Matthew’s Blog: The Worst ‘Coming Out’ Story Ever
Posted on August 18, 2012
It is common for those within the so-called “gay community” to swap “coming out” tales. In these stories (wildly exaggerated, one often suspects) doors are slammed, mothers weep, fathers bellow “you’re no son of mine!” and local priests are called in to conduct exorcisms. And those are the more positive ones! Often the teller of the tale recounts sadly how they spent the next few weeks sleeping on a park bench, or on the run from murderous family members armed with pitchforks.
Well, steady yourself dear reader for perhaps the most horrifying “coming out” story you’ll ever hear!!!
After that “game-changing” first meeting with Dan in Soho at age 17, I returned home that night intent on destroying every last vestige of my former ‘life’ (for want of a better word). Yes, out would go my precious scrapbook!
For those of us of a certain age, in the days before every home had the internet (ooh, that ages me, doesn’t it?) pornography was rather hard to come by, particularly of the homo variety, certainly out in the suburbs. So one sought out pictures of naked (or more usually semi-naked) men wherever one could find them. If one always had ones eyes peeled, as I did, then it was amazing how much could turn up.
A dripping wet Olympic swimmer in his speedos from the sports pages of my parents newspaper, ads for men’s underwear pulled from the glossy weekend supplements. I went through a phase of buying Men’s Health and Fitness magazines, until it was quite clear that the checkout cashiers in WH Smith were not fooled in the slightest (a weedier, less sporty boy it would be harder to imagine) so I might as well butch it out and reach for the Gay Times and Attitude on the top shelf. Although not strictly pornography, these ‘lifestyle’ magazines were crammed with salacious ads for porno videos and sex chat-lines. The actual articles which filled the remainder of these magazines (about marches, HIV and the Spice Girls) held no interest for me so I would toss them away after I’d lovingly glued all their juiciest pictures into my scrapbook.
But I had made the decision that this treasure trove was to leave my possession immediately and be deposited in some faraway litter bin! I lifted the mattress of my bed and reached under but to my horror I could feel no book. Where had it gone?
But then there was a rap on my door and my mother was calling my name. “Wait a minute,” I squeaked as I quickly returned the bed to it’s normal condition just as the door opened and my mother and father both entered the room, in their pyjamas and dressing gowns. To my horror, my mother was clutching my scrapbook! “Hello darling,” she said, and before I could protest I was gently pushed back onto the bed, a parent to either side of me, pinning me down, telling me how much they loved me. In fact, if memory serves me correctly, I seem to recall they both kissed me.
As my mother thrust the scrapbook into my hands, far from condemning me for it, she gave me her blessing. “It’s entirely normal,’ my mother was slurring at me (they had both clearly been drinking). ‘There’s no need to hide it away. Stick the pictures all over your walls!”
“You mustn’t feel ashamed!” commanded my father, going on to recount, to my complete disgust, his own youthful dalliance with homosexuality. My mother then proceeded to tell me how, in her role as secondary school teacher, countless confused boys and girls over the years had approached her tearfully after lessons and poured their hearts out, clearly viewing her as some kind of hideous Clare Rayner/Oprah Winfrey figure. She recounted how she’d hugged them and told them how ‘normal’ they were, that they should ‘accept’ themselves and just ‘be who they really are.’ Well, I couldn’t believe it! Instead of teaching them Thomas Hardy and proper punctuation, my mother was instead promoting homosexuality, which, back then, lest we forget, was still strictly forbidden by the Section 28 law (although it was soon to be repealed by the Nu-Labour government, opening the flood gates for all that has followed!).
Of course I held my counsel and let them exhaust themselves with their own tolerance whilst I plotted my plan of action. The following few days were sheer hell. My mother left packets of condoms and safe-sex leaflets around the house. She even talked about us going to Pride together! The revelry ended abruptly however when a week later my mother received a call from her school informing her she was suspended pending an investigation. Apparently they had received an anonymous tip-off that she had been disseminating homosexualist propaganda to vulnerable young children. “I don’t understand,” my mother wept into her wine glass over dinner, “why would any of those dear kids have reported me? I saved them from self-harm and suicide,” she wailed with her ludicrous messianic complex. “It doesn’t make sense!”
