Margaret Thatcher's Consciousness to be Uploaded to the Sun in the UK

Former prime minister Margaret Thatcher, Britain's first female prime minister and perhaps the most universally adored public figure from the past century, will have her consciousness uploaded to the British sun in a project announced by the Conservative Party this morning. 

The project, which has been kept top secret for 8 years since Thatcher's death in 2013, will cost the taxpayer in excess of £800 billion, and will require a new 'Thatcher tax' to keep the Iron Lady gleefully beaming down on us from the sky. 

As mentioned before, News, News, News, News does not possess a sufficient amount of scientific know-how, and knows next to nothing about artificial intelligence, computationalism, sentience, physics, consciousness or neuroscience, but, needless to say, the science involved in this procedure is very clever indeed.

Ever since the trail-blazing prime minister died in April 2013, the science wing of CPHQ (Conservative Party HQ) has stored Mrs Thatcher's brain in freezing cold temperatures. Despite requests by several leading scientists to transform her body into a Minotaur, her most ardent supporters within the party managed to keep hold of her. The PM at the time, David Cameron, gave the go ahead on the top secret project, and has said today that he's 'chuffed to bits' that it's finally come to fruition. 

"Well, I think many people will be delighted to learn that Mrs Thatcher will be making a return to British public life in a way no prime minister ever has. I've kept this secret for almost 8 years, and I will admit, it's been pretty hard to do so! But, finally we'll be able to look up into the sky and marvel at this truly remarkable woman. Let this be our gift to you, the great British public! Hazaar!"

According to reports, Mrs Thatcher's face will be visible on the sun during daylight hours, including her iconic hair and much-maligned nose. The iron lady will be able to speak also. In a press release this morning it was confirmed that she'll also sing. 

"Mrs Thatcher's voice is iconic, it is, one might say, the voice of the nation. Mrs Thatcher will sing her heart out each and every day. At dawn, she'll break in to a marvelous rendition of 'Ave Maria', at luncheon she'll perform a spine-tingling version of 'Jerusalem', 'Zadok the Priest' will be our early afternoon treat and 'Read All About It' by Emeli Sande will be her evening performance."

It is not yet known how often Mrs Thatcher will speak during daytime hours, but several pundits have suggested that, despite being invisible, she'll also be able to speak at nighttime. Jacob Rees-Mogg privately told colleagues that she'll bark her infamous words "No! No! No!" on a continuous loop during the night. These three words send quivers of halcyonic calm through every Briton's spine, and is expected to cool the raging tempers of those who wish to disobey the British state. 

Thatcher performing the infamous 'Tory Haka' at the party conference in 1981. 

It's also being reported that Mrs Thatcher will bellow out many more of her famous sayings, such as "The lady's not for turning!", "it may be the cock that grows, but it is the hen that lays the eggs" and "Yet I do fear thy school, it is too full o' the milk of human kindness to catch the nearest way".

Current PM, Boris Johnson has hailed the project as an example of 'supreme British ingenuity' and 'patriotic, capitalist energy'. "I think I speak for everyone in the country when I say how happy I am to welcome Mrs Thatcher back into daily life. I remember when I was a student visiting Downing Street when Margaret was in power, I shook hands with the woman and haven't washed it since. I was shaking hands with COVID patients on the 3rd of March last year, and they were delighted to receive some authentic, Thatcherite, privatised, free market DNA. Hazaar!"

The new initiative will "calm, soothe and subdue the fiery passions of Britain's noisy troublemakers", according to the Conservative Party press release. Said troublemakers, including those currently protesting the government's new policing bill, have accepted that Mrs Thatcher's presence will bring compliance and order. Leader of the opposition, Keir Starmer said in a statement, "This isn't the exact route I would take personally, but if it's what the government want, I will support them fully in their endeavours. Mrs Thatcher was an inspiration to many young woman, on the left, the right, and most importantly, the centre ground, which I have 'marked' as my territory. Hazaar!"

"Everything will be OK" Johnson assured the British public, "Maggie is back! She is watching over us, literally! Her dulcet tones will see us through crisis after crisis, her lungs will fill the sky with great big, bustling, bombastic, brutish, brilliant clouds of good old-fashioned steely, British, bulldog, world-beating, bourgeois, patriotic, powerful resolve and inimitable wit and charm. I will not lie to you, I am getting an erection just thinking about it". 

There are whispers of some members of the public who are not supportive of this highly unusual endeavour, but News, News, News, News interviewed the entire UK population and found no one willing to speak out against it. One older woman did crack a joke, saying "Well, if she's being uploaded to the Sun, we won't see much of her with all this bad British weather! Ha! Ha!"

The Labour Party under Keir Starmer is reportedly in talks with former PMs Tony Blair and Gordon Brown over uploading their consciousness to every single one of Britain's blades of grass to counteract the Tories having Thatcher in the sky. 

The Liberal Democrats want Nick Clegg to be uploaded into the wind to be blown whichever way he chooses. 

The SNP were in talks with Nicola Sturgeon over her transcending into Scotland's waters, but, in a cruel twist of fate, Mrs Sturgeon is now in choppy political waters herself.

As for the remaining parties, the Brexit Party wants Nigel Farage in pork scratchings, the Green Party want Caroline Lucas in wind turbines and UKIP want Tommy Robinson to be King. 

From the Archive: Robert Louis Stevenson Angered By 'Jekyll and Hyde' Fans Swarming 'Kidnapped' Book Signing

From the Archive will dig up old News, News, News, News articles from throughout the publication's history. NNNN has been operating since before historical records began, making it the World's oldest continuously-running newspaper. The origins of NNNN are unknown, but one theory suggests it was created by a cabal of stoned apes who bemoaned the quality of journalism in the prehistoric era. This theory claims that the apes wished to document important events in the lives of their communities, and to investigate and report on major geopolitical crises. 

The first article in this series is dated September 19th 1886, and concerns the Scottish novelist Robert Louis Stevenson.

Robert Louis Stevenson Angered By 'Jekyll and Hyde' Fans Swarming 'Kidnapped' Book Signing

Report by Aaron Kosminski, Whitechapel

This Sunday, novelist and poet Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson attended a book signing at Samuel Johnson & Son's Bookshop in Marylebone. Mr. Stevenson was finely-dressed in a three-piece suit and stovepipe hat. The acclaimed author arrived at the venue 20 minutes early as to avoid the onslaught of  over-zealous literary fans swarming his carriage.

Mr Stevenson's tactic was doomed to failure, though, as the fans had suspected the author's early arrival. The fans, mainly younger ladies from the upper echelons of society, are said to be of a 'reckless disposition' and 'maintain a frenzied devotion to Mr Stevenson'. 

This sudden eruption of popularity for the writer has arisen since the publication of 'The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde' earlier this year. The novella, about a lawyer who investigates strange occurrences between his friend, Dr Henry Jekyll and the evil Edward Hyde, examines the dual nature which is said to exist within us. The concepts portrayed in the book are believed to have excited and mesmerized a particularly enthusiastic contingent of literary young ladies, many of whom have taken to stalking the famous author outside his Edinburgh home. 

