The Weird Weekend, the largest predominantly cryptozoological conference in the English Speaking world is only five months away. You can read all about the 2009 event, and buy tickets, at http://www.weirdweekend.org/ or by clicking on the logo at the top of the page. Corinna will be covering the preparations for the event, and profiling the speakers over on Her Blog and there will be lots of other fun stuff in the months to come. However, completely unprovoked, Mike Hallowell, who was one of the speakers at the first event, relives his memories over five mornings this week...Don't believe a bloody word..
When I arrived at Exeter station, the sun was shining brightly. I ascended a flight of steps and cast a gaze around the throng of moving and stationary travellers. Someone, Mr. Downes had assured me, would be there to meet me off the train.
As I crossed the bridge which straddled the track between the platforms, I spotted a guy in a leather jacket and black jeans. In his hands he clutched the side of a dismembered cereal box, upon which were written the words, “Mike Hallowell”. Using all my powers of deduction I concluded that this was my contact person. How the hell I never got to be PM I’ll never know. With as razor-sharp intellect like this I could have ruled the bloody world, mate. I just chose not to. Honest.
As I crossed the bridge which straddled the track between the platforms, I spotted a guy in a leather jacket and black jeans. In his hands he clutched the side of a dismembered cereal box, upon which were written the words, “Mike Hallowell”. Using all my powers of deduction I concluded that this was my contact person. How the hell I never got to be PM I’ll never know. With as razor-sharp intellect like this I could have ruled the bloody world, mate. I just chose not to. Honest.
The person clutching the cereal-box glyph was none other than Richard Freeman, cryptozoologist and Fortean researcher extraordinaire. Richard was staying with Jon, and was my first living link with the Big Guy himself. Step by step I was getting closer to Downes – closer, indeed, to one of Britain’s most enigmatic writers and researchers.
Richard is one of life’s good guys. He doesn’t crap on people, and if he can’t do you a good turn he certainly won’t do you a bad one. He’s a Goth of sorts, is our Richard, and always makes me think that he should have been aboard that submarine – wotsitcalled – with that Captain Nemo guy. He wouldn’t look out of place in a Victorian music hall, and would undoubtedly pass as a Svengali – type figure. His intense eyes, goatee beard, ponytail and Goth-cum-Victorian gear worked in perfect harmony with each other to create an image which was slightly sinister, intensely appealing and yet mysterious all at the same time. Richard has now removed his ponytail, but he still has that unique allure.
After shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries, Richard and I ambled off towards the car park. There, he said, awaited Mr. Downes.
Jon sat in his Mercedes. As I clambered into the back, and Richard into the front, I could see what made this man so popular in Fortean circles. He exudes a strange mixture of authority and charm. When Downes says do, you do. But the thing is, you do because you want to, and not because you have to. He turned and smiled warmly.
“Hello, mate. Good trip?”
After shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries, Richard and I ambled off towards the car park. There, he said, awaited Mr. Downes.
Jon sat in his Mercedes. As I clambered into the back, and Richard into the front, I could see what made this man so popular in Fortean circles. He exudes a strange mixture of authority and charm. When Downes says do, you do. But the thing is, you do because you want to, and not because you have to. He turned and smiled warmly.
“Hello, mate. Good trip?”
I picked up the Big Fella’s vibes, and they were definitely okay. I was going to get on just fine with him.
For the next ten minutes or so, Jon weaved through a succession of streets, lanes, roads and highways. Occasionally he would break the silence by asking, “Richie…did we get the booze for tomorrow?…What about tonight? Is there enough booze for everyone tonight?…Have we got plenty San Miguel? I like San Miguel…”
This was obviously a guy who had his priorities right. I’ve organised enough conventions to know that alcohol will cover a multitude of inadequacies and mistakes. Stuff the speakers, stuff the buffet, stuff everything. As long as everyone can get pissed then its cool.
In his book The Blackdown Mystery, Jon described his then abode as a temple of “Bohemian squalor”. This, I would venture, was not entirely unadjacent to the truth, although later I had a right job finding the Bohemian bit. When we pulled up outside Jon’s house I saw Graham Inglis standing in the doorway. Although I did not know it at this juncture, behind him was an alternate reality which bore little resemblance to the universe outside.