Well, isn’t that the ghastliest coming out story you’ve ever heard? What do you think? Or have you heard a worse one? I’d love to hear your thoughts! Of course in my case the ultimate irony was that by the time they had discovered the scrapbook, I had already ceased to be a homosexual!
Our sparkly new promo film!
Posted on August 20, 2012
Ooh la la! Here at Dawn Rescue we’ve been putting together a little introductory film to explain a little bit about our organisation and introduce ourselves to anyone interested in joining! Have a shufty and see what you think!
Matthew’s Blog: My Wobble!
Posted on August 20, 2012
There isn’t an easy way to tell you this, dear reader, but I have to be honest and admit up front right here and now that I have wobbled recently. I was tempted by a slithering serpent and momentarily strayed from the straight and narrow path I have been so diligently treading for the past eleven years. Oh, the shame! Of course, as Dan said to me, (after much scolding and reprimanding) “we all wobble sometimes.” And he’s right, but that’s no excuse for me wibbling and wobbling all over the shop like a jelly on a washing machine! (Although, having said that, Dan never wobbles. When I asked him about this he shrugged and said he’d always had this “mysterious inner strength.” If only I had it too!)
Let me explain. It was over a month ago now, the first week of July, and I had embarked into Soho on one of my nightly rescue missions to a certain infamous club. This club is one of our regular battlegrounds but I hadn’t been in almost a year after a very disturbing experience when the doorman refused me entry. “We know who you are!” he’d barked at me like some sinister Stasi agent in Soviet Germany, “We’ve had lots of complaints about you and your friends! You’re barred!” (So much for living in a free, ‘liberal’ country, eh?) Fortunately there was a new bouncer on the door this night who unhooked the rope with a charming smile. And as there’s always a high turnover of staff at these places, the faces behind the bar were all thankfully unfamiliar.
The scene which greeted me was the usual grim tableau of debauchery. The dance-floor was filled with young men in tight fitting t-shirts and skimpy trousers all bouncing mindlessly up and down to pounding druggy music. I circled the perimeter of the area, looking for stragglers and nervous novices and I had almost completed an unsuccessful tour of duty when I finally spotted one! He was standing by the fire escape, shoulders tensed, a beer bottle in hand, nervously scraping the label off with his fingernails as his big brown eyes darted around, surveying the scene with evident displeasure. He had dark hair and a rather sulky little mouth. Think Jake Gyllenhaal circa Donnie Darko, adolescent moodiness shielding a tortured vulnerability. His clothes were scruffy compared to everyone else; battered black jeans and a T-shirt. It was only as I came up close to him that I saw clearly what was on his T-shirt. It had a black background with a picture of a large sword. Above the sword was written THESE NEW PURITANS and below it WE WANT WAR. Golly! No wonder he was observing the rampant hedonism with such obvious contempt! Who were these ‘Puritans’ and who did they want a war with? I wondered if perhaps they were a rival organisation to ours? Maybe there was an opportunity for our two pure-of-heart groups to unite together and fight our common enemy? I was determined to find out!
(Above: What Zac looked a bit like. (minus the axe) )
“Hello scrumptious,” I said. (Despite my suspicions, I thought it best to play the script as per usual. Who knew, perhaps he would even try his own ‘magic question’ on me!) I asked him his name.
“Zac!” he replied curtly.
“That’s an exotic name,” I said, “What’s it short for?”
He barked at me impatiently, “What do you reckon, pal?” Oh dear! These New Puritans clearly weren’t as well trained as Dawn Rescue. He wasn’t fooling anyone! I persevered. “Is it short for Zac Efron?”
At this he stared at me with utter disgust. “It’s short for Zachary!” he practically spat at me, “Who the hell is Zac Efron? I don’t even know who he is! Unlike you, you’ve probably got all the High School Musical DVDs so you can jerk off all over his shiny stupid face every day!”
Well, I mean to say, there was no call for all this, was there? I felt sure he would feel jolly foolish once he discovered who I really worked for. I offered to buy him another beer. He seemed to soften up at this, and once I’d returned from the bar and handed him his second bud he was being positively civil. I asked him how old he was, he said he was 19. “And how old are you really?” I asked.