One studious young lady told News, News, News, News that she's read the book seventeen times and regularly writes long letters to Mr Stevenson concerning minor, obscure details from the book. "I send Robert fabric from my petticoat, along with a lock of my hair with the letter. It comforts me to think that Robert has touched a part of me. I do so long for his roving hands on my delicate bosom, methinks his hands be delicate and warm and stained with the most expensive ink. I would harpoon threescore and twenty men at sea if it meant sniffing a lock of Robert's hair. I care not for your judging eyes, I am resolved to make an honest man of him, I will have his hand in marriage and if I do see any harlot in his arms, I will slaughter the both of em'". 

Before Mr Stevenson could enter the bookshop, an endless sea of screaming young women propelled themselves onto him and his entourage. The horses that pulled his carriage were spooked and proceeded to rampage through the crowd, rendering 15 dead and many seriously injured. Before the author was able to sign even one copy of his much-anticipated new novel 'Kidnapped', the owner of the bookshop, Mr Harold Pennywise, decided to cut the event short, much to the chagrin of a few older gentlemen and ladies who had been waiting quietly for a signed copy. 

Mr Stevenson was then escorted out through the back entrance with his suit draped over his head to avoid being recognised. This gambit also proved fatal. A few dozen eager fans had suspected Stevenson's escape from this exit and had gathered at the doorway. As the writer exited, one fan leapt onto him and stole his pocket watch, whilst another plunged a quill into his face, asking him to sign her copy of 'Jekyll and Hyde'. Many posters have been erected around town inquiring as to the whereabouts of Mr Stevenson's pocket watch. Only one man, who used the alias 'Jack', has replied, he claims he saw a young maiden hide it in her undergarments, and, upon following her for seven days, witnessed her sell it alongside other wares at the Sunday market. 

When asked by News, News, News, News for comment, Mr Stevenson sent the following short letter:

"Dear Mr Journalist,

You mock me to bring up such a futile and ridiculous matter. There is, in case one hasn't noticed, a severe shortage of ink up here in Scotland, precisely due to the unnecessary and overly-liberal exchange of letters between literary persons. 

But, if I must comment on these farcical proceedings, I feel it necessary to issue a warning to my so-called 'fans'. I am sick to the teeth of finding starved, semi-naked young ladies camping out in the tree in my back garden. I cannot continue to bear witness to the depravity and the torturous obsession that stains these poor women's souls. I am merely a writer, and a man. I should not need seven large pugilists to patrol my estate at nighttime, searching for ladies of ill repute loitering and waiting for me to make an appearance. There once was, I feel implored to admit, a part of me which would have relished such unadulterated female devotion, but when one is in the thick of it, one's standards and one's need for self-preservation take priority over one's ego. 

I feel I also need to remind those fans that I do have other books. My new book, Kidnapped, is currently available in all self-respecting bookshops. I quite literally wrote The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde whilst seated on the privy. It was over in a matter of minutes, I am that good. I could whip out seven or eight 'Jekyll and Hydes' a year and you would all lap it up. Your enthusiasm, whilst strangely flattering and much appreciated, is killing innocent people. And I hope not to open my trusty copy of News, News, News, News every morning and read of more deaths related to my book. Read something else, maybe 'Pamela' by the great Samuel Richardson. But, I implore you, when you discover the joys of Pamela, do not dig up Mr Richardson and steal his pocket watch, you damned thieves!

My Sincere Felicitations,

Robert Louis Stevenson

Poem of the Month: 'Normality' By Oxford University Professor Emeritus of Poetical Evocation and Whimsical Euphony Sir Barnard G. Fentonthwaite

I miss this.

My former colleague Andrew Suction, the current Shadow Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom and a close, personal acquaintance of mine dating back 40 years, introduced this new poetry column last month to great fanfare. I won't lie to you, dear readers, he's become so successful from that one column that cocaine has developed an Andrew Suction habit. 

He's not been seen in his Kensington office in over a month (yes, we poets have offices. Lord Byron used to be that boss who leans over his female colleagues inappropriately whilst helping them on the computer, Percy Shelley would lob balls of paper into the bin and celebrate over-zealously, pissing off his co-workers, and John Keats was the office weirdo who nobody knows outside of work and can often be heard crying in the office toilets) and people are starting to worry.

Let me reassure you, he'll return to his perch when he has one of his 'visions'. Ah yes, the legendary Suction visions. To adequately describe what he looks like when having one of these visions, one needs to cast their mind back to the end of Captain Phillips when Tom Hanks is rescued from the Somali pirates in a traumatised and catatonic state. Imagine that, but without the heroic and intensely moving backdrop of a man having gone through hell to save the lives of his crew, and replace him with a man who hasn't been published in 15 years and cannot please his wife. 

I know I sound bitter, but I can assure you I am not. We two go back a long time. He knows my acid tongue, I know his buttons, he knows mine. We fight, we go back and forth like an old married couple, just like him and his wife, whom he cannot please. 

I cannot stop myself. OK, I'll come clean. I hate his guts. 

But, lest we get carried away, i'm not here to talk Suction. I'm here to provide this month's NNNN 'Poem of the Month'. Last month's poem was terribly underwhelming, and that's not just another shot at old 'Sucker' as we used to call him. It had no recognizable rhythm or flow, it was full of cloying, vapid, nonsensical appeals to emotion, and i'm pretty sure he stole from Auden in one of the verses. It was the work of a man desperate to put his stamp on the 'COVID poetry boom'. Every poet I know has written about the blasted pandemic. It's become a whole category in and of itself, just like WWI poetry. Everyone's spilling ink and jostling to become the COVID era's answer to Wilfred Owen. Suction, at best, will become this era's Ivor Gurney, not because of his poetry, but because Gurney was suspected to have had syphilis, and I regularly see debates on poetry forums about Suction having it.

So let me try and write something that has absolutely nothing to do with COVID, social-distancing, hand gel, toilet rolls, loneliness, grief, despair, numbness, misinformation, depression, addiction or face masks. As Caius Martius Coriolanus so eloquently put it before banishing the plebs for banishing him from Rome (knobhead), "There is a world elsewhere".

Normality

People, everywhere.

Wading through watery crowds,

Waiting for a lull,

I yearn to scratch my back. 

People, everywhere.

Mashed on the tube like Play-Doh,

This is an orgy,

I yearn to scratch my back.

People, everywhere.

I long for solitude and smoking,

My heels are aching,

I yearn to scratch my back.

People, everywhere.

Pungent whiffs of body odour,

marijuana ghosts outside Ladbrokes,

I yearn to scratch my back.

People, everywhere.

I cannot catch my breath,

"Pay as you go with O2",

I yearn to scratch my back.

People, everywhere.

Blurred faces on Millennium Bridge,

Busker plays Ed Sheeran song,

I yearn to scratch his face off.

People, everywhere.

Evening Standard abandoned on bench,

George Osborne's ectoplasm,

I yearn to scratch my back.

People, everywhere.

Waterloo Station pigeon flurry,

Upper crust businessmen with headphones,

I yearn to scratch my back.

People, everywhere.

Everyone respects each other,

This is the facade economy,

I yearn to scratch my back. 

-Barnard G. Fentonthwaite

 

Aural Reminiscences: Devin O' Shaughnessy of Fruit Bat Annihilator

Fruit Bat Annihilator's logo showed a bat hanging upside down holding a flail, with bloodshot eyes. This is not it. 

