TATA BUYS JAGUAR

TATA management knows a bargain when they see one - their recent acquisition of Land-Rover and Jaguar was purchased at half the original price paid by Ford. Although, it may be that they haven't woken up to the smell of 21st century coffee.
The western world is moving quickly on from the days of super-charged beasts and farmyard tanks - the overblown cost of fuel, increased taxes on engine size and the threat of a congestion charge virus spreading outwards from Komrade Ken's Kapital is forcing most of the population to consider down-sizing their mode of transport - or even, in the most extreme situations, attempting to fit their over-sized rumps onto the uncomfortable, unyielding leather triangle of a bicycle seat (now there's an invention just waiting to happen).
It may eventually turn out that the only population willing to purchase either of these two iconic motors will be members of the billion-strong Asian Club who have to travel to work on dusty roads, keeping their distance from a bus with more people on the roof than inside, dodging horse-drawn two wheeler tongas, or being cut up at the junction by three-wheeler auto rickshaws.
Meanwhile, in Britain, the average Mr. Smith dreams of the day that the £1250 Nano arrives at our shores.

The Auld Alliance - Wake Up England

The speech of Mr. Sarkozy - "le gush" - sounded almost too good to be true. Maybe the phrase "beware Greeks bearing gifts" should be amended to "beware French speaking compliments" - if bought down to a personal level most people would cynically ask themselves "what does he want?"

The melting ice cap of 9600 BC created the North Sea barrier, allowing us to forge our own future through self-determination, relatively uninfluenced by the rest of mainland Europe and we have, until now, utilised the geographical separation very successfully.
For me the most significant words of this afternoon's verbal "love-in" were spoken not by our French neighbour, but by Mr. Michael Martin, speaker of the house of commons.

Was he speaking as a member of the British Parliament or as someone who has watched Mel Gibson cry "Freedom" far too many times - and does he actually realise what the term "Auld Alliance" means to those south of Hadrian's Wall?

England, the birthplace of true democracy, is sleepwalking to oblivion. The distrust felt towards those who have always eyed this land with jealousy and envy couples with the sense of self-preservation generated by hundreds of years of practical experience, is being systematically erased by others from outside our borders - and any arguments to the contrary are considered to be politically incorrect and inappropriate for 21st century globalisation.

Wake up England! Listen carefully to the Scottish accent that began proceedings earlier today - the sentiment behind the carefully crafted speech was "Och aye, ma French friend - let's rid ourselves of this minor irritation called England once and for all!"

There Goes the Neighbourhood

What an Easter that was, moving house is no fun in the best of weather, but still, all went well and the kids are now warming themselves by the fire, looking forward to their new life in the Warwickshire countryside. It's much healther than the last place, Hackney, East London - we had to move from there because it was needed for the 2012 Olympics - but being good European citizens, it was the least we could do, the Olympics is for all of Britain, not just London - well, that's what they told us. However, I'm a little concerned about our new neighbours, and the effect that they might have on the kids. The jovial loose-lipped landlord of the pub was telling me that their lifestyle was a little "unusual" - to say the least. She's on her second husband, although she doesn't live with her latest - it's a "pretend" marriage. Their house is just where they conveniently bump into each other to exchange warm sweaty greetings, if you know what I mean. Apparently she's got a decent job in the city with lots of perks - and from the look of the house I can see where all the extras go - although it's a little bit too extravagant for my taste. He's a different kettle of fish altogether, much older, well connected and according to the landlord, over-friendly with some big Italian laundering business. He went on to say that the police were after him for sticky-fingered law-breaking and that he definitely deserves a stretch inside - and the depressing thing is that we moved here to get away from that sort of thing. I just hope that my kids don't get unduly influenced when they see them flaunting their materialistic trappings of dubious financial activities - they're good kids, they deserve a chance to grow up amongst law-abiding people in a decent Christian community.

BETTING ON GOOD FRIDAY

It's Good Friday, a time of reflection and this year, a time for a bet. Winter bids us farewell with a chilling slap on the bum and slam of the door, forcing the wildlife in the garden to think twice about the unavoidable urge to start mating, a misplaced icicle can kill the most powerful ardour.