“Nineteen!” he repeated through gritted teeth.
“First time on the scene?” I asked.
“No, not really,” he lied, taking a swig of beer with affected nonchalance.
“Are you sure?” I said with a cheeky wink.
“Look, mate!” hissed Zac, jabbing his beer bottle at me menacingly, “do you mind not doubting everything I say, it’s really f****** rude!”
“Ooh, you’re a spiky little number, aren’t you?” I said.
“Yeah,” he returned, “so watch out or you might get pricked!” I burst into giggles at this but Zac turned deathly pale, appalled at what he’d just said, “Christ,” he muttered, “I can’t believe I said that. That sounded so camp, didn’t it?” Well yes, but that’s the idea. A bit more of that, young man, and you might start to sound convincing!
“You’re not dancing?” I asked him. Very laconically, he looked down at his feet and quipped, “no, it appears I’m not am I?” I asked why and he launched into a tirade about the assembled clubbers. They were all “disco bunnies” straight off the “faggot factory line” and he despised them all.
Well what do you know, he sounded exactly like Dan! No doubt the two of them would get along like a house on fire, I thought, when I had the chance to introduce them. Nevertheless Dan has always been able to expertly disguise his true feelings and fit seamlessly in with all the other “disco bunnies” and “screaming queens” (just as I have learnt to) but this Zac was hopeless! I’d have to suggest to the higher-ups of These New Puritans that Zac should perhaps be given back-office duties in future. (At least until the war. I imagined he’d be very handy in a scrap when the time comes!) He then started banging on about how much he hated the pounding music. “Oh, what music do you like then?” I asked him, hoping to steer the conversation into more neutral territory. (And who knew, perhaps he would even share my love of the Jonas Brothers?) “I like good music,” he replied, “Y’know, indie, punk.” Then he pointed at his T-shirt and said, “I really like this band, actually. Saw them live last week. They’re ace!”
Well, that knocked me for six! So These New Puritans were merely a rock group, were they? I felt momentarily crushed, but then I wondered hopefully if they might be devoutly religious metal-heads in the vein of Payable On Death. “Are they Christians?” I asked. Zac stared at me in complete bewilderment, as if this was the most bizarre thing he’d ever heard. “I bloody hope they’re not!” he replied, knocking back his beer. Well, I was jolly confused now! If he wasn’t “gay” and he wasn’t here on behalf of Our Lord, why on earth was he here? To bash a few heads in? He certainly seemed frightfully angry but despite the hostility he didn’t quite seem the ‘queerbashing’ type somehow. I thought I’d get straight to it and just ask him the ruddy question and let the chips fall where they may!
And after I’d whispered the golden words in his ear, what do you know, he laughed in my face! I repeated the question, fearing he hadn’t quite heard me and he doubled up in hysterics clutching the wall. When finally he recovered he subjected me to a fair degree of bigotry and hostility.
“So you’re a f****** Christian, are you? Just my f****** luck!”
“There’s no need to be prejudiced,” I protested but he continued calling me lots of rude names and spewing out a volley of highly blasphemous statements. I attempted a devastatingly cutting put-down of my own. “Ooh, an atheist?” I said sarcastically, “How original! I bet you think you’re a right smartypants!” But this merely provoked more cackling.
“You sound really f****** poofy for someone who’s supposedly been straightened out, you do realise that?” he taunted me nastily.
Well, I must admit my eyes started to well up a little under this onslaught. He seemed to register this, and an ember of compassion sparked within his cold, dark soul. “Hey, mate, I’m sorry,” he said, squeezing my shoulder, “hey, shush, come here!” But it was too late, a Niagara of tears was already gushing down my cheeks. Next thing I knew he had thrown his arms around me and was hugging me tightly. “There, there,” he murmured in my ear, “it’s ok. Come on, mate, let’s get you out of here!”
And with that he led me out of the club and we walked through London that mild summer night, making our way down to Waterloo Bridge en route to Zac’s university halls of residence over on the South Bank. We paused on the moonlit bridge and looked across at all the beautiful lights of the city.