Aural reminiscences will invite famous and infamous names from the anarchic annals of punk rock history and many other musical genres to reminisce about their experiences of life in the music industry. Everything our subjects say is their own opinion, and doesn't represent the views of News, News, News, News. We will not edit, cut, sanitize or refrain from printing anything our subjects say, no matter how lewd, tempestuous, coquettish or unsavoury. This week we welcome Devin O' Shaughnessy, the controversial front man of Glaswegian cyberpunk band Fruit Bat Annihilator. 

NNNN (News, News, News, News): Devin, when our readers see your name in our paper, they'll immediately think of 'the incident'. Do you know which 'incident' i'm talking about?

DO (Devin O' Shaughnessy): Aye, I think so, yeah. 

NNNN: What does it feel like to have something like that constantly following you wherever you go? It must feel pretty hard constantly being defined by that one moment of madness. 

DO: Aye, but I take codeine, you know? A lot of the stuff I see in the papers and that is false anyway, you know? It's fake and that. It used to make me angry, you know? But not anymore. I'm used to the bullshit, i'm used to the lies. I just figured, you know? These people have a job, and i'm interesting to them, i'm like their cocaine, their amphetamines, their Nightol. They need me, you know? So if they want to write about me, I don't care, you know? 

Fruit Bat Annihilator were one of the most popular cyber-punk bands of the 1980s. This is not them.

NNNN: But it must feel infuriating to be constantly misrepresented in the press?

DO: It used to be, you know? This one journo at the Daily Star printed this story about me years ago that was utter dogshit. He said I lip-synced my performance at the Queen's Silver Jubilee and made a big thing about how I was unprofessional and a massive fraud. I broke into my brother's dental practice and stole his tools, you know? All cordless flossers, forceps and that pink liquid and shit like that. Then I went to the journo's house in West London and fucking went to town on his big mouth. I sewed his fucking mouth shut, but not before forcing him to eat the Times Literary Supplement whilst singing 'Take On Me' by A-ha. Not only did the guy eat his words, he ate better words. The fella's face was weeping and that. It was classic, you know? But, as I said before, I've mellowed and matured with age I think. I look back on all the shit that I did in the late 70s and I don't regret it, I relish it. I miss it. But I'm older, you know? If I could go on being disruptive and chaotic, I would, but it's a matter of survival. Most punk rockers aren't as self-destructive as people might think, you know? We know when to stop and we know when we're too old to set stuff alight, you know?

NNNN: But that destructive impulse is still there?

DO: You're too fucking right it is. You wouldn't believe how much I want to look you up on Facebook, find where you live and come to your house and scream at you and your family. I had to bang my head against the wall before I came on Zoom to meet you, that's why I was bleeding profusely. People think i'm too much of a live-wire and too over the top, but what they don't realize is, the person they meet is fucking soft. They have no idea what i'm like at maximum capacity. 

NNNN: So would you say people see around 30% of who you actually are?

DO: Aye, no. More like 24%, but i'd have to check those wee numbers there. I did a spreadsheet a while back and figured it out, but the vagaries of time and repression have made the number much lower. I now show a lot less to the world and that will surely be represented in statistical data. But, who has the time these days, you know? 

NNNN: What percentage of your inner life projection to the outside world would you like to reach? What would be a healthy figure for you?

DO: Aye, so 42% is my target. Anything over that would be dangerous though. There was a brief period in the early 80s where I was at 49%, it felt like I was clinging on to a bullet train, everyone who met me experienced me, experienced me, emotionally. They experienced me in ways most people never experience their own family. Within 10 minutes of knowing me, people would either be repulsed and want to murder me or they'd want to marry me and keep me locked in a dungeon out of  toxic love. There was no middle ground, people's reaction to me was extreme and fanatic. It was like everyone I met was acting out their own private apocalypse and trying to drag me along with them.

O' Shaughnessy is also a keen painter. This is not one of his paintings. 

NNNN: So this would have been the early 80s, around the time of your fourth studio album Do Psychopaths Dream of Electrocuted Sheep? Great album, by the way. How much of this time do you remember and how much is a dirty haze?

DO: My memories of the time are surprisingly clear. I kept a diary, which shocks people, for some reason. They think of us punk rockers as illiterate hooligans, but in reality, there's nothing we like more than the smell of a fresh paperback, or the uphill battle of sitting in front of an empty Word document, you know?

NNNN: Can we take a sneak peek at a random diary entry, say, 19th January 1981?

DO: That's not a random date at all, and you know that, you wee shite. That was the night I crowd-surfed into the wheelchair section of my audience in Leipzig. The right-wing press called it 'Cripplesurfgate' and the left-wingers wrote a series of opinion-pieces about ableism, disability rights and the history of crowd-surfing and the underlying discrimination against wheelchair users perpetuated by the activity. What really happened was I broke my neck and wore this anarchic, cyberpunk neck brace for 2 months. It was painted matte black and was adorned with little robot skulls and middle fingers. People signed it with their favourite swear words and their own blood. I was on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine wearing it, you know? But here's the diary entry for the 19th:

19th January 1981

Fell off the stage tonight attempting to crowd-surf, ended up falling into the lads in wheelchairs, was performing 'The High Man in the Castle' from my latest album. Performance was legendary, thought i'd top it off with a crowd-surf as It usually turns out OK, it did in Stockholm, London, New York and Guernsey. But my aim was poor and my neck's in agony. The local hospital were lifesavers, I gave all the nurses a copy of my first LP 'Please, Sir, I Want Some Alan Moore'. Will be about 4 months before I can crowd-surf again, i'll have to find a new hobby, flagellation maybe. I once knew a musician guy, a real avant-garde, outsider type. He used to self-flagellate on stage, directing the whip according to the audience's whims. It was real 'event theatre'. Venues that allow this kind of extreme acts are sadly disappearing. The Narcotic Beaver in Islington is still going strong though. Anyway, this particular guy died from anemia, lost too much blood in the end. Characters like him really form the backbone of our collective creative unconscious. We are all animals, all savages. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

NNNN: So, looking back at this diary entry, do you think you predicted the decline in independent, anarchic venues like 'The Narcotic Beaver'?

DO: Aye, they shut down a year after I wrote that! It's heart-breaking, most of my 20s were spent in places like the Beaver, The Chaste Maid in Cheapside, MK Ultra +, Cromwell's Fanny, The Chernobyl Experience & Wet Fred's Barnstorming Hickory-Doodle Shakin' Booty Dance Ranch. I was born in Glasgow, but I was made in Cromwell's Fanny. If you weren't there, there's no way you could know. I remember being in this strange experimental bar in Holborn, the whole place was tilted at a 50 degree angle and all the bar staff were naked and completely hairless. I was playing crazy eights at this table which also happened to be a fish tank, the guy opposite me pulled out a machete and some shaving foam and proceeded to shave his wee handlebar moustache off in a seductive and salacious manner. This all sounds unbelievable to people who weren't there, but there's thousands of stories like this I could tell, you know? My point is, all these places have shut down. They've been replaced with fancy new chain restaurants and 'trendy' cocktail bars. People argue that they're an 'upgrade' on what stood before, but we don't see it that way. You won't ever hear someone begin a story like "I saw a guy ride a Tapir through a ring of fire in All Bar One", nothing interesting happens in All Bar One. I did see a guy ride a Tapir through a ring of fire, by the way. The wee Tapir was unharmed, but the lad who rode him was badly burned. 

