Liz Jones
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2093248/LIZ-JONES-Lovely-young-women-men-pink-cheeks-Katie-Price--me.html
reckons women only study at Oxbridge to meet a better class of husband. This is despite referring to herself as a 'feminist' - without any sense of irony or shame, as I really don't think she possesses either.
Nor much of an intellect, come to that, because she has also recently stated that at the proud and venerable age of 53, there is nothing she would like better than to be swept off her feet by none other than Mr Darcy.
What the HELL is this woman on?
Caitlin Moran's supremely pragmatic test for this elusive condition seems to have totally passed her by. All you need to do is look down your knickers, then answer the following two questions:
1.) Do you have a vagina?
2.) Do you want to be in charge of it?
If you answer yes to both, congratulations, you're a feminist. You perfectly fit Rebecca West's definition of the term as a woman who expresses views that differentiate her from the average doormat.
She utterly fails to notice the somewhat vital point that women have been studying at Oxbridge and many other venerable institutes of learning since the 19th century in order to get an education. With one of those to your credit, there's nothing you need less than a happy ending with Mr Darcy and a ridiculous collapsed meringue of a dress.
The reason she hasn't picked up on this fundamental fact about women's lives today is vanity. If we are to believe the picture of her created by her extensive body of work, basically, she is so obsessed by herself and her pathetic excuse for a 'life' that she considers nothing outside herself and her own petty concerns to be of any importance whatsoever - including history, facts and the opinions of other women.
This self-obsession run riot probably explains why her writing is so poor. It appears it simply has not occured to her to read her own work back and think a bit about how it might be coming across to other people.
So why haven't the editorial team at the Daily Mail taken her aside and had a quiet word of friendly advice whenever it seems called for?
Maybe they think their readers out there in Middle England really DO believe women are as flaky, sad and all-round bloody useless as depicted in Liz's columns - in which case we need feminism more than ever. Or they really don't give a monkey's butthole how many people she manages to infuriate +/depress beyond endurance with every new installment of her columns, just so long as it shifts loads of papers and gets plenty of hits on their website. Or perhaps they actually have tried to say something at some point, possibly more than once, only she just wouldn't damn well listen.
Not that we should let the Guardian off the hook, either. After all, they are the outfit that published that truly dire column about her total disaster-wedding some years back. This, if I remember rightly, was during the era when the editorial team were obsessed with features penned by people dying of cancer. That's right, they decided the wedding of the century made the perfect follow-up to harrowing accounts of terminal illnesses faced with great courage and dignity by highly talented journalists.
Every sodding week, she would go drivelling on and on about how her husband didn't like her, fancy her or respect her. The feeling was obviously mutual, as she spent much of the rest of the time detailing what a lying, faithless git she reckoned he was.
Every week I would hurl the paper against the wall and yell: "Then why the **** did you marry him, you stupid *****?"
Things reached such a pass that I was seriously considering writing to the Guardian to complain. I eventually decided against this course of action because I was worried they would reply: "Why don't you sod off and read the Daily Mail, you raving nutter?".
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
Friday, 20 January 2012
The end of the world is nigh – latest news just in!
And there isn’t as much time left as we thought.
The reason I know this is because I was sitting with my dad during the festive period that has just departed, watching one of those Brian Cox In’t Universe Bloody Great? documentaries on BBC 4.
Professor Dreamboat chucked on his parka and trendy hobnailed boots to go climbing up a ginormous glacier out in the middle of the Gobi desert (or wherever it was – travel instructions were sadly not included), whilst discussing the end of the world as predicted by the world’s top scientists.
Okay, now admittedly we’d heard it all before. Round about five billion years from today, our nice bright dependable sort of sun is going to run out of fuel for nuclear reactions. This will force it to expand – and keep on expanding, until it becomes so large that it gets described as a ‘red giant’. The earth, meanwhile, has either been frazzled to a crisp in the rapidly rising temperatures of the expansion phase, or been swallowed up by the freakishly swollen sun. Or possibly both. No-one is quite sure, though they all agree the planet will be pretty well buggered by that point.
Professor Swoonbucket, on the other hand, said all this would happen ONE billion years in the future. He did! I heard him.
So I’m sitting there, spurting out fountains of sherry over the cat’s cushion, shrieking: “WTF? WTF? Run for the hills!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
My dad takes another swig of the amontillado, puts his glass back down by the sofa and observes: “There’s fuck-all you can do about it, so stop making such a racket.”
“But don’t you find it all slightly depressing?”
“Why are you so worried about it? It’s not going to bother you. You’ll be long dead by then.”
“What about the people who are living on the planet when it happens?”
“That’s their problem.”
