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The Alternative Fortean Times |
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Your Editor Squeaks
Well hello again all good Combat Viewers, and welcome to Combat Diary 14. First I would like to thank all our writers for their contributions. There have been a number of exciting events recently. Left, an artist’s impression of two of Panzerben’s Ufological Believers fighting their way out of Brentford Leisure Centre after a raid on the combined Magonia Magazine/Fortean Times Headquarters. Goody two-shoes Murk (“two-webs-one-mind”) is on the extreme left, playing his usual embarrassingly well-behaved role. The Brentford Polonius is attacking centre (nice pair of slippers, what?), and The Big Girl’s Blouse is the one with the horns. This editor is, or was, would-be, or retired, or stood down, or shot, no one quite knows. He is still there or not there, frozen in what postmodern Forteans call information space. Right, we have a very interesting photograph of a skeptic being abducted over the Wiltshire Downs, submitted by T.C. Palmer (14), and said by he to “quite genuine,” adding a new phrase to the vocabulary of the degrees of perception. Being Forteans proper, we cannot vouch for therefore for the quasi-authenticity of either of these two pictures. Both appear to be suspended in the indeterminate suggestion region between two cultural advertisements. Like Ufology itself, these two representations in the limit approach art form, which is the only information system that counts. Of course there will be attempts by humourless meritocrats from sausage and mash universities to claim that these two pictures are “folklore” or “urban legend.” These are two of the great yuppie mythological sagas of the tepid rationalism of the unlamented Marxist polytech trade-school inheritance. And these last few quarter-brilliant rationalist kooks, still speaking factspiel and docubox chapel-talk (half-truths for the almost dead), still get paid for trying to invent synonyms for the word “fantasy.” Still, anything is better than a billion nail-biting manic-depressive Stalinist attempts by the trading classes and social workers to “separate the facts from the fictions.” So watch out for the Cartesian Castrators, Believer-Bears. The bastards are not after the truth, they are after squaring off your imagination. Your balls and your ass come a bad second. And once you’ve lost that holy trinity, you’ll be in good condition for watching TV for the rest of your pre-determined circuitry. That may be a fate worse than death, but least it is better than a scientifico-Maoist interrogation by the community wishing-well about whether you are truthful, or honest, politically correct or (worse) real. So keep smiling Combat Bears, and watch out for the undecorated chapels, the toothpaste smiles of the advertisements of rationalism, and also the great Facts Machine, which will rip you off quicker than a wink and a nod from any “real” scientist. And remember: the advertisment is the only killer that counts. Happy Autumn! The Bad Man
Contents: Chapter 1 On the Chapter 1: Mimetics Part 1 Jack Hardy Chapter 2: Occult Nazis from Outer Space Part 1 Alex Constantine Chapter 3: The Great UFO Crash/Retrieval Syndrome Betty Baxter Chapter 4: Implants, Mind Control, and Cybernetics Luukanen-Kilde MD Chapter 5: Charles Fort in the Drainage Sump Patricia Farson Chapter 6: Alien Abductions: DNA Sample Bill Chalker Chapter 7: The Murder of Doctor David Kelly Jim Rarey Meet the Team of Panzerben:
FORTWATCH
Dr. Patricia “Arson” Farson. A street magician, a magical vampire person, and UFO Contactee. She acquired her middle name in an incident that South Kensington remembers to this very day. Now lives in the House of Panzerben, visited by a stream of her many social workers and/or probation officers. Still hard at work on her autobiography, Memoirs of a Fallen Programmer, parts of which will soon appear in the Combat Diaries early in the new year. Trendy. Upper-middle-class. Parents long in despair. Had great hopes after the troubled public launch of their reluctant debutante daughter, but she proved to have brains, always an English upper-middle-class nightmare. As a brainy person, she avoided the usual British fate of being locked up in the west wing like a misshapen dwarf. She has received much praise, publicity, and not a little Ufological notoriety for her article The New Cromwellians that appeared in Combat Diary 12. An expanded and much more detailed episode of this fascinating story will appear in the bumper Christmas issue of the Combat Diaries. In this festive piece, she will show in far greater detail the complete history of attempts by Magonian skeptics to penetrate and finally take over the Fortean Times. Meantime Combat Viewers will be intrigued I am sure with Patricia’s tale Charles Fort in the Drainage Sump, this being another episode in the saga of Prod and Tonto, the two FT UFO investigators and their Controller Merk von FT. These tales have aroused most interest of all continuing features of the Combat Diaries. Watch this space. It’s all true. INVESTIGATIONS
