glen vaudrey

About eleven years ago a blackbird landed in our back garden. For reasons now lost to Mrs H. she whistled to her feathered visitor. Nothing complex - just a series of random notes repeated several times. The blackbird looked at her and then flew off.

The following day Jackie was hanging out the washing when the same blackbird appeared on the roof of our garden shed. Once again, she whistled the same series of notes that she'd whistled the previous day. To her astonishment the bird promptly whistled the same notes back.

Everyone knows that parakeets and mynah birds can mimic the human voice but at one time few people imagined that this was a talent shared by blackbirds. But it is.

During that summer Mrs. H became good friends with the bird, whom she named Blackie. It visited our garden every day and became bolder and bolder in terms of how close it would approach. Jackie then began to feed it and within two weeks it was quite literally eating out of her hand.

Eventually the bird stopped visiting our garden and we assumed she'd flown off to pastures new. To our delight, however, Blackie returned the following summer. Once again Jackie had been hanging out the washing when she heard the peculiar whistle she'd taught the bird the year before. Startled, she turned round to see our old friend standing on the path.

Over and over Blackie whistled the same tune, in response to which Jackie whistled back. Once again she began to visit our garden daily. On one occasion Jackie was indoors when she heard her feathered friend calling for her. She went outside and smiled at the sight which greeted her. There, standing on the shed roof, were Blackie and four downy young blackbirds. We're convinced that she had brought her young to show us.

One by one the young birds joined Blackie on the path and they all waddled to within a yard or so of Jackie's feet.

Blackie continued to visit us until last year. With each passing summer the whistles become louder and more persistent. She would jump up and down on the garden fence or the shed roof until Jackie popped outdoors to see her.

When Jackie first told me of the almost psychic relationship she had developed with Blackie I was a bit sceptical. I didn't think she was making it up but I did think that she wanted so much to believe that the bird was repeating her whistle that her imagination was getting the better of her.

But then I heard it for myself and actually managed to tape-record a conversation between Mrs. H. and Blackie. I no longer doubted that an extraordinary relationship had developed between them.

Perhaps the most fascinating interaction between Blackie, Jackie and I occurred in the summer of 2000. We were sitting watching the TV early one evening when we heard a frantic scratching at the front door, accompanied by an intense flapping noise. We both went to investigate, and as we opened the door we heard Blackie's familiar whistle. The bird was extremely distressed. It flew towards a nearby bungalow in which lived some neighbours, both of whom had severe disabilities. It continued to fly back and forth between our front door and the other residence, and it was obvious to us that Blackie was trying to tell us something.

We both hurried over to the bungalow and knocked on the door. Our elderly neighbour opened it and whilst Blackie was whistling frantically behind us, said, "Oh, thank goodness! I was just about to ring you and ask for your help! Quickly…come in!"

Jackie and I walked down the hall and into the lounge. There, fluttering around wildly, was a young blackbird. It had flown through the open patio doors and couldn't find its way out. I took off my pullover, threw it over the bird and brought it to the ground. I gently uncovered it and held it in my hands until it calmed down. I then went into the back garden where – no surprises here – Blackie was waiting. I let the young bird go and it flew straight to its mother.

The only explanation we can think of is that Blackie scratched, flapped and whistled at our door because it wanted our help.

Last year Blackie returned once again. As usual, Jackie and her feathered friend talked to each other but what thoughts were running through her avian brain must remain a matter of speculation. All Jackie knew was that she'd found a true and honoured friend.

Sadly, things came to grief. One day last summer Jackie went out into the garden and found Blackie dead, lying in the ornamental bird bath where she often used to bathe and drink. We gave her a decent burial. I'm no expert, but I reckon eleven years or more must be a pretty good innings for a blackbird.

And that, we thought, was that. But there is a peculiar postscript to this story, which I find entirely baffling. Two weeks ago, Mrs. H and I were both in the garden when we heard what sounded like the unique whistle she'd taught Blackie all those years ago. It wasn't the same but it was eerily similar. Suddenly a young blackbird flew down and landed on the path near Jackie. Three times it repeated the whistle. The only conclusion we could come to was that the bird was one of Blackie's offspring and that it had somehow inherited the whistle from its mother. The bird is now a frequent visitor to our garden. It's like having Blackie back again. Like the original Blackie, this one has taken to whistling and will not desist until Mrs. H or I go out and show ourselves. Satisfied, Blackie II will then fly off.

