Let's have a werewolf hunt

In the Burgundy region of France, 1573, a court issued an official authorisation to anyone fancying a werewolf hunt:

"According to the advertisement made to the sovereign Court of Parliament at Dole, that, in the territories of Espagny, Salvange, Courchapon, and the neighbouring villages, has often been seen and met, for some time past, a were-wolf, who, it is said, has already seized and carried off several little children, so that they have not been seen since, and since he has attacked and done injury in the country to some horsemen, who kept him of only with great difficulty and danger to their persons: the said Court, desiring to prevent any greater danger, has permitted, and does permit, those who are abiding or dwelling in the said places and others, notwithstanding all edicts concerning the chase, to assemble with pikes, halberts, arquebuses, and sticks, to chase and to pursue the said were-wolf in every place where they may find or seize him; to tie and to kill, without incurring any pains or penalties. . . . Given at the meeting of the said Court, on the thirteenth day of the month September, 1573."

This rather extreme call-to-arms was in response to a certain hermit, Gilles Garnier, who had been killing and eating local children. Rumours suggested he had done this many times, and villagers claimed he often preferred to walk on all fours. After the above authorisation was made, he was caught quite literally red-handed after making another kill. When put on trial, Gilles claimed that he had been given an ointment by a man in the forest (classic defence), and this gave him the form of a wolf. He said this was essential, as the new powers made hunting easier and therefore he could feed himself and his wife. Gilles clearly believed he had been a wolf throughout the killings, and detailed many children whom he had devoured in this way. He admitted every charge against him, was found guilty ofthe rare charge of 'lycanthropy' (basically being a werewolf) and burnt to death.

From little acorns...

Here are a few photos of kids that grew up to be famous. Some are easy to guess, others a bit trickier.



























OK?
Marilyn Monroe, Marilyn Manson, the Queen;
Bjork, Gandhi, Einstein;
Hitler, Eminem, Elvis.

Space photos

I've not put on many images for a while, so here's me making up for it. The Hubble Space Telescope took these photos. Yes, they are photos. Yes, they're real. If you’re insistent on finding out the secrets to magic tricks, rest assured that the first image merely depicts a gaseous column of hydrogen, carbon monoxide and ammonia; the second is the Orion nebula. Science can dullify anything. Click on them and marvel.

Nazi Moon of Ice

The moon is made of ice. That was the revolutionary message that came to Austrian weirdo Hans Horbiger in 1894. Not wanting to be seen as ridiculous, he embarked on some detailed looking and concluded that it was definitely made of ice, and the stars were also made of ice. He cunningly noted how shiny they were and frankly it's hard to reach any other kind of conclusion. After a few more years of thinking, and looking at the moon, Horbiger decided that the Earth definitely sucked the ice moons into orbit and they eventually collided - thus explaining the biblical flood and the disappearance of Atlantis. Then the earth is left moonless until it finds another ice moon to pull in. He'd certainly spent a lot of time working it all out. It even had a proper name: Glacial Cosmogeny or Welteislehre ( World Ice Theory ). Well done Hans.

Who would believe this kind of thing? None other than a certain German chancellor named Adolf. Yes, Hitler was also convinced that the moon was made of ice and made it official Nazi policy to believe it. It was better, he thought, than believing the more advanced theories of Jewish scientists, or crazy sympathisers like Einstein. He also suggested that the rather chilly spell in the early 1940s was also the result of that darn icy moon. I suppose in context it was actually one of the less ridiculous beliefs held within the Third Reich, though a survey apparently suggested that even by the mid 1950s over a million people still believed in Glacial Cosmogeny. Just shows, scientists are often wrong and fascists, always.

Last one out, turn off the light

Had a bad Easter? Hate your job? Think that mankind's problems are insurmountable? Then why not join a campaign for voluntary human extinction. Actually, not a joke. The folks over at the 'Voluntary Human Extinction Movement' are entirely serious, and suggest that voluntary human extinction is the best, most efficient way to tackle human disasters. Their motto is "May we live long and die out". Hmm. Their abbreviation is 'VHEMt', which bizarrely they manage to pronounce 'vehement'. Don't worry though, they're not so vehement as to want to eradicate our species with lasers or disease - they just want people to volunteer not to have any children. And then wait. If you weren't intending to have any anyway, good for you - but perhaps consider joining just to boost their numbers. If you've already produced, don't worry, just convince your offspring that you don't want any grandkids. No doubt by this point you will clamouring for further details - the conferences, the t-shirts, the support groups. Look no further:
http://www.vhemt.org/

What is Samarkand?

One of my mates recently asked me what and where is Samarkand - and why name the blog after it?