In his book The Blackdown Mystery, Jon described his then abode as a temple of “Bohemian squalor”. This, I would venture, was not entirely unadjacent to the truth, although later I had a right job finding the Bohemian bit. When we pulled up outside Jon’s house I saw Graham Inglis standing in the doorway. Although I did not know it at this juncture, behind him was an alternate reality which bore little resemblance to the universe outside.
The first thing that one noticed on entering Chez Downes was a handwritten chart blue-tacked to the wall. This was a feeding chart which contained little memos, such as “FEED PYTHON TWICE DAILY – DO NOT ATTEMPT TO CUDDLE”, “PERUVIAN IGUANA – VEGETABLES ONLY, BUT AVOID TWIGLETS AND STORK MARGARINE ” and “CHILEAN RING-TAILED WATER MONKEY – MONDAYS, WEDNESDAYS, AND SATURDAYS, STRICTLY NO ALCOHOL”. Or some such, I can’t remember exactly, although I’m sure that it also said, “RICHIE FREEMAN – FEED ALTERNATE DAYS, AND ALCOHOL INTRAVENOUSLY AT WEEKENDS.”
Standing there, in Jon’s living room, was veteran UFO researcher Nick Redfern. Nick has been a prolific writer on the UFO scene for years, and is well known for his ability to get his hands on classified documents even if they happen to be locked inside the office of the CIA’s top honcho.
Nick is of striking appearance. His head is completely devoid of hair, and he will wear any colour clothing providing its dark black. He swears he gets his hands on secret papers by requesting them through the proper channels, but I don’t buy it. Its all that black stuff he wears. I reckon he swings around on ropes like the guy off the Cadbury’s Milk Tray advert, cat-burgling the 57th floor of the FBI central headquarters and nicking anything marked, “EYES ONLY – TOP SECRET. KEEP AWAY FROM THAT LIMEY BASTARD REDFERN”.
And there was Toby, too, the CFZ dog. Toby eyed me curiously as I entered. Not suspiciously, mind you, just curiously. I’m not sure that he’d ever seen a Geordie before, and I wondered if he was considering taking a lump out of my arse to see how, culturally, we Northerners react to such a bonding ritual. But he didn’t. He just stared at me with sad, knowing eyes and went back to sleep. Toby was a tired old dog, although a happy one. I thought, for a fleeting moment, that I saw Toby grin as he toddled off to Doggie Dreamland. At the time I dismissed this as a figment of my overtaxed imagination, but I was wrong. Toby had already decided to test the mettle of we Brown Ale Drinkers from the frozen north. He saw this as a challenge; survival of the fittest, if you like. This was going to be Geordie Lad versus Exeter Dog. As you will see presently, he blew me out of the water with consummate ease, demonstrating vividly why he was the CFZ mascot. It was because he was a bloody smart dog, that’s why, and with a wicked sense of humour. Like I say, all will be revealed presently.
“Tea, mate?” said Jon, snapping me back to the here and now.
“Er, yes thanks …milk but no sugar.”
Graham came in presently with a steaming mug of tea which had enough sugar in it to fill every pancake made on Shrove Tuesday.
“Right”, said Downes, “Here’s the plan. First we…”
At that point there was a knock on the door, and we were joined by several other members of what is known, colloquially, as the “CFZ Posse”. In they trooped, and I was struck by how ordinary they looked. Well, they would have looked ordinary had they been in Madame Tussauds, but never mind. Anyway, first through the portal steps this female. She was incredibly nice, but wore a large, black floppy hat, the brim of which was so big it almost reached her knees. For a moment I thought Jon had slipped a mickey into my tea and that she was a giant, talking mushroom.
Right behind her stood another hallucination. It was a role of candystripe carpet. (This was very popular back in the 70s, and was made up of all the scraps of wool lying on the factory floor. You could cover your entire house out for less than a tenner.) This roll of candystripe carpet was unusual, however, as it had a golden-haired Cocker Spaniel sitting on the top of it. The Spaniel spoke. “Hoi thurrr.…an’ owwer youuu thaaan…?”
“Er…fine.”
I wondered if it could roll over and die or fetch a stick. Graham, another paid-up CFZ loony – and I mean that in a caring, sharing, sort of way - introduced me to the Spaniel. Indeed, as my eyes adjusted to the surfeit of colour, I could see that the Spaniel was in fact a mop of unkempt hair, and the roll of candystripe carpet was the skeletal figure of a man in a hand-knitted pullover which was a) just like a candystripe carpet in both colour and design, and b) so bloody long he swept clouds of dust up from the floor wherever he walked.