I'm betting that a few overweight Christians are checking out the price of chocolate eggs, and that there's even a tiny dissenting voice in the Pope's head saying "I'd rather stay in bed."

My bet is also that somewhere, hidden in a locked vault, is proof of the true meaning of Easter (Eostre, goddess of dawn), the prehistoric astrological design that gave us the original epic symbolic narrative that today we all call the Passion of Christ.

It's a great story, but then again so is Gilgamesh and The Argonautica, so is the Illiad and the Battle of Thermopylae - all four of which are taken from the same graphic layout as the Christian story, and will no doubt prove to be extremely lucrative as the collection plate passes along the unquestioning minds of the misguided congregation.

I'm betting that some people who began to read this blog will now cease and move on - but I'm hoping that just a few will remain to seek further information - because knowledge is power.

Here's a list of my Good Friday bets, and the "Crucifixion" image from 10,000 years ago.

A - I'm betting that the Christ figure is truly a personification of the front of the centaur, the human hero figure of the cosmos - and that the alignment of Vega (the point of the arrow) and the rising Sun falling on December 25th is not purely coincidental. I'm also betting that St. John the Baptist is a personification of the rear of the centaur, covered in hair, linked by blood, standing in water, bending down in subservient pose before his true master.

B - I'm betting that the wooden cross actually refers to the bow and arrow carried by the centaur, and ...

C - I'm betting that the nails through the hands section is allegory of the overlapping wing of the dragon and the end of the bow.

D - I'm betting that Calvary, the green hill on which the cross was placed, refers to the tail section of the dragon, and also ...

E - I'm betting that the city wall is actually the ecliptic circle, the path of the sun. This particular symbolism was also used 3000 years earlier in the epic of Gilgamesh.

F - I'm betting that the gash to the torso actually refers to the rectum of the dragon (those prehistoric artists were nothing if not thorough).

G & H - I'm betting that the thieves on either side of the cross refers to the two vultures facing each other - this symbolism was also used by the Greeks, because vultures equal thieves, equals thieving vultures. It was used before in The Argonautica and also as the Stymphalian birds in the labours of Hercules. The gospels are not that original.

I - I'm betting that the crown of thorns refers to the crocodilian form of the dragon's head, complete with sharp teeth, thorns.

J - I'm betting that the sign placed on the cross refers to the flame of the dragon, and finally ...

K - I'm betting that the thunderclouds that gathered at his eventual demise refers to the fireballs and smoke from this ancient cruciform beast.

No, I won't be going to church this year.

CITY OF CULTURE - 2008

Oh no, here we go again, let's have a minute's silence or burn an effigy somewhere. I heard on the radio today that Liverpool Council was considering banning films that contained cigarette smoking. Why is it that when I hear the 2008 City of Culture mention, an image of a Petri Dish jumps into my mind?

What's coming next in the capital of emotional incontinence? It's well known that the locals are already pretty adept at recycling hub caps and car radios - so how about, with global warming in mind, banning films that contain references to methane-producing cattle? Let's face it, when the sea-level rises the hallowed streets of 60s pop culture are in the front line for a twice-daily soaking - Penny Lake is in my ears, 'cos it's high tide.

Hell, I never considered the detrimental effect that the violent pipe-smoking old salt Popeye had on my kids - or the Havana sniffing Bilko.

Taking their nanny-state proposal forward by a couple of years, does this mean that the BBC will never again be allowed to broadcast a really cheap black and white Sherlock Holmes movie, or the enigmatic Clint Eastwood in "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly"? And will trans-atlantic container ships loaded up to the poop-deck with tins of corned-beef be refused entry into the harbour?

Will we never again be allowed to watch rubber-faced Jim Carey in "The Mask" because of his really annoying catchline "Smoking!" ??? -- Okay, so there are some benefits to this proposal.

PARLIAMENT - A COLLECTIVE NOUN

Dear Sir - As a founding member of the Dyslexic Association of Twitchers (Dys-Ass-Twits) I would like bring to your attention the number of Crooks (Corvus frugilegus) that have taken up residence in the centre of our capital city.

I personally, have witnessed these greedie, noisy creatures queuing up for free flights to and from the countryside - often returning to their lofty abodes late at night carrying objects of desire, free additions to their already crowded residences, purloined at the expense of their rural cousins and other lesser creatures.