Onscreen, the tousled-haired guru of lurve grins fit to bust, like it’s the greatest development to benefit humanity since sliced bread (fits better in a toaster, I’ll give it that).
Why either of them think the prospect should be remotely cheering is completely beyond me. You’re talking to the woman who was specially perched up on her grandad’s shoulders to take a good, long look at comet Kouhoutek in the frosty far-away autumn skies of 1973, because it wouldn’t be coming back to the earth for another 75, 000 years.
If that knowledge seemed unbearably poignant to a six-year-old girl, why would I have changed my attitude so substantially between then and now? What would prompt such a philosophical U-turn – finding out the world’s best scientists got their sums wrong?
Even though I realized it would be impossible, I still wanted to be there when Kouhoutek returned. The earth it visited would be inconceivably different to the world of 1973. That frightened me, to be honest. Yet I remained curious.
And now I can’t help wondering what the end of the world is really going to be like, when it finally happens. Yes, it’s incredibly sad, yes, I KNOW it’s not my bloody problem – but I STILL wish I could hitch a ride with Dr Who in the Tardis so I can see it for myself, whether or not anybody plays Toxic by Britney Spears as a soundtrack over the top of it.
Incidentally, in their recent study Never In A Million Years: A History Of Hopeless Predictions, Ivor Baddiel (any relation of David?) and Jonny Zucker point out that the above dire prediction might not even happen when it comes to the crunch. Back in 2007, boffins at the National Institute of Astrophysics in Italy discovered that a planet quite like Earth had somehow managed to survive when its sun went into its red giant phase. They hypothesized that V391 Pegasi b had been pushed into a new orbit twice as far away from its sun as the previous one.
Baddiel and Zucker then go on to speculate that any intelligent lifeforms on the planet would have celebrated their good fortune long into the night, ‘which, with their new position in the galaxy, now lasts twice as long’.
Er, I believe you’ll find it’s their year that now lasts twice as long. That’s the period it takes their planet to make one entire orbit round their sun. The day is the amount of time it takes their planet to whirl right round once on its own axis.
Scientists, derrrr …
Wednesday, 21 December 2011
Insect nation
No, this entry is NOT about the classic cod-rock opera by Bill Bailey. Instead I'm going to treat you to a discussion of The Beetle Horde, yet another of the classic serials published by Astounding Stories during the early Thirties.
This unforgettable masterwork was penned by a cult author called Victor Rousseau. Though he seems to be no relation of either the philosopher or the painter (as far as I can make out, anyway), he nevertheless managed to produce a work of sci fi so demented, it almost approaches genius.
Unlike normal people, I don’t tend to start reading a book at the beginning, go through to the middle and keep going until I reach the end. Instead I’ll flip it open almost at random, see if it looks interesting – and if it does, carry on from there until the narrative starts to drag a bit or I nod off. When I return to the story, I employ the same technique all over again. Eventually I will manage to finish the book by piecing together the narrative a bit like a jigsaw.
Suppose this may explain why I still find it so difficult to construct a basic three act storyline. And also why I seem to get on so well with surrealism. Apparently women as a species are meant to naturally gravitate towards realism in fiction. Well, I’ve never been a fan of soaps or kitchen sink drama, while French windows comedies and vicar’s trousers falling down in front of the mayor continue to leave me cold.
All of which means you'll have to forgive me. I'm doing the best I can, even though times is hard.
So far I’ve only managed to read the final part (of four). Based on that, here is what I deduce the basic plot to consist of. If it later turns out to be utter bollocks, suppose I'd better delete all this pdq.
Anyway, a pair of explorers get kidnapped while on an expedition to the Antarctic. They are then hauled down to the secret underground world helpfully known as Submondia for the hard of understanding.
Now the inhabitants of Submondia are by no means your average mob of sinister lurking gnomes. They just happen to be a race of gigantic, super-intelligent beetles that developed their very own civilization.
Quite why a species with so many natural advantages would choose to be ruled by a mad human archaeologist who went nuts and disappeared off the face of the earth (quite literally, in this case), instead of the insect version of Nelson Mandela or Josef Stalin (please delete according to preferred political and social affiliation) is yet another of those strange mysteries that never even get addressed, let alone explained, in a story like this.
It still seems positively racist, though, not to mention the type of wilful illogic that would drive the most sensible and mature of Vulcans to drink – particularly when it naturally and inevitably transpires that the beetles are in the habit of abducting humans from the surface world to act as their slaves and food source. I mean - what rational being is going to accept orders from a bacon buttie?