Samarkand is the second largest city in Uzbekistan and is one of the oldest inhabited cities in the world. Being fairly central on the Europe-Asia silk road meant that it became a 'crossroads of cultures'. Conquered by various people including Alexander the Great and several Mongol leaders, Samarkand has done well to retain most of its stunning architecture and ornate Arabic decoration. The city was made more famous in 1913 when James Elroy Flecker wrote an exotic piece of poetic dialogue named 'The Golden Road to Samarkand' - you can read the poem in the original blog entry. Hopefully reading the full piece will give a better idea of its significance.

Bad elephant

Mary the Elephant was a kindly, law-abiding elephant - a performer in the Spark's Circus at the turn of the 20th Century. Unfortunately in 1916 her keeper, a Mr Red Eldridge, poked Mary behind the ear while she was trying to eat watermelon. Understandably Mary became enraged, threw him against a drink stand and stomped on his head. The locals were horrified and other nearby towns vowed never to allow the circus in if Mary the Killer Elephant was around. At this point Charlie Sparks, circus owner, realised that he had to take drastic action. What do you do with a bad elephant? Hang it of course. In front of a crowd of bloodthirsty townsfolk, Mary was chained by her neck to an industrial crane and lifted off the ground. The first attempt failed when the chain snapped, breaking her hip and annoying her. The second attempt worked, and after a few minutes Mary had met her maker. She was buried nearby and became the first and possibly the last elephant to be lynched.

And in a brief round-up of other bad elephant history... in 1826 Chunee was executed in London with 152 musket rounds and a sword, and in 1903 Topsy (pictured) was electrocuted by none other than Thomas Eddison himself. The video's on Youtube.

Hmm. Surprising the number of ways you can execute an elephant.

"Mounted Ape from Hell"

I love this picture. The thought of a monkey riding a dog slaughtering 14 people changes the way I see the world. Especially a monkey called Terrence. I want to know - who gave him the sword and hat? Surely they are to blame for this butchery.

Curse of the Giants

Let's talk about giants. Acromegaly is a serious hormonal condition that causes excessive growth of bone. One particular sufferer was called Maurice Tillet. Tillet was a good-looking, highly intelligent Frenchman who aspired to write poetry and act on stage. Fate chose differently and symptoms of acromegaly began to become more apparent throughout his twenties, as his hands and feet continued to grow. Eventually his face also expanded and suffering ridicule in France, he escaped for a life in the U.S, desperate to find a vocation more tolerant. His break came when he was asked to become a wrestler under the nickname 'The French Angel' (also known less flatteringly as the 'Freak Ogre of the Ring'). His success was widespread and well-documented and he even won the American Wrestling Association World Championship in 1944. However, his professional success belied his personal problems and his bizarre appearance turned him ever more reclusive. Eventually, deprived of the medical assistance that could have saved him, he died from heart problems caused by his condition. Actors Richard Kiel (Jaws in James Bond films) and Ted Cassidy (Lurch in 'The Addams Family') also suffer from acromegaly, though improvements in treatment have made their condition more manageable. More recently Maurice Tillet received more posthumous attention - why? Someone spotted a certain similarity between Tillet and Shrek. Make up your own minds.

Every dog has its day

This little guy, 'Whiskey', was the last of an extinct breed of dog called the Turnspit. As you could probably gather, the sole purpose of Whiskey and his friends was to turn spits. They were trained to trot along inside a wooden dogwheel which was rigged up to the spit over a fire. Apparently they were normally kept in pairs, so each mutt could take turns. Hence the expression 'every dog has its day'. Honestly. In the 'English Dog Book' of 1576 the Turnespete dog was described as having "a suspicious, unhappy look" about them. Funny that. Here's to Whiskey and all the meat he turned. Good on you, you scruffy little beggar.

A Flawed Hero

Thomas Edward (T.E.) Lawrence, born in 1888 was a short, teetotal ragamuffin who became one of the most famous officers to serve in the British Army: Lawrence of Arabia. His adventures began when he started work as an archaeologist and researcher on a site in Carchemish ( a frontier town between Turkey and Syria ). It was here that his love of the Arabic culture grew. He forged a close though unusual friendship with a young Syrian water boy ‘Dahoum’ ( ‘Little dark one’) who he taught to read and write in exchange for spoken Arabic lessons. Dahoum even gave Lawrence some robes which he religiously wore – an image which became famous.

In 1916 the Arabs launched a revolt against the Turkish empire, and Britain was quick to snap up Lawrence for his local knowledge and connections. Despite his notorious disrespect for authority, he found himself posted to Cairo as a Military Liaison Officer to the Arabs. He was happy to take on this role and is rumoured to have pursued Arab independence primarily as a gift to his young Arab friend. His success in this military role and image as an exotic, adventurous Englishman made him ideal subject matter for war correspondant Lowell Thomas who took photos and filmed him - media that became famous after the war when Thomas took it on a world tour. Continuing to adopt Arab customs (going to the extreme of crossing the desert on foot), speak the language and wear the attire, he became well liked and respected in the Arab community and eventually held considerable sway over the King of Iraq.