It is well known that once a crookery is well established it can only be removed by direct and decisive action against the core of members who inhabit and benefit from the innermost nests of the colony - as with many other hornytheological groups, there is a well-defined pecking order.

It is my opinion that a conservation order should be attached to the internationally-famous buildings immediately below this damaging gathering of guano-dropping parasites - and therefore clearing the way for police enforcement of the required eviction order necessary to preserve the fabric and future integrity of this establishment.

Alistair and Rowan - Separated at birth

I opened the dusty file and checked the documents, there was no doubt that these two were brothers. The paperwork was almost irrelevant, it was as clear as the ridiculous grin on both of their faces.
Even though they had never met there were remarkable similarities in their colourful past that hinted at a genetic link and a predetermined behavioural pattern.
Both had been brought up in very privileged circumstances, educated at various private schools leading unswervingly to a top university education. Both of them had rebelled against the direction taken by their fathers, and both had strong family links to the world of politics.

There was a note pencilled at the bottom of the page, an explanation of the premature loss of cranial pigmentation to one of the brothers - the details were unclear but the words "traumatic experience," "flock of sheep" and "rarified highland air" were still easily discernable.
One of the brothers had risen to the top of his chosen profession and become a well-known household name, putting his signature to many important scripts and televised events - the other had also often been seen on prime-time television, but had assumed the role of a bumbling idiot.
At that moment there was a knock on the door - I quickly replaced the file into the cabinet and quietly closed the drawer. An East Lothian accent asked, "Would ya like a wee dram afore ye go?" I declined and left hurriedly.

CANDLE IN THE WINDS OF CHANGE

Madame Tussauds is more than just a world famous waxworks - it's a sniff-the-wind, finger-on-the-button indicator of what's in, what's out, who's coming, who's going.

I urge them to follow their initial instincts and ignore the obvious pressure exerted from Downing Street to produce a waxwork depicting the Laird of Westminster - it would be the equivalent of spending thousands of pounds, months of planning and hours of labour to produce a West Lothian fish supper - tomorrow it's candles for you my laddie.

And with the price of gas, electricity and petrol hitting an all time high, stocking a cupboard full of candles does not seem such a bad idea.

IT STARTED WITH A FISH - THE NEW SINS

The lights dim, the music begins - a spotlight falls on Errol Brown, the ageless vocalist of Hot Chocolate as he steps up to the microphone and begins to sing - "It started with a fish, I never thought it would come to this."
Okay, this maybe a verbal side-step into the world of fantasy, but the altered lyrics of the opening line are spot on. What do you see when the man in the mitre waves his shepherd's crook and tells you how to live your life? Personally, I see a fish.
A personification of the 10,000-year-old constellation of the Whale and Fishes (eventually Pisces) stands on a balcony dressed in a gold-flecked robe that, if converted to hard cash, would innoculate and feed thousands of his sheep-like followers. He waves a bent stick in their direction and tells them that if they use a condom they're going to burn in hell for eternity ... "You gotta listen to the man, he's dressed like a giant fish, so he knows what he's talking about, he talks for Cod!"
Let's face it, if this is not total insanity then what the hell is?
It's not even Christian - it goes back way further than that!
Personification, dressing up like the constellational characters in the sky, holds the key to power. It's an archaic remnant of the multi-god systems used by Sumarians, Phoenicians, Egyptians, Greeks and Romans - all of which are derivations from the earliest memories of mankind - the Malvern Zodiac.
Mere mortals dressed as fishes, birds, dogs, bulls, crocodiles, even the rear end of a horse - have all been used to confound, confuse and control the easily impressed masses - but only the fish remains.
When the Greeks decided that they required guidance in their lives, they climbed the hill to the the temple, handed over their hard-earned offerings and asked advice from the oracle at Delphi (Dolphin).
And here we are in the 21st century, not much has changed - apart from a couple of brand new sins that have been added to the list.
I'll skip the first one - advice about genetic manipulation from a giant cod doesn't warrant consideration, but the second new sin is downright hypocritical - Thou shalt not polute the earth. The sentiment is fine (if not a couple of hundred years too late), but I do object to being told what to do by a man who lives in a palace surrounded by overweight and overdressed sychophants, and who has the use of a fleet of bullet-proof gas-guzzlers (seems to me that the use of bullet-proof glass lacks a certain level of faith in his fellow man) ... and hey, you've been in control for the last 2000 years, this bloody mess is mostly your fault!
Whatever happened to leading by example? Whatever happened to humility? Whatever happened to the Widow's Mite? This Christianity game is beginning to smell decidedly fishy, in more ways than one.