Turns out the nutcase currently occupying the beetle throne is named Bram (in honour of Bram Stoker?). Like the infamous Fraser from The Floating Island Of Madness, he can best be summed up as a pretty typical ‘mad scientist’ type of boffin.
It seems that the scientific community of 1930 can’t stop laughing at his continued insistence in the face of all the evidence discovered to date in the fossil record that extinct creatures like the marsupial lion lived long before the theory of evolution suggests they must first have appeared. Stung by all the constant derision, he has of course developed the standard issue massive grudge against all of humanity.
If the two explorers refuse to admit to his face that his idiotic ‘theory’ is right, he tells them during one of his endless loopy rants, he will condemn the entire surface world and everyone on it to death. The sentence will be carried out by a swarm of several trillion armour-plated beetles that he will order to ravish the face of the earth at his leisure.
Odd that beetles should act more like a plague of locusts – but then, the story does state that the poor things were starving (yet another reason Submondia urgently needs a beetle revolution, you would have thought. Beetles of the under-world unite!).
Bram intends to direct the horde from the comfort of his battle chariot. This consists of the upturned shell from a monstrous beetle that’s moulted, in which he lolls in state on plump cushions like a corrupt and decadent Roman emperor. The chariot is dragged into the air by a specially trained team of eight sleek war steeds (aka really fast, fancy looking beetles with go-faster stripes down the sides).
Yes, that’s right – they fly!
Sorry, but the first picture to come to mind is the buzzing piebald buggalo in that brilliant Futurama episode Where The Buggalo Roam.
Just as no-one in authority takes much notice of Kif Croker, everyone seems to ignore Haida, the human slave the explorers rescued from the depths of Submondia and brought to the surface with them. However, it turns out that like the timid green lieutenant, she possesses the knowledge and expertise that will eventually save humanity.
To give her her due, Haida does keep trying to explain the simple and unspectacular facts, but just like Zapp Brannigan, the rest of the human race refuses to listen to a word she and the explorers have to say about the danger posed by the immense beetle horde.
For example, during their enforced stay in Submondia, the explorers soon discovered that the shells of the beetles were completely impervious to bullets. If you want to escape being eaten alive by a marauding beetle, the best thing to do is dress up in the discarded shell left by one that’s moulted. Then you will both smell and look like a beetle to the other beetles, so they will leave you alone.
Failing that, your best bet is to hole yourself up somewhere they can’t get in – like a nuclear bunker. Or you can outfly them by zooming to the top of the stratosphere in an aeroplane.
Problem is, fear makes the human race both stupid and stubborn.
When the Australian air force takes to the skies to repel the invaders, it soon becomes apparent that bullets are less than useless against the vile creatures. Yet the Aussie pilots keep on pumping them out.
Another pilot later finds out that human planes can reach much greater heights than the beetles – yet no-one seems prepared to act on that discovery, either.
Presumably people back in 1930 knew of many methods of exterminating normal-sized beetles, so why didn’t any scientists try to apply or adapt them to killing enormous mutant ones too? In the dire circumstances described here, you’ve got to admit calling in Rentokil is worth a shot.
And even if the Australians were somewhat distracted battling off the hordes, why couldn’t people living elsewhere on the globe look for a solution that might help them?
The main reason must be that if any of the above scenarios actually happened, the action would be likely to get resolved a fair bit sooner. This would deprive us of much-needed narrative tension and urgency – and the explorers of their opportunity to finally save the day in the typical heroic fashion.
Nor would the readers have half so many lurid setpieces of sickening horror and revulsion to look forward to. The beetle attacks Down Under must rank with the most gore-ridden zombie and chainsaw killer B-movies out there.
The carnage kicks off with the beetles chasing and devouring alive the poor group of Australian aborigines who try to help the explorers and Haida when they eventually emerge from the depths in the middle of an extinct volcano in the outback, instead of Antarctica, like they were expecting. By the time they've finished their little feast, there isn't much left for the funeral.
Later the beetles place both Melbourne and Adelaide under siege. As a result, Bram is despised by 99.9% of people round the globe as the very Anti-Christ, even those who belong to other religions.
No wonder retro-nerds across the States escaped the worst of the Depression by devouring such trash on a monthly basis. If you live in the Dustbowl and can’t even get a job as a door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman, you either hitch a lift on the back of a rickety truck to go and pick oranges in California – or you sit it out, pretending in your head that you are Bram, unleashing the full might and fury of your ravaging beetle horde on the world that has deprived you of your birthright to the pursuit of happiness.
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
On the go
As someone whose get-up-and-go gets up and goes on a pretty regular basis, I completely fail to understand this modern obsession with being constantly on the go.
