A Symphony of Horror

(A Fairy Story for Halloween)

Wisberg, 1838

It all started, as so many horror stories do, at the estate agent's. "Count Orlok from Transylvania's keen to buy some property here", said Knock. "These Counts have more money than sense - I thought that huge vacant house opposite yours would be ideal, Hutter. So I'd like you to go to his castle and sell it to him. With a bit of luck he won't want to actually look at it first!". He had a point. The property in question had been vacant for many years, and none of the walls or floors were at right angles any more.

So Hutter went off, dreaming of his comission, to see the Count. Of course, it was a long and difficult journey, and the stupid superstitious local coachman insisted on stopping well before he got to the castle. What could he know? His family had only lived there for generations. Anyway, our hero eventually got to the castle and met Count Orlok.

The Count was very generous, and gave him a good supper and a choice bottle of Claret, even though he himself explained that he never drank ... wine. Hutter, being a bit nervous about the sale, cut his finger with the breadknife. The Count was very interested in his wound. "What a nice fellow", thought Hutter.

Next morning, Hutter felt somewhat drained. A hearty breakfast had been laid out for him. The Count had explained that he would probably lie-in until sundown. When he did appear, he wanted to go over the sale brochures. Whilst looking through them the Count noticed a photo of Hutter's wife, Ellen. "Your wife has a beautiful neck!", he enthused. "Yes, I suppose she has", said Hutter, who was more of a "breast man" himself.

Anyway, the Count immediately announced that he would buy the house opposite Hutter's, and signed all the appropriate papers, since he wanted to move straight away. Hutter went to bed, but when he looked out of his window he saw that "Pickfordski", the removal people, were busy loading the Count's stuff up, all carefully packed - in coffins. These nobility chaps didn't hang around, he thought. He would have gone down to give them a hand, but for some reason the door to his room appeared to be stuck.

The next day, he was still shut in. He shouted, but there was no one around. They must have moved out and forgotten about him! By tying together all the sheets from his bed (it was lucky that they didn't have quilts in those days) he was able to escape, and start the long journey home.

Meanwhile, the Count was busy moving in across the road from Ellen. In a small town like Wisberg, a new neighbour was bound to attract attention, especially when he had arrived on a boat whose crew had all died mysteriously with funny holes in their necks, and which had also brought a load of plague-ridden vampire rats. So the Count found that he was practically a prisoner in his new home, since the locals made it clear they weren't keen on him coming out.

Meanwhile, Hutter had arrived back. He'd also realised that Count Orlok might be a vampire, and that the two holes in his neck might not be mosquito bites as he had first thought. He'd also got hold of a copy of "Vampires for Dummies", which he showed to Ellen. The only way these vile creatures could be killed was if they were forced to stay out in daylight. Hutter went off to find the local vampire expert.

However, whilst he was gone, who should appear at the window but the Count himself! He seduced Ellen with a look, and she let him in. He then indulged in some serious necking. In fact he got so carried away enjoying Ellen's charms that he totally forgot the time. When it dawned on him, he shrivelled up into nothingness.

And they all lived happily ever after. Well, except for the Count, and all his victims, and Ellen. And the rats, who all disappeared along with their evil master, and all the townsfolk who died of the plague. And Hutter wasn't best pleased with losing his wife, and Knock with losing the sale...

People are never satisfied...

Picture and story from Nosferatu, 1922, Directed by F.W. Murnau

High Spirits

Picture the scene. A traditional drawing room, lit only by a single candle. The candle is on a circular table, around which are seated four people. A man and woman in their 40s, a younger woman, and a large middle-aged ostentatiously dressed lady.

"Are we ready?" Asks Madame Affrawd. Taking the silence as affirmative, she blows out the candle. There is an atmosphere of tense excitement in the air. Or maybe the brussels sprouts they ate for dinner are repeating on them.

"Hold hands", says Madame A. They do so.

She raises her voice and asks, "Is there anybody there?"

No reply.

"Knock once for yes, twice for no..."

KNOCK!

KNOCK!

One of the ladies gasps.

There is a creaking noise. No-one dares breathe. Some light shines onto the table. The drawing room door slowly opens, and the maid enters. "Excuse me ma'am, I just wondered if you needed anything?"

"I told you we're not to be disturbed!", says Mrs Rogers (the hostess) angrily. "I do apologies, Madame Affrawd, please continue".

They start again.