Whilst I was toying briefly with the idea that he still may not be human, but simply a giant packet of fruity Polos with the wrapper off, he spoke again. He possessed that wonderful Exeter drawl which sounds like a hedge trimmer in first gear, and was totally unintelligible to me, a Geordie. I just smiled, nodded and said, “Absolutely, mate”.
Actually, the CFZ Posse were – are – a brilliant bunch. In fact, she of the toadstool-type headgear was one of the most interesting people I came across during the whole trip.
More tea, and then down to business. A shed-load of gear had to be taken down to the pub where the meeting was being held, and, like General Paton, Jon instructed whom should take what where and when.
Now although they drink tea in Exeter, they are not pathologically addicted to it like we northerners. When other children are getting their first experience of needles with their MMR jab at the clinic, Geordie kids are already mainlining PG Tips – or, if your parents have the money, Ringtons. Newcastle is the only place in the world where “gear” consists of a tea strainer, sugar bowl and bottle of gold-top.
Now these Exeter dudes, they can get by on just three cups a day, for goodness sake. Geordies drink tea by the gallon, and if you can’t manage six gallons an hour your mother will phone the bloody social workers and try to get you committed. Ah divvent knaa wot’s wrang with ‘im, pet. He’s been like this for days. Ah think ‘ees got that disease…y’knaar.. Hanorakia Nerve-hoser, or summit –that one wot stops yuh eatin’ and drinkin’ proper, like. ‘Ees only had fifteen cups of tea this mornin’ an’ ‘am wurried sick.
Suddenly feeling withdrawal symptoms due to a sudden drop in my caffeine level, I asked Jon if I could fix myself another brew.
“Of course mate, no problem.”
I sauntered through to the kitchen, carefully stepping over a number of dodgy-looking cables which snaked across the floor. From whence they came and whither they led I have no idea, but I made a mental note not to touch them unless I was wearing rubber wellies and had the paramedics on hand.
Standing there, in Jon’s living room, was veteran UFO researcher Nick Redfern. Nick has been a prolific writer on the UFO scene for years, and is well known for his ability to get his hands on classified documents even if they happen to be locked inside the office of the CIA’s top honcho.
Nick is of striking appearance. His head is completely devoid of hair, and he will wear any colour clothing providing its dark black. He swears he gets his hands on secret papers by requesting them through the proper channels, but I don’t buy it. Its all that black stuff he wears. I reckon he swings around on ropes like the guy off the Cadbury’s Milk Tray advert, cat-burgling the 57th floor of the FBI central headquarters and nicking anything marked, “EYES ONLY – TOP SECRET. KEEP AWAY FROM THAT LIMEY BASTARD REDFERN”.
And there was Toby, too, the CFZ dog. Toby eyed me curiously as I entered. Not suspiciously, mind you, just curiously. I’m not sure that he’d ever seen a Geordie before, and I wondered if he was considering taking a lump out of my arse to see how, culturally, we Northerners react to such a bonding ritual. But he didn’t. He just stared at me with sad, knowing eyes and went back to sleep. Toby was a tired old dog, although a happy one. I thought, for a fleeting moment, that I saw Toby grin as he toddled off to Doggie Dreamland. At the time I dismissed this as a figment of my overtaxed imagination, but I was wrong. Toby had already decided to test the mettle of we Brown Ale Drinkers from the frozen north. He saw this as a challenge; survival of the fittest, if you like. This was going to be Geordie Lad versus Exeter Dog. As you will see presently, he blew me out of the water with consummate ease, demonstrating vividly why he was the CFZ mascot. It was because he was a bloody smart dog, that’s why, and with a wicked sense of humour. Like I say, all will be revealed presently.
“Tea, mate?” said Jon, snapping me back to the here and now.
“Er, yes thanks …milk but no sugar.”
Graham came in presently with a steaming mug of tea which had enough sugar in it to fill every pancake made on Shrove Tuesday.
“Right”, said Downes, “Here’s the plan. First we…”
At that point there was a knock on the door, and we were joined by several other members of what is known, colloquially, as the “CFZ Posse”. In they trooped, and I was struck by how ordinary they looked. Well, they would have looked ordinary had they been in Madame Tussauds, but never mind. Anyway, first through the portal steps this female. She was incredibly nice, but wore a large, black floppy hat, the brim of which was so big it almost reached her knees. For a moment I thought Jon had slipped a mickey into my tea and that she was a giant, talking mushroom.