A common sight of patrons donning animal masks would have greeted any weary traveler who happened to stumble upon 'The Narcotic Beaver' in the late 70s/Early 80s. This is not 'The Narcotic Beaver'.

NNNN: Do you think I personally would have survived this era?

DO: Fuck no, you're a wee sissy. You wouldn't last 10 minutes in The Chernobyl Experience. No, you're of the Wetherspoons generation. The 'sit down, drink, take a few selfies and call it an experience' generation. People like you consider Johnny Depp or Russell Brand to be hardcore partiers, but they're like Mary Whitehouse and Jacob Rees-Mogg compared to some of the people I know. I once knew a guy who could make people overdose just by looking at them, imagine Prince Harry doing that.

NNNN: And this lifestyle complemented your music career?

DO: Aye, It fuelled it. People always look at people like me and say "What could have been?" But It's not like that, you know? I don't want to be the person you think you see, there's no such thing as wasted potential in my opinion. 'Potential' is a construct, you know? The music we've made may be niche and only suitable for a limited audience, but why should we have to want to make it into the 'big time', I don't care about appealing to a wide range of people. I don't care about appealing to any people. People shouldn't always have to be catered to, you know. Art shouldn't be made to reinforce people's prior tastes, it should disrupt, it should heighten your senses, it should bother you. I like to bother people. We made it our mission in the 80s to not give a fuck, there's an art to not giving a fuck, you know? You can put that on a fucking fridge magnet.

NNNN: So speaking of the band, let's delve into the origins of how you all met. I believe Tommy Trott and Wayne 'Lucy' Ferr were the two founding members, then you and Nigel Orgy came later?

DO: Aye, me and Nige upset the apple cart a wee bit when we joined up in 79'. Tommy and Lucy were doing quite well touring various small farming villages throughout the Highlands, they weren't punk rockers then though. They were still outrageous, but in a folksy kind of way. They used to perform a beautiful rendition of 'The Parting Glass', before literally 'parting with their glass' by throwing their glass of bitter into the audience and provoking a riot. People got used to this and used to throw their glasses at Tommy mid-song. He's be sitting on a stool, guitar in his arms singing "Goodnight, and joy unto you a-" then he'd have to duck to avoid bottles being lobbed at him. He loved it though, it was his bread and butter, you know? Ye wouldn't see anything like that nowadays, imagine Ed Sheeran or Hozier lobbing a Carlsberg into the audience at Wembley. I don't know if Ye knew this, but Martin Carthy was briefly in the previous incarnation of Annihilator. He was too depraved for us though, too fucking violent, too roguish, there's a line, you know? 

NNNN: So how did the band transition from the previous incarnation, I believe you used to be called 'Twisted Harlot', to 'Fruit Bat Annihilator'? And how did you come up with the name, does it have meaning?

DO: Well, me and Nige joined. It kind of happened organically, you know? They were in dire straits and needed more members to continue touring and to pay the rent etc. Nige wasn't that talented musically, we used to nickname him Ringo Starr because you could get away with insults like that back then, but he learnt the drums and has done a serviceable job, you know? I was a passable singer, so we both joined and bonded quite quickly. We all decided a name change was appropriate though. I don't remember, if i'm honest with ye, how we came up with Fruit Bat Annihilator. We were getting fucking twatted in a pub, a real stone-cold, hardcore drinking session, we even wore chain mail and carried spears, it was that intense. My theory is the name came to us subliminally. There was like 5 fruit machines in this pub, and another arcade game called 'Alien Annihilator' or some wee shite like that. Then, as we were stumbling home, all hammered and mauled like shit pugilists, Lucy claimed to have been attacked by a cauldron of bats. So I guess all this just came together.

NNNN: The name got you into a spot of trouble though, didn't it? Once you reached the big time?

DO: Aye, a load of animal rights groups claimed we were encouraging the annihilation of fruit bats. It hurt us quite badly that publicity, not because of our image, but because we've all four of us devoted a significant amount of our spare time working with bat conservation societies. We love everything about the creatures, they're charming, mischievous, highly intelligent, crafty, bizarre, macabre, all the things that spark our curiosity as Humans. We've had a shared fondness for the little buggers since before we named our band after them. To respond to those critics who claimed we were encouraging violence, we held a kind of 'Fruit Bat Live Aid', The Sex Pistols performed, so did The Clash. Engelbert Humperdinck even contributed a dozen knackered 6-strings which arrived in a soaking wet shipping container. It really took off, I hear they're doing it again in 2021, fruit bats have taken a hit due to this COVID shite. Paloma Faith is performing I hear. The wee lass understands the fruit bat hype, good on her!

Engelbert Humperdinck maintains a keen interest in fruit bats, especially their mating habits. This is not Engelbert Humperdinck, this is Paul Anka. 

NNNN: It's clear from this interview that you're fairly defiant about the criticism you've received. What do you think your legacy is?

DO: I don't care.

NNNN: You must care a little?

DO: I care nowt'.

NNNN: Do you at least see a reunion down the line? When the pandemic is over?

DO: I see a reunion happening during the lockdown. That's the most punk rock thing I can think of, holding a punk rock concert in a claustrophobic underground location to an orgy of human scum spreading their droplet seeds around in wonderful, chaotic harmony. It's a real middle finger to the Tories, and to COVID. 

NNNN: And you won't bat an eyelid if the papers find out?

DO: Aye, i'm dying anyway, I had a liver transplant a few years back, had a hip replaced last year, and i've become addicted to Russian literature, it won't be long before I kick the bucket, I just want to make sure the bucket is kicked into a rabid, screaming audience of knucklehead bastards gathered in a poorly lit cellar. It'll be Fruit Bat Annihilator's last hurrah, you know? 

NNNN: I look forward to that, Devin. Finally, what's your opinion on the conflict currently afflicting the Tigray region of Ethiopia? 

DO: Aye, I was reading about that the other day in The Financial Times, terrible situation, you know? My hearts go out to the people caught in the conflict. I said as much on my Twitter the other day. People are surprised that I have a Twitter, they assume I'd loathe it, but I actually quite like it. It's a worthy distributor for chaos and ill-informed, half-baked musings of destruction, and you can do it all on the toilet at 2am. It's mental. If it were around in the 80s stuff would have been sanitized though. But we're the old guard, we need somewhere to spew our angst-ridden diatribes, and Twitter does quite nicely. I called the Starbucks CEO a cunt the other day. Isn't it amazing that ye can do that nowadays? You used to have to go to their house and throw a brick into their children's window with a wee piece of paper attached to it saying 'cunt', but now ye can just @ them online. They won't see it, but it's the feeling that counts, you know? Fucking wee Starbucks corporate shite. The modern world isn't so bad, I guess, but we all want 'our day' back. This day will be someone's 'our day' someday, so I guess i'll have to make do with their day, even our day was better and you're all cunts. We all want to feel young again, to feel light as air. We owned it all, we lived like kings, because we were fucking kings. 

NNNN: Devin O' Shaughnessy, thank you for talking to us. 