Following the war, Lawrence continued to support the idea of Arab independence though was devastated when Iraq, Syria and Palestine were mandated to France and Britain. He also suffered a crushing personal tragedy when his Arab friend Dahoum succumbed to typhus while Lawrence had been in England. However, though Lawrence had tired of the Arab campaign rebellions against the new colonial rule in Iraq caused Winston Churchill himself to enlist Lawrence’s aid. With diplomacy and pre-existing Arab support Lawrence was able to resolve the situation in a way that Bush and Blair should envy.

In 1922 Lawrence sneaked his way into the RAF using a pseudonym to avoid unwanted media attention. He even refused war medals from the King in an effort to remain more anonymous. In his new profession he was able to indulge an old love of speed and engines, and also dedicate time into revising the work he had written abroad – namely ‘The Seven Pillars of Wisdom’ and ‘Revolt in the Desert’. His literature is peppered with cultural observations, detail of his military dealings and stirring poetic style. One particularly eloquent verse, clearly dedicated to the late Dahoum:

I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands and wrote my will across the sky in stars
To earn you Freedom, the seven-pillared worthy house,
that your eyes might be shining for me
When we came.
Death seemed my servant on the road, till we were near and saw you waiting:
When you smiled, and in sorrowful envy he outran me and took you apart:
Into his quietness..

In 1935 Lawrence was riding his motorcycle around a country lane in Dorset when he swerved to avoid two children on their bikes. He landed hard, sustained serious head injuries and never regained consciousness. A humble interment in his Dorset village was the end to an intriguing life. Since then revelations and rumours have made clear his flaws: his bizarre history of whipping himself, his obsession with Dahoum, his fabrication of an uncle who beat him. However, still maintained in the popular consciousness by the Peter O’Toole film, numerous plays, and his own catalogue of literature, Lawrence of Arabia continues to be an evocative figure in British history.

Immortal Shoe-Shiner

In 1826 Frenchman Nicéphore Niépce created the first ever photo in a process that took 10 hours of exposure. By 1838 his partner, Louis Daguerre had formulated a quicker, more practical process and took the first ever photo of a human being shown here.


The photo depicts Boulevard du Temple in central Paris on a busy afternoon. Unfortunately the process still took several minutes of exposure, so the bustling Parisians and horse-drawn carriages are invisible. The only exception happens to be a man having his shoes polished by a street shoe-shiner – obviously the only ones to remain reasonably still throughout. So, the first photo of a person was not of a monarch, photographer or model, but rather an anonymous, oblivious shoe-shiner and his customer. I find it strangely reassuring.

Scalping

Somewhere on the plains of western Kansas in the summer of 1864, a wagon train was carrying supplies to Fort Union, New Mexico. As they stopped for an evening meal, they were attacked by a group from the Brule Sioux Indians allegedly led by Chief Little Turtle himself. The soldiers charged with protecting the wagon train had been held up and consequently the wagon teamsters were entirely unprepared for such an attack. Every member of the caravan was brutalized and executed in various grisly ways. When a government scouting party found them, they discovered that Robert McGee, a 13 year old driver, had miraculously survived. He was whisked off to an infirmary where he gradually recovered and became one of the few people in history to have survived being scalped.

32 years later, in an effort to gain a pension, McGee waxed lyrical about the event to the Marshall County Democrat. He claimed that Chief Little Turtle “in a transport of fiendishness” had “knocked (him) to the ground by one blow of his tomahawk… took (his) own pistol and shot him…”, fired two arrows into his back and “others of the band in passing, cut him with their knives and poked holes in him”.
And then he was scalped. He even claimed that he later returned to fight against the Brule Sioux and in a strange coincidence bumped into Little Turtle dead on the battlefield and shot him dead.

Anyway, the point is the guy survived having his scalp cut off, grew a spectacular beard in recompense, and consequently looked like this.


Note: One of the other members of the exclusive “I’ve been Scalped” club, Josiah P. Wilbarger (scalped 1833), said it felt like hearing distant thunder.
Think about that.

THE GOLDEN JOURNEY TO SAMARKAND

by James Elroy Flecker

"We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go
Always a little further: it may be
Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow,
Across that angry or that glimmering sea,

White on a throne or guarded in a cave
There lives a prophet who can understand
Why men were born: but surely we are brave,
Who take the Golden Road to Samarkand.

Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells
When shadows pass gigantic on the sand,
And softly through the silence beat the bells
Along the Golden Road to Samarkand.

We travel not for trafficking alone;
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand."

For the full playscript version, see http://www.chiark.greenend.org.uk/~martinh/poems/SAMARKND