“You’re, what, 35?” said Zac.
“I’m 29!” I protested, rather put-out. (People usually think I’m a few years younger than I am!)
“Ok, whatever,” said Zac, “But your Dorian Gray years are almost behind you, and what have you done with ‘em, huh? Bugger all! You’re still quite cute, you know, but it aint gonna last. Soon you’ll be old and wrinkled and you’ll just look back at this moment with aching regret and think “I could’ve had that hot young guy but I f****** blew it!” and all because you think God will be mad at you. But look!” And he pointed up at the star flecked sky and said, “He’s not up there, is he?” Before I could counter this ridiculous and quite groundless assertion he had planted a big wet kiss smack bang on my lips, right there on Waterloo Bridge!
“But I thought you were straight,” I said in his room later, as we lay in his narrow bed. “What made you think that?” he asked, as he nestled his head on my shoulder. “But in the club you said you hated them all!” “Yeah, but those twats are no more homosexual than I am. Yes, they may be more immersed in an artificial “gay” culture but that’s a different thing entirely. I like blokes and I suppose I always will, but that doesn’t mean I have to subscribe to a whole set of cultural norms and signifiers, you know what I mean? ” Well to be honest I hadn’t the faintest clue what he was going on about but I very much liked the sound of his voice, and I nodded and murmured as I
drifted off into a blissful sleep!
I awoke with horror the next morning to realise that like Titania in Shakespeare’s pagan blasphemy I had been placed under a spell by a devilish little Puck but mercifully the effects had now worn off and I faced the despicable aftermath of the previous night’s wantonness with steely-eyed sobriety. Appalled, I hastily dressed and then quietly tiptoed out, leaving Zac snoring loudly behind me.
I returned home to find Dan sitting up waiting for me, arms folded. “Well?” he said. “Where have you been?” On the bus I had hastily invented some story about spiked drinks and being forcibly held against my will but it was to no avail, no sooner had I started to spin this tissue of lies than my face turned bright puce, the effect rather like in Pinocchio when the wooden boy’s tumescent nose exposes his fibs to the Blue Fairy. I can never convincingly lie to Dan, he sees straight into my soul!
So I ‘fessed up whilst Dan listened in icy silence. At the end we held hands and he asked me the magic question and I replied dutifully with “for my sins.” As Dan pointed out to me, Zac was probably Jewish, seeing as he’s got a name like Zachary. As Dan says, “Never waste your time with Jewish boys, they’re a lost cause!”
I do hope I never bump into Zac again!!! Keep your eyes peeled, folks, and be on your guard! University will be starting again soon so now doubt he’ll be back in town causing trouble, I for one am dreading his return! If any of you think you may have come across him on your travels and might have any stories or ‘dirt’ on him, then please do tell me. These are dark days indeed!
Posted on August 25, 2012
Much excitement and jubilation here at Dawn Rescue towers as we can finally report that our very own Dan Erpingham’s opus The Importance Of Being Jack: Nothing To Declare But His Evil Genius has finally been accepted for publication and will appear in both hardback and e-book in early 2013!!!
This groundbreaking work reveals conclusively how the infamous Whitechapel murders of 1888 (commonly referred to as the ‘Jack the Ripper’ murders) were in fact the work of notorious aesthete, dandy and ‘gay icon’ Oscar Wilde. Not convinced? You will be once you’ve read this eye-opening tome! From the fact that Wilde’s own father was a surgeon to Wilde’s socialism, homosexuality and hatred of conventional morality, plus the multiple references to his murders contained in his works, (see our page on The Importance of Being Jack) the evidence is overwhelming.
The result of several weeks hard work in which I can testify that Dan made daily visits to the library to conduct his meticulous research* we’re ecstatic that finally the truth will out. Dan will also be conducting a speaking tour at various bookshops and lecture halls to publicise The Importance of Being Jack when its published by Dawn Rescue books early next year.
(*He’d had to go the library as our internet at home had gone down for a couple of weeks last summer, and they give you an hour’s free internet a day at the library. One of the perks of socialism I suppose, ho hum.)