If you believe the claims of women's magazines and advertisers, a woman of my approximate age and education level should last have sat down and put her feet up some time back in mid-1994. Because the hectic pace of modern life is that relentless that I quite literally do not ever get the time to take a moment or two to myself, that's why I'm assumed to need such 'essentials' as Starbucks takeaway tall skinny cappucino lattes, plastic pots of cereal with the milk already poured into them, trainers you do up with strips of velcro and paper knickers that you can recycle as bog paper should you unfortunately get caught short when forced to partake of a quick whazz during your weekly supermarket sweep of Tescos (or Waitrose I should be shopping in, only I'm still not possessed of the budget to purchase more than a £10 Friday night dinner for 2 special).
And apparently I'm meant to be as grovellingly grateful as Uriah Heep for the opportunity to spill a river of semi-skimmed milk and cornflakes down my just-back-from-the-drycleaners trenchcoat as I dash up the escalators at Covent Garden tube station, not even having enough time to let the automatic stairs give my poor weary limbs a lift up to the surface.
Let's be honest here - lacking a husband and kids is probably a massive help.
If you believe the claims of women's magazines and advertisers, a woman of my approximate age and education level should last have sat down and put her feet up some time back in mid-1994. Because the hectic pace of modern life is that relentless that I quite literally do not ever get the time to take a moment or two to myself, that's why I'm assumed to need such 'essentials' as Starbucks takeaway tall skinny cappucino lattes, plastic pots of cereal with the milk already poured into them, trainers you do up with strips of velcro and paper knickers that you can recycle as bog paper should you unfortunately get caught short when forced to partake of a quick whazz during your weekly supermarket sweep of Tescos (or Waitrose I should be shopping in, only I'm still not possessed of the budget to purchase more than a £10 Friday night dinner for 2 special).
And apparently I'm meant to be as grovellingly grateful as Uriah Heep for the opportunity to spill a river of semi-skimmed milk and cornflakes down my just-back-from-the-drycleaners trenchcoat as I dash up the escalators at Covent Garden tube station, not even having enough time to let the automatic stairs give my poor weary limbs a lift up to the surface.
Let's be honest here - lacking a husband and kids is probably a massive help.
Monday, 28 November 2011
The amazing wisdom of the subconscious
If the subconscious human brain is meant to be a creative artist of great untapped genius, it still needs the help of a damn good editor.
For proof, let me refer you without further ado to my very own mind. I woke up this morning from a positive Brazilian telenovela of a dream about an alcoholic tramp who died alone and unmourned. His body then ended up getting mummified (quite how, alas I now couldn't tell you. It may possibly have been by some rare natural process, though). Through a chain of the most unlikely coincidences, it got stolen by loads of different people and ends up going on adventures with them all.
Yet it all seemed ineffably brilliant and compelling as I watched it on the screen of my mind's eye. Yes, but remember I was akip at the time! My conscious, critical side was taking a well-earned rest from reality for the duration.
Just the other morning, I woke up with the words The Girl With A Different Life Next Door clamouring ceaselessly through my mind.
No doubt Sylvia Browne and her spirit guide Francine would say that whoever it is from the Other Side who has taken on the onerous task of mentoring me for my writing work over here has infused this title to me, as I am meant to be taking the piece down and getting it published under my current name on this side. Well, if that’s true, could you lot over there please send me the rest as soon as you’re ready? Me and the trusty laptop are waiting.
By the way, I’ve now looked up the title on Google – and it doesn’t seem to exist in our reality yet.
It's all starting to remind me rather uncomfortably of the tale of Henry James' psychologist brother William waking up one morning convinced that he had been told the great secret of the relationship between the sexes during his dreams the night before.
Guess what it turned out to be?
Higamous hogamous
Woman is monogamous
Hogamous higamous
Man is polygamous.
Someone else whose name I can't presently recall, so will need to look up, reckoned that God gave them the gift of writing immortal poetry in their dreams. They too kept a handy pad and pen beside the bed, which they used to scribble down the only fragment of the towering verse that they could remember on waking:
It was a miracle of strange device
A [something totally incongruous- cockroach, perhaps? Better check this one out, too] made of snow and ice ...
Like I say, all in bloody dire need of a tough sub-editor.
Maybe THAT'S what we over here are meant to do with the information that gets 'infused' to us?
For proof, let me refer you without further ado to my very own mind. I woke up this morning from a positive Brazilian telenovela of a dream about an alcoholic tramp who died alone and unmourned. His body then ended up getting mummified (quite how, alas I now couldn't tell you. It may possibly have been by some rare natural process, though). Through a chain of the most unlikely coincidences, it got stolen by loads of different people and ends up going on adventures with them all.