Next time on Aural Reminiscences we'll be welcoming jazz/demolition fusion artist Azure C. Blend. Jazz/demolition was a musical genre which arose in the early noughties by combining free, experimental jazz with demolition derbies, popular in the US. Audiences would gather in an arena and watch cars mercilessly attempt to annihilate each other and create unlimited destruction whilst hundreds of jazz musicians would line the arena trying to provide frantic and chaotic musical accompaniment. The sound of brass instruments and the experimental rhythmic harmonies juxtaposing with motor vehicles being molested in an orgy of steel was found to be an oddly pleasing, fresh new sound for an American audience. Blend will join us to reminisce about his aural experiences in the Deep South. 

Keith Brown (From the Theatre Desk) Reviews Some Television

Ha! They call this a theatre? Wankers.

Despite what the News, News, News, News editor seems to think, television and theatre are not 'basically the same thing'. Theatre is like the Flying Scotsman to television's Schienenzeppelin (Google it), Tarrant to TV's Clarkson, or the 19th century to TV's 20th. It may steal our beloved stage actors from time to time, Timothy West was in EastEnders for 9 months and eviscerated the other cast members with his mammoth classical acting chops, but the entire essence of theatre as an art form is drastically different to TV's. Of course, you, my readers, will know that I, as one of the UK's leading theatre critics, scholars, academics, authorities, exegetes, wizards, if you will, have a considerable amount of bias when it comes to deciding which side to pick in the debate between TV and theatre even though this is not a debate between TV and theatre and the editor explicitly told me to stay on topic.  

It was a welcome relief to see that TV is still..well.. a thing. I hadn't watched it since April last year. I was watching the coronavirus daily briefings everyday, almost religiously, and started dreaming that I was the naked lady strewn in white satin sheets in Gustave Courbet's 'La Sommeil', but Chris Whitty was the other woman embracing me, our legs were entwined and his supple breasts rested on my stomach, it was strangely comforting and this is what concerned me. I gather most British people were having these quasi-erotic, lascivious dreams about Whitty and Vallance around this time.  Americans must've had the same for Anthony Fauci or, for Republicans, Mike Pence. It's only natural, they provided answers and we all needed a saviour to provide us information at some point last year. 

I think it's brave of me to admit I had these dreams about Whitty. Phwoooooar!

This alternated with another dream where I was being eaten alive as a baby by Boris Johnson as Cronus, like in Francisco Goya's 'Saturn Devouring His Son', this is when I decided to stop watching TV and let the Internet fill my gaping addiction slot. 

But alas, there are several new shows to get through, so, without further ado, i'm Keith Brown (from the theatre desk), take my hand, and let me be your Whitty: 

Heartbreak Isle (ITV, Thursday, 19:45)

It's a well-established fact that when your heart is broken, you lie on the floor like a drawn outline of the body at a murder scene.

I've never seen Love Island, but even I can see that this is a blatant rip-off. 

OK, so the premise of this show is nearly identical to Love Island, but instead of contestants having to couple up with someone to escape eviction, they instead need to break as many hearts as possible. Whoever destroys someone in the most brutal and sociopathic way wins. The rules are totally incomprehensible and lacking in any sort of nuance. Keith Lemon presents and is his usual cluster headache-inducing self. 

The show rewards predatory behaviour and endless deceit. It's a truly abysmal and horrific concept, and I only sort of liked watching it. The episode I watched featured Chris, an IT manager from Chester, and Chantelle, a beautician from Rotherham. Chris initiated the relationship with a lot of enthusiasm. Chantelle was quickly smitten by his boyish charm and steampunk sensibilities. 

But when Chantelle chose to open up to Chris about how she felt, Chris revealed he was only chasing after Chantelle to be closer to her friend Maurice, a French male model and pastry chef. Maurice himself was still reeling from an unexpected Snapchat dumping by Natalie, a Liberian fortune teller.  Chantelle experiences 'moderate' heartbreak on the heartbreak-ometer (the device used to measure the magnitude of the heartbreak), but Chris has done enough to fend off eviction. Chantelle is then evicted by the public in a vote. According to a YouGov poll, the public didn't like her 'manic, unfettered stoicism', it's unclear what this means.   

The heartbreak-ometer, in case you were wondering, was invented by pop singer Adele. She created five different settings: 'it'll pass', 'moderate', 'I need to re-evaluate my life', 'I must record a new album of break-up songs' and the most severe heartbreak of all, 'O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain'. 

You'd think this show would have spawned a flurry of complaints to Ofcom and ITV, but no. Apparently watching the show allows people to face up to pain they've experienced in their own lives. It has a seemingly cathartic effect. This surprised me, I must say. I'd read about the suicides linked with  Love Island and assumed this show would be no different, or even worst.

It makes sense when one thinks about it though. Heartbreak Isle is honest about what it is. It's self-aware. Love Island on the other hand is a plastic shitshow which rewards bottomless shallowness and feeds people's worst impulses for self-criticism and self-hatred. It will distort your perception of a healthy body, a healthy life, and it will sink it's teeth into you. 

In fact, Heartbreak Isle, in it's own way, does us a service. It brings love's pain kicking and screaming to the surface for all to see, whereas Love Island twists it and buries it, allowing it to fester and ultimately kill you. Maybe the creators of this show didn't create it to piggyback on Love Island's success, maybe they created it to hold a mirror up to a capitalistic, brutal, human-baiting show that basically amounts to broadcast-able psychological torture porn.

Covidiots (BBC, Tuesday, 18:40)

Great British Bake Off presenter Prue Leith. She's a Tory, phwoa.. oh. 

How does one create a hidden camera prank show for COVID times? This is how. Covidiots invites celebrities (this week it was Danny Dyer, Romesh Ranganathan & Prue Leith) to undertake a series of risky and dangerous challenges which put the public at serious risk. These challenges usually involve covertly licking people on park benches, standing and breathing near elderly pensioners, or coughing into a giant fan mounted on the top of a 4x4 then driving around and spreading their droplets around the town centre dressed in camouflage.

One scene showed Prue Leith spit into a specially-designed 'COVID grenade' then throw it into a local Londis and watch it explode her toxic enzymes into every Tom, Dick and Harry who was unfortunate enough to be shopping there. 

In another scene, Dyer sets off a fire alarm in a Gap clothing store, then quickly gets into his COVID fan truck before a swarm of frightened people leave via the fire exit. He then proceeds to drive alongside the gaggle of people, blowing his giant, corona fan in their helpless, screaming faces, all the while laughing and firing an AK-47 into the sky. Ranganathan assisted by driving up on a quad bike and slapping the hoard of petrified Gap shoppers with a giant synthetic tongue laced with a shit tonne of COVID.  

Still, I enjoyed watching this, and judging by the lack of complaints, the great British public did too. This is apparently what we pay our license fee for now, watching Prue Leith lick a bunch of cereal boxes in the hope that someone will pick it up and catch the virus. Funnily enough, in this case, someone did, Romesh Ranganathan. He decided to lick every single box of Cheerios that Leith had not 15 minutes before graced her tongue with. Karma's a bitch.

It's clear that these long lockdowns have made people into immoral zombies, baying for blood. People have reverted back to the Colosseum days where entertainment involved actual human sacrifice and endless bloodshed. Still, as referenced in the previous review, shows like this aren't really any worst than your Love Islands or your Big Brothers. 

Next week, it'll be the turn of three new celebrities to find creative ways to spread the virus to an unsuspecting public (footballer Jimmy Bullard, former Home Secretary Alan Johnson & rapper Tinie Tempah). I'll be back to watch, i'll admit it. I know you'll be back too. Does that mean we're all savages? 