Dalek Rescue- Saving Souls on Skaro
Posted on September 2, 2012
An interesting thought struck me as I watched Doctor Who last night (did any of you see it? Wasn’t it fab?) The episode, ‘Asylum of the Daleks’, seemed to be a pretty apt parable of the work we do here at Dawn Rescue. (I’m sure that thought struck you, too!)
Let me explain (if for some reason it hasn’t struck you). At the start of the episode, Dr Who, played by melted-faced Matt Smith- (ok, he’s no Sylvester McCoy, but he tries his hardest) and his companions, (the feisty Irish girl and handsome young Rory) are plucked from various places by daleks disguised as people (there was a stunning efect when dalek eyestalks suddenly protruded from human foreheads) They were then whisked away to the ‘parliament of the daleks’ – a huge spaceship filled with seemingly thousands of daleks (it looked great, but I can’t help feeling what a waste of licence payers money it must have been to make them all, couldn’t they have made do with 4 daleks and a few strategically placed mirrors around the studio, like they did in the glory days?) But then- get this- instead of blasting the Doc away, the evil mechanised mutants asked the timelord to save them! Whoa, unexpected plot twist!
We were then sent on a fantastic rollercoaster of an adventure, as the Doc, the endearingly rumpled Rory and feisty Irish girl were sent down into a ‘dalek asylum’ to do something or other to enable the daleks to blow them all up, (for some reason) and there was also ‘Souffle girl’ who had crash-landed on the planet, and made souffles, (hence her name) but she was really (SPOILER ALERT!) a dalek, which the doctor guessed because you need milk to make souffles and she’d been there over a year, and milk goes off after a few days, and there are no Tesco’s in the dalek asylum.
Anyway, to get to my point, just like the Doctor, the boyish, puppy dog eyed Rory and whatsername, we at Dawn Rescue bravely battle a deadly foe every day, an enemy with alien values, ‘mutants’ just like the daleks, but in Soho, not Skaro. Of course you can usually spot a dalek a mile off, but the genius of this episode was that the daleks had mastered the art of adopting human form, just as our enemy does! But like the Doc, we must be alert to any tell-tale signs, (or “souffle giveaways.”) And yet our foes, as dangerous as they are, also have the chance to be redeemed, (just like the daleks who screeched “Save us!” in this episode.) I must confess to shedding a tear towards the end of the show, as Souffle Dalek battled against her innate dalek evilness and helped the Doctor to defeat her own kind, it reminded me of all the troubled young souls down the years, some of whom, like Souffle Dalek, were ultimately too far down the road to be saved by Dawn Rescue and had to be abandoned to destroy themselves.
Overall, a cracking episode. However, one or two niggles (if you’re reading this, Steven Moffat!) I do feel that the idea that Daleks operate a parliamentary democracy slightly detracts from their overall evilness. And the debates there must be even more interminable than the House of Commons! Or less so, maybe! (Which sounds more satirical?) Might liven things up if our MPs could just exterminate each other! (That’s just a joke btw, Dawn Rescue does not condone violence!)
Recruitment Day- Saturday the 15th September!
Posted on September 6, 2012
Yes, it’s that time again! We’re having one of our recruitment days to meet new members on Saturday the 15th of September, 2pm. Meet by the “diplodocus” in the main hall at the Natural History Museum, (“tail” end). Why there? Well, because it’s the Cathedral of Secularist Darwinian Mumbo-Jumbo, is it not? So where better?
(I say “diplodocus” in inverted commas because of course it’s so blatantly a made up, fictional creation- clearly just a bunch of rocks strung together to look like the sort of ludicrous monster Tolkien or CS Lewis would have rejected at the planning stage for being too implausible. I mean, come on scientists, you’re seriously telling us those are meant to be bones? Bones aren’t black, THEY’RE WHITE!!! Oh, and apparently scientists say dinosaurs had feathers now- have you heard that? MAKE UP YOUR MINDS, SCIENTISTS- you said they were scaly a while ago, then you said they walked upright, then you said they didn’t, I mean, it’s almost like, I dunno, like YOU’RE MAKING IT ALL UP AS YOU GO ALONG!!!! Hilarious, and they have the gall to accuse us of being “irrational” and believing in “fairy stories.”)