Yet it all seemed ineffably brilliant and compelling as I watched it on the screen of my mind's eye. Yes, but remember I was akip at the time! My conscious, critical side was taking a well-earned rest from reality for the duration.
Just the other morning, I woke up with the words The Girl With A Different Life Next Door clamouring ceaselessly through my mind.
No doubt Sylvia Browne and her spirit guide Francine would say that whoever it is from the Other Side who has taken on the onerous task of mentoring me for my writing work over here has infused this title to me, as I am meant to be taking the piece down and getting it published under my current name on this side. Well, if that’s true, could you lot over there please send me the rest as soon as you’re ready? Me and the trusty laptop are waiting.
By the way, I’ve now looked up the title on Google – and it doesn’t seem to exist in our reality yet.
It's all starting to remind me rather uncomfortably of the tale of Henry James' psychologist brother William waking up one morning convinced that he had been told the great secret of the relationship between the sexes during his dreams the night before.
Guess what it turned out to be?
Higamous hogamous
Woman is monogamous
Hogamous higamous
Man is polygamous.
Someone else whose name I can't presently recall, so will need to look up, reckoned that God gave them the gift of writing immortal poetry in their dreams. They too kept a handy pad and pen beside the bed, which they used to scribble down the only fragment of the towering verse that they could remember on waking:
It was a miracle of strange device
A [something totally incongruous- cockroach, perhaps? Better check this one out, too] made of snow and ice ...
Like I say, all in bloody dire need of a tough sub-editor.
Maybe THAT'S what we over here are meant to do with the information that gets 'infused' to us?
Friday, 25 November 2011
And there's more!
Here's what else our much-loved deceased slebs have been getting up to in the afterlife, plus some exclusive details of their plans for future incarnations. It all comes to you courtesy of Sylvia Browne and her spirit guide Francine (who had an entire book to fill, so needed to include plenty of material, obviously). You certainly can't say you don't get great value for your money.
Audrey Hepburn seems to have a close friend on the Other Side called Emil. This person has planned to reincarnate some time very soon after the end of this current year in a place near Vancouver. Once they've returned over here, they don't intend to waste any time, as Emil is scheduled to become a successful author before the age of 20. They will achieve this by recreating a book written by Audrey back at Home called For Of Such Is The Kingdom Of God, not to mention also illustrating it in fine watercolours.
Meanwhile, Ray Charles has been busy begun infusing his compositions to a young musical prodigy. The lad was born near the Macon area in Georgia back in 2000, and either his first or last name happens to be Martin. Though he is still so young, he is already receiving recognition for his great talent as both a singer and guitarist. By the time he reaches his mid-teens, Martin will be writing 'Ray Charles' songs without knowing where they come from (just a thought - maybe he is a great fan of Ray Charles during this current incarnation? Therefore Charles would obviously be a major influence on his work?) No less than four of those songs will have been successfully recorded by his 25th birthday.
Everyone's favourite mad-haired genius Albert Einstein reckons that by the 2040s, time travel will be common. How, you may find yourself asking. Apparently we'll all be travelling to and from various periods of history through what he refers to as global 'flues'. What's a 'global flue' when it's at home? See the Bermuda Triangle for further details ... Einstein, Nikola Tesla, Galileo Galilei and George Hale will soon be starting to infuse the theory behind time travel to selected incarnated scientists accross the globe. One of these, beginning in about 2018, will be a young man based at Duke University named Bernard or Bernhard.
Guess what? The King has re-entered the building! Elvis Presley was reincarnated back in late November 2004. In this new life, his hair is blond, but will darken as he gets older, and his eyes are blue. He lives somewhere in France on a vineyard, together with his parents and two brothers. The family has relatives in Italy, so they travel over there several times a year to visit them. Although he will grow up to have just as exquisite a singing voice and great talent as a composer as he did before, he won't be hitting the spotlight this time round. Because he is now a devout Catholic, he will become a monk and work with the poor. All his great musical talents will be devoted to the glory of the Church, not the world.
Farrah Fawcett intends to return for another incarnation in which she becomes famous 'for something which matters', but still needs to finish assessing and processing the achievements of the lifetime she has just finished before she starts making plans for the next one.
Bob Marley fans will be delighted to hear that he has been hard at work writing his autobiography on the Other Side. Once it is complete, he will be infusing it to a woman that his son Ziggy has already met, but doesn't know very well just yet. The chosen lady will make herself apparent to Ziggy at the right time, then together they will see the project through to fruition.
Anna Nicole Smith will eventually be reincarnated, but says there is no particular hurry. Presumably Francine will let Sylvia know once further details of her plans emerge.