"Is there anybody there?"

KNOCK!

"O Dear Departed! Speak through your humble servant! Who is it you are looking for?"

Suddenly a trembling disembodied voice rasps: "Archie Rogers!"

"What is it you wish to say to him?"

"I'll be seeing you soon..."

"Em, look..." says Madame A, "Surely you mean that you have a nice message from his mum, or something?"

"No. Tonight he will join me in the hereafter."

"Okay, I can't do this if you're not going to be serious", says Madame Affrawd and stands up. She turns on a light. "Who was making fun of me?"

The others look at one another blankly. "It was a spirit", says Archie, obviously shaken.

"But it can't be!", says Madame A. "There's no such thing, er, I mean... Look I really ought to be going", she says and disappears rapidly.

"Maybe a seance wasn't such a fun idea after all", sighed Mrs Rogers.

"She was a total fraud.", says her husband, regaining his composure.

"Oh Archie, darling, I hope so!" cries his secretary, and then realises what she's said. But it's too late.

"You cheating bastard!" shrieks Mrs Rogers, bringing down the candlestick on her husband's head. A fatal blow.

Later.

In the shadowy world of the afterlife, Archie finds his mate Bill. "I knew it was you! What did you want to do a thing like that for - I had years ahead of me"

"Well, I was getting a bit lonely", rasps Bill (who died young from lung cancer), "and anyway it was only a matter of time before your missus found out. We'll have fun. And, there's plenty of talent here!", he winks.

"Just so long as my wife doesn't get here too soon!", says Archie, and the two pals float off in search of a good time...

I Dream of Jean Knee

Around this time of year, people's thoughts turn to scary things. I had decided to do some research into the scariest thing I could think of. Spiders? No, The Psycho Woman herself - the one known only as Jean Knee...

I'm afraid my driving was a bit erratic - I could hardly concentrate as I drove the once busy highway that had fallen into disuse after the Interstate was built in '59. I moved forward in fits and starts, as my foot trembled uncontrollably on the gas pedal. It must have been those Chicken McNuggets, but I had to get to a toilet fast...

Finally, I saw it. Another shadow on this dark unlit hellish road. The old sign was faded, and I could make out the delapidated huts, as I turned into the car park. I cut the engine and got out of the car. It was a black moonless night and it was raining heavily, despite the fact that I'd set off two hours ago at noon on a sunny summer's day. Bad places are like that.

Several weeks of inquiries had led me to this place. I had scoured Texas, talking to the shadier characters in that massive state (everything's bigger there). Finally, I had come across an old toothless gypsy. She asked me to cross her palm with a silver dollar. I told her I could get her a discount at my dentists, but she said no, she'd rather have the silver. Fair enough. She looked at my palm, and screamed.

I looked, and saw that it was blood red.

"It's okay", I said, "that's off the hot dog I just had on my way here."

Anyway, after a lot of persuading (and my whole stash of silver dollars), she told me. Everyone knew about Norman Bates and his stuffed mum, but there had been a sister. She had left her family as a young girl, because her brother wouldn't stop cutting up her dolls. She had started a new life in Texas, where apparently she was still living. Like her brother she lived in a fantasy world. One where she pretended she was a wife and mother, and children's party organiser.

The gypsy had reluctantly given me directions to the motel where she said that Jean Knee-Bates was actually living. In fact she'd handed me a leaflet entitled "The Other Bates' Motel", sponsored by the local Tourist Board. And then her eyes had darkened and she had told me not to go there. The place was cursed, and I would meet my doom...

So here I was. I looked around. One of the old huts had a light on! I crept towards it, and peered in through the cracked glass of the window.

There, I could just make her out. Sitting in front of a laptop, a polka-dot covered image on the screen, she was typing madly. Every so often she would throw back her head and scream "The Horror!". It was a gruesome sight.

But even more gruesome was my pressing need to find a bathroom. I dashed into the motel room next door - it wasn't locked. Whilst I was there, I thought I might as well take a shower. After all, surely she wouldn't mind?

The water felt great. My quest had taken up so much of my time that I hadn't had a shower for days. I found myself singing. I felt happy and relaxed.

Suddenly, the curtain was pulled back. All I saw was the gleam of a huge knife (did I tell you, everything's bigger in Texas?).

A final thought went through my head, just before the knife did. I know my singing's not great, and not everyone's a fan of "Volare", but even so, I felt that she was overreacting just a bit...