DEMOCRACY - NORWEGIAN BLUE REWRITE

Mr. Fifties enters the shop carrying a Labour Manifesto: Ello, I wish to register a complaint.
Mr. McNoo (the shop owner) does not respond.
Mr. Fifties: Ello - Morag?
Mr. McNoo: What do you mean "Morag?"
Mr. Fifties: I'm sorry, I think I've caught a cold, I wish to make a complaint.
Mr. McNoo: We're closin' now for summer.
Mr. Fifties: Never mind that, my lad. I wish to complain about this manifesto what I voted for not two years ago in this very boutique.
Mr. McNoo: Och aye, the Norwegian Blue Manifesto ...What's wrong with it?
Mr. Fifties: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. It’s dead, that's what's wrong with it!
Mr. McNoo: Noo, noo, it’s under review.
Mr. Fifties: Look, McMatey, I know a dead manifesto when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now.
Mr. McNoo: Noo, noo, it’s not dead, it’s restin'! Remarkable manifesto is the Norwegian Blue … beautiful plumage, talks it’s head off and says nothing of significance … wonderful way with words … eager to jump on the next perk, I mean perch … did I mention beautiful plumage?
Mr. Fifties: The plumage don't enter into it. It's stone dead.
Mr. McNoo: Noo noo noo, it’s under review!
Mr. Fifties: All right then, if it’s under review, when are we likely to get the results … don’t tell me, let me guess … 2010 by any chance?
(The owner of shop picks up the manifesto and sweeps away the dust from the title page)
Mr. McNoo: There, it’s as good as new.

Mr. Fifties: No it isn’t, you just cleaned the cover!
Mr. McNoo: I never!!
Mr. Fifties: Yes, you did!
Mr. McNoo: I never did anything...
Mr. Fifties: (yelling and hitting the manifesto repeatedly) 'ELLO DEMOCRACY!!!!! Testing! Testing! Testing! This is your nine o'clock alarm call!
(Flicks through the pages and thumps it hard onto the counter, throws it in the air and watches it plummet to the floor).
Mr. Fifties: Now that's what I call a dead manifesto.
Mr. McNoo: Noo, noo, noo, it’s just a reaction to the financially volatile international climate and the seedy excesses of this shop’s previous owner – it’s stunned!
Mr. Fifties: STUNNED?!
Mr. McNoo: Aye! Your inability to counteract the autocratic undemocratic self-serving political shenanigans without being summarily added to a national data-base that will hold your DNA and fingerprints for the rest of your natural life so that we’ll always know where you are, what you’re up to and whether you’re a threat to national security, allowing us to pick you up for questioning and hold you in a cell indefinitely – I think “stunned” is a pretty good description.
Mr. Fifties: Um...now look...now look, McMatey, I've definitely 'ad enough of this. That manifesto is definitely deceased, and when I voted for it not two years ago you assured me that “things could only get better.”
Mr. McNoo: Aye, aye I did that … but, and here’s the beauty of the English language … I never said for who … now you can go and stick a red line under that and sod off laddie!
Mr. Fifties: That’s Rubbish!
(At this point the doors of the shop burst open and four overweight thugs with the combined IQ of nineteen grab Mr. Fifties and throw him roughly through the rear doors of a black anti-terrorist van waiting on the double-yellow lines outside)
A muffled voice can be heard as it pulls away….
Mr. Fifties: I’m starting to pine for the Norwegian fjords … I bet they don’t have a Swede governing them … ouch!