Panopticon (Channel 4, Sunday, 20:00)

 

Reminiscent of Shakespeare's Globe, one might say. Phwoaaaaaaar!

Oh, Channel 4, you're so daring. 

So to understand Panopticon, a new Sunday night reality show, one needs to know the work of 18th century English philosopher and social reformer Jeremy Bentham. Bentham is regarded as a key thinker in utilitarianism, a loosely connected family of theories that espouse widespread social utility, welfarism, freedom of expression, animal rights etc. The whole shabang. He wrote extensively on these theories and is currently ensconced in a glass cabinet in University College, London, frightening the living shit out of squeamish undergraduates. 

Bentham sitting dignified and at peace within University College, London. Phwoaaaaaar!

The show's name refers to an idea Bentham had relating to prison reform. He proposed a new type of circular prison building, with the prisoner's cells arranged around the outer wall, with a watch tower stationed in the centre. From this central tower, the inspectors would be able to look into the cells and converse with the prisoners via 'conversation tubes'. The prisoners would never be able to see the prison staff.

Bentham theorized that the knowledge of always being observed would drastically alter the criminal's behaviour, and further their rehabilitation. 

"Morals reformed-health preserved-industry invigorated-instruction diffused-public burthens lightened-economy seated, as it were, upon a rock-the gordian knot of the poor-laws not cut, but untied-all by a simple idea in architecture!"

It's an interesting concept and has been debated extensively by reformers to the present day. But you get the jist of it. Circle building, conversation tubes, always being watched, social experiments, great fuel for some thought-provoking telly, huh? 

WRONG!

It's shit. contestants serve as prisoners in the makeshift panopticon building. They are being watched, unknowingly, 24/7 by prison inspectors in the central tower. These inspectors are made up of retired prison wardens and criminal justice activists. Their theories differ wildly as to how the contestants will respond to certain tasks and stimuli fed to them via the conversation tubes. The goal for the prison wardens is to coerce the contestants into believing certain facts and creating complete division between all 32 cells among the prison populace, who are able to communicate only with the cell next to them. 

The contestant's goal is to sort fact from fiction and somehow form a united front and organize themselves efficiently in order to ascertain which nuggets of information are true. 

In theory, this sounds like an interesting show, but it's just so convoluted, so dense and unwieldy. The central themes of the show are very stimulating and ask some very potent questions, "how does one separate fact from fiction?", "How can people organize effectively to challenge higher powers?", "How does manufactured division stifle people's ability to improve?" All very valid questions, but this is not reality show material. Between shots of the wardens speaking through microphones, and the contestants attempting to communicate with each other whilst moaning about their toilets, the show just doesn't live up to it's initial promise. 

One scene saw Adam, a farmer from Suffolk, attempt to experiment with a new method for passing along information to his fellow contestants. The prison wardens have fed him some false information about the number of hours they've been in their cells. Remember, the contestants have to somehow coordinate themselves via crafty and ingenious methods to present a united response. Adam thinks Chinese whispers is the answer. "This here (sic) lil' (sic) nugget is a lie. I have a perfect sense of time, I does (sic), we've been here 12 hour (sic), nun' (sic) more, nun' (sic) less". 

Adam believes if he somehow passes on information by whispering to his neighbouring cell mate, it'll escape the surveillance of the wardens, who won't be able to influence the other cell mates with differing information anymore. 

They haven't thought this through. It makes no sense and it makes for some tedious television. 

"Ah, who's been a silly billy?" Seriously, you can imagine him saying this to a prisoner.

The show is narrated by Ray Winstone to give it some 'edge', but that 'edge' is completely squandered when Gyles Brandreth shows up as the show's presenter. He is not a great fit for a show like this. At one point he literally goes up to the bars and says to a contestant, "Ah, who's been a silly billy?" I mean, for fuck's sake. Also, when he's talking with the wardens up in the central tower, he keeps interrupting them to look at the camera and talk about the history of English borstals. Apparently Dermot O' Leary and Sandi Toksvig turned the gig down. At least Toksvig would have actually listened to the contestants rather than correct their grammar every few seconds like Brandreth did. 

Undercover: Attenborough at Exxon Mobil (BBC, Saturday, 19:43)

Utter bastards

Just like 'Panopticon', this new series sounds exciting in theory, but the reality is duller than watching paint dry in a room with Theresa May playing a triangle.

The series places various left-leaning public figures undercover into conservative and capitalistic institutions, with the express goal of tearing down said institutions from within. This week it's naturalist, broadcaster and intergalactic treasure David Attenborough burrowing his way into a highly lucrative position with American oil and gas corporation Exxon Mobil. 

The show opens with Attenborough presenting a montage explaining who Exxon are, why they're massive arseholes, and why he wants to obliterate and defenestrate them and their children. I came into this programme thinking Attenborough was a calm, good-natured gentleman who only wished to educate and inform, apparently he's become jaded in his old age and now seeks to mercilessly annihilate all the rich bastards who are destroying the environment. 

It then proceeds to show Attenborough under-going an extensive prosthetic makeover to disguise himself before starting his new job as an Exxon Mobil social media spokesman. He's fitted with a luscious strawberry-coloured wig, his eyes are made to appear drooped and full of melancholic dread, and he's given mutton chops and rounded spectacles. Quite why Exxon would employ this interviewee as their social media spokesman is beyond me. 

With the stage set for destruction, Attenborough attends his first Exxon board meeting. The other employees are told the cameras are filming for a corporate documentary, made to help Exxon's image. Attenborough right away suggests a new social media strategy to increase Exxon's positive publicity, but is really meant to harm and degrade them.

He suggests gathering a group of Nuns, African children, paraolympians and Albino grandmas and filming them being shown round an oil rig smiling and laughing and drinking Pepsi. Attenborough tells the company's executives that such a promotional film will help foster Exxon's image as a friendly, open, caring, forward-thinking institution. "You could even show the nuns jumping and splashing about in a pool of oil whilst some Sudanese children fire Nerf guns at them". 

A young David Attenborough. Phwoaaaaaaar!

Now, most people would suggest an idea like this and be fired on the spot, but Attenborough, being 94 years old and wiser than a baked Noam Chomsky in the Bodleian library, is able to get away with it. 

The board gives Attenborough's idea the green light, and sit back and watch as the doomed promotional film causes an international outcry and PR disaster for Exxon. 

The executives choose to back Attenborough (who's disguised as 'Abraham Cambridge') because whilst the PR disaster was happening, he managed to steal some highly confidential and explosive information about the corporation, and threatens to release it if he's fired. 

The rest of the programme sees Attenborough slowly chip away at the company's credibility via social media, producing scandal after scandal, and forcing the executives to make stock market decisions to the detriment of the company and the oil and gas industry as a whole. 

A lot of the programme is explosive and pretty enthralling, but these moments are all too fleeting. The last half hour is literally Attenborough holding a gun to an executive's head whilst he sits and watches Bloomberg markets on his laptop. He hopes to see the company collapse in real time and the BBC clearly think this is an acceptable way to fill the dead air time. Instead of being the nail-biting, tense countdown they were hoping for, it just turns out to be a massive anti-climax as the company goes into liquidation and causes unprecedented tremors in the global financial markets. 