Then I woke up.

και σαν πρώτα ανδρειωμένη

Today is the 28th October, a special day in the Greek calendar, since on this day in 1940 the Greeks said "Οχι", or "No" to the Italian demand that they allow Axis forces to enter Greece. The Greeks instead insisted on fighting, a battle which they and the British eventually couldn't win, and in honour of the Greek's refusal to give in quietly, the day is celebrated as a public holiday, with large military parades and other events.

Flowers

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

[Wordsworth]

Yuck! That's my reaction to the above poetry. I've never really seen the point in flowers. But when you come to think of it they really can be useful. Here is a Man's Guide to Flowers.

Chicks

The best thing about flowers is that for a few Pounds you can buy a bunch in the supermarket whilst you're stocking up on booze, and the woman in your life will go all gooey and think you're absolutely wonderful. Yes, chicks love them, and really show their gullible side. You can get away with almost anything as long as you follow it up with flowers.

Cats and Dogs

Supposing that you're seeing someone who's absolutely fantastic, but has got a psychopathic cat or dog? Nature has again provided us with the answer. Just make sure you get her lillies (for cats), or crocuses (for dogs), as these are poisonous to those animals. Once Kitty or Fido have mysteriously left for the great animal farm in the sky, you can festoon her with even more flowers to show what a great caring guy you are.

Chickens and Eggs

Something I hadn't realised is that they feed marigolds to chickens to make the egg yolks more yellow. Omelettes just wouldn't be the same if they were white, so hooray for marigolds!

Vegetables

It also never occurred to me before, but broccolli is a flower. Eating lots of it not only gives you nutrients and stuff like that, but it reduces the risk of prostate cancer as well. Cauliflower (the clue's in the name) is another usefully edible flower.

Dessert

Without them, there would be no honey.

Friends

So, flowers really do make the world a better place. But they have their downsides - For example, they've inspired some pretty nauseating poetry...

Poop Art

Today we continue our survey of classic art.

Meaty Chunks

Yesterday I mentioned Piero Manzoni and his tinned "Merda". Earlier this year, there were suggestions that the whole thing might have been a hoax. No shit? But of course, no-one who has paid $45,000 for a tin (or even $168,000) would actually open it to find out, would they?

Seminal Works

One pair of artists who have used their own excrement, as well as blood, urine and semen are British-based Gilbert and George (be careful if you're at work and you follow any of the links at the bottom of the Wiki page - you have been warned!).

Bloody

And then there's Marc Quinn. He made a sculpture of his own head using 8 pints of his own blood. Now that is worth paying for, in the sense that it is valuable - not that I would want to own something that creepy!

What a Waste!

You'll be glad to know that the pictured tin, part of my personal collection, is not for sale.

Trash Art

"Without the cock." pastel on paper, 2005

On the news last night, they had a story about a woman who found a painting in the rubbish (what was she doing looking in the first place?!?), and rescued it minutes before the dustcart came to empty the bins. What she had found was a lost example of Latin American abstract art, which is expected to fetch $1 million at auction.

Now, personally, I wouldn't pay $1000 for it, but that's just me. I can see that it might have merit if you know what to look for (I don't). And of course, the guy's dead, which also makes the work more valuable.

What I really find interesting is the fact that people will pay $1 million for a painting in the first place. You can get an original in almost any style by a professional artist for a few hundreds or thousands. It's not the material or the labour that you're paying more for, it's the connection with the particular famous artist who painted it.

Tracey Emin's bed fetched $300,000. They could have mine for $200,000. It's not got the funny stains or used condoms, but at that price I'm sure I could find (hire?) someone to help me with that...

I would draw the line, though, at this. If you read the article carefully, you'll see that the gallery spokesman describes it as a "seminal" work. Wrong end, surely?

I don't care how much money I could make. Except, of course that no-one would pay for mine. It's not as "valuable". But why?

Which brings me to the pictured work. This is a prime example of the juxtaposition of figurative and Picassoesque traditions (look at the positioning of the nose, for example), and the masterful use of light and shade to draw a subject who's life's work could be summed up in those very words, is simply breathtaking.

It's also the only existing work by this particular artist (unless anyone's been going through my rubbish). So surely it's worth something? I mean it's crap, but you'd rather have this than one of Manzoni's tins, right?

Anyway, I'll sell it to the highest bidder...