Peterborough - Stop Wittering and Smile

My friend was telling me about his family. His cousins had arrived "unexpectedly" - a day trip around the shops of Peterborough seemed like a good idea, "And maybe we'll strike lucky if we call in at the passport office after lunch," he said. They wandered around the town for a couple of hours, but he sensed that the women were not enjoying themselves. There were mumbles, sighs and mutterings, but it was difficult to say who said what to whom. Eventually he'd had enough, it was beginning to get on his nerves.

"Stop with the Wittering!" he shouted - they immediately fell silent. "For goodness sake, what is your problem? This is a good place, a fine community, everything you could possibly want is here - okay, the football team is not as good as Norwich City - but apart from that ... why do you keep grumbling?"

One of them shuffled nervously, "It's the uniforms," she muttered, "We don't like uniforms, they make us nervous."

"What uniforms?" he asked, "This is a normal English town, you are bound to see the occasional off-duty soldier walking around ... this is where they live, it's their home, it's their country."

"We don't like the way they stare at us," said one of the women, "It's the look in their eyes, they act as though they own the place."

He reached into his pocket and brought out a camera, "Look, just stop moaning and stand still, I'll take a your photograph - it might save us some money at the passport office," he said.

The women gathered into a group and he crouched down on one knee to steady the camera. "Uniforms, pah!" one of them muttered.

As he looked through the viewfinder an airman in a smart uniform stood behind them in the distance, he thought it would be a good joke to include him in the photograph. "Besides," he said, "Like the soldier over there, they all have the freedom of the city, they can come and go as they please - they even have the right to fix bayonets or something like that."

Sadly, his photograph was very blurred - and they never made it to the passport office.

Referendum? Those in favour say Och-Aye-Dee.

I tuned my wireless to the Home Programme and listened to that wee lassie Jocki McMalvern, I think she was quoting from my favourite book "Och the noo Labour" on the subject of introducing Identity Cards - such an orator, so dependable - I canny understand why youz English folk are not battering down the doors of the local DSS offices demanding that you carry the wee insignificant biometric retina-scanned dna fingerprint thingy in each and every one of your sporrans - I mean, it sooo sensible.

I turned down the volume on the gramophone playing the medley of memories from "Andy McStewarts White Leather Club" and listened closely to her soft dulcid arguments - "If you wanted to open a bank account or buy a car" she said, or "open a bank account" or "buy a car" or "open a bank account" - aye, aye, it did get a little repetitive - but that's the way that youz folk will eventually give up your meaningless opposition ... did I mention "open a bank account?" - aye, aye, I think I did.

Thank goodness that other woman, I like to call her English Vicky, didn't ask any questions about the referendum debate ... Jocki McMalvern is good, but she canna hold too much in her pretty little head at one time. Did I mention Bank account, ID cards, Big Brother? Ooops, skip that last one.

I stopped listening, it became juss-a-wee monotonous, I dipped my silver spoon into the steaming bowl of porridge and opened the newspaper at the horoscopes ... I'm on the cusp, February 20th, Pisces with the earth in opposition and Jacobite rising .... it said "An old enemy is watching you, but as long as you use the whip the self-serving labouring animals around your feet will do your bidding." Now what on earth does that mean? But there was more: "You have been given a golden opportunity, a Supermarket Sweep - grab what you can in the next two years and don't worry about the mess, fill up your trolley and run like hell to the Hills in the North."

I smiled - you know the smile, the one that I've been practicing for those camera thingies. I finished my porridge, leaned over and picked up a dictionary. I wanted to find another word for "Treaty" just to confuse the hostile natives. I wandered over to the window, it was a bright blue sky - but I do miss those green hills of home. Never mind, only two years to go. I checked my wristwatch, I think it's time for another review.

A TIME FOR CHANGE (AGAIN)

My fellow Amalgamates .... it's a time for change. A time to sweep away the .... empty brown envelopes that have been pushed beneath the .... hand-woven carpets of .... those who believe that .... to serve their country is a private gateway to a better lifestyle.

It's a time to gather our strength .... to muster our resources .... to open our bulging wallets and invest in shares of companies that stand to benefit from our pseudo radical proposals.