Dr. Betty “Shackster” Baxter from Darkest Knightsbridge, on good repute said to be the greatest computer hacker since the great Fred Klaxon of Wakefield (RIP). Left her signatures at Sellafield, CERN, Microsoft, Los Alamos, and Bill Gates Personal Organizer. These days, after a month in the House of Panzerben, she now appears to be much more relaxed, and has come down to dinner several times. This sister still spends most of her contemplative life however her large custom-built Faraday cage on the third floor, part of which can be seen in the above picture. Betty is said to be Fifth on the CIA kill-on-sight list. IQ off the scale. Very posh. Pre-war drawling accent. Overbred, with good blood from somewhere. Double First in Greats. Turned down Christchurch History Fellowship. Fine bones. Manchester girl, of course. Great Grandmother Captain Mary (WAAF) was Ultra Liaison Officer with Fighter Command Link at Bletchley. Racial memory all over the place. Mother remembers Turing smiling at her in her pram. Professors and Fellows of All Souls right through the family. And of course, member of the SPR. Dreams about Churchill, Watson-Watt, the old Navy, and T.E. Lawrence weeping in the old Tank Corps sheds at Bovington. Guardian of British mysteries. What a tripper! Read about her latest Harry Potter style adventures in The Great UFO Crash/Retrieval Syndrome. DEFENCE AND SECURITY |
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Arfer Cadaver (RIP) in drag at a charity do for the Pomeranian Grenadiers of Clerkenwell |
Mr. Moon (RIP) |
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Many have contacted us expressing condolences on death of Arfer Cadaver, our previous Sergeant at Arms. I should have added that this unhappy man (now at peace, the gods rest his soul), was pursued also by a memorable congerie of Easy End slaughter-house managers for his illegal sale of stolen fire-brigade equipment. To add to his woes, he was pursued equally relentlessly also by his own Neighbourhood Watch. His Wanted picture lined the twitching-curtain windows of many a Bow avenue. He will be missed also south of the river by many who wanted to get in touch whilst he was still alive. I am extremely sorry to say that again have been unfortunate in his successor, Mr. Moon, who died a natural death over a week ago. Since this is not a Christian house, we decided to try and give him a pagan burial. Suffice it to say that this endeavour gave us some problems, one of which was the difficulty of getting his body into the Seething Elmon's old ice-cream van prior to our intent of burning his body on the Derbyshire hills, Mr Moon being a Derbyshire man. We resolved this situation by rewarded the police for their interest as it were, and also gave a hint to social workers of their sins in the past regarding their somewhat unhealthy interest in certain of their younger charges. The environmentalists were gently reminded that certain funding was somewhat suspect. The matter settled in this time-honoured way, we proceeded to Axe Edge, where at some 2000 feet above sea level we gave up Mr. Moon’s spirit to the gods. Erecting a funeral platform Hindu style, our two barrels of turpentine and petrol sent him up in a fine manner befitting the Old Religion. Prying telescopes from Leeds reported a plane crash, and high VHF aerial links experienced interference as Mr. Moon’s much-abused spirit entered Valhalla. We buried his remains and ashes above the great rockfall of Kinder Scout and rejoicing, had a funeral lunch in his memory, this consisting of Mr. Moon’s favourite sausage sandwiches and diet Umbongo fresh from the can. |
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Introducing Sidney, the new Security Chief of the House of Panzerben Unlike poor Mr. Moon, Sidney managed to avoid the NHSS experimental pound, when we found him the Last Chance Depot of the Camden Salvation Army. He was sound asleep on a pallias that had the name of a regiment last seen on the British Army List in 1904. The bedding straw was in a similar historical state. Strange to say, we found to be an expert on Dr. Samuel Johnson, whom he resembles somewhat. Astonished, we found him going through a sackful of notes he was compiling about a book about Boswell’s Diary for 1762! Thus does the observer become the observed. If Sidney is Johnson recreated, then goodness only knows if Shakespeare himself is a crane driver in Nottingham, and James Joyce is emptying dustbins in Norwich. If this is so, then perhaps, full of what Ionesco called nostalgia mysterioux, such folk stop what they are doing and wonder who once they were.