Matthew’s Blog: Were You There, Were You There?
Posted on September 17, 2012
Well, this is jolly awkward isn’t it? I was hoping to report on a highly successful and fun-packed recruitment jamboree at London’s Natural History Museum on Saturday, and perhaps announce a few new members to the world wide web, but alas, no, tis not to be. WHERE WERE YOU ALL?!!? ‘Smudgie’ You said you’d be there! ‘Randall99’ I believe you used the legally-binding term ‘Deffo!’ did you not? And you reading this now, (yes, YOU!!!) what of your no-show, hmm? I’m disappointed (to say the least!), but lest we descend into a festival of finger-wagging and tut-tuttery, let us quickly glide over Saturday’s damp squib in silence (for the moment!) and move on to other pressing matters (for now!). (Although as it happens, one person did show up, more on him later!)
Firstly, apologies as its been a while since I last blogged, and I know there are a vast multitude of you eagerly hanging upon my every word as I occasionally toss you morsels of my day-to-day struggle to remain on the “straight and narrow”.
You may recall in my last blog my encounter with the demonic young Zac. To my relief I had seen neither hide nor hair of this dangerous succubus in the weeks immediately after. I had spent many an hour trawling through Facebook and Twitter in an effort to locate his whereabouts (so as best to avoid ever crossing paths with him again) but whilst to my surprise I found a legion of Zacs and Zacharys in London and environs, none seemed to be the young chap I came across (so to speak). Perchance some serial killer had taken him home and gobbled him up for supper? It would be a certain kind of justice, I mused. But, alas, as I was soon to discover, it was not to be!
Also, we have very sad news to relate regarding our admin assistant, Joel. (You’ll have seen Joel in our little promo video. He’s the boy with the dark curly hair in the nightclub scene, re-enacting his emotional first encounter with me back in May last year.) Joel had been sleeping on our couch for the past few months as his parents, two militant lesbians, had angrily cast him out of the family home for becoming a Christian, (The modern world, huh?) But he’d had a phone call from one of his mothers on Friday night extending an olive branch of rapprochement. Apparently she’d read some leaflets and realised Christianity wasn’t all bad, because, (get this!) some of Christ’s teachings sound almost Marxist. (Completely untrue btw, Jesus despised Communists.) So on Saturday morning as I entered the kitchen I found Joel cheerfully announcing to Dan over coffee and croissants that he was off back to Brighton to stay with his mum and mum. Dan nodded and smiled at Joel and offered to give him a lift to the station, but of course I divined Dan would not be taking Joel to the station, Joel would have to be taken to ‘˜The Garage’ to be ‘fixed’ as there was no way he could possibly be allowed back into the “community” to backslide into his bad old ways, not after all our hard work! (The Garage is a lock-up somewhere in East London, location unspecified! We don’t want our various foes finding it!)
Dan noticed me in the doorway and flashed me ‘The Look’. I knew this was my cue to fetch the ‘Tool Box’ from the broom cupboard. I surreptitiously slipped it to Dan as he escorted Joel to the door. I could see Joel’s eyes dart nervously towards the ‘Tool Box’ and for a second he stopped in his tracks and seemed poised to ask what it was, but Dan blustered on with something about having to “crack on as we’ve got our recruitment day later,” and with that he bustled Joel out the flat and down the stairs. Of course in reality I knew that Dan would have his ‘hands full’ all day with Joel in ‘The Garage’ and I would now have to oversee the Recruitment Day all on my tod.
I arrived early at the Natural History Museum, at about 1.45pm. I had a quick scout around and it seemed like there might indeed be a few Dawn Rescue types in the vicinity but I waited until exactly 2pm until planting myself firmly at the rear end of the diplodocus. A likely looking young ginger chap with a backpack was already there, frowning perplexedly at the very tip of the tail. He looked not unlike Ron Weaselly, (the co-star of the Harry Potter films, lately blossoming into a fine figure of manhood). I cleared my throat and he looked up at me, startled. “Do you know why the blood of Jesus poured out of him on the cross?” I enquired with a cheery wink and a smile, expecting to be met with a joyful cry of recognition, but instead my earnest query was answered with pure incomprehension. Then an angularblonde girl rushed towards him, saying, “Dieter, Dieter! Kommen Sie und sehen Sie die prehistorischen Fisch!” And with that they departed to view the hideous Coelacanth, suspended in formaldehyde in its little alcove. So I was left alone to linger at the tail of the fraudulent fabrication, this supposed ‘giant reptile’ that had allegedly once stalked the earth. And so the minutes ticked by. And yet more minutes ticked by.