It's a time for change .... loose change .... lots of loose change .... jingling like the jackpots flowing from the fruit machines in our .... brand new, highly rewarding, carefully placed casinos.
For me the world is a kitchen ... a zoo ... a playing field ... an expenses paid trip to Dubai ... a limo through an orchard ... gathering fruit ... gathering speed ... gathering autographs for my children so that ... god forbid ... when I'm gone ... these autographs will be another little nest egg.

It's a time for change ... for pausing before we act ... for pausing to enhance the effect of total sincerity ... for pausing before pressing the "transfer" button while online banking.

It's a time to gather all the like-minded self-serving cronies around me ... Scots, women ... more Scots, more women ... sod it ... Scottish women.
I ask for your vote, your X in the box, your fingerprint and DNA - I stand before you as a leader ... a fresh breeze and a faceful of hot air ... a blast from the past.

BBC FUTURE PROGRAMMING

Dear Old Auntie Beeb – I’ve got a great idea, how about sending me and the family on a round-the-world trip to check out the facilities in the best hotels in six or seven capital cities? Informative and educational, a fleeting glimpse of an unattainable lifestyle for the average licence payer – and think of all the future contacts that can be added to the executive phone book. Great idea, don’t you think?

Dear Luvvy Central – I’ve got a great idea, how about letting me write the script for Eastenders one of these days? My knowledge of the interaction between people from many different backgrounds stems from personal experience and I used to read comics and play with puppets when I was young, so I’m more than qualified. A reality check for the average licence payer. Great idea, don’t you think?

Dear BBC Commissioning Officer – I’ve got a great idea, how about turning me loose in the long frock cupboard to produce another helping of Dickensian drama? It’s my opinion that one more version of David Copperfield, Bleak House or Great Expectations would go down a storm with the average licence payer and bodice-ripping scenes are always a tremendous boost for the viewing figures. Great idea, don’t you think?

Dear Beeb – I’ve got a great idea, how about a game show where z-list celebrities have to impersonate a well-known politician while cooking a meal on ice? Yes, I’m quite aware of the health and safety problems involved with using paraffin stoves on a slippery surface (didn’t I mention paraffin stoves?) – but these could easily be overcome with a three-month SAS training session for all the contestants. What a laugh it would be for the average licence payer, and think of all the free tabloid publicity when the sexy co-host is photographed holding a meat and two veg. Great idea, don’t you think?

Dear BBC – I’ve got a great idea, how about sending me and the family on a sun-drenched cruise around the Aegian Sea retracing the route of Jason and his Argonauts on their mythical quest for the golden fleece? Historical, cultural, classical, a fleeting glimpse of life 2500 years ago for the average licence payer – and I promise to send you a few bottles of Ouzo. Great idea, don’t you think?

Oops! Skip that last one – it’s already been done by Michael Wood at Mentorn. Yes, I know it was rubbish, but at least I wasn’t paying for it!

KING ARTHUR PENDRAGON

Channel 4 producers, Time Team ... STOP! Who really wants to hear about the undersoil content of the well-cropped lawns of Windsor? Why do you persist in serving up a soggy biscuit of history when the viewers deserve a thick juicy steak? And it's about time you stopped supporting the ridiculous, childish, unsubstantiated beliefs surrounding the romanticised tales of Arthur Pendragon. Station bosses, perleez get wise, why not just save yourself time and money and re-run the film "Merlin," or the ridiculous "King Arthur" (I'd rather see Keira Knightley on a horse than Bishop Baldrick in a trench). Both of these films hold about as much historical credence as the theoretical ramblings of modern-day archaeologists.

So here is the question - Arthur Pendragon, did he exist?
Well, a king existed, but his name was not Arthur. The words Arth ar pen draig are more of a postal address than a name, and it dates back at least to the Younger Dryas period (11,500BC-9600BC). Whatever the name of this king, the remnants of an ancient civilisation indicate that the country was united, one tribe, one belief system and therefore one leader. Far from being ignorant hunter-gatherers the advanced mathematics, astronomy and geography involved in the accurate nationwide placement of settlements across the southern half of Britain tells a very different story from that dished out by the Time Team.

This image is the origin of the name Arth ar pen draig,
an address, the bear at the head of the dragon.