This morning things took an even stranger turn. I went out into the garden and as usual, heard the familiar whistle. I looked up and saw what at first I thought was Blackie II sitting on a nearby rooftop. What surprised me was its size. It seemed to have grown considerably since the last time I saw it. The bird took off and headed straight for our garden. It landed on the roof of our shed and I stared at it. It wasn't Blackie II at all. In fact, it wasn't even a blackbird. It was a jackdaw. It looked at me, whistled Mrs. H's tune and then flew off.

To be honest, much as I'm fascinated by the whole thing I really haven't a clue what the hell is going on. Can blackbirds teach songs to their young? Can jackdaws imitate blackbirds? And why on earth would the jackdaw I saw this morning want to imitate the call Mrs. H taught to Blackie?

I'm sure there must be a rational explanation for all this but not being an ornithologist I can't think of what it might be. I'm really hoping that some readers out there will respond to this blog and give me their two-pennorth's worth….

MIKE HALLOWELL: Smelt Like Tyne Spirit

Brilliant! Great, eh? Spiffing! Amazing! Smelt are back in the River Tyne! I couldn't believe it! Good old smelt!

Mind you, I didn't know exactly what a smelt was, but its great to have them back anyway. Smelt and chips! Fried smelt and onions!

Seemingly, at one time the River Tyne was filled with smelt, had smelt coming out of its ear holes. Then they took the hump at the pollution and went somewhere else. Probably the Wear. But now they're back, and we Geordies have something to sing about.

Apparently, officers from the Environment Agency – God bless 'em, I say – had a quick plodge in the river to see if there were any other Swimming Things in the water other than salmon, dolphins and the odd leviathan or two. And indeedy-doody there was – bucketfuls of smelt.

Now the smelt is a funny old fish. It's not economy-sized – only reaching 25cm on a good day, apparently – and has a nice silvery set of scales. However, the interesting thing is that vegetarians and vegans can eat smelt without getting a guilty conscience. Why? I hear you ask, pray tell me!

Well, it's like this. The smelt looks like an ordinary fish, but is most peculiar in as much as it smells distinctly like cucumber (seriously). This means that if vegetarians and vegans shut their eyes they can pretend that they're actually eating cucumber and delude themselves into thinking that its okay. Now I'm the first to admit that there are one or two minor flaws with this theory, the main one being that the smelt is not really a cucumber, but a fish. To get around this difficulty I am going to propose that we reclassify the smelt taxonomically as a vegetable. Let's face it, it wouldn't be the first time.

Take the Chinese, for instance. (On second thoughts, don't take them; there are bloody millions of them and in any case where would we put them?). The Chinese eat this thing called a sea cucumber, which is an echinoderm of the Holothuroidea class. It's actually a slug-type thingie, but if zillions of Chinese people call it a cucumber then they can't all be wrong, can they? The Chinese also eat this delicious stuff called crispy seaweed. Except that it's not seaweed. Its cabbage. Or sometimes lettuce.

My point is that if we can call all these other things something they're not then why can't we do it with the smelt? My mate smelt a smelt (sorry) once, and he reckons that it really does smell like cucumber. However, to differentiate between smelt and, say, a sea cucumber we need to call it something else. I was thinking of something like a Sea Onion, a Sea Croissant or a Sea Cheesecake. It's not very conventional, admittedly, but it is creative.

Anyway, whatever the reason for their departure the smelt are now back in the Tyne, cucumber fragrance and all. I'd be interested to hear of any other animals that are called things that they're not, like the sea lion, which doesn't look like a lion at all to me, although it does look unnervingly like my paternal great-grandfather. I think this is probably just a coincidence, though, as you'll see by the photograph that accompanies this blog.

MIKE HALLOWELL'S GEORDIE MONSTERS: Stop yer bloody wailing

In the early 19th century, a sperm whale was beached at Cresswell, Northumberland. What follows is an imaginative reconstruction of how locals reacted, and how King George IV capitalised on the situation.
Its true. Every word of it. Well, some.

1822 was a funny old year in Geordieland. Mind you, truth to tell, every year in Geordieland is funny as you can't get a Geordie passport unless you're an incurable eccentric. Being a nation of eccentrics, then, it’s a pretty safe bet that any year between 1,083BC (when our sovereignty was formed) and the present is going to be a bloody peculiar one.


Anyway, I digress. Back to 1822. On the morning of Thursday August 8, a Large Thing shuggied it's way up onto the coast at Cresswell in Northumberland.