Attenborough closes the programme with a monologue about climate change and environmental disasters caused by companies like Exxon. He's right about it all, but as a result of this programme, the US government has bailed Exxon out, in many ways making them a far stronger and more impenetrable institution. Perhaps the US government itself will be the next institution to be ransacked by revolutionary impostors. 

It certainly isn't on the list of episodes of the shows we can expect in the coming weeks. Next week will see Greta Thunberg disguise herself as a buxom blonde and go undercover at the Trump organization, hoping to slip some arsenic into Eric's morning camomile. Jane Fonda will attempt to infiltrate UKIP playing a sewer-mouthed alcoholic Tyneside fascist and Gary Lineker will take a crack at freemasonry disguised as a balding, obese carpet salesman. I look forward to those. 

BBC News: Anywhere But Britain (BBC, Tuesday, 18:00)

This is actually Bacari Biai, don't worry.

So apparently the BBC think that the news in Britain is too Britain-centric, so they've decided to set themselves a challenge to present news coverage for all 196 countries for one week each. 

The task, which will end with Zimbabwe's news week on 9th November 2024, has been described as a mammoth-undertaking by the BBC's new Director-General, Tim Davie. "We conducted several focus groups and found that people know more about what's happening half way around the world than in their own country. We believe the British people naturally look outward and are inquisitive about what happens in the world."

Just to make it clear, this programme is not going to be shown alongside the usual BBC news. This will replace it. The organization will not report on events in this country till late 2024, even on their 24-hour news channel. Some conservative commentators have claimed this was 'inevitable'. Lord Perrer-Striker, a former Tory minister for blue bins, argues the BBC has had nothing but contempt for the British way of life for years. "I'm not surprised at all, the BBC no longer represents British interests, it cares more about what happens in Guinea-fucking-Bissau than what happens in Stoke-on-Trent."

The BBC have responded by announcing Guinea-Bissau as the first nation to be covered for a week, just to rile up the disgruntled Lord. The first programme has already caused controversy over the title, 'Anywhere But Britain: GB News', with 'GB' standing for Guinea-Bissau. GB News is an upcoming 24-hour right-wing news show, destined to become the UK's Fox News. Confusion between the two will lead right-wingers to become well-informed in Bissau-Guinean political affairs by mistake. Twitter will be abuzz with opinions about the country's new National Director of Interpol, Bacari Biai and what it means for his ousted predecessor Melancio Correia, who is being accused by former Prime Minister Domingos Simoes of attempting to issue an international arrest warrant outside legal boundaries. Spicy stuff. 

I, for one, look forward to this new approach to global news. At least it will mean Boris Johnson won't be given any air time on the BBC. Instead we'll get used to getting used to a country for one week only, then moving on to a completely different country (in alphabetical order, apart from Guinea-Bissau), in an entirely different part of the world. The country will be split down the middle on Honduran gun policy, toxic and spiteful discourse will put a strain on relationships, then be immediately mollified after the coverage of Honduras ends and moves on to Hungary the next week. Political anger, manufactured and encouraged by both sides, will ebb and flow as the weeks go on. The country will get used to crisis after crisis, country after country, continent after continent. Andrew Neil will provoke dinner table conversation about Omani Minister of Commerce, Industry and Investment Promotion Qais Mohammed Al Yousef's qualifications for the job. 

So, that's telly for you. 

Auditorium of the Old Vic, Waterloo, London. Phwoaaaaaaar!

I would happily burn every single TV in the world if it meant getting theatre back. I miss everything about it. I miss the audience laughing at the wrong moments in a scene that's supposed to be serious and sombre. I miss the cast giving a speech to the audience after the curtain call asking for donations to a charity, then feeling guilty for not carrying any spare change. I miss being spat on by actors as they launch into an astoundingly intense Shakespearean monologue about bone-deep guilt. I miss buying a programme at the interval and smelling it, that smell is like cocaine to me, though I save that for when I see a butchered production of Chekhov. I miss it with an intensity no TV show could ever match up to. And I think I speak for all theatre lovers when I say i'm deeply unsettled, uninspired and unstimulated without theatre in my life. So yes, fetch me the propane, let's burn us some flat screens. 

Poem of the Month: 'Don't Touch Him' by Shadow Poet Laureate Andrew Suction

As shadow poet laureate it's my mission to counter whatever the actual poet laureate writes with something even edgier. Simon Armitage is one hell of a poet, but I think you'll find I can do better. I lead the nation's poetic opposition. This month's poem reflects the state of anxiety we are currently living in. This new variant of COVID spreads far more easily, and there is a palpable sense of panic among the people of this country that they'll come into contact with the virus, giving it to their elderly and vulnerable loved ones. 

Back in Medieval times, citizens had the same fears, for them it was the black death. Certain groups of people became scapegoats, they thought God might be furious at them, children were left alone in houses to fend for themselves if they showed symptoms of the disease. It really was a clusterfuck of existential proportions. One of the most famous chroniclers of the black death was Giovanni Boccaccio, who wrote The Decameron, which follows several young women and men sheltering outside of Florence to escape the disease. 

The Decameron was also the title of Martin St. John Travers' book about the resignation of David Cameron. St. John Travers coined the word 'decameronization', meaning 'to let the school bullies set the school on fire then leave without acknowledging that you provided them with the gasoline and the map of the school and the chloroform to render the security guards unconscious and the getaway vehicle and the balaclavas and the swag bags'. The phrase is now common parlance. 

In these unprecedented times, poetry is more vital than ever. My poet chums and I will attempt to articulate, to the best of our ability, the roller-coaster of feeling we have all experienced in some way or another this year.  

My name is Andrew Suction.

I am a wordsmith

I sweat ink and bleed Typex

Let me indulge you:

Don't Touch Him

Look, Mummy! 

There's someone outside.

What does he want?

Don't you go near him

Do not touch him

Do not smile at him

Do not acknowledge him

Do not answer his questions, sign his parcels

Do not give him the time of day

Do not charm him, indulge him, converse with him

Do not invite him into our home

Do not wave at him in his car, or holler at him across the street

Do not speak to him at morning prayers

Do not pass him condiments when we feast together after Evensong

Do not make eye contact with him in the sauna

Do not sit where he sat, stand where he stood, walk where he walked, breathe where he breathed, think where he thought, shit where he shat.

Erase him from your memory

he is the enemy

he is the untouchable

do not even lay eyes on him

Nay, not even your thoughts.

Block the very essence of him out of your minds

He is only trouble now

We must be strong

We must be together

We must be stubborn

We must be together

We must be rigorous

We must be together

We must be brutal

We must not let go.

We must purge him from our lives

And yet

No

He is like us

He needs bread and friends

He is neglected

He is troubled

He is in need of sanctuary

He is dying in front of us

He is weary and decrepit

He is old and withered

He needs water

He needs shelter

He needs us.

I know not what to do

We must clean

Clean the surfaces

Clean the doorknob

Clean the doorbell

Clean the cupboard and the sinks and the taps

Clean the clocks

Clean the telephone

Clean the dog with his juicy bone

Clean the pianos

Clean the coffin

He is dead

Do not touch him, children!

Hear my words

He is a poison

He is from the gutters

He is a nowhere man, a solitary man, a wretched man, a leprous man, a cretinous, devilish, pittance of a man.

Oh, what am I saying? That's not your father, that's your uncle Nigel! Let him in, children! 