By 3pm I had decided, with great sadness, to call it quits, but as I was there I thought I may as well have a quick gander around the exhibits. So, fighting back tears, I made my way in the direction of the ‘blue whale hall’ (as I’ve always known it) my favourite haunt as a child, and one that I can still enjoy seeing as the blue whale, (and the various other mammals that surround it) are unquestionably the creation of God, (unlike the ‘dinosaurs’ which are of course the creation of one C Darwin). It’s always amazed me how they managed to transport this mighty beast from the depths of the ocean to South Kensington. I mean, how did they get it through the doors? (Bet it caused a right stink when they were dragging it through the streets of London, LOL!) But just as I was gazing with child-like wonder at the excellently preserved specimen, imagining myself as Jonah about to be swallowed up by this majestic leviathan, I was jolted out of my reverie by the sound of someone panting at my shoulder.
“Jeez, Matthew! Thank f***, I thought I’d missed you!”
A shudder of recognition passed through me as I turned to face him. I knew that voice anywhere, it had haunted my nightmares constantly these past three weeks!
“So you’re Dawn Rescue, are you?” said Zac (for it was he!). “Thought so!” And with that he pressed a paperback book into my trembling hand. “It’s a present” he said. “You should read it!” I looked down at the cover. ‘God Is Not Great’ it said in big letters. I felt dizzy. I grasped hold of the rail but it was too late, I was going down. “Hey, Matt!” I heard him cry as the world darkened around me and I plunged to the floor…..
To be continued…
‘Meteors’ over Britain, End Times at hand?
Posted on September 23, 2012
Yes September has been a jolly quiet month news-wise, hasn’t it? Not much has been going on at all. Unless of course you count the Para-Olympics (a celebration of people who quite clearly sinned egregiously in their previous lives! Err, no thanks!) Or the latest Muslim hissy-fit in the Middle East over something or other on YouTube (the less said about that lot the better! But I will pause to say this for them- at least they know how to stand up for themselves!)
No, nothing much has been going on in the world at all. Until last night, that is!
Millions of people across Britain looked up at to see huge bright glistening streams of light shooting across the night sky. One man who contacted the BBC described it as a “mass of gold light, everything moving in unison.” Another described it as a “bright yellow and orange ball.” Someone else said “I’ve seen shooting stars and meteor showers before, but this was much larger and much more colourful.”
So what ‘in the blazing heavens’ was going on? The internet was abuzz last night with these exciting sightings, so I expected to wake up today to find it front page, wall-to-wall news, but strangely no, an ominous silence has descended. Where it is reported, (such as here by our old “friend” the BBC) it is naturally dismissed as mere “space junk” from a satellite supposedly “breaking up in the earth’s atmosphere”.
Yeah right! And I suppose the fact this has happened at the exact same time as the English and Scottish governments are trying to push through “gay marriage” is “pure coincidence” isn’t it? “And I saw another mighty angel come down from heaven…..and his face was as it were the sun and his feet as pillars of fire” (Revelation 10:1) I think we all know what’s really going on, don’t we, friends? I suspect even the decadent, atheistic BBC does too, and is quaking in its boots!
Carey, Widdecombe compare Christians to Christ-Killers!
Posted on October 13, 2012
Deeply distressing and disappointing news has reached us here at Dawn Rescue towers regarding the Tory party conference. We are sad (and furious) to learn that former Archbishop George Carey (above) and former Tory MP Anne Widdecombe were headline speakers at an event on “gay marriage”. The Conservative party under David Cameron is of course fully in favour of “gay marriage”, but we were dismayed to see formerly upstanding allies such as Carey and Widdecombe joining the enemy and backing “gay marriage”.