"Look!" said a local Calamian deer* farmer. "There's a Large Thing!"
And so it was.
Anyhoo, the farmer's wife went and got a tape measure from B&Q, came back and measured it.
"Bloody hell!" she exclaimed, "Its sixty-eight feet from the tip of the tail bit to the end of the head bit!"
And so it was.
Now after much deliberation and argument, it was decided that the Large Thing was actually a "spermaceti whale".
"That's funny", said the farmer's wife's husband, "Them Large Things are only supposed to live in the South Seas, which are so called because they are seas and in the south. What, pray, is it doing here in Cresswell?"
"Maybe we moved during the night", said the farmer's wife.
"No", replied her spouse. "I can still see the top of the tall, pointy stone thing over there".
"You mean the church steeple?"
"Whatever. Stop being a smart arse. Anyway, we haven't moved. The Large Thing, which I will henceforth call a spermaceti whale, dearest, must have got lost".
"That's a shame. How's it going to get home, then?"
Their discourse was interrupted by another farmer who tilled the land adjacent to that owned by the first one. His farm, for the record, was called The Next One Along.
And so it was.
"Here, what are we going to do about this Large Thing, then?"
"You mean the spermaceti whale over there?"
"Whatever. Stop being a smart arse. Can you see the head bit? Its on my land, that bit is".
"But the bit at the other end, the tail bit, is on my land".
"Exackerly. So who does it belong to, then?"
"Me".
"But I've got the head bit, which is where the important things are, so it must be mine".
"No; the tail bit is where the bum is, and a spermaceti whale can't live long without a bum. Its mine".
Anyway, they couldn't agree, and both proceeded to poke a hole in the Large Thing and drain the oil out of it. One hole was at one end, and the other hole was at the other end away from the first one. According to official records, both farmers drew out a grand total of 9 tons and 158 gallons of oil from the Large Thing. The only thing was, being greedy bastards, they couldn't agree who it belonged to and they weren't prepared to half it.
Now it turned out that the King, known as George IV, on account of his being the fourth one called George, got to hear about it.
"What's this about a Large Thing at Cresswell up in Northumberland?" he asked his valet.
"It’s a spermaceti whale, Your Majesty".
"Whatever. Stop being a smart arse. Anyway, what's the crack about it?"
"Its up on the beach, not far from the tall pointy stone thing. Half of it is on the farm called The First One, and the other half is on the farm called The Next One Along, on account of it being the next one along".
"What, its in two halves?"
"No, it's in one half, but they're arguing about who owns it."
"Well that's easy sorted. It belongs to me, because I'm the King".
"And what about the oil, Your Highness?"
"What oil?"
"They got loads of oil out of it. It's all in buckets. And tankards. And chamber pots".
"How are we off for oil here, then? You know, for the lamps and that."
"Well it never comes in wrong, Your Worshipful Angelicness".
"Right then. Get the lads up to Cresswell with one of those Royal Decree thingies and a load of buckets and tell them I want the oil. And I want all of it. If they try and scam so much as a thimbleful I'll double their taxes. In any event, if they get really bolshy I might just revive that old prima nocte thing, where the King can bonk a woman on the first night of her marriage before her hubby. Edward did that, you know, up in Scotland ages ago".
"And how did that go down, Sire?"
"Like an effing lead balloon, mate. Plus, he got the pox."
And so it came to pass that the oil sucked out of the Large Thing at Cresswell was given to King George, who had a Very Small Thing in his codpiece.
But that's another story.
The moral of the tale is that if you end up arguing with the bloke next door about spermaceti whales, don't.

________________________

* There were no Calamian deer in England in 1822. I just invented this to sex it up a bit.

MIKE HALLOWELL: Geordie Monsters IV

There's an old maxim in Geordieland, that says it's always darkest just before it goes completely black; or, if you like, as one door shuts, another one slams in your face. As you'll have gathered, we Tynesiders are an optimistic lot, and we have to be when it comes to cryptozoology. Our kingdom is veritably teeming with cryptids and zooforms, but hardly any of them ever get identified. Its not for the want of trying; its just that we have other things on our mind, such as paying the rent and getting the kids back from the pawn shop.

One of the advantages the Geordie nation possesses when it comes to cryptozoology is our environment. We have mountains (although they're not very big ones), hills, moors, forests, lakes, rivers, a sea and a profusion of urban-cum-industrial sprawls. All of these provide a perfectly natural environment for just about any kind of cryptid you care to mention, and then some.

It never fails to amaze me what a spectacular collection of unidentified fauna we've accrued over the centuries - and how terrible we are at singing their praises.