KICKING IN THE DOORS OF HISTORY

On the box Friar Baldrick leaps from shallow trench to shallow trench - strangely-garbed west-country Phil says "ear, look at this, ear's another piece of partery" - and the viewing public is transfixed as the ancient artefact is proclaimed to represent the kitchen of a Roman villa belonging to a high-ranking Latino invader .... I yawn.

It's like watching an hour-long documentary about the chemical constituents of the cracked varnish on the Mona Lisa - mmm varnish, mmm cracked, mmm more varnish - I yawn again.


I sometimes wonder if they know that the painting exists, but there's a gentleman's agreement that the first person to mention the historical anomalies is an archaeological cissy!


Britain is the Mona Lisa, the enigmatic key that can unlock the past - contrary to the blinkered beliefs of those who hide behind the well-paid solid oak doors of universities - it is the cradle of civilisation, the birthplace of astronomy and mathematics. It is Plato's Atlantis, the Garden of Eden, Noah's paddling pool - it's where it all began.


On a daily basis I attempt to inform those lettered Edwardians hiding behind the parapets about my discovery - when it was designed, where it travelled, what it means and the uncomfortable future consequences that the theory represents ... I kick doors.


Take five minutes to peruse the jewel in the crown - the centre of a prehistoric national scheme. It's accurate, it's ancient astrology and astronomy, apparently produced at a time when simple-minded hunter gatherers were hurling flints at tomorrow's dinner - maybe they had some spare time on their hands - "Oo look, ear's a door and someone's garne an kicked it!"

To get a closer look check out the video on Myspace.com/alangripton

ADVICE FOR THE KIDS

The family are absent, the cats are asleep - I'm just reflecting on a visit to a collectors' fair in the middle of Norwich that I visited yesterday. I wandered around the flintknapped cobbled yard of what used to be the printing department of Norwich City College before it was incorporated into the main block of buildings across the other side of the city.
I was stepping back in time - it had been forty years since my feet had touched the uneven history-soaked walkway. Three floors up on the tiled roof was a tiny skylight window - and the memory of hanging my head out into the cool autumn sunshine and vomitting freely into the gutter will never leave my brain. This was the result of a lunchtime spent pickling my teenage-angst powered broken heart in glass after glass after glass of double whiskey with dry ginger - it was not clever - but it did succeed in wiping clean the name of a lady called Barbara from my thoughts - so, mission accomplished.
The stone steps to the old wooden door of the canteen looked inviting - I wanted to go inside, get a cheese and onion roll, a cup of black coffee and settle down with Wrighty, Mobsy, Kraut and Taffy Evans for an hour long session of three-card brag - the freedom, wit and laughter of those days can never be replaced.
Forty years - just a click of the fingers, blink and it's gone - how do I impart this uncomfortable fact to my two twenty-something kids? Yesterday you were at school, today you're free to shake the world, tomorrow you'll have grey hair and two twenty-something kids - and what's more, you'll be standing where I am today, looking up at a skylight.
Use this time of freedom, stand proud and impregnable - don't take any crap from people whose motives relate to their own needs - and don't take advice from people who have failed to achieve inner happiness. Nobody will give you respect unless you deserve it. Avoid the trends of mass movement, most people are sheep heading for the metaphorical slaughter-house. The difference between a diamond and a lump of coal is only where it's been and what it's seen.
Be diamonds - so when you look up at that skylight in the future - like me, you can smile.

DNA - GRAMMATICAL SUBTERFUGE

Beware the grammatical trickery - they've used this phrase before!
The words "The government has no plans," used as a reply to public worries concerning a compulsory national DNA data base is a smoke screen. Of course they've looked into it - that's what they do - you know they do! The only problem these control freaks have is balancing its introduction against the number of lost votes at the next election.
Scotland is chilly, beautiful, but chilly. However, the thought of "heading to the hills" is becoming more and more attractive by the day - I must remember to buy a warm jacket.