The infamous Madalyn Murray O'Hair (to Americans, anyway) is another celebrity who has already been reincarnated. Because she seems to have been a rather dodgy spiritual prospect, following her death, she went straight through a portal known as the Left Door and into another life on earth. She is now a male called Leon or Leonid, who was born somwhere in the vicinity of the western mountains in the Ukraine during June 1996. Francine reports that he is the youngest of four children. Unlike his parents and siblings, who are all 'fine, hardworking people', he is growing up to be hateful, rebellious, dishonest. Although he is still so young, he already appears to be involved in criminal activity of some sort. There are fears he could possibly end up committing some sort of very seriously nasty act when he is older.
Sammy Davis Jr is is yet another famous person planning to return very soon. He will be reborn during 2016. In this upcoming life, he will qualify as a doctor, specialising in paediatrics - possibly with a focus on cystic fibrosis and childhood autism. Although he will do much good work and help many people, unlike his previous one, this life will pass in anonymity.
The immortal icon James Dean will be reincarnating in 2017. As before, he will be an actor, but this time round, he intends to live a safe and steady life, complete with wife and children. To make up for the short duration of his last life, he intends to check out at the ripe old age of 90.
Brittany Murphy reports that she wasn't too impressed by fame in the life she has just finished. This may explain why she will soon come back here as a woman living a really ordinary, average, dare we say boring, life somewhere in Portugal.
Katherine Hepburn and her father may be residing safely on the Other Side, but that doesn't mean to say they lounge about on clouds all day, languidly strumming harps. No, they've been work solidly on the Other Side as medical researchers, specialising in neurological disorders. At the moment they are busy developing a cure for epilepsy.This will be infused to a research team in Sweden, who will announce a major breakthrough during the course of 2019.
As was reported on one of the main Beatles fans websites, George Harrison is currently in training to become a great Hindu guru on the Other Side. (Hopefully he has been so busy with this, he didn't hear what my mother said to the Hari Krishna monk who asked her for a donation on Sun Street!)
It appears the Hepburns aren't the only dead slebs to join scientific projects. John Kennedy Jr and Jackie Kennedy Onassis are claimed to be leading members of a huge research team working on the prenatal detection, treatment and cure of birth defects. This team is actively infusing scientists and medical researchers based in North America, Japan and Brazil. Some sort of collaborative global breakthrough in this area is expected to be announced around 2026.
The much-missed Heath Ledger is already in the middle of sorting out plans for his next lifetime. He intends to reincarnate in the year 2016. Like James Dean, he plans to be an actor again, maybe a film editor too.
When his daughter Michelle is in her early thirties, his new incarnation will re-enter her life. This person will seem an 'oddly familiar stranger' to her, only she'll have no idea why she feels so comfortable with them, almost like she knew them from somewhere before.
So there you have it.
Perhaps I should make a note in my diary to return to all these predictions in 2064 (when I'll be 97 - very possible indeed, given the great ages to which many members of both sides of my family during this current incarnation have managed to reach), and see how they've all panned out.
Audrey Hepburn seems to have a close friend on the Other Side called Emil. This person has planned to reincarnate some time very soon after the end of this current year in a place near Vancouver. Once they've returned over here, they don't intend to waste any time, as Emil is scheduled to become a successful author before the age of 20. They will achieve this by recreating a book written by Audrey back at Home called For Of Such Is The Kingdom Of God, not to mention also illustrating it in fine watercolours.
Meanwhile, Ray Charles has been busy begun infusing his compositions to a young musical prodigy. The lad was born near the Macon area in Georgia back in 2000, and either his first or last name happens to be Martin. Though he is still so young, he is already receiving recognition for his great talent as both a singer and guitarist. By the time he reaches his mid-teens, Martin will be writing 'Ray Charles' songs without knowing where they come from (just a thought - maybe he is a great fan of Ray Charles during this current incarnation? Therefore Charles would obviously be a major influence on his work?) No less than four of those songs will have been successfully recorded by his 25th birthday.
Everyone's favourite mad-haired genius Albert Einstein reckons that by the 2040s, time travel will be common. How, you may find yourself asking. Apparently we'll all be travelling to and from various periods of history through what he refers to as global 'flues'. What's a 'global flue' when it's at home? See the Bermuda Triangle for further details ... Einstein, Nikola Tesla, Galileo Galilei and George Hale will soon be starting to infuse the theory behind time travel to selected incarnated scientists accross the globe. One of these, beginning in about 2018, will be a young man based at Duke University named Bernard or Bernhard.