We have hairy hominids (the Beast of Bolam Lake), dragons (The Laidley Worm of Spindleston Heugh), sea monsters (the Shony), alien big cats (the Cleadon Panther), black dogs (the Boldon Black Dog), cylathines (probably, such as the Boojum of Jesmond Vale), wolves (the Hexham Wolf) and dozens of others too many to mention.

To be honest, despite our incredible cryptozoological menagerie, I still end up feeling frustrated. To date, I haven't found any evidence of swamp monsters, for example Mind you, this could just be due to the fact that we haven't any swamps, although we do have some swamp-like bogs in Northumberland where, I have recently been told, a creature of unknown provenance dwells.

I don't want to say too much about it at the moment, as I'd like to get another book out of the story if it proves to have some substance to it, but the tale goes something like this:

Last summer, a rambler was out walking in Northumberland when he saw something run across his field of vision and dive into a bog. He described the creature as five ft. in height, brown/green in colour and scaled. The beast was essentially anthropomorphic, but also possessed a tail, had no discernible ears and sported a reddish, serrated crest upon its head and spine. Its face was, he said, "snout-like" and resembled that of a German Shepherd in shape.

The chap who related the story to me was himself the eye-witness, but was very cautious about getting his name splashed all over the press. He didn't mind me telling the world about his encounter with "the thing", providing that his name was not released as he felt that it wouldn't do his career prospects much good. Trust me, if you knew what he did for a living, you'd understand why. I have given him my solemn word not to divulge his personal details to anyone until he feels its appropriate to do so.

The witness who saw the creature strikes me as perfectly reliable and I got no indication that he was fibbing. What threw me completely was being contacted by a second witness less than two weeks later who claimed to have seen the very same beast - or at least, something very close to it. This time, the witness managed to keep the creature in view for around two minutes.

Normally I'm a trusting soul, but I couldn't help but be suspicious. It wasn't so much that two people claimed to have seen the same creature that bothered me, but the location of the second sighting. It was literally miles away from the first location, and by no stretch of the imagination could I conceive that the same animal could have moved from one to the other without being spotted many times. It had to be a different beast of the same species, or I was being set up to look like an idiot. Another problem was the nature of the second location; it just seemed the most unlikely place for some sort of lizardy dude to be living. Still, in the weird and wonderful world of cryptozoology, you never can tell. After all, the woods at Bolam Lake aren't much bigger than my front lawn, but there was a hairy hominid dodging about in their for bloody months.

Over the coming weeks I'll try to put together some more detail and, if possible, release more of the story via this blog. Are the accounts true? At this stage I honestly don't know, but I've seen nothing which makes me intrinsically suspicious - yet. Naturally, if anyone in or around Tyneside or Northumberland has seen this creature - or knows someone else who has - I'd like to hear about it.

Like I say, watch this space...

GUEST BLOGGER MIKE HALLOWELL: Geordie Monsters 3 - this time its personal

At the last Weird Weekend, my friend Steve Jones kindly offered to send me two dusty tomes penned in the mid-19th century by a chap called T. Fordyce. Fordyce was a Geordie, thus making any other positive references regarding his character entirely redundant.

The books are essentially diaries of events which took place in the Northumberland and Tyneside areas and surrounding places during that time, and they make for interesting reading. Should you ever happen upon one or more of these volumes, entitled - wait for it - LOCAL RECORDS; or, HISTORICAL REGISTER of Remarkable Events, which have occurred in NORTHUMBERLAND AND DURHAM, NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE, and BERWICK UPON TWEED, with BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES of DECEASED PERSONS OF TALENT, ECCENTRICITY and LONGEVITY, then I would suggest that you purchase them. Indeed, no Fortean should be without them.

Fordyce was a strange cove; never once in his writings did he mention some of Geordieland's finest achievements, such as landing the first whippet trainer on the moon (1846), our invention of the radioactive truncheon (1859) or the fact that we were the first nation to cure the vapours with intravenous transfusions of liquified stottie cake (if you don't know what a stottie cake is, look it up).

Seriously, though, Fordyce was an amazing bloke who, had he lived in our own era, would undoubtedly be giving the keynote address at every Weird Weekend from now till eternity. He delighted in accruing, as did Mr. Fort, weird tales and stories of enigmatic events. Until Geordie Dave and I came along, there had been nobody like him.

One of Fordyce's fascinations was the curious appearance of frogs, toads and other critters in blocks of stone. He detailed many instances of labourers cracking open boulders, only to find inside healthy, living specimens that had, seemingly, been there for untold millennia. Personally I think they hid there to avoid paying the Pleistocene equivalent of the Council Tax, but I'm only guessing. Geordie cryptids are devious buggers.