History rewritten - Malvern Zodiac

Straight to the point, I'm not here to rock the boat - but take a look around, it's a rotten boat, it's leaking, it's sinking, it's been going round and round in circles for 5000 years with those overweight, holier-than-thou, cross-dressing, finger-wagging thought-marshalls sitting around the captain's table and gorging themselves on the hard labours of the less fortunate.
Let me lay my cards on the table - I'm not unreligious, I sincerely believe that this is just a physical training ground, a level of existence that we all have to go through to achieve a higher state. Life after death? Yep, I'm pretty certain that it exists, personal experience has shown me that those who have passed on can reach back to touch, guide, protect and encourage you in the right direction - it happened a long time ago, but that's almost irrelevant to this piece of work.
I'm a patient man, I believe that you get what you deserve (eventually) - but to have 20 years of research dismissed by the words "I've got a doctorate, so you're wrong" used as a weapon of reasoning made me want to spit!
What use is a doctorate when the information that earned this bright shiny "club card" is built upon lies and subterfuge? Please Yahoo, give me a "Punch the idiot" button - if that's not technically possible how about a "Slap this emailer" code.
If you've seen the profile you'll know where my interest lies - it's history - not the stuff you find in books, the real old stuff, the difficult unanswered questions that get conveniently boxed and placed out of the way by those eager to gain acceptance and climb the academic ladder leading to the chandeliered top deck.
There's been 5000 years of symbolic narrative used to control the thoughts and actions of the great unwashed, the hungry, the illiterate, the hard-working community builders, the soldiers, the misled masses that hold the ship's timbers together so that some of those with a theology doctorate can stuff their faces with blood-stained sandwiches.
A symbolic narrative that started so very innocently - a tribal storyteller's tale, an easy method of recalling the ancestry, cosmology and geography of distant homelands - how could this poor soul have known what was to become of his carefully-worded repetitive chants that informed, amused and entertained those sitting around the camp fire? Surely, if he had been aware of the future mis-use and purposeful misinterpretation to falsely justify the sea of bloody millennia that followed, he would have cut his own tongue out.
The Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh, the first authored literature in the world - a symbolic narrative, a graphic allegory, a moralistic tale formed around the ancient constellations found in the Malvern Zodiac. A tale from the imagination of a storyteller's finger wandering around the disc of an ancient astrolabe, a navigational tool, following the path of the sun - the one true giver of life.
That's where it all started - damn to hell the greedy opportunists who grabbed the astrolabe ball and ran with it. They made up new stories, they changed the names, they changed the locations, they raised its profile, they used it to justify mass control and mass murder, it was a need-to-know system - and then, after all the damage had been done and the money was rolling in, they went and hid it to cover their tracks. My question is: When the hell is it going to end?
In my head it's akin to the uncomfortable situation of explaining to a young child that Santa doesn't really exist - but let's calm the infant by telling the truth. Santa is a software plug-in - designed to make your life better in the darkest, coldest part of the year. It's a great time for a warm fire, a feast, a celebration of family union, of safely reaching the winter solstice without anything untoward happening - a time to look forward to the longer days of glorious summer sunshine. Who needs Santa?
No matter how deep the truth has been hidden, it will always come out. Who could have known that the design on the prehistoric astrolabe had also been carved into the green fields of England? There have been hints and suggestions over the years of something "not quite right" with the layout of the land in this country - strange ley lines, weird shapes that look like dogs, long-distance measurements that are too accurate to be purely coincidental and then there's Glastonbury - what's that all about?
If you want to know about Glastonbury go to my pictures, the "Malvern Zodiac" album and check out "The Secret of Glastonbury" - it will put you on the right track.
If I had a doctorate would it make me more believable? Is it too uncomfortable to hear that the "Wondrous star in the east" is Vega? - and that Mary placing the infant into the manger is really the inverted image of the Watermaiden and Dogs?
Will I be pilloried for bringing to people's notice that the Three Wise Men (in Phrygian caps) is actually the tails of three bulls? What about St. John the Baptist - covered in hair, standing in water, in subservient pose waiting for his master to arrive? Three thousand years earlier in Sumeria his name was Enkidu.
How about walking on water? What about the donkey ride and the palm leaves, the scourging, stumbling and being helped to his feet on the trip to the green hill outside the city walls? What about the thieves on either side at the crucifixion? What about the cock crowing? What about the sign over JC's head pinned to the cross? What about the gash to the torso or the crying out as death arrived? What about the storm clouds that followed?
Ancient symbolic narrative - do I really need to spell it out?
But hang on a second - I haven't got a doctorate - so what do I know.