Right behind her stood another hallucination. It was a role of candystripe carpet. (This was very popular back in the 70s, and was made up of all the scraps of wool lying on the factory floor. You could cover your entire house out for less than a tenner.) This roll of candystripe carpet was unusual, however, as it had a golden-haired Cocker Spaniel sitting on the top of it. The Spaniel spoke. “Hoi thurrr.…an’ owwer youuu thaaan…?”
“Er…fine.”
I wondered if it could roll over and die or fetch a stick. Graham, another paid-up CFZ loony – and I mean that in a caring, sharing, sort of way - introduced me to the Spaniel. Indeed, as my eyes adjusted to the surfeit of colour, I could see that the Spaniel was in fact a mop of unkempt hair, and the roll of candystripe carpet was the skeletal figure of a man in a hand-knitted pullover which was a) just like a candystripe carpet in both colour and design, and b) so bloody long he swept clouds of dust up from the floor wherever he walked.
Whilst I was toying briefly with the idea that he still may not be human, but simply a giant packet of fruity Polos with the wrapper off, he spoke again. He possessed that wonderful Exeter drawl which sounds like a hedge trimmer in first gear, and was totally unintelligible to me, a Geordie. I just smiled, nodded and said, “Absolutely, mate”.
Actually, the CFZ Posse were – are – a brilliant bunch. In fact, she of the toadstool-type headgear was one of the most interesting people I came across during the whole trip.
More tea, and then down to business. A shed-load of gear had to be taken down to the pub where the meeting was being held, and, like General Paton, Jon instructed whom should take what where and when.
Now although they drink tea in Exeter, they are not pathologically addicted to it like we northerners. When other children are getting their first experience of needles with their MMR jab at the clinic, Geordie kids are already mainlining PG Tips – or, if your parents have the money, Ringtons. Newcastle is the only place in the world where “gear” consists of a tea strainer, sugar bowl and bottle of gold-top.
Now these Exeter dudes, they can get by on just three cups a day, for goodness sake. Geordies drink tea by the gallon, and if you can’t manage six gallons an hour your mother will phone the bloody social workers and try to get you committed. Ah divvent knaa wot’s wrang with ‘im, pet. He’s been like this for days. Ah think ‘ees got that disease…y’knaar.. Hanorakia Nerve-hoser, or summit –that one wot stops yuh eatin’ and drinkin’ proper, like. ‘Ees only had fifteen cups of tea this mornin’ an’ ‘am wurried sick.
Suddenly feeling withdrawal symptoms due to a sudden drop in my caffeine level, I asked Jon if I could fix myself another brew.
“Of course mate, no problem.”
I sauntered through to the kitchen, carefully stepping over a number of dodgy-looking cables which snaked across the floor. From whence they came and whither they led I have no idea, but I made a mental note not to touch them unless I was wearing rubber wellies and had the paramedics on hand.
Richie – a thoughtful guy – shouted through and mentioned something about the fridge. A split second later a jolt of electricity coursed up my arm as my hand connected with the handle. It was live.
“You okay, mate?” enquired Jon – or it may have been Richie, I couldn’t tell, due to this weird ringing noise in my ears.
“Fine…fine…Ithe jutht bithen right through my tongue, thath all. Apart from thath everythingth jutht hunky dory…doth your fridth alwayth do that when you tuth the door…?”
An hour later, we started packing stuff into boxes for transportation to the meeting. There was an assortment of books, magazines, periodicals and films, for starters. These included the latest CFZ video, The Owlman And Others, which was, as far as I understand, Jon’s debut in the world of cinematography. I travelled with Jon and several others through the winding streets of Exwick until we reached our destination – a delightful olde-worlde inn called the Cowick Barton...
“You okay, mate?” enquired Jon – or it may have been Richie, I couldn’t tell, due to this weird ringing noise in my ears.
“Fine…fine…Ithe jutht bithen right through my tongue, thath all. Apart from thath everythingth jutht hunky dory…doth your fridth alwayth do that when you tuth the door…?”
An hour later, we started packing stuff into boxes for transportation to the meeting. There was an assortment of books, magazines, periodicals and films, for starters. These included the latest CFZ video, The Owlman And Others, which was, as far as I understand, Jon’s debut in the world of cinematography. I travelled with Jon and several others through the winding streets of Exwick until we reached our destination – a delightful olde-worlde inn called the Cowick Barton...
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