But Fordyce didn't restrict himself to the appearance of ordinary animals in extraordinary places. He also detailed the use of ordinary animals in extraordinary ways. He mentions this bloke, for instance, who - seriously - tethered a gaggle of geese to a barrel. He then got into the barrel and persuaded the geese to drag him up the River Tyne. It seems he was trying to replace steam power with goose power, but it never did catch on. He was outdone by a Mr. Kent, who, on May 16, 1822, according to the author, "exhibited his marine velocipede upon the River Tyne. Being Ascension Day, and the weather very fine, he fired his musket, and performed a variety of evolutions with much ease and dexterity, to the great delight of a large concourse of spectators. June 3rd, Mr. Kent exhibited his apparatus at Sunderland to at least 20,000 spectators"

I might have known those Mackems would have stuck their oar (or marine velocipede) in there somewhere.

Fordyce also mentioned the regular appearance of oarfish which appeared (mostly deceased) on our beaches. There were bloody dozens of the things, and, funnily enough, there was a picture of one in The Shields Gazette last night. Fordyce would have loved it.

Fordyce also collected tales of longevity. Hardly a page can be turned without hearing of people who were aged 102, 104, 116, etc, and were still vigorous enough to get down to the pub every night. Wisely, Fordyce refrained from announcing the secret of Geordie longevity to the world. Had he wished, he could have told those in foreign parts, such as Yorkshire, that Geordie longevity owes its legendary status to the holy trinity of baccy, brown ale and bacon sandwiches.

Another Fortean penchant of Fordyce was searching for prehistoric trees; not fossilised ones, mind you, but those still living. Now I hasten to add that the rather boring pass-time of finding supposedly extinct plants still with us didn't interest the great man in the slightest. Rather, he preferred to find trees that had begun to grow millions of years ago and were still budding forth in the 19th century. Alas, even this was too tame for Geordie Forteans (or more properly, Geordie Fordyceans). It wasn't enough, say, to find a 50,000,000 year-old tree still growing in a field in Bensham. Fordyce wanted to find living trees in more exotic places.

Hence, in July 1822, he announced the discovery of a living oak tree thirteen feet underground. This sturdy specimen was uncovered when labourers were digging new foundations for Morpeth gaol. What happened to it I do not know, and it may still be flourishing there with only a few simple needs like rain and Baby Bio. Fordyce related other discoveries of subterranean plants, much to the amusement of his followers.

I could go on ad infinitum relating the cryptozoological and other discoveries of Mr. Fordyce, but time prevents me. Mind you, if readers want I can scatter them around future blogs for their edification.

Those who wish to know more about the bizarre flora and fauna of Geordieland, or our Fordycean legacy, may apply to embark upon a degree course at one of our nation's universities, such as the Royal and Accredited University (formerly the old Co-op "8 til' late" store), in Dock Street. Course fees begin at the moderate amount of £17,000 (per term) but include a free finger buffet on a Friday afternoon.

GUEST BLOGGER DAVID CURTIS: It's not so grim up north now the CFZ is in town!

David Curtis is one of my dearest friends. I have known him for a long time and over the years we have created quite a lot of mayhem up and down the country, and it is with great pleasure that I am publishing his first (but not, I am sure, his last, guest bloggo)

Things were, indeed, looking grim up North on a Saturday night in early February 2009.

The choice was stark in Seaham On Sea, it was either, go to the local bar to see Maurice The Gimp perform Gregorian Chants set to music by Motorhead, or stop in and watch Celebrity Curtain's; a four hour in-depth documentary on the agony Katie Price and Peter Andre went through while choosing living room haberdashery.

Luckily for me, things were a lot chirpier slightly further north! Richard Freeman was doing a talk at the Alum Ale House (South Shields) on his recent trip to Russia in search of a Big Foot type creature called the Almasty. Hurrah! I duly headed north for my entertainment. I had arranged to meet Richard at 7.30pm and as I waited outside the pub in the gloom, with the mist from the river Tyne rolling in, a car door opened 50 feet away and two figures came towards me.

One spoke to me and I recognised this as Richard's voice but what was this broad squat figure approaching me speaking in some strange language? Had Richard captured the Almasty and brought him back to the North of England to perform around Working Mens Clubs? No! It was, of course, that wonderful Geordie researcher of all-things-Fortean, Mike Hallowell!