Guess what? The King has re-entered the building! Elvis Presley was reincarnated back in late November 2004. In this new life, his hair is blond, but will darken as he gets older, and his eyes are blue. He lives somewhere in France on a vineyard, together with his parents and two brothers. The family has relatives in Italy, so they travel over there several times a year to visit them. Although he will grow up to have just as exquisite a singing voice and great talent as a composer as he did before, he won't be hitting the spotlight this time round. Because he is now a devout Catholic, he will become a monk and work with the poor. All his great musical talents will be devoted to the glory of the Church, not the world.
Farrah Fawcett intends to return for another incarnation in which she becomes famous 'for something which matters', but still needs to finish assessing and processing the achievements of the lifetime she has just finished before she starts making plans for the next one.
Bob Marley fans will be delighted to hear that he has been hard at work writing his autobiography on the Other Side. Once it is complete, he will be infusing it to a woman that his son Ziggy has already met, but doesn't know very well just yet. The chosen lady will make herself apparent to Ziggy at the right time, then together they will see the project through to fruition.
Anna Nicole Smith will eventually be reincarnated, but says there is no particular hurry. Presumably Francine will let Sylvia know once further details of her plans emerge.
The infamous Madalyn Murray O'Hair (to Americans, anyway) is another celebrity who has already been reincarnated. Because she seems to have been a rather dodgy spiritual prospect, following her death, she went straight through a portal known as the Left Door and into another life on earth. She is now a male called Leon or Leonid, who was born somwhere in the vicinity of the western mountains in the Ukraine during June 1996. Francine reports that he is the youngest of four children. Unlike his parents and siblings, who are all 'fine, hardworking people', he is growing up to be hateful, rebellious, dishonest. Although he is still so young, he already appears to be involved in criminal activity of some sort. There are fears he could possibly end up committing some sort of very seriously nasty act when he is older.
Sammy Davis Jr is is yet another famous person planning to return very soon. He will be reborn during 2016. In this upcoming life, he will qualify as a doctor, specialising in paediatrics - possibly with a focus on cystic fibrosis and childhood autism. Although he will do much good work and help many people, unlike his previous one, this life will pass in anonymity.
The immortal icon James Dean will be reincarnating in 2017. As before, he will be an actor, but this time round, he intends to live a safe and steady life, complete with wife and children. To make up for the short duration of his last life, he intends to check out at the ripe old age of 90.
Brittany Murphy reports that she wasn't too impressed by fame in the life she has just finished. This may explain why she will soon come back here as a woman living a really ordinary, average, dare we say boring, life somewhere in Portugal.
Katherine Hepburn and her father may be residing safely on the Other Side, but that doesn't mean to say they lounge about on clouds all day, languidly strumming harps. No, they've been work solidly on the Other Side as medical researchers, specialising in neurological disorders. At the moment they are busy developing a cure for epilepsy.This will be infused to a research team in Sweden, who will announce a major breakthrough during the course of 2019.
As was reported on one of the main Beatles fans websites, George Harrison is currently in training to become a great Hindu guru on the Other Side. (Hopefully he has been so busy with this, he didn't hear what my mother said to the Hari Krishna monk who asked her for a donation on Sun Street!)
It appears the Hepburns aren't the only dead slebs to join scientific projects. John Kennedy Jr and Jackie Kennedy Onassis are claimed to be leading members of a huge research team working on the prenatal detection, treatment and cure of birth defects. This team is actively infusing scientists and medical researchers based in North America, Japan and Brazil. Some sort of collaborative global breakthrough in this area is expected to be announced around 2026.
The much-missed Heath Ledger is already in the middle of sorting out plans for his next lifetime. He intends to reincarnate in the year 2016. Like James Dean, he plans to be an actor again, maybe a film editor too.
When his daughter Michelle is in her early thirties, his new incarnation will re-enter her life. This person will seem an 'oddly familiar stranger' to her, only she'll have no idea why she feels so comfortable with them, almost like she knew them from somewhere before.
So there you have it.
Perhaps I should make a note in my diary to return to all these predictions in 2064 (when I'll be 97 - very possible indeed, given the great ages to which many members of both sides of my family during this current incarnation have managed to reach), and see how they've all panned out.
Friday, 11 November 2011
How Sings The Gay Sardine?
Here's a bit of a conundrum for you.
American medium Sylvia Browne claims that not a single work in world literature has ever been created by writers in this world, nor are our scientists the ones responsible for devising any of their prize-winning theories over the centuries. Her spirit guide Francine says this is because people on the other side (aka 'Home') knock up all the novels, plays, films, symphonies and theories in their spare moments in between travelling round Atlantis by atomic-powered hovering golf carts, watching Michael Jackson concerts at the ghostly version of the Hollywod Bowl and preparing for their next incarnations. Then they infuse them to the creatives over here whilst we are all sleeping.