Sidney at lunch Sidney on night patrol catches a skeptic trying to penetrate and finally take over the House of Panzerfben Sidney was about to be sent to the NHSS experimental pound, when we found him the Last Chance Depot of the Campden Salvation Army. He was sound asleep on a pallias that had the name of a regiment last seen on the British Army List in 1904. Strange to say, we found to be an expert on Dr. Samuel Johnson, whom he resembles somewhat. Sidney will be assisted by our two Taliban from the Job Club who are doing well as night watchmen. They have sworn to pray silently, since anything else stops the chickens from laying, the cats disappear for days, and there are complaints from Betty about her NSA implants going wild. Head Cook, Manservant, and Chief Bottlewasher: The Seething Elmon |
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| Before British Holiday | After British Holiday | Siedlitz (unchanged, as ever) |
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As Combat Viewers will recall from the previous issue, out valiant pair went on holiday together. Relatively speaking, this well-deserved rest didn’t go too badly as compared with other years. The pair got only one week in police custody out of the four-week TV Bingo-Fiesta holiday at Skegness Butlin’s camp, financed by their forged TV Jumbo Happiness Vouchers. The following week they spent in separate hospitals recovering from serious injuries suffered from their desperate affections for one another. Recovering, Elmon (with a leg in plaster) went on to win the TV Cilla Black Karaoeke Contest, and Siedlitz (on crutches) got the Dame Edna TV Crooning Award. Unfortunately, some very funny business on the Dodgem cars with young matelots in training got the pair promptly arrested again. They received less than nine charges of common indecency, some of legislation dating back to the time of the Black Death. and the Civil War. The final week was spent in custody trying to organize the kind of lawyers who do not charge fees. After their Community Service, and Probation period, some say marriage is on the cards. We look forward to the Reception, if not the nuptials.
RETREAT, COUNSELLING AND CONFESSIONS
Another unique facility of the House of Panzerben. This was run originally by Jim “Sapper” Fish (left, below) and his girlfriend Carol Silk, a journalist from Newcastle. I am afraid to say that Jim has had to take a rest from his duties, due in the main to pressures from his many troubled amatory affairs. He has been sent to a quiet hotel in Bridlington to exist on a diet of mineral water and fruit whilst reading through De Quincey’s Reminiscences of the English Lake Poets and the great early circumnavigations of the globe in chronological order.
His Pelican Rescue Duties have been taken on by George Shenston, his assistant, Mavis Powell, and Carol Silk.
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We do hope that this splendid trio will reorganise our Rescue & Reform Scheme for UFO & Parnormal Unbelievers (K&C grant applied for), which has been in disrepair as it were for some time. It has long been the bane of all Magonians, and it is to be hoped that will take good care of our unique collection of fallen manic-depressive nail-biting po-faced pelicans, dazed and confused rationalists, and all those who suffer from exposure to deadly fundamentalist media radiation from the wide-screen Nikon. 24-hour emergency service for Confessions from casualties from all the sceptical chapels is available. Camp beds are reserved for difficult moments of doubt about the Real. Cold Turkey isolation, hot cocoa and sick bowls are available free of charge for all crises of belief in Fact and “concrete evidence.” Special care facilities are available to treat the nightmares of garage-rationalists, Utilitarians, and the fear of the over-educated, fallen left-liberals, and any other suchlike who come to the House of Panzerben for holistic relief. I trust George and Mavis are strong enough to cope when crises of Belief occur and Magonians try to snatch back doubting pelicans, as Christians try to snatch back converts who have wandered into infamous "cults" and happen to be having the time of their lives. It is the time of their lives that must be stopped first of all. The change of belief comes a bad second. They must be replugged into the wide-screen Nikon immediately, as if it were a life support machine. Our thanks go also to others too numerous to mention who pour in and out of the House of Panzerben seeking comfort, shelter, and what little treatment and advice is our to offer. These faces cannot be shown due to many issues and considerations and mishaps extraordinary. These mainly involve Social Security, Probation officers, Social workers, the banks, the police, the judiciary, psychiatrists, the Law, alien abductors, Men in Black, the Security Services, and in certain cases Parents, film & TV producers and parents. Many of these young escapees are suffering from bad liberal burn from the everlasting idiot’s lantern, and conversations about gear boxes, DIY, sport, and something called the Economy. Unfortunately we have to hand back many of those who have made it successfully over the perimeter wire, if only to see living screens that offer better viewing and in most case at least, have no license fee. All live within a square mile of the Martyr's Memorial, Portobello Road, and only leave it on pain of death. Come night, and we all pull the beautiful devastation over us like a magical cloak of forgetting. Watch this space, and send your articles, books for review, cartoons, poems, ideas and letters to combat-diaries@thewhyfiles.co.uk
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