Relieved, I shook their hands and went inside and down the stairs to the cellar bar. What a wonderful little place it was, perfect for a group chin wag about the weird and wonderful! The new owner seems to think so too because he is going to make a feature of it, so good luck to him!

I grabbed a pint, did my bit for the cause by selling some raffle tickets for Mike and took my place to hear the talks.

First up was Mike with a short talk about a giant rock (hard) lobster and a sea serpent (this is featured elsewhere on the CFZ site so I wont repeat it here but obviously Mike knows his stuff and has dug deep to bring this all to light, so well done Mike).

After his talk Mike did the raffle (the prize being a book he had just written on Haunted Pubs) while singing the praises of an elderly gentleman in the crowd. Mike informed the crowd that without this man's knowledge his book would not have been written.

He then asked this great sage to pull out a ticket, whereupon he proceeded to pick his own ticket ! “Well, you said he was good!” someone quipped. “How Fortean is that?” said another. Still on with the show!

Next up, Richard and his talk about his Russian trip and not a Ivana Humpalot joke in sight! The talk was very well received, the ale did flow and it was a very good night. I met up with some old friends and I hope it will not be too long before the CFZ returns Up North again to tell us tales of high adventures around the globe!

Because while others sit at computer screens, the CFZ are there, in the thick of it, hanging on to a cliff..... for dear life sometimes. But that is another story...

Davy.C
Feb 2009

GUEST BLOGGER MIKE HALLOWELL: A closer look at Geordie Monsters

Geordie cryptids are normally identifiable by a number of peculiar "trademarks"; they tend to wear string vests, drink copious amounts of brown ale ( colloquially known as lunatics' broth) and have a fondness for dining on the fish Gadus morhua, or Atlantic Cod. Being omnivorous, they will often supplement their diet with the root vegetable Solanum tuberosum. Together, Gadus morhua and Solanum tuberosum are commonly called "fish and chips".

Anyway, enough of the science lesson and on with the blog.

On Saturday evening, Mr. Richard Freeman and I proceeded to a somewhat ostentatious drinking establishment called The Alum Ale House. "The Alum" sits on the south bank of the River Tyne in South Shields, and provides refreshment to weary travellers. However, in keeping with Geordie by-laws patrons who frequent the place must be at least two weeks old and are not allowed to purchase alcoholic beverages until they have reached three months. For pedants, an "alcoholic beverage" in Geordieland must be at least 86% proof. Any weaker products are classed as "soft drinks", as only new-borns and "soft" people imbibe them.

The purpose of our visit was to educate the local populace regarding two cryptozoological enigmas. I opened the proceedings by informing the packed Dungeon Bar about one of our more colourful crustaceans; a huge critter commonly known as The Giant Lobster of Trow Rocks. Having suitably traumatised those foolhardy enough to attend, Mr. Freeman then followed with a rendition of his adventures in a country called "Russia", which allegedly lies many furlongs away in another land supposedly called "Europe". The existence of both these locations has yet to be verified by our scientists.

The Giant Lobster of Trow Rocks is something of a puzzle, as it is almost certainly not a lobster and it doesn't reside on Trow Rocks. Mind you, it lives pretty close to them.

Aquatic cryptids are supposed to live in picturesque underwater caves decorated with sea shells. The Giant Lobster of Trow Rocks, being a Geordie, prefers to tart up his home with old copies of Viz magazine and Woodbine packets, but we need not quibble over details.

In the early part of the 20th century, there stood in Jarrow, also on the banks of the Tyne, a dock. Docks were places where we used to build ships, dismantle ships and fish for our supper, but with the decline of the shipping industry they steadily became redundant. At the neck of the dock stood a huge steel thing known as a gate. The gate was used to keep some of the water out and to prevent the locals from escaping. At some juncture it became surplus to requirements, and a rich bloke bought it and decided to have it sent off to Norway where it could be broken down and sold for scrap. The plan went swimmingly - please excuse the pun - at first. The dock was strapped to another big thing called a boat, and it duly made its way down river. After entering the North Sea the boat turned right and got as far as Marsden Bay. Here, alas, tempestuous waves and gusty winds precipitated a disaster. The boat shuggied about a bit in the sea, and the gate fell off.

Now the gate was so big that even after it hit the bottom the top bit was still sticking out of the water, where it remained for many decades - a stark testament to both the skill of our nautical engineers and the ferocity of our ocean.