Apparently Bette Davis has a mate called Keller or Kellogg who is down to become a great playwright during his (her?) fast approaching new incarnation, starting in north Oregon during 2014. Keller/Kellogg is going to be writing a classic trilogy called 'Houses Of Glass'.
Okay, a century is a bloody long time and we do need replacements for figures like Arthur Miller and Harold Pinter. 'Houses Of Glass' even sounds a plausible topic for a literary classic or three.
Problem is, Keller/Kellogg has already been hard at work on the trilogy long before this upcoming incarnation even starts - and Bette has been helping him/her.
If there is any truth in what Francine claims, then who the hell is going to be the actual author of 'Houses Of Glass'? Keller/Kellogg? Bette Davis? Both?
And when exactly will these three plays get written?
Presumably if Keller/Kellogg does get born in north Oregon during 2014 and grows up to become a playwright, then like me he/she will be expecting to spend quite a bit of time sitting alone at a computer, slurping down gallons of coffee whilst peering anxiously at the screen thinking: "Oh shit! My brain's gone blank!", before spending the next three hours playing Solitaire, checking their e-mails and reading weird junk like 'The Floating Island Of Madness'.
Then, when he/she jolts awake at three o'clock in the morning and rushes for a piece of paper and a pen, he/she will not unnaturally assume that it is their own subconscious that has finally get up off its arse and knuckled down to a bit of work for a change.
It will be Keller/Kellogg who types it all up on the computer and sends it off to playwriting competitions and literary agents, not Bette Davis. It will be Keller/Kellogg who appears on the television accepting awards and on Radio 4 discussing his/her sources of inspiration.
Yet when Albert Einstein passed over, Francine describes how his mentor Isaac Newton came to meet him and congratulate him for all 'his' incredible achievements such as the General Theory of Relativity.
Perhaps I need to tear my own personal scriptwriting team away from the David Garrick/Laurence Olivier marathon season at the Lemurian version of the Old Vic and ask them to get on with finishing the second draft of 'Elvis Alive' in time for the fast approaching deadline.
American medium Sylvia Browne claims that not a single work in world literature has ever been created by writers in this world, nor are our scientists the ones responsible for devising any of their prize-winning theories over the centuries. Her spirit guide Francine says this is because people on the other side (aka 'Home') knock up all the novels, plays, films, symphonies and theories in their spare moments in between travelling round Atlantis by atomic-powered hovering golf carts, watching Michael Jackson concerts at the ghostly version of the Hollywod Bowl and preparing for their next incarnations. Then they infuse them to the creatives over here whilst we are all sleeping.
Apparently Bette Davis has a mate called Keller or Kellogg who is down to become a great playwright during his (her?) fast approaching new incarnation, starting in north Oregon during 2014. Keller/Kellogg is going to be writing a classic trilogy called 'Houses Of Glass'.
Okay, a century is a bloody long time and we do need replacements for figures like Arthur Miller and Harold Pinter. 'Houses Of Glass' even sounds a plausible topic for a literary classic or three.
Problem is, Keller/Kellogg has already been hard at work on the trilogy long before this upcoming incarnation even starts - and Bette has been helping him/her.
If there is any truth in what Francine claims, then who the hell is going to be the actual author of 'Houses Of Glass'? Keller/Kellogg? Bette Davis? Both?
And when exactly will these three plays get written?
Presumably if Keller/Kellogg does get born in north Oregon during 2014 and grows up to become a playwright, then like me he/she will be expecting to spend quite a bit of time sitting alone at a computer, slurping down gallons of coffee whilst peering anxiously at the screen thinking: "Oh shit! My brain's gone blank!", before spending the next three hours playing Solitaire, checking their e-mails and reading weird junk like 'The Floating Island Of Madness'.
Then, when he/she jolts awake at three o'clock in the morning and rushes for a piece of paper and a pen, he/she will not unnaturally assume that it is their own subconscious that has finally get up off its arse and knuckled down to a bit of work for a change.
It will be Keller/Kellogg who types it all up on the computer and sends it off to playwriting competitions and literary agents, not Bette Davis. It will be Keller/Kellogg who appears on the television accepting awards and on Radio 4 discussing his/her sources of inspiration.
Yet when Albert Einstein passed over, Francine describes how his mentor Isaac Newton came to meet him and congratulate him for all 'his' incredible achievements such as the General Theory of Relativity.
Perhaps I need to tear my own personal scriptwriting team away from the David Garrick/Laurence Olivier marathon season at the Lemurian version of the Old Vic and ask them to get on with finishing the second draft of 'Elvis Alive' in time for the fast approaching deadline.
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