-Andrew Suction

Worldwide David Bowie Tribute Goes Horribly Wrong

Scientists have warned that it might be 'at least 2 months' before air travel is allowed to continue after millions of David Bowie fans worldwide paid tribute by firing their Grandparent's ashes into space. The ashes failed to leave the Earth's atmosphere and have created a thick cloud in the ozone layer, shrouding half the planet in near darkness. 

The event, which News, News, News, News journalist Muriel Sticks predicted in her 'crystal ball' column, has sparked outrage in the international community and has caused widespread economic chaos. 

When asked if she might have provoked this, Sticks told NNNN, "No, i'm a journalist. We just write what we see, it's basically objective truth.We can't influence people's opinions, stupid". 

David Bowie died after a long battle with cancer on 10th January 2016, aged 69. His death sent shock waves through the music industry, leaving millions of fans distraught.

"I think most people remember where they were when Bowie died" thought Sticks, "I was in a revolving door, heavily drunk. I looked down at my phone and checked the news, first I saw that Nasdaq was up, whatever the fuck that means. Then I saw an article by Laura Kuenssberg predicting that Remain will win in a landslide in the referendum, then I scrolled down and saw a picture of  Bowie as Ziggy Stardust. He'd just released an album, Blackstar, so I thought it'd just be an interview or something. My heart dropped when I saw he had died. I fell to the ground and sobbed uncontrollably and curled up in a fetal position, almost paralyzed with grief. The revolving doors gently coaxed my prone, vulnerable body into rolling over, being carried round and round as the doors kept turning and turning. Round and round I went, creating a circular trail of tears and mucus on the floor of the revolving door mechanism, and a considerably dangerous slipping hazard. Round and round I went, beaten, bruised, broken, battered, without hope, utterly inconsolable. My phone was crushed to pieces, obliterated by the never-ending, heartless machine where I now lived. Endless rotation, endless, frenetic, turning, never stopping, incessant turning, never motionless, always running and running and running and turning and running and turning and turning and running. The doors silently carrying my stagnant body around like an ocean carries a pile of dead seagulls trapped in Sainsbury's bags on the crest of a wave. An endless cycle of turning and sobbing, turning and roaring, turning and howling from the deepest recesses of my bottomless, burning soulscape." 

NNNN would like to assure it's readers that we sent Muriel some flowers and a box of Cadbury's Milktray after this harrowing mental breakdown.

We'd also like to inform our readers that we here at NNNN haven't even a basic grasp of physics, geography, climate science, astronomy, meteorology, or any scientific discipline needed to fully analyse a situation where Human ashes have formed thick, dense clouds in our ozone layer as a result of over-zealous fans collectively propelling their familial bonds into space as a tribute to a music icon. As a publication, we pride ourselves on transparency and self-deprecation which disguises a genuine lack of academic rigour and self-esteem. 

Bowie wrote several songs with a discernible space theme, the most famous few being 'Space Oddity', 'Life on Mars' & 'Starman'. "When I picture Bowie, I think of him in space" Sticks told us (after she recovered from that traumatic episode), "I think certain artists are out of this world, they're merely human beings in reality, but what they create through their work is an allure which illuminates them, making us regard them as more than human. their work not only moves us, it can also help us make sense of the world, if only for a few minutes at least. It makes us feel less alone. I think we seek out things which make us feel this way, and when that artist passes away, it can feel like a sort of cosmic grief, like something binding and constant in the universe and in your own life has just disappeared". 

Sticks had read about the planned tribute on a David Bowie Facebook group last October. "I didn't think they'd actually go through with it. Wasn't there also millions of people who were going to storm Area 51? The online world really is hugely disconnected from the real world, now more than ever. So I was shocked when it actually happened. I only wrote about it in my column as a joke." 

Said Facebook group was named 'Bowie blast off' and was created by Zoe Bowie, who legally changed her name after her icon died. "People think I changed my surname to Bowie, but alas, it was my first name, I wanted it to rhyme with Bowie, I used to be called Gladys" explained Bowie, 56, "Bowie is my married name, I deliberately set out to find a husband with that surname, for many years I thought it was hopeless, but then Frank came along. Granted, he works in a tip, is very controlling and is a horrible racist, but it's the surname that matters".

Bowie's group very quickly amassed over 50,000 followers within a month, then 100,000 after two months. "When we reached 500,000, I knew I wanted to actually do this. I asked Frank whether I could be let out on January 10th, and he said yes, so I started planning!"

Bowie considered the logistics of firing one's grandparent's ashes into space. She conversed with people in her group, who arrived at the decision to build large intercontinental mortars, able to fire the ashes past the atmosphere. "Several people on the group were keen engineers, so they really chipped in and helped with that side of things. I had no reason to disbelieve them, they sounded genuine". 

Another problem Bowie and the group faced was not having dead grandparents, therefore not having dead grandparent ashes. "That was a particularly big obstacle for us" explained Bowie, "but let's just say, it was solved after a bit of 'out of the box' thinking". Bowie then winked at our NNNN journalist interviewing her over Zoom. NNNN would like to make clear that we have no idea what Bowie and her associates did to attain the ashes, therefore we are not liable for prosecution. 

So with the mortars and the ashes in place, all that was needed was a long wait til January 10th, the date of the launch. "The wait was agonizing" Bowie told us, "everything that was going on in the world, the pandemic, the US election, Barbara Windsor dying, all that took a backseat. I couldn't wait til January 10th. It was a mixture of fear and excitement, and hemorrhoids."

When the 10th finally came around, Bowie feared some in her group, who were scattered all around the world, would get cold feet. "We couldn't really discern which members would follow through or not. I started to divide people into 'drys' and 'wets'. One of my closest allies in the group, Geoffrey Whye, left the group at a very late stage, which was largely seen as triggering my downfall. But it didn't happen."

Bowie set the launch date at 10:00am (BST), which confused many of her international members. "The launches didn't happen all at once, which might have contributed to this kerfuffle we now find ourselves in". Physicist Neil Degrasse Tyson disputes whether the delays and miscalculations were the cause of the ashes clogging up the ozone layer, "We would've seen the exact same thing happen even if they all fired in unison. I cannot stress this enough, do not fire your grandparent's ashes into space, you stupid, narcissistic idiots." 

Bowie thinks the environmental problem she helped create will soon dissipate. "Scientists would have you believe that the Earth will stay shrouded in darkness for over 6 months, but that's just not true. They're only saying that to drive up revenue for the torch and lantern industries. We know we've caused quite a panic, but at least it's for a good cause. And try telling me your grandparents wouldn't want to rain down on us from above and, stop air travel, cause toxic smog etc". 

Although frustrated at the environmental panic the launch has provoked, Sticks thinks the Earth being shrouded in near darkness is a fitting metaphor for such an occasion, "If you think about it, the World has pretty much been shrouded in darkness since David Bowie died, at least that's how I feel. 2016 felt like something was ending. And usually endings mean new beginnings, but in this case it was the beginning to something fascist and shit. I'm kind of glad David wasn't around to see it all, but I miss him, we all do. The Earth is dark without him anyway, and will be dark long after the ashes of our dearly departed grandparents have fell to the ground and have rendered crops dead, polluted the oceans, destroyed global infrastructure and contaminated our drinking water."

Scientists claim the destruction this tribute has caused will spell the end for humankind. "We've got five years, that's all we've got".