Twenty years later, a bloke from Sunderland, which lies within the adjacent Kingdom of Mackemland, purchased the gate with the intention of salvaging it. He strapped it to a boat, sailed a bit further up the shore and then watched as it fell off again. Bugger, he opined. A third attempt also ended in like manner, and the remains of the gate have lodged at the bottom of the briny ever since. You can still see it at low tide.

In 1963, people started to see a strange thing on the beach. It was 12 feet in length, dark green in colour and had big claws, upon which it sported sharp lumps. Recently, after much investigation, our marine biologists positively identified these lumps as - sorry to get technical - "pointy bits" and suggested that they are probably best avoided by bathers who find themselves in close proximity to the creature. Since its arrival, the creature has been known as The Giant Lobster of Trow Rocks, but this is a misnomer. Indeed, its description fits closely that of Jaekelopterus rhenaniae, the long-extinct (supposedly) Giant Sea Scorpion.

What, pray, I hear you ask, has this creature got to do with the dock gate? For reasons I have not been able to fathom, a legend arose that the monster - whatever its taxonomical provenance - lived beneath the remains of the gate just off the coast, and would only venture forth from its steel home to catch its prey or put a bet on at the local bookies.

This, in essence, is the story of the Giant Lobster of Trow Rocks. Those who wish to learn more can do so by purchasing a copy of my book Mystery Animals of the British Isles: Northumberland & Tyneside (CFZ Press, 2008), by means of which they may also edify themselves regarding more serious cryptids such as The Giant Rabbit of Felton and the Ghost Birds of Jesmond Dene. (The latter, I hasten to point out, should not be confused with two other species known as the Drunken Birds of Benwell and the Dolly Birds of Walker).

After, Mr. Freeman regaled our audience with tales of his Russian trip. One highlight was his fascinating description of a gorilla's penis, which was accompanied by vigorous wiggling of his little finger. Mr. Freeman assured us that both his pinkie and a gorilla's penis are nigh-identical. Whether the refusal of our audience to shake hands with him later was connected to this I cannot say, but his lecture went down a storm and the crowd yelled for more. Indeed, they got more the following evening when we were invited back by popular demand. The audience, alas, was not quite as large as the previous evening, but we at least had the opportunity to sample a delightful real ale called The Cross Buttock. I will refrain from going into too much detail, but I would like to point out that this beverage very much "does what it says on the tin", and proved to be a most efficacious treatment for solemnity as well as other burdens of body and mind.

Yours in the spirit of Biffa Bacon....Mike.

GUEST BLOGGER RICHARD FREEMAN: DID YOU SPILL MY PINT?

Guest Blogger time for Richard Freeman again. He has, as regular readers will be aware, been away from the CFZ for a week or so now. This is where he explains why...

The last time I lectured at the Alum Ale House, South Shields, Tyne and Wear (in the North of England, for those of our readers unfamiliar with British geography) the cellar bar was a dingy, damp, bare. Now redecorated the new landlord Tony Shawcross is hoping to turn it into a 'Fortean Bar'. This is such a great idea that I don't know why it hasn't been thought of before!

Sure there are 'Wine Bar Forteans' in London who gather to dismiss all phenomena as subjective, and as states of mind, but there was nowhere for real hands-on researchers to gather, listen to talks, and swap information. Until now. Together with my old mate Mike Hallowell, I lectured on the opening night of the cellar bar. It was packed to full capacity, and all the tickets had been sold. Mike gave a short talk about the monster lobster of Trow Rocks. This little known cryptid is supposedly a ten foot long arthropod that has been seen close to Marsden Bay (also home to the Shoney, the infamous sea-dragon of the North East coast).

Seen both on land and in the water, this weird beast is unlike anything else reported from the UK or even the world for that matter!Mike has postulated that it might be a Eurypterid, a giant arthropod believed extinct some 280 million years. Alternatively, he says, witnesses could be viewing the beast through some form of `time-slip`.

After this i gave my lecture on the CFZ's 2008 expedion to Russia in search of relict hominids. Both talks were very well recieved, and there was a Q+A session afterwards. Rounded off with a buffet, and an evening of drinking, it was an excellent night. Mike is aranging monthly talks in the Cellar Bar, and I wish them every sucess.

Fittingly the bar is suposedly haunted. The joiner who worked on the cellar's refurbishment saw somthing in a mirror he was erecting. It was supposedly so horrific, he refused to talk about it.

Perhaps it was his own reflection.

GUEST BLOGGER MIKE HALLOWELL: Geordie Monsters

David Frost was well known for his catchphrase, “Hello, good evening and welcome”. As I'm more important than David Frost I have adopted my own opening gambit, which is Wotcha; a Geordie greeting which essentially means, “Hello, good evening and it’s your round coz I bought the last one”.