Apparently, Carey compared opponents of same-sex marriage to Jews! “Lets remember the Jews in Nazi Germany,” he stated, “what started it all against them was when they started being called names.” Now, not only is this derogatory comparison hugely offensive and insulting to all true Christians, such extreme language is also totally disproportionate. When you start hurling abuse like this you’ve really lost the argument! So why have Carey and Widdecombe turned on their fellow Christians? Perhaps it was those appearances on Strictly Come Dancing (Anne’s, not Georges’*) rubbing up against various “confirmed bachelors” in the light entertainment industry? Well, Anne and George, it takes two to tango! (geddit?) The real Jews here are in fact YOU!!!
*Although I wouldn’t be surprised if George did appear on Strictly Come Dancing! If you catch my drift!
Support “gay marriage”? You must be QUACKERS!
Posted on October 13, 2012
The “Twitterati” has become the “Titterati” (as in “tittering”, i.e; laughing) over the above letter to a New Zealand newspaper by a brave 14 year old girl named Jasmin (surname redacted to protect her identity from assassination attempts by the “gay rights” lobby!) which has become a subject of scorn on social(ist) media (“gone viral” in their hideous parlance) to various “intellectual” types who thinks its awfully clever to sneer and poke fun at children, (there’s a name for that, peeps; it’s called “bullying” yeah? Hello!)
So what does young Jasmin say to earn such derision? Well here she is on the subject of “gay marriage”;
Homosexuality, including same-sex marriage, is not an enlightened idea. The Romans practised homosexuality. Surely, after 2000 years, our level of intelligence should have evolved somewhat, so that we can truly pride ourselves of being cleverer than our forebears.
If homosexuality spreads, it can cause human evolution to come to a standstill. It could even threaten the human position on the evolutionary ladder, and say, ducks could take over the world. Ducks always next in pairs and if we allow same-sex marriage then the ducks will have evolved further than we have. We will be in danger of all being equal, with ducks more equal than us.
Ok, you might think; Jasmin is saying ducks are going to take over the world? Ridiculous, right? LOL! Isn’t she stupid? Let’s all have a good laugh at her!
Well, let’s back up a moment and read that again. What she is actually arguing is that once we have “gay marriages” instead of traditional marriage, the human race will stop reproducing, (because, duh, gay people can’t reproduce!) and once that starts happening humans will start to die out. In that scenario, any other species of animal could soon start to outstrip us and ultimately take over. Yes, so she cites ducks, but she makes clear this is an example cited at random. It might be foxes, badgers, sheep or even puffins! The example of ducks is indeed ridiculous, but intentionally so! With their absurd quacking and comical waddle, the duck is a ludicrous animal, but that is precisely Jasmin’s point! Even the absurd duck could soon outnumber us if the gay lobby has it’s way! Jasmin goes on to say;
None of this really bears any weight for me, because I do not believe in evolution. However, the powers that be believe in evolution, and have made many decisions based on it. They should be consistent: If you believe in evolution, you can’t be in favour of homosexuality, or the ducks will get you in the end.
Well, hear, hear! Of course many people have used the apparent contradiction in Jasmin’s above argument as a stick with which to beat her with; “how can she argue on the basis of evolution when she doesn’t even believe in it?” they crow. But regardless of the pseudo-science of Evolution (quackery?) Jasmin’s argument still stands and is watertight, because the point she’s arguing is one of demographics. As is already happening with the Muslims, the ducks would soon outnumber us and we would be competing with them for scant resources. Laugh as much as you like now, but if you were alone and defenceless in a duck-ruled dystopia and having to fight a million ducks for your next meal, I don’t think you’d be laughing then!
Matthew’s Blog: Were You There, Were You There? (Part 2)
Posted on October 23, 2012
I can scarcely be bothered to pick up where we last left off but here goes. I’d fainted in front of the blue whale (which as one of our BTL commenters has so kindly pointed out is NOT in fact a real whale. Yeah thanks for that chum, any other illusions you care to shatter while you’re in the mood?)
The dastardly young Zac and a kindly member of the museum staff had escorted me to a table in the café just behind the main hall, where Zac sat with me, glugging tea and stuffing his impish face with ginