast furnace blowing engine replacing the old and easily-damaged leather flap valves. His device had a steel valve which eliminated all the drawbacks of existing valve designs. This invention led to efficient steel production and greater productivity in mining. Both the global network of gas exchange and high-pressure chemistry would have been impossible without the Hörbiger Valve, and consequently it made him a rich man, able to indulge himself in flights of fancy of a much less sound scientific nature.
Hörbiger received his World Ice Theory in a ‘vision’ in 1894. The hypothesis was that ice was the basic substance of all cosmic processes, and ice moons, ice planets, and the ‘global ether’ (also made of ice) had determined the entire development of the universe.
After his ‘vision’ he claimed ‘I knew that Newton had been wrong and that the sun’s gravitational pull ceases to exist at three times the distance of Neptune.’ Together with a schoolteacher and amateur astronomer, Philipp Fauth, who he met in  1898, he worked on the theory which was published as Glazial-Kosmogoniein 1912. It had millions of followers, even in the UK.
Both Adolf Hitler and Heinrich Himmler were ardent world ice supporters, and even after Hörbiger’s death in 1931, Welteislehre retained its place on the Nazis’ mad menu of rancid philosophical, racial and quasi-scientific dishes. However, there is evidence that, despite Himmler’s closeness to Hitler, and his position as the second most important Nazi in the regime, in private the Fuhrer had little time for the SS leader’s fascination with research into the ancient past, and especially with Himmler’s imposition of so much mysticism onto the SS. Himmler had been hell-bent (with some success) on transforming the Black Corps into a society of ‘Teutonic Knights’ complete with pagan rituals. Church weddings were replaced with SS wedding ceremonies, and grooms had to seek Himmler’s permission to marry. The Christening ceremony was substituted with an SS equivalent, with salt and bread among the pagan trimmings. Hitler once commented that his Reich had gone to all the trouble of shedding and destroying Christian religious mythology yet now his ‘True Heinrich’ wanted to substitute it all with more ‘nonsense’. According to Albert Speer, Hitler once joked that ‘To think someday I might be turned into an SS Saint! I would turn in my grave! We really should do our best to cover up this primitive past.’
Yet Himmler had worked long and hard building up the formidable SS, and whatever crackpot schemes he wished to develop went ahead. As the man with a card index on just about everyone and anyone who crossed his sinister path, he had the power and the facilities, and as his organisation led the field in the biggest state-sponsored robbery in history, the dispossession of millions of Jewish families, he had the funds.
Himmler’s favourite brainchild, which he founded with Herman Wirth and Richard Walther Darré on July 1, 1935 was the Ahnenerbe. It was an SS offshoot which promoted itself as a ‘Study Society for Intellectual Ancient History’. Its aim was to research the anthropological and cultural history of the Aryan race. Himmler’s aim was to prove that mythological and prehistoric Nordic populations had ruled the world. This led to various Ahnenerbeexpeditions to the most unlikely places, such as Tibet and Antarctica.  One of the aspects of history which fascinated Himmler involved holy relics, and one of the most important was the so-called ‘Holy Lance’, later to be dubbed by British writer Trevor Ravenscroft as ‘The Spear of Destiny’.

This is supposed to be the spear with which the Roman centurion, Longinus, pierced the side of Christ during the crucifixion. Naturally, to fit Nazi ideology, Longinus, who is not mentioned in the Bible, would be declared a German, and the weapon he used to ease Christ’s suffering on the cross would be passed from hand to hand among the high and mighty throughout history. It would become connected to the careers of German and European leaders like Frederick Barbarossa, Charlemagne, Napoleon and Otto the Great, among others. The legend has it that anyone who held possession of the ‘Holy Lance’ held power over the world.
Today Longinus is a saint, and has two days when he is remembered. October 16 in the Eastern Orthodox Church, and Catholic Church, (Latin and Eastern Rites) and on October 22 in the Armenian Apostolic Church. Although his name does not appear in any works until the 4thcentury, the following passage from the Bible describes his merciful act:

King James Bible John 19:31-37:

31: The Jews therefore, because it was the preparation, that the bodies should not remain upon the cross on the Sabbath day, (for that Sabbath day was an high day,) besought Pilate that their legs might be broken, and that they might be taken away.
32: Then came the soldiers, and brake the legs of the first, and of the other which was crucified with him.
            33: But when they came to Jesus, and saw that he was dead already, they brake not his legs:
34: But one of the soldiers with a spear pierced his side, and forthwith came there out blood and water.
35: And he that saw it bare record, and his record is true: and he knoweth that he saith true, that ye might believe.
36: For these things were done, that the scripture should be fulfilled, A bone of him shall not be broken.
            37: And again another scripture saith, They shall look on him whom they pierced


Whereas you’ll not find Longinus by name in the Bible, you can see him in the 1965 Biblical epic movie The Greatest Story Ever Told where he’s played (somewhat hilariously, as an un-named Roman soldier) by none other than John Wayne. In the movie he doesn’t have a spear, but in a Death Valley drawl utters ‘Truly this man was the Son of God …’ making this one of cinema’s most memorable moments …


PART 2: THE FUHRER GETS HIS LANCE: coming SOON.
READ THE FULL STORY IN

600 pages of mystery: published by 
Constable & Robuinson/Little, Brown, UK, 
Running Press Inc. in the USA.

HIMMLER'S HOLY LANCE Part 2

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Himmler's Holy Lance Part 2:

The logbook
of a Relic





Trevor Ravenscroft (1921-1989) served as an officer with the Commandos in World War II and spent four years in Nazi prison camps after he was captured attempting to assassinate General Erwin Rommel in North Africa in 1941. Later, as a journalist and historian, he devoted much of his time to researching arcane and occult subjects, and was
Trevor Ravenscroft
fascinated by the early life of Adolf Hitler. His feeling for history, which he said was gained in a state of transcendent consciousness while imprisoned and achieving ‘higher levels of consciousness’ in Nazi Concentration Camps might not have been the best academic foundation for the work he produced.  Yet those bleak years led him to study the legend of world destiny which has grown up around the Spear of Longinus. He was also fascinated by the influence of black magic, and wrote a further book on the quest for the Holy Grail.
His greatest influence, and much of his contested information, came via a Viennese exile called Dr. Walter Johannes Stein (1891-1957). Here’s where it becomes a little creaky; Stein was undoubtedly a scholar, but he claimed to use ‘white magic’ to ‘clairvoyantly investigate’ historical events. When your primary sources become disembodied spirits, then anything can happen. His 1928 book The Ninth Century: World History in the Light of the Holy Grail was of great interest to Ravenscroft, and the possibility that Stein had known Hitler in his lost years in Vienna from 1909 to 1913 was the missing link in the occult chain he was attempting to complete. Ravenscroft firmly believed that Dr. Stein, whilst a student at the University of Vienna, was deeply into the occult and had met with Hitler, who was supposedly living in a flophouse and surviving off the proceeds of his lacklustre water colours.

            The trouble with Ravenscroft’s Spear of Destiny is that when it was published, by the suitably named house of Neville Spearman, he would have preferred it to have come out as a novel. Yet it contained so much ostensible ‘research’ that it was issued as a history book. That said, it has been a massive best-seller and remains a fascinating read, with some genuinely dark, dramatic scenarios, yet the problem is, a lot of the ‘facts’ don’t stack up.
The Vienna Hitler experienced in his so-called ‘destitute’ years was a great centre of intellectual activity. It was the workshop of Freud and the philosopher Wittgenstein, the place where Gustav Mahler composed and conducted one of Europe’s greatest orchestras. Yet the rising tide of anti-Semitism lapped around their ankles, forcing Freud to escape to London whilst Mahler denied his Jewish ancestry by converting to Catholicism. Vienna was the perfect place for a dedicated student of the black arts to practice and prosper, and one such specialist in the darker side of ancient pan-German folklore was Guido von List (1848-1919). List crops up from time to time in the various legends about the occult roots of the Nazi party, but later members of his circle fell out with the Nazis because List’s mystical views on Aryan history did not match Himmler’s. List’s ideas, and his research into ancient runes, (the ‘sig’ rune, ϟ became the emblem of the SS ϟϟ) were used to found a Masonic society, which later embraced National Socialism. Subsequently, numerous members of the NSDAP embraced List’s ideas and writings in furthering their own political agendas.

Trevor Ravenscroft suggests that List was the inspiration for Hitler when, in the 1920s, the imprisoned Fuhrer designed the Nazi flag with the swastika. However, it was already in use by the mystical Thule Society. Between 1919 and 1921 Hitler frequented the library of a dentist from Sternberg, Dr. Friedrich Krohn, a very active member of the Thule Society.  Dr. Krohn was named by Hitler in Mein Kampf as the designer of a flag similar to the one he conjured up. 
According to Ravenscroft, Dr. Johannes Stein’s connection with Hitler is alleged to have taken place through an occult Viennese bookseller, Ernst Pretzche, in whose shop ‘in the old quarter by the Danube’ the future Fuhrer was a regular browser. It was there that Stein found a copy of Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival, which Dr. Stein found very useful as he was researching the same story for his work on the ninth century. In the book’s margins were handwritten annotations; looking them over Dr. Stein was both fascinated and repelled:
‘This was no ordinary commentary but the work of somebody who had achieved more than a working knowledge of the black arts! The unknown commentator had found the key to unveiling many of the deepest secrets of the Grail, yet obviously spurned the Christian ideals of the Knights and delighted in the devious machinations of the Anti-Christ. It suddenly dawned on him that he was reading the footnotes of Satan!’
These mysterious scribbled footnotes were, apparently, Hitler’s.

Ravenscroft tells us that Dr.Stein and Hitler went to see the Spear of Destiny together in Vienna’s Hofburg Imperial Museum. Stein was no stranger to the relic; he’d seen it before and was always deeply moved by it, claiming that it inspired in him the emotion expressed in the motto of the knights of the holy grail: Durch Mitleid wissen, ‘through compassion to self-knowledge.’
Now it gets strange again. Ravenscroft, when writing about Stein’s research regime, foregoes the usual haunts of the historians, such as archives and libraries. He informs us that Stein studied in something named the ‘Cosmic Chronicle’ a place where past present and future were united in a higher dimension of time. So whatever this psychic location was, as Stein had used the method, Ravenscroft, in his introduction, maintains that the peculiar Viennese boffin taught the same techniques to him, thus clearing the way to issue forth with a stream of unverifiable data. As you can’t footnote or cite clairvoyance, whatever Ravenscroft wrote we have to take on extremely fragile trust. Here then, is an amalgam of his and other researchers, knowledge of the Holy Lance’s history.

The Holy Lance: A Chronology

Constantine the Great (272 – 337), the first Roman emperor to convert to Christianity, also known as Constantine I or Saint Constantine, was Roman Emperor from 306 to 337. Constantine gave his mother, Helena, unlimited access to the imperial treasury in order to locate the relics of Judeo-Christian tradition. In 326 Helena made her way Palestine. Legend has it that she excavated a site where she discovered three different crosses. According to various Roman sources, Helena was looking for solid proof that the crosses she’d discovered were those used at Christ’s crucifixion. She selected a woman who was close to death. There are echoes of Goldilocks and the Three Bears here … apparently, the sick woman touched the first cross, no luck … then she touched the second cross, no sign of improvement in her health. But the the third and final cross was just right; whatever her ailments, she suddenly fully recovered. And so, Helena declared the third cross to be the True Cross. It must have been absolutely enormous, because today there are purported bits of it in churches all around the globe. Constantine ordered the building of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre on the site of discovery, and wherever Helena made more finds, churches were also built. There were other claims that Helena also found the nails used in the crucifixion. Due to their supposed miraculous power, she allegedly had one placed in the bridle of Constantine’s horse, and another in his helmet.
The Spear of Longinus was unearthed by Helena at the same time and place as the Holy Nails and the True Cross, and was later buried at Antioch to prevent its capture by the Saracens.
It had become transformed into a prime religious relic which had pierced the flesh and absorbed the blood of Jesus, and seemed to be ample proof of Christ’s death and his subsequent resurrection.
According to Ravenscroft, Hitler visited the Hofburg many times following his first sight of the lance with Stein. ‘He was excited to find that in century after century the astonishing legend of the Spear had been fulfilled for good and evil’. Although Himmler had employed scholars to research the history of the lance, their results were not as thorough as those gained through Dr. Stein’s ‘unique method of historical research involving ‘Mind Expansion’.’ So the richly textured Spear history issuing forth from Stein’s ‘Cosmic Chronicle’ offers some startling revelations. This ‘historical’ information from beyond the veil is doubtlessly rich fodder for X-Box or PlayStation games, but its veracity remains dubious. However, it’s dark, sinister fun, so let’s continue.
Apparently Mauritius, Commander of the Theban Legion (now venerated as St. Maurice) held the spear in his hand when he was martyred for refusing to serve the gods od Rome in 287 AD. Then the Roman Emperor Theodosius (347-395) tamed the Goths with the spear’s assistance.
One of the Holy Lance’s other early owners appears to have been Attila the Hun (?-453). How it came into his possession is unclear. Whilst campaigning in Italy, when his army were starving, he seems to have realised the relic wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Apparently he rode to the gates of Rome and hurled the lance at the feet of the Roman generals, shouting ‘Take back your Holy Lance! It is of no use to me, since I do not know Him that made it holy.’
Justinian

In 529 AD the Emperor Justinian (482-565) is claimed to have brandished the spear aloft as he closed down the School of Athens, an event which is often cited as ‘the end of Antiquity’.
It was not until the ‘Anonymous Pilgrim of Piacenza’ St. Antoninus of Piancenza (570) visited Jerusalem that the Spear appears again. In his itinerary,  Itinerarium Antonini Placentini) he wrote that he saw in the basilica of Mount Sion ‘the crown of thorns with which Our Lord was crowned and the lance with which He was struck in the side’. Then comes the first mention of Longinus. In the Laurentian Library at Florence there is a manuscript from the year 586, illuminated by one Rabulas detailing the opening of Christ’s side, and the illustration of the Roman soldier thrusting his lance has above it in Greek characters LOGINOS.
 In 615 a lieutenant of the Persian King Khosrau II captured Jerusalem and spirited away the Holy Relics, including the Cross and Spear. According to the 7th-century Greek Christian chronicle of the world, the Chronicon Paschale, the point of the lance was broken off, and somehow came into the possession of Nicetas, the Patriarch of Constantinople who took it there and deposited it in the church of St. Sophia. Now we have two potential bits of the lance which somewhat confuses the story. Now the legend starts to become very German. Hitler must have been over the moon when he discovered that his early favourite military hero, General Charles Martel (686-741) a.k.a. ‘The Hammer’ and the grandfather of Charlemagne, had held the Holy Lance and actually used it as a weapon in the Battle of Poitiers in 732 AD, which defeated the Arabs and curtailed the spread of Islam throughout Europe.
Charlemagne
The Hammer’s grandson, Charlemagne (742-814) the first Holy Roman Emperor, later dubbed by the Vatican ‘the Father of Europe’ is supposed to have slept with the spear at his side and carried it into 47 victorious battles.
If Hitler was thrilled by all this, Heinrich Himmler must have suffered moist palpitations when he discovered that the spirit which possessed the Reichsfuhrer-SS as a reincarnation, King Henry The Fowler (876-963) (like Himmler, another chicken fancier) ruled with the spear, as did his successor Holy Roman Emperor Otto the Great (912-973). Then it became the property of Frederick I Barbarossa (1122-1190) who had held the spear in his hands as he kissed the feet of the Pope in Venice. Here the other part of the legend surfaces – lose hold of the spear and you die. Barbarossa dropped it when he was crossing a stream in Sicily, and duly expired.
Barbarossa
Next are the colourful chronicles of the First Crusade and the lance gets a mention on two important dates (which vary slightly depending on sources).
June 10, 1098: Peter Bartholomew, a peasant serving in Count Raymond of Toulouses ‘s army, had gone to the Holy Land from Provence.  He claimed St. Andrew had appeared to him in several visions wherein he revealed the location of the lance. He informed the sceptical spiritual leader of the crusade, papal legate Bishop Adhémar of Le Puy, but he wasn’t impressed. However, Bartholmew led Count Raymond to the Cathedral of St. Peter in Antioch and after a day of strenuous, unproductive  digging, leaped into the hole and produced a piece of iron which he announced as the lance. Raymond was awestruck, regarding it as an authentic relic, and the Crusaders, besieged in Antioch by Emir Kerboga, their confidence renewed, carried it with them into battle against the Muslims.
June 28, 1098: Battle of Orontes: in Antioch, holding the lance aloft, the Crusaders drove back the Turkish army of Emir Kerboga, Attabeg of Mosul, who failed in his mission to recapture the city. The 75,000 strong Muslim army was split by internal dissent and poor morale,  defeated by a just 15,000 ill-equipped and worn-out Crusaders. The Holy Lance’s reputation was growing.
The larger Constantinople relic eventually fell into the possession of the Turks, and Sultan Bajazet II (1447-1481) gave the lance to Pope Innocent VIII (1432-1492) as a peace offering, because the Pope was holding Bajazet’s brother Zisim as prisoner. It has been in the Vatican ever since, preserved under the dome of St. Peter’s. Pope Benedict XIV (1675-1758) sent to Paris for an exact drawing of the spear’s broken-off point of the lance, which when compared with the larger St. Peter’s relic satisfied the Pope that when matched together, the two relics had once formed one single blade.
The second, smaller piece of the lance had been incorporated into an icon, and centuries later, in 1244 it was presented by Baldwin II of Constantinople to the only canonised King of France, St. Louis IX (1214-1270). Louis built Sainte-Chapelle in Paris to house the Holy Lance, the crown of thorns, a fragment of the True Cross, relics of the Virgin Mary, and even the Holy Sponge, which had been dipped in vinegar at Christ’s crucifixion.  As for the missing, larger bit of the lance, there are reports that in 670, various scribes saw it in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. Ravenscroft even has the spear in England at one point, in a story told by William of Malmesbury of the giving of the Holy Lance to King Athelstan of England (893-939). The Athelstan Museum at Malmesbury tells us on their website www.athesltanmuseum.co.uk that:
‘Duke Hugh of the Franks, when seeking the hand of Eadhild, Athelstan’s half-sister, sent Athelstan relics which included the Lance of Charlemagne which had pierced the side of Jesus. He also gave him the Sword of Constantine which had fragments of the cross including a nail set in crystal in the hilt. Athelstan gave these relics to Malmesbury abbey. Others, more bizarre, like the head of St. Branwaladr or St.Samson’s arm he gave to other churches.’
The trail goes cold for a while until Sir John Mandeville, in the work The Travels of Sir John Mandeville, a book circulated between 1357 and 1371, which relates his supposed travels, written in Anglo-Norman French, said that when he was in both Paris and Constantinople in 1357, he saw the blade of the Holy Lance in both locations. The Constantinople piece appears to have been the larger, although much of Mandeville’s work is considered by some scholars to be fanciful. 
In 1411 the son of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV, Sigismund of Luxemburg  (1368-1467) was made Holy Roman Emperor. As Nuremburg was also Sigismund’s birthplace, it was fast becoming the unofficial capital of the Holy Roman Empire. In 1424, Emperor Constantine’s bit of the lance, which enshrined a nail or some portion of a nail of the Crucifixion, became part of the Holy Roman regalia in Nuremburg. In that same year, Sigismund announced:
‘It is the Will of God that the Imperial Crown, Orb, Sceptre, Crosses, Sword and Lance of the Holy Roman Empire must never leave the soil of the Fatherland.’ The relics became known collectively as the Reichkleinodien or Imperial Regalia. They were taken from Prague, his capital, home to his birth place, Nuremberg. The regalia seemed safe for a couple of centuries, but war was never far away.

The Imperial Regalia of the Holy Roman Empire
In the spring of 1796 Napoleon Bonaparte was rampaging his way across Europe and heading in the direction of Nuremburg. The city council became concerned for the safety of the Imperial Regalia. If the spear fell into Bonaparte’s hands – what then? Therefore the treasures were moved to Vienna, where they were entrusted to a certain Baron von Hügel, on the understanding that he’d return the objects as soon as peace had been restored.

Napoleon Bonaparte
The Holy Roman Empire was officially dissolved in 1806, but of course Bonaparte still had unfinished business. In the meantime, Baron von Hügel had pulled off a fast one. Whilst arguments raged over the ownership of the relics, he flogged the entire collection, including the Spear, to the Habsburgs. It wasn’t until Napoleon had been defeated at Waterloo that Nuremberg’s confused and angry councillors realised what had occurred, and asked for their treasures back, but the Austrians hung onto them. And there they stayed until the Anschluss, when Adolf Hitler incorporated Austria into his Reich and took the Spear of Destiny for himself.

Ravenscroft’s telling of the night of March 14 1938 when Hitler and Himmler purloined the Holy Lance and the rest of the regalia is intriguing. He writes as if he was actually there, which he patently was not – and neither was his oracle Dr. Stein, who had fled to England in 1933 to escape Himmler’s arrest warrant. To it remains difficult to prove this is what actually took place. When Hitler returned from visiting his home town, Linz, he moved into his palatial suite at Vienna’s Imperial Hotel. Himmler and a few SS officers had arrived days before to clear the way for taking over Austria by arresting prominent members of the First Republic. The SS rounded up Jews, Communists, Social Democrats, any political dissenters they could find and packed them all off to concentration camps. By 12 March, 70,000 people had been arrested. Himmler had been on the case of the Holy Lance from the day he arrived, and organised troops of the elite SS-Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler as well as Austrian SS platoons under command of Austria’s SS leader, Ernst Kaltenbrunner, to form a ring of steel around the Weltliche Schatzkammer museum in the Hofburg. Every member of the museum staff right down to the cleaners were ‘interviewed’ by Gestapo officials and went into Himmler’s sinister card index. If the bona fide Vienna police force sought to intervene in anyway with enquiries regarding the constitutionally illegitimate cordon around the Hofburg, the SS had carte blanche to shoot to kill.

The SS Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler
Just after midnight on the 14th, Hitler left the Imperial with Himmler and they made their way to the Hofburg where they were met by the General Secretary of the Ahnenerbe, Wolfram von Sievers, the Nazi’s internal ‘legal’ expert (and Martin Bormann’s father in law), Major Walter Buch and Kaltenbrunner. Hitler and Himmler went inside to be alone with the lance, and allegedly Hitler remained in solitude with it for an hour before leaving. Together with Himmler, he now believed he held the key talisman for successful conquest. In October 1938 the treasures of Charlemagne were loaded onto a sealed SS train and returned to Germany, to end up on display in Nuremberg.

Kaltenbrunner with Himmler
            Now the legend is bent and shaped to suit every ‘Nazi occult’ nerd’s fantasies. Web site after website will tell you the following, usually repeated word for word:
‘During the final days of the war in Europe, at 2:10 PM on April 30th, 1945, Lt. Walter William Horn, serial number 01326328, of the United States 7th Army, took possession of the Spear in the name of the United States government.’ Of course, that ‘serial number’ makes it all very official. April 30thfits in neatly with the Spear legend – it’s the same day Hitler committed suicide. Ravenscroft also tells a colourful yarn about General Patton handling and inspecting the spear and barking at those gathered around him, berating German officials who can’t answer his questions. But for the story of the rediscovery of the Holy Roman regalia we need better sources. One of the finest books on the mass theft of European art is Lynn H. Nicholas’s The Rape of Europa (Macmillan, London 1994). What happened is as follows.
            Mayor Liebl of Nuremberg was a dedicated Nazi whose brief was to protect the Reich’s treasures in the city. After heavy bombing in 1944, he consulted Himmler on the security of the treasures. Convinced that they might be discovered by the advancing US Army, Liebl had elaborate bunkers built 80 feet (24m) beneath the 11thcentury Kaiserburg. The bunkers were well disguised because their entrance was through the back of what appeared to be a prosaic little shop on a side street. These tunnels stretched out beneath the city’s streets. Special copper containers were constructed to contain the treasures and were soldered shut.  They were then walled up in great secrecy in one of the passages on March 31 1944 by two city officials, Dr. Lincke and Dr. Friese, in the presence of Mayor Liebl. They were even meticulous enough to build what they thought would be a convincing cover story, that the relics had been taken from the city to Austria, where the SS had sunk them in Lake Zell. To add weight to this smokescreen, they got two SS members to move boxes into a truck and driven away. This way they probably hoped witnesses might verify their story.
On April 16th 1945 US troops entered Nuremberg. Still no doubt in fear of Himmler and losing his confidence over his stewardship of the treasures, Mayor Liebl, fanatical Nazi to the last, burned all his documents and on April 19 committed suicide. He no doubt thought that at least if he was dead, then the treasures might never be discovered.

The Concluding Part 3, 
Death, Patton and The Lance's fate 
To follow. 
And it's all in the Mammoth Book of Unexplained Phenomena
(UK: Constable & Robinson, USA Running Press Inc.)
600 pages of head-scratching weirdness.


Himmler's Holy Lance Part 3

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HIMMLER'S HOLY LANCE PART 3:

DEATH, PATTON AND THE LANCE'S FATE.


When it came to storing money or valuables and committing robbery for Himmler, SS
Josef Spacil
General Josef Spacil (1907-1967) was very busy as the Reich crumbled around him. He knew where all kinds of cash was buried. But as the Americans were now everywhere, on 8 May 1945 he changed into a plain Wehrmacht uniform and tagged along with the retreating 352 Volksgrenadier Division who were surrendering to US troops. For a while he got away with calling himself ‘Sergeant Aue’, but under intense interrogation his true identity soon came out.  The American Counter Intelligence Corps (CIC) officers encouraged him to reveal the location of various caches of cash, gold and buried treasure.
            By June 1945, the CIC in Nuremberg knew there was something amiss. It was known that this city was where Charlemagne’s holy relics had been stored, and suspected that Eberhard Lutze, director of the German Museum, knew more than he was telling. He was taken for some rough interrogation at Ellingen where he told the Liebl cover story about the SS men removing the treasures. Spacil had told the same tale, but after listening to other SS prisoners the Intelligence men were not buying the story. Some had stated that Himmler planned use the Holy Roman relics as symbols of a new German resistance movement. This idea did not sit well with the Americans. SHAEF, (Supreme High Command Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force) had gathered together an impressive crew of art and monuments experts known as the MFAA (Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives), and they knew their business and what to look for.
It was at this point that Lieutenant Walter Horn arrived, a German speaking member of
MFAA who exercised his prodigious interrogation expertise in Nuremberg. He focused in on one of Mayor Liebl’s cronies, Dr. Friese, and played him off against Josef Spacil. Horn banged Friese up for a night of solitary confinement with the threat that he would have to face Spacil the next day. Friese cracked. The Nazis and the SS, the whole Reich, were finished. Himmler was no longer a threat; on May 25th he’d bitten on his cyanide capsule and had gone to hell as the greatest mass murderer in history. Dr. Friese had nothing more to gain by keeping the location of the treasures secret. Not long after, he led the Americans to the secret entry off Panier Platz, and deep below the street the Holy Roman Empire’s regalia was finally revealed.
So the much repeated story of Hitler dying on the day of the discovery is simply untrue. The Fuhrer had been dead almost two months when the Holy Lance was revealed again. And where was Patton’s Third Army in April 1945? Not beneath the streets in Nuremberg. They were miles away at Kronberg Castle in Frankfurt, where they had ordered the Hesse family, including Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, Princess Margaret Hesse, to pack up and move out so that the castle could become a HQ and officer’s club. No doubt Patton, who had a great feeling for poetry and world history, eventually viewed the relics, and with regard to the spear, there is a curiously oblique reference in the first verse of one of his own poems entitled Through a Glass Darkly;

‘Perhaps I stabbed our Saviour
In His sacred helpless side.
Yet I’ve called His name in blessing
When in after times I died.’

So whilst the massed ranks of internet based paranormal/psychic/occult webmasters pass around the legend of the Holy Lance from site to site, complete with all its warts, you can make what you will of the main oracles of all this colourful mythology, Trevor Ravenscroft and his mentor, the psychic Dr. Stein. Without doubt, the true history of the Spear of Destiny is still bizarre and engrossing.
Christoph Lindenberg (1930-1999) was a lecturer at the University of Tuebingen and a prominent German writer and academic whose specialised work was his biography of  Rudolf Steiner(1861 –1925). Steiner was a philosopher and social reformer who also spent a great deal of his life studying spiritualism and mysticism. When Trevor Ravenscroft’s The Spear of Destiny came out in 1973, it was natural that one of its main reviews would be by a German specialist, and Christoph Lindenburg gave the book all the scrutiny he could muster in the journal Die Drie.
One of Lindenberg’s main criticisms is that he doubts whether Dr. Johannes Stein met Hitler at all, and seems dubious about his relationship with Ravenscroft. Stein died in 1957, and The Spear of Destinydidn’t surface until 1973. Because of all the psychic/cosmic/higher consciousness stuff in the book, if you believe in such things, then we have to assume that at some time Stein was dictating to Ravenscroft from the grave. The main problem is that it is easy to believe that Ravenscroft really did intend his book to be simply a historical fantasy novel, yet it was promoted and issued as ‘real’ history, and a dyed in the wool academic like Lindenberg may not have grasped this.  Lindenberg was an expert in the social, mystical and political scene in early 20thcentury Vienna, so it’s hardly surprising that he blows huge holes in Ravenscroft’s narrative about Hitler. Lindenberg really went to town on research for his review by scouring the Vienna Records office. Ravenscroft’s story, for example,  features Adolf Hitler at the Vienna Opera House in the winter of 1910 – 1, naturally, to fit in with the ‘tramp’ image, in the ‘cheap seats’,  sympathizing with the character Klingsor as he watches Wagner’s Parzifal. That might be fine for Quentin Tarantino, but Lindenberg reveals that it was impossible; the first performance of Wagner’s opera did not take place until January 14, 1914, three years later than Ravenscroft’s version.  Although Ravenscroft/Stein even describe its proprietor in a suitably macabre way ‘a malevolent looking man with a bald pate, a partly hunched back and a toad-like figure’ there’s a problem with the bookshop run by Herr Ernst Pretszche. Lindenbergh combed Vienna’s police records and business directories covering the period 1892 to 1920 but found no such shop.

Edward Bulwer-Lytton
Nicholas Goodrick-Clarke is professor of Western Esotericism at the University of Exeter and author of several books including The Occult Roots of Nazism (1985). He also demolishes much of Ravenscroft’s work. For example: ‘The fictional nature of the whole episode surrounding the annotated copy of copy of Parzival is suggested by the similarity of Pretzsche’s obscure bookshop to the one described by Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton in Zanoni, (1842), which probably served Ravenscroft as a literary model.’
Then there’s the image of the early Hitler. The media, past and present, has always loved rags to riches, impotent-to-powerful stories, and the thought of the pre-World War 1 Fuhrer as described by Stein as he sits by the window in Vienna’s Demel Café near the Hofburg Palace (it’s still in business today – great chocolate and fine coffee), reading Hitler’s scribbled notes in the copy of Parzival - ‘the footnotes of Satan’ - fits the bill.  Stein glances through the window and sees ‘the most arrogant face and demonical eyes he had ever seen’. It was Hitler, clad in ‘a sleazy black overcoat, far too big for him’ a starving, ragged pavement artist, flogging post-card size watercolours, toes poking through his tattered shoes ‘beneath frayed trouser ends’.

Still g0ing strong: Cafe Demel, Vienna; Some yummy stuff available here.
If we take on board the comments of the book’s erudite critics, then there appear to be more inaccuracies than you can shake a stick at. Ravenscroft has Stein going to search out Hitler in the ‘flophouse’ he’s living in on Vienna’s Meldemannstrasse, in August, 1912. But when he asks the hostelry’s manager, Herr Kanya, about Hitler’s whereabouts, Kanya informs Stein that Adolf had gone to Spittal-an-der-Drau where an aunt had left him a legacy. Thereafter, Hitler dressed well. But as Christoph Lindenberg points out in his review, whilst it’s true that Johanna Poelzl, Hitler’s aunt, did leave him a legacy, he’d collected in it March 1911, not August 1912.
The most thorough work on Hitler’s early years is by a German, Werner Maser (1922-2007) who in some detail collected all ascertained facts of Hitler’s youth. Among several works covering the period, his 1973 Hitler: Legend Myth and Reality offers many revelations, although other works on the Fuhrer by John Toland and Ian Kershaw are equally as absorbing. Maser’s research reveals that Hitler was not impoverished, and always had enough money. The so-called ‘flophouse’ on Meldenmannstrasse was more of a hotel than a Salvation Army hostel, and Hitler paid for a comparatively expensive room at 15 Kronen a month. He was also particular about his appearance. So the tragic image of a Chaplinesque gutter figure, trying to sell his pictures, is  misleading. Yet as a myth to engender empathy with the destitute German proletariat years later, it was ideal.

The Holy Lance: More than one Destiny?

  • Alan Baker, author of Invisible Eagle, The History of Nazi Occultism, thinks Hitler’s quest for the Hofburg loot was more about its cash value than its occult power.

  • There are also those who insist that the real Holy Lance is not in the Hofburg today, but is in the possession of a secret German society who call themselves the Knights of the Holy Lance, and that a fake lance was constructed and returned to the museum.

  • In Cracow, there’s another contender for the title Holy Lance, yet although it is alleged to have been there for eight centuries, its earlier history is unknown.

  • Professor of medicine at Tulane and then Louisiana State University, Dr. Howard A. Buechner, M.D. served in World War II and is a retired colonel with the U.S. Army. He’s written extensively on the Spear. He claims he was contacted by a WW2 U-Boat commander, using the pseudonym ‘Capt. Wilhelm Bernhart.’ He also states that the Vienna lance is a fake. The ex-U-boat skipper maintains the genuine spear was sent with other Nazi treasures by Hitler to Antarctica on a mission commanded by a ‘Col. Maximilian Hartmann.’ In 1979 Hartmann allegedly recovered the treasures. Buechner received a logbook from Bernhart detailing  this expedition with pictures of the objects recovered, claiming that after the Spear of Destiny was recovered, it was hidden by a Nazi secret society somewhere in Europe. Among others Buechner contacted to enquire about the alleged expedition was Hitler Youth Leader Artur Axmann. Buechener remains convinced that the story is true.
 
Das Birkenhead Boot: U 534 now a spooky Merseyside tourist attraction.
  •  Another theory is that German U-boat U-534 was carrying the spear. Although Admiral Donitz had ordered all his U-boats to surrender as from 08.00 May 5th, 1945, on that same day U534 was underway heading north towards Norway in the Kattegat, north-west of Helsingor, Denmark when she was attacked by the RAF. She was commanded to stop, yet for some unknown reason U-534 refused to do so. She was badly damaged and began to sink by the stern. 49 of her 52 man crew survived including five who escaped via a torpedo hatch as she lay on the sea bed.Her commander, Kapitänleutnant Herbert Nollau, committed suicide in 1968.

In August 1993 the wreckage was raised from the seabed in the hope of finding hidden treasure on board – even perhaps the Holy Lance. Today you can visit her as a museum in the UK at Birkenhead. There were some advanced secret torpedoes on board, but no treasure, according to Danish businessman Karsten Ree who financed U-534’s salvage. No Spear of Destiny. 

Vienna? Cracow? Antarctica? The Knights of the Holy Lance? We may never know, and that’s an essential factor in maintaining a truly engrossing mystery.
Those who have analysed the artefact state that the so-called Spear of Longinus is not the spear that pierced the side of Christ and has been dated to around the 13th century. But there is something about the nail, purported to be from the cross … just maybe …
'Old Blood and Guts' General George Patton.
As for the Spear of Destiny giving the owner ‘power over the world’, Austria was hardly a world power in 1938, nor is it today. The Third Reich was already powerful by the time Hitler got his hands on it. And if General Patton did get hold of it, with the atomic bomb under her belt, America was already powerful enough, although Patton didn’t last much longer than the Fuhrer. Aged 60, he died 12 days after a car crash in Germany of a pulmonary embolism in the afternoon of December 21, 1945. Sadly, not the kind of inglorious death ‘Old Blood and Guts’ had probably envisaged.
Just a couple of other myths about Der demonic Fuhrer. There’s a great line in the Mel Brooks movie, The Producers;‘Hitler! There was a painter – he could do a whole apartment, two coats, in one afternoon!’ Adolf was never a house painter. The jury may still be out on whether or not he only had one testicle, but the general academic consensus is that he had the full set.



IF YOU ENJOY THIS KIND OF STUFF, THERE'S 
STACKS MORE IN THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF
UNEXPLAINED PHENOMENA by Roy Bainton
from Constable & Robinson in the UK, or
The Running Press Inc., USA/Canada.
End of blatant commercial. 


Clashing Symbols and Witchfinder Generals

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Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding
count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man;
and his number is Six hundred three-score and six.

Book of Revelation 13: 18

Bambi. Mickey Mouse. Donald Duck.  Representatives of  subversive evil? Let’s get a grip here. Look closer. Goofy certainly has a bit of an odd look about him. Then, of course, there’s the 7 Dwarfs.  Who were they? Why did they live in a dark forest and work underground, and what kind of sleazy deal did they have with Snow White – sharing that secluded cottage…..  heigh ho, heigh ho…. off to bed we go? 


And what about the Orwellian Disneyland, where, amongst other regulations, the unctuously ‘nice’ and always ‘correct’ staff are not even allowed to grow facial hair?
And as for Fantasia, with its sorcerer’s apprentice and dancing broomsticks; maybe, according to the Witchfinders, old Uncle Walt Disney was a  bit more sinister than we like to think.


Doc (just in case) Dopey (not quite) Happy (You bet he is) Grumpy (waiting his turn)  
Bashful (too late for that) Sleepy (not for long) Sneezy (in charge of the Kleenex)

At least, that has been the  bee in the bonnet of some of America’s new wave of born-again Bible students in recent years. We should forget the stereotypical redneck Jesus fanatic; despite some often startling claims and  bizarre views many recent recruits are at least capable of making their case without spelling mistakes.
Way down in Austin, Texas there’s an ex-military man called Texe Marrs who runs his own Internet Newsletter Power of Prophesy. This self-proclaimed ‘Ministry of Truth’ is slightly more articulate than most of its ilk, and avoids that barking-mad fringe temptation TO GO INTO CAPITALS TO MAKE A POINT. Although not exactly an out-and-out hate merchant, Texe does seem to have it in for just about everyone – from lacklustre Christians to Zionist Jews and the Pentagon, we’re all going to Hell in a handcart unless we recognise the abundant signs of the approaching New World Order. Sadly, though, as ever, it’s  ‘the Jews wot done it’ which is a peculiar prejudice for Christians - wasn’t Jesus a Jew, after all?  Texe, whose nearest comparison in the UK could be David Icke, is a prolific author with a dozen books under his belt with titles like The Blind and The Dead and Leviathan In Space. One Marrs presentation was called  Project L.U.C.I.D. which, among other high-tech terrors, informed us of the secret designs behind the one-time rush to get us all carrying computerised I.D. cards[1]. Said, Texe:

‘The computerised I.D. card – to be followed eventually by an implanted chip – is an electronic straitjacket that allows the New World Order’s Gestapo to track and link every man, woman and child on planet Earth. Our activities are going to be monitored 24 hours per day, seven days per week, by Gestapo agencies……Who among us can possibly escape from the electronic cages now being prepared for all mankind?’

Thankfully, in the UK we dodged the New Labour government’s lust for ID cards.
However, among the many fascinating revelations on Texe Marrs’ site, his section on something he calls ‘Devil logos’ provides an inviting threshold to the study of the iconography of the corporate globe, which leads inevitably to the often bizarre symbolism of world currency.
So, back to Walt Disney. Check out the great Cryogenist’s famous trademark signature. Can you spot the Mark of The Beast? Oh, yes – there’s three cleverly disguised 6’s in there – pay attention. The gripe against Uncle Walt’s tinsel town successors is that they have a ‘hostility to traditional Christian values’.  What form this hostility takes is anyone’s guess – but perhaps the Devil might be pleased with some of the studio’s recent sacrificial turkeys.

But that’s all kid’s stuff. Reebok gave the name Incubus to a woman’s running shoe. Of course, all good students of the occult know that an Incubus is a demon who makes love to women whilst they’re asleep.[2]What were those Reebok people up to? A spokesman for the company claimed to have been ‘surprised’ when the demonic name was explained to him[3]. Then again, there’s been a few gaffes by running shoe companies. Umbro called one of its designs Zyklon - all you needed was to add the separate letter ‘B’ and you had the gas used by the Nazis. Nike stumbled with a shoe called Black and Tan, which didn’t go down too well with the Irish. Then there was a bit of Japanese outrage over Air Jordan’s Rising Sun shoe, but Nike got into potential Fatwa territory with their Air Bakin shoe, because the chosen ‘Air’ logo design was claimed to spell ‘Allah’ in Arabic. Dangerous footwear, trainers.



Online Witchfinder Generals who keep up a constant Satan watch never have to look far. AT & T’s Bell Laboratories became known as Lucent Technologies. Their logo was a fiery red circle. But the Ministry of Truth were onto this one – especially after they were horrified to discover that one of Lucent’s software products was being marketed under the name Inferno. Even the word Lucent has been figured out to be a truncated version of ‘Lucifer’s Enterprises’.  A Ministry member from Columbus, Ohio, made this deduction from Lucent’s fiery red logo; ‘Lucent Technologies is the most blatantly evil company in the world…’  Of course the form and purpose of the ‘evil’ behind all this Satanic graphic art remains vague (or should that be ‘secret’?) and is rarely expanded upon.  For instance, what happens if you or a relative has 666 in their phone number?  (As did my late daughter…) Do we get the black candles out, strip off, dance around the kitchen and microwave the cat?  Whilst the sceptics among us can have a good old chuckle over all these visualisations of the New World Order, one of the plus points to the concentration on symbols is that at last the virulent, hoary old anti-Semitic fakery of The Protocols of The Elders of Zion is taking a back seat on the global conspiracy bandwagon.  It seems to be the technical, silicone valley outfits (known to the new Witchfinder Generals as ‘Big Brother’ technologies) who come in for a righteous bashing these days. Apple Computers’ logo – the apple with the ‘byte’ taken out, obviously represents the tasting of the Forbidden Fruit by Adam in the Garden of Eden. Honeywell Inc. have had dealings with their provocatively-named European subsidiary, Lucifer Industries, and they have been known to co-operate with a software corporation known as Oracle. Halloween must have been a fun night in the Honeywell boardroom. And let us not forget the Lucifer Lighting Company of San Antonio – even the Devil needs to see what the Hell he’s doing.

But if the Satanic robes hanging in the world’s corporate executive locker rooms need a good wash, then there would be only one detergent company to choose.
The whole Devil’s Logo furore goes back to Procter & Gamble’s old logo, the ‘Man in the Moon with 13 stars’. For a company which exists to keep half the world clean, they’ve had an often uphill struggle to get some of the devil-worship muck off their own shirts over the past two decades.  Imaginative believers in P & G’s evil connections cite the following aspects of the logo;
In the curlicues of the old man’s beard can be found an array of triple 6’s. Some can see two ‘horns’ growing out of the old man’s head. Others believe that by connecting the dots (the 13 stars) then three 6’s can be made to appear. Procter & Gamble’s response to all this was a straightforward explanation. The logo was first used in 1851. At that time in some of the more frontier areas of the USA far fewer people could read so that highly pictorial trademarks were easy to spot on packaging. The thirteen stars were nothing more than a homage to the original 13 American colonies, and one of the most popular mid-19thcentury images  was the Man in The Moon, which P & G adopted.  Witchfinders do not, however, deal in logic. At some time during the 1990s the following media myth broke through which has dogged Procter & Gamble ever since.  It states that at one time, one of P & G’s top executives appeared on a prime-time U.S. TV chat show. In the legend the show varies – some say Phil Donohue,  others claim Sally Jesse Raphael or Jenny Jones. The un-named executive is supposed to have admitted to being a worshipper of Satan. He claimed that some of P & G’s profits were channelled into Satanism; he further boasted that “there aren’t enough Christians in America to stop me”, and that the old man in the company logo is a ‘wizard’.

P&G's new logo, but the Witchfinders
are still concerned - isn't that a crescent moon?
Of course, this is absolute tripe probably concocted by a competitor to bolster up the devil logo mythology. Even the devotees of The Good Book have to admit that no such TV appearance took place. Apart from Procter & Gamble suing over this rumour – and winning – several times, even Christian notables such as Billy Graham, Jerry Falwell  and Pat Robertson issued statements in support of P & G[4]. However, for devil-hunters,  there’s always an extra dimension of evil behind what the rest of us accept as the truth. 
Way down in Texas Texe Marrs informed us:

“I have no evidence whatsoever that Procter & Gamble is linked with Satanism”. He then goes on to say “but rumours and questions still remain…in at least one of the lawsuits, the company raised eyebrows when the news came out that Procter & Gamble was seeking exactly $66,600 in damages!”[5]

If that’s the case, then someone at P&G had a wry sense of humour. Yet it seems like when the devil’s around, the truth goes into hiding.

Other corporate ‘devil’ logos which come in for a Bible-bashing  are AOL (America On Line) with their pyramid, CBS-TV’s ‘eye of Horus’, Intel (Pentium) whose logo is claimed to represent the mythical serpent Ouroboros, biting his own tail. Nabisco’s logo, an oval or egg shape sprouting a multi-bar cross, is suspected of being a phallic Masonic fertility symbol. Saturn Automobiles’ logo looks simple enough, but the Witchfinders suggest that the crossed lines on the red background are crossed devil’s horns. When we get to petroleum,  we shift up a couple of gears.
Shell (and let’s face it, this would have been the most obvious logo for the company to choose) are suspected of displaying the golden shell of Aphrodite (see Revelation 13:1 then count the red gaps in the logo). Texaco, with it’s Tau cross on a Satanic pentagram background?
Maybe the fact that it is also a letter ‘T’, with the company being called ‘Texaco’ – and the star a popular Texan emblem, has been conveniently overlooked.  Chrysler motors get a special mention because their ‘wingspan’ logo looks suspiciously like an ancient Egyptian and  Masonic wingspan which protects the sun.

As the capitalist centre of the modern world, America is naturally the nation in charge of the New World Order. The Witchfinders have been onto this for some time. It’s the Masons who planned it all, and if you need any proof, check out the street plan of Washington, D. C., which was laid out in 1791 by a French Freemason,  Pierre Charles L’Enfant. Masonic researcher Manly P. Hall warns us that

Washington's Street plan - the Devil's in the detail.
“When a Mason learns the key to the warrior on the block is the proper application to the dynamo of living power, he has learned the mystery of his craft. The seething energies of Lucifer are in his hands and therefore he may step onward and upward, he must prove his ability to properly apply energy”.[6]

But what about Sandusky, Ohio? Is this the town Lucifer forgot?
You don’t have to surf very far on the internet[7] to discover that the wily L’Enfant planned the streets of Washington so that they included a massive inverted pentagram with it’s bottom tip in the White House. There’s a goat’s head in the design, and a nice bit of civic planning for the kiddies with a Satanic bunny rabbit coming into view if you’re clever enough with your pencil and ruler.

In the end, the New World Order, whose symbols and logos are all around us, will apparently be overseen by the Illuminati and the Freemasons ( and let us not forget that, according to the new religious watchdogs, both George Bush senior and junior, as well as Tony Blair, are 33° Freemasons). This is going to cost lots of money, and when we come to the green stuff,  in particular the U.S. dollar, then roll up your trouser leg and bare a nipple, because the symbolism begins to run riot.
 American Masons began meeting in Boston’s Green Dragon Tavern as early as 1720. Over the decades, as plans were laid down for the eventual overthrow of British rule,  Freemasonry was to play a big part. Revolutionary heroes such as John Hancock, Paul Revere and Peter Faneuil were all Masons, as were a great number of the signatories to the Declaration of Independence. A U.S. State Department publication[8]informs us that ‘It seems likely the designers of the Great Seal and the Masons took their symbols from parallel sources’.  It has also been strongly argued that the symbols on the American dollar bill are Masonic just by coincidence. But make up your own mind. Bank notes are odd things, yet one wonders - how many have been designed by a secret society?

One of the Dollar's many mysteries ,,,
Eye-eye! Here's lookin' at you, kid!
The Secretary of the Congress, Charles Thomson, was involved in the design of the Great Seal, which can be regarded as the USA’s coat of arms. It was adopted by the Congress on June 20th 1792. The central feature of the Seal is a bald eagle, a native of North America. His wings are outstretched in a pose of soaring freedom. That seems fair enough. But more excitable researchers note that there are 32 feathers in one wing and 33 feathers in the other. 32 and 33, if a Mason passes through the Scottish rites, are the highest degrees of Masonry. Another rite, the York, has nine ranks – the number of feathers in the eagle’s tail. In one talon the eagle carries an olive branch, denoting
The Great Seal
peace. It has 13 leaves. In the other talon, however, he’s carrying 13 arrows, signifying that America is equally capable of war. The figure 13 denotes the power of the original 13 colonies. Above the eagle is a field of 13 stars – join them up and you have a Star of David. Some far-out conspiracy types like to turn the Great Seal upside down and claim that the 7 white stripes in the shield represent a 7-candle Jewish temple menorah[9], (as opposed to the 9-candle Channukah menorah). It’s the Jews at it again! The central ‘candle’ emanates nine rays of light, which are actually the eagle’s tail feathers.
But so much for the greenback’s backside.  All this overcooked gumbo is already splattered across the internet, but in case you missed it, here it is again. It’s on the front of the Mighty Dollar where the fun starts.
Some argue that the symbolism on the front of the dollar represents the Roman war against the Jews and the battle of Masada, but this seems far-fetched.
What is spooky is the pyramid and the Latin inscriptions.
The pyramid is said to represent strength and solidity. It has 13 courses of 72 stones symbolising human attributes and divinity. Hovering above is a triangle, sometimes called the keystone, containing the Eye of Providence.  Or is that the Eye of Horus, the Egyptian falcon God of Justice who has power over the sun and sky? Another view is that this is the all-seeing eye of the ‘Grand Architect’, a Masonic term for God. To Masons the pyramid signifies the release from bondage of the Israelites in Egypt. Could this be a comparison with the release of the new Americans from their own bondage with Britain?  Those who see the New World Order still in the assembly stage claim that the fact that the eye in the triangle is detached from the pyramid means that human society is not yet complete and will be ‘imperfect’ until the New Order gets under way.  Who knows – maybe then we’ll get a new dollar with the keystone in place.
The Roman numerals on the pyramid stand for 1776, the USA’s birth date.  Then comes ‘Annuit Coeptis’,  which can be translated as something lifted from Virgil’s epic poem, the Aeneid – ‘He (God) has approved our undertakings’, or, alternatively, ‘a bold beginning’. If we consider 21stcentury America as the new Roman Empire, then Virgil’s lines on the task of the Romans appears apt;
‘Roman, remember that you shall rule the nations by your authority, for this is to be your skill, to make peace the custom, to spare the conquered, and to wage war until the haughty are brought low’.[10]    Doubtless this did not go down too well in Iraq, but what the dollar says, the G.I. has to do.
Finally, we come to the chilly bit below the pyramid – ‘Novus Ordo Seclorum’ –
‘A new order of the ages’.  This is another steal from Virgil’s Ecloges, and is claimed to represent the separation of the state from the church, but as every conspiracy theorist will tell you, it’s those Illuminati and Mason people’s promise that the dollar is a constant reminder that the New Order is well under way.
The reason so many of us never have time to consider the symbols on our money is that we can never hold onto it long enough to make a detailed study.  Many of the world’s bank notes have inexplicable oddities. Witchfinders find the mark of The Beast here and there if they’re imaginative enough, and making the right folds will always turn up odd images. The old Finnish Marks of the 1960s, if you folded the president’s face carefully, produced a neat picture of a scurrying rat. There has been a complaint that the simplified graphics on the 2-Euro coins makes the contours of Sweden look like a limp penis, which is probably why sexy Sweden opted out of the new currency.
In his book Magic Symbols[11]Frederick Goodman writes a definition of an occult symbol as “an image which hides an inner meaning. This meaning is usually hidden behind a form”.
In a world where the name of God can appear in a sliced aubergine, the New Witchfinders could find Satan on a bus ticket. However, the next time you’re queuing up for a Ben & Gerry’s in Orlando, Florida, just take a long look at those crisp dollars in your sweaty hand.  Along with  our  frozen uncle, Walt Disney, they may be telling us something we all ought to know – and let’s face it – Britain now stands a snowball’s chance in Hell  of adopting the Euro. As the Reverend T. Blair pushed Britain closer and closer to the U.S.A., and if the sinister, secretive TTIP (the Transatlantic Trade and Industry Partnership between Europe and the USA)  becomes law, my bet is on the dollar as a future U.K. currency.  Think about it the next time you pull on your baseball cap on your way for a Big Mac via Pizza Hut and KFC. We’ll have plenty of time to read our currency then, but sadly, it’ll all be too late.
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Notes / Sources




[1] You can read an excerpt at www.angelfire.com/or/mctrl/lucid.htm
[2]Gettings, Fred: Visions of The Occult Guild Publishing, London 1987. The female version of the Incubus (which has it’s way with sleeping men) is known as the Succubus.
[3]US News & World Report March 3rd1997. 53,000 pairs of Incubus shoes had been sold before anyone pointed out the definition of the name.
[6] Hall, Manly P. The Lost Keys To Freemasonry Macoy Publishing & Masonic Supply Company, Richmond, Virginia, 1976.
[7] There are numerous sites demonstrating Washington’s occult lay-out.
If you can stand all the capital letters, try www.truinsight.com or there’s a much deeper analysis at www.thecuttingedge.com
[8]Patterson, Richard S. & Dougall, Richardson The Eagle & The Shield: a History of The Great Seal of The United States U.S. State Dept. Publications, Washington, 1976.
[9] The 7-branch menorah is described in Exodus 25:31-40. The kohanim lit the menorah in the Sanctuary every evening and cleaned it in the morning, putting fresh olive oil in the cups and replacing the wicks. See also www.forgonasphere.com/piso/piercingeye.html
[10] Benet, William Rose, The Reader’s Encyclopedia  A & C Black, London 1972.
[11]Goodman, Frederick Magic Symbols Brian Todd Publishing, London 1989

Deep Beneath our Feet

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Bizarre Tales Beneath our Feet


Beneath the landscape of Great Britain lie thousands of miles of forgotten tunnels.
Half a mile beneath me as I write, in the heart of the Nottinghamshire coalfields,  a labyrinth of mining tunnels lies dark, damp and forgotten, having last felt the tread of human feet seven decades ago. There's one such shaft half a mile beneath my house.

Coal mines are one thing – but other tunnels – and their contents, are the source of legend, fear and mystery.  As you sleep tonight, deep beneath you ‘flushers’ – the special breed of men who keep our sewers flowing free, will wade thigh-high in filth, braving rats and disease in a dank, dark world one step from hell – simply  to keep the tons of daily human waste on the move. The history of London’s Underground rail network is rightly the breeding ground of a great horror yarn. Tunnels are the stuff of nightmares; they are somewhere we simply do not want to be. Here’s a witty extract describing the 1972 film Death Line from the website www.tvcream.co.uk.

            ‘The premise: Russell Square tube station is playing host to a series of  gruesome
murders (including a show stopping spade-through-head)      uncovered by a token boring young couple (the man played with rainforest- strength woodenness by David Ladd, son of cowboy short-arse Alan and, more pertinently, brother of the film’s producer Alan Jr.) when they find respectable   civil servant James Cossins face down on the stairs. This same station was the scene of a disaster in Victorian times, when the roof collapsed on a group of tunnel workers, trapping them underground. Could these two tragedies be linked? Well, it wouldn’t be much of a film if they weren’t, and fortunately    they are – in a marvellously inventive way.’

A Victorian Conspiracy?

As urban legends go, the following story seems, on the face of it, to be just that; an urban legend. But there’s more to this yarn than meets the eye.
In 1973, a young student called Pamela Goodsell was walking in a park in the Sydenham area in South London. She decided to take a short cut through an area of  shrubbery. As she elbowed her way through the bushes, she felt the ground begin to give way beneath her feet. Within seconds she was tumbling down a dank-smelling shaft, soil falling all around her. With a violent ‘thud’ she landed on something hard, flat and wooden. Above she could see a distant, bright circle of light from the hole which had opened up beneath her feet. Stunned, she sat there for some seconds, catching her breath and hoping no bones were broken.  She was in some kind of tunnel. From her pocket she took a box of matches and struck one. She had landed on the roof of what appeared to be a Victorian railway carriage. She stretched out and leaned over the edge of the roof and lit another match. What she saw sent her pulse racing.  Through the grimy carriage windows, strewn with cobwebs and flecked with mould, she saw the skeletons of up to thirty passengers, still in rotting Victorian clothes. As the match burned her fingers and went out,  she forced herself back into the shaft above her head,  driven upwards by sheer terror, using her hands, knees and feet against the shaft wall until, bruised, grazed and gasping she hauled herself back into the daylight. Still terrified, she ran home and tried to convince herself that this had all been a dream.
She reported her grisly find to London Transport,  but was told that she must have imagined all this; there was no record of a tunnel beneath the park, and even if there was, the likelihood of  a train being sealed in there – still with passengers – was simply in the realms of fantasy.
Of course, I thought so too. It’s the kind of yarn Hammer Horror would have used – as we’ve already seen when Christopher Lee and Donald Pleasance did star in 1972’s Death Line.

Yet, quite by chance, as I was looking through some copies of the Illustrated London News for the year 1864 I came upon a story dated September 10th that year which may indicate that the mysterious Ms. Goodsell’s experience may just have been real.
T. W. Rammell was a Victorian engineer  obsessed with the idea of the ‘pneumatic railway’. In 1864 a 600 yard brickwork tunnel, 10 feet high and 9 feet wide, was built to demonstrate his invention, ‘from Sydenham to the armoury, near the Penge gate’.
This would not match up with the area known today as Sydenham Wells Park, which is too far north. But the nearby Crystal Palace Park has a Penge Gate, and Rammell’s tunnel is supposed to have run from there to the Sydenham entrance.
Rammell’s train was driven along the tunnel by air pressure gained from a large fan wheel. To quote the article;

“When the journey is to be performed the brakes are taken off…the carriage moves by its own momentum into the mouth of the tube, passing in its course over a deep air well in the floor, covered with an iron grating. Up this opening a gust of wind is sent by the disk (fan) when a valve, formed by a pair of iron doors, hung like lock-gates, immediately closes firmly over the entrance of the tunnel, confining the increasing atmospheric pressure between the valve and the rear of the carriage…”

Rammell's big demonstration of his pneumatic railway as depicted in the Illustrated London News, 1864.



Thus the train would glide silently and cleanly along – a real novelty in the grimy steam era of 1864. “Instead of a train being used at Sydenham, there is one very long, roomy and comfortable carriage, resembling an elongated omnibus, and capable of accommodating some thirty to thirty- five passengers…”
Visitors to the grounds of the Crystal Palace could take this 600 yard underground journey, which lasted just under a minute, for  sixpence return.
So, what happened to Rammell’s tunnel? Is it still there? Did some passengers take a one-way ride? Had it not been for the financial crisis of 1866, Rammell may have been the founder of the London tube system. In October 1865 he began work on the half mile Waterloo and Whitehall underground tunnel between Whitehall and the edge of the Thames. But Rammell ran out of funds in 1866 and his tunnel, (which apparently still exists) was abandoned.
I put out an unsuccessful appeal on London’s LBC Radio for Ms. Goodsell to come forward.  Nothing was known of her whereabouts either now, or at the time of her experience. But Rammell’s tunnel is a fact. Is there a coachload of corpses beneath the park?  There have been attempts to (if you’ll excuse the phrase) ‘get to the bottom’ of this mystery. Archaeologists, the BBC and others have come to the conclusion that story is full of holes, 20% fact and 80% romantic myth. No corpses have been found. But how did a modern urban legend like this get started?
Can such an immense engineering project as a tunnel simply vanish into history? The answer is yes. You can’t see tunnels – they’re underground. There are some bizarre remains down there, too.


Waldorf-Astoria or Roosevelt Platform under the Grand Central Station, New York. It was first used in 1938, but being famous because of Roosevelt, who wanted to hide this way the fact that he has polio and using a wheelchair. His train is still there, which was large enough for the President's armoured car, which could be taken underground via a giant elevator.

In  1912, The Degnon Construction Company were hard at work beneath the streets of New York  building the City’s new subway system.  One morning in February 1912, the soil before them suddenly gave way and the startled engineers found that someone had been there before them. They were amazed to find a perfectly engineered subway tunnel, with a carriage still on the tracks. At the end of the tunnel was a sumptuous 120-foot waiting room with murals, chandeliers and expensive tiling.

This construction had been a massive, secret project carried out by one Alfred Ely Beach, famous in the USA as the owner of the successful magazine, Scientific American.
Back in the 1860’s, Beach had been inspired by Rammell’s attempts to run a pneumatic railway in London, and had decided to build his own beneath New York.  Political forces were against him, and he was refused planning permission.


His solution was to have his construction crews smuggled underground at night, and the soil was brought up in sacks.  Although his subway was opened on February 28th 1870, within a couple of years, like Rammell in London, Beach was forced to abandon his project by a financial crisis. And so it remained, dark and forgotten for 39 years.


Beach's subway in action

If it could happen in New York, why not Sydenham?

KING ARTHUR’S RESERVE


In 2002 I interviewed the late author Barry Herbert, who had been enjoying some success with his books on railway ghosts . During the conversation he told me a peculiar story of his meeting with a retired Sheffield engine driver, who, like him, was a dedicated railway buff.
Warning; FOAF imminent - (a ‘friend of a friend’) yarn!
Other than the location, Sheffield, Mr. Herbert refused to give me details of his footplate friend’s identity, claiming that the retired driver had signed the Official Secrets Act.
The aftermath of the 1963 Beeching Report, which decimated Britain’s rail network, coincided with the dark days of the Cold War and the growing paranoia around the possibility of nuclear Armageddon. As a long-serving steam locomotive driver, the hapless Sheffield railwayman was among many who were designated the sad task of seeing their faithful engines, which were to be replaced by diesel units,  off onto their final trip to the breaker’s yards at Barry Island in South Wales. He’d already heard strange stories of footplate crews being sent home early from work only to return to find ‘their’ engine had vanished during the night. Then, one night in 1967, he’d been approached by ‘a man from the MoD’ and was asked, along with a selected few other drivers, to become part of a special crew taking selected locomotives on a journey not to the scrap yard, but to a secret location, where they would be mothballed for future use.  However, every driver, fireman or Fat Controller employed in this scheme was required to sign the Official Secrets Act and never reveal the whereabouts of their slumbering Thomas Tank Engines.
Urban Myth  - or Conspiracy nuttery?

    The facts are thin on the ground, but there were selective records kept of all locomotives decommissioned and scrapped. Members of the train spotting fraternity are noted for their meticulous thoroughness, and those with a keen eye soon spotted the absence in the records of approximately 70 engines. It is known that at one time the Royal Engineers ran courses for the Sappers in steam loco driving . With the closure of the Longmoor Military Railway in 1969, which ran 70 miles between Liss and Bordon in Hampshire, the MoD lost its own in-house training facility. All this could be cited as circumstantial evidence, although it doesn’t prove locos were ‘spirited away’. However, if they have been hidden, then their location remains the Holy Grail for romantically-minded rail fans. 
A fine Stanier 8 preserved and ready for action
This secret fleet of locos, claimed by train aficionados to be Stanier 8 and 9F models, most of which were only 10 years old, with an expected service life of between 50 and 100 years were to be kept in reserve in the event of a nuclear attack. The USSR had already done this, as had Sweden and some other Eastern European countries. It became known as the SSR (Strategic Steam Reserve). Railway fans of a more quixotic bent saw these fine machines in the role of a mechanical King Arthur, ready and waiting to answer the call in the hour of Britain’s need. Being organically propelled vehicles, and, at the time, the UK having huge coal stocks, they offered the prospect of some kind of transportation in an apocalyptic Mad Max landscape where everything electrical had been trashed due to the immense electromagnetic radiation given off by a nuclear blast.
            The majority of serious railway observers regard the SSR as nothing more than a fanciful legend. But this is the age of conspiracies, and there’s no shortage of determined choo-choo theorists out there who remain determined to follow the rusty rails which they hope will lead to Arthur’s mothballed leviathans. So - if there’s any veracity in all this - where are the missing locos? Time to go underground.
It’s well known that had the Soviets threw a few megatons at us, then whilst we, Joe Public, would end up as crispy bacon, our noble leaders would have survived at the British government's alternative seat of power in the underground ‘city’ known as Burlington , 100 feet below ground at Corsham in Wiltshire. Covering 35 acres, 1km long and 200 meters across, its ten miles of tunnelling was built between 1956 - 61 to safely house 4000 ‘worthies’ -   the Prime Minister, Cabinet Office, local and national government agencies, intelligence and security advisors and domestic support staff. After Burlington was decommissioned in 1991, it still remained secret until it was declassified in 2004. You’ll find no railway lines down there, because our rulers had their own fleet of battery powered buggies to get around on. However, some SSR hunters cite Burlington’s close northern neighbour, - Tunnel Quarry

The eastern portal of Box Tunnel, Wiltshire, UK. The disused entry to Tunnel Quarry is on the right. Much speculation has surrounded the purpose of the long-removed line into the tunnel, the tunnel itself and the station deep within. Derek Hawkins [CC-BY-SA-2.0], from Wikimedia Commons

Central Ammunition Depot as a potential loco store. It has underground railway platforms and a siding which many ‘hunters’ claimed as the final wartime destination for the Royal Train, transporting the Windsors to Burlington bunker; and that the 4,000 Whitehall staff’s requisitioned trains would disembark there ready for them to take up their Burlington residence. Tunnel Quarry remained in MoD hands, to house the Corsham Computer Centre, and its rail link  to the ex GWR main line could have been used to house the SSR .

Another favourite potential locomotive hidey-hole is Brunel’s 1836 Box Tunnel  between Bath and Chippenham. Rail travellers would be familiar with the Western portal to the tunnel, but there’s also an elusive Eastern portal. This is a small side tunnel to the north leading to an underground quarry which supplied the fine Bath stone used for many buildings along the line. Some claim that the locos are hidden away there behind large steel doors.

Then, in 2000, I came across an intriguing web site run by one of the SSR’s leading enthusiasts, Rory Lushman . Headed ‘Heapey, There’s Trains in Them Thar Hills’, this is a solid testament to the boundless investigative determination of an enthusiastic urban (or in this case, rural) explorer. After dismissing the idea of the Box Tunnel as the SSR’s hiding place, Lushman tells us “I was put in contact with a man called Paul Screeton who told me about another possible site. Paul has been investigating for many years unusual stories across the country, especially those concerning rail myths. He came across a railway worker who claimed to have seen lines of locomotives at an old former Ordnance factory in Heapey, Chorley.” The ensuing ten pages offer all manner of tantalising hints - elderly locals who used to call this place ‘the steam train graveyard’, and mysterious reports of nocturnal comings and goings. After his lengthy exploration of the site (albeit from a restrictive distance)

One of the Heapey Tunnels. Photo by Rory Lushman.
Lushman sums up:
“The locals recount the tales of the steam trains being kept in the hillside. We know for definite that the site is still visited by lorries and the police. What is going on in this small village of Heapey? Do the locals care? Is there something more than old ammunition, or maybe even new ammunition kept in the hillsides. Could old steam trains be kept there?”
Of course, this was all pre-Google Earth. So using this I took a look at the site and indeed there are four roads which end in tunnel entrances, and the site is still secured by serious fencing and walls, and patrolled by security guards. Could there be trains in there? Not according to secret bases expert Alan Turnbull . Turnbull admits that Heapey is still secret and still active, but has doubts about King Arthur’s locos.

Other possibilities include one of the three Woodhead tunnels in Yorkshire (although the favoured Tunnel 3 now carries National Grid cables), locations in Wales, and Scotland has its own clan of SSR hunters. This, for example, is from a forum discussion on the subject at http://www.secretscotland.org.uk/  :

“SSR is a possible explanation for the long tunnel in Greenock from the top of the town (where the Kilmacolm line and the link to  the Paisley line join) to Princes Pier.  This remained double tracked and the rails were still there the last time I looked …Why would you leave the rails in a disused tunnel?  The rails also continued through the Paisley link tunnel joining the Wemyss Bay line at Inchgreen … and I am talking recently.”

Ultimately, the Strategic Steam Reserve wears the same mythical cloak of Joseph of Arimathea visiting Glastonbury, or Adolf Hitler staying at a B&B in Liverpool on the late 1920s. Anti-SSR adherents (and they’re legion) have some strong counter arguments. Locos stored in damp tunnels would need regular attention to stop them seizing up or rusting away. And here’s another thought - perhaps we already have the SSR in the many preserved steam lines throughout the country. But these mighty iron beasts, waiting there in the subterranean darkness … it should be a notion to keep any fortean in motion.
.
Romantic hogwash? Would any government at the height of the cold war have been so stupid as to destroy all but a few private engines and those run by museums? It seems doubtful.
Beneath the fields and streets of our country lie citadels, halls of refuge for the rich and powerful, and thousands of miles of  hidden tunnels. Perhaps what keeps us from knowing more about this underworld is our fear of the dark, the deep and the unseen.

Recommended reading;
Bainton Roy The Mammoth Book of Unexplained Phenomena Constable & Robinson, London, Running Press Inc. USA.
Herbert, Barry; RAILWAY GHOSTS Railway Book Club, 1985
Richard Trench & Ellis Hillman; LONDON UNDER LONDON John Murray, 1984.
Lambert, Anthony J., Editor, 19th CENTURY RAILWAY HISTORY THROUGH THE LONDON ILLUSTRATED NEWS.  David & Charles, 1984.

White, H. P. FORGOTTEN RAILWAYS David & Charles 1986

Laurie, Peter BENEATH THE CITY STREETS Granada Publishing 1979





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