Now that we have dispensed with the pleasantries, let's get this blog under way.

I was born within the provinces of the Sovereign Kingdom of Geordieland in 1957. 1957 was a good year – like I say, I was born then – but life in the north was tough. Electricity was still a pipe dream, mothers had to feed their kids a substance called “milk” instead of proper brown ale and the dreaded sparrow flu had devastated stocks of our only source of good avian flesh. In desperation we turned to more exotic fayre such as rabbits and chickens. It was in such a climate that I turned to Forteana as a means of enriching my life, but my Geordie roots were buried deep in our black, northern soil and would not let me go. Eventually I reached a compromise, and promised our local deities that I would carry out my research into the unknown, but use it as a means of promoting our indigenous culture. Now I am a successful writer on Forteana, but my books, columns and other scribblings have a distinct Geordie theme. Well, at least most of them do, for I am not a purist. I will occasionally go beyond the borders of our land to other climes in search of a good story. I once went to a land called “Scun Thorp” (or something like that) to hunt down a Green Man, and many moons ago, when I was younger and fitter, I took part in an expedition to Lun Dun (Eng: London) in search of a Hairy Hominid that had been seen in a park.

During my travels abroad I have been much impressed by the natives of these foreign parts. The tribespeople of Manchesta (Eng: Manchester), for example, are quite friendly and, although not sophisticated by our own standards, possess a rude friendliness that endears one to them. We did not feel in the least threatened, and were indeed surprised to find that they too are not averse to the idea that there are things in, beyond and beside our world that we simply do not understand.

There was a time when Forteana was an unknown concept in our land. Many people believed in ghosts, UFOs and indeed cryptids, but their notions were simply a cacophony of ideas and legends rarely talked about and even less understood. As a teenager I felt it was my mission to change all that.

Until recently, Geordieland was uncharted territory when it came to cryptozoology. This was a shame – nay, an outrage – for our kingdom was teeming with bizarre creatures begging to be hunted, caught, examined and, of course, slaughtered in our customary fashion. Boggle pie and Sea Monster stew are just two of our local delicacies, as Messrs. Downes and Freeman will readily testify.

Perhaps the most legendary of our cryptids is the dreaded Beast of Bolam Lake, which, in the dawning days of this century, terrified the local populace whilst they were visiting one of our picturesque nature reserves. The CFZ sent an expedition to track the creature down, and I had the honour of arranging visas for the team and the pleasure of translating for them into our distinctive Geordie brogue.

The Beast of Bolam Lake was a hairy hominid not unlike the North American Bigfoot. It was approximately eight feet in height and covered with an unseemly pelt of dark, shaggy hair. It was never captured, but several members of the CFZ team saw it and there is no doubt in my mind that it really existed. My own position on the creature is that it was (or is) a zooform beast that can both enter and leave our world at will. Why it chose Bolam Lake to make its appearances I do not know, and conjecture is probably pointless.

The Beast of Bolam Lake is a cryptid of more recent advent, however, and there are others of much darker provenance that have a far older pedigree.

In future blogs I will be introducing you to some of these entities – not personally, you understand, but metaphorically, as they have a habit of killing humans that get too close to them.

Those who live outside the borders of our realm may not have heard of creatures such as the Shotton Dobby, the Staindrop Cloggy, the Hylton Brag and the Boldon Bogey Man, but they truly exist. In a forthcoming book I will be detailing these, and I can now announce that my friend and colleague Richard Freeman has written a superb forward for it. This is not a plug for my book, and I would not like readers to think that I am using this blog to encourage its purchase. However, as it says in the Geordie Bible, “Buyeth it now, for verily, we knoweth where you live.” (The Book of Trivialisations, 22;14).

The problem Geordies have with cryptids (or rather, the problem that cryptids have with we Geordies) is our passion for smiting. In our scriptures we are encouraged to smite. “Smite, smite, smite and smiteth again”, our prophet Toonarmius instructed. In the Great Soccer War of 1148, when we fought a bitter and protracted battle with the Mackem tribe to the south over ownership of the territory just south of the River Tyne, our great general Geordius Maximus is alleged to have slaughtered three alien big cats, fifteen dragons and no less than seventeen hominids of uncertain provenance simply to prove our manhood.

Well, that's enough for now. Should anyone out there know of other north-eastern cryptids that I might be unaware of, please let me know. I'll be glad to give them the oxygen of publicity that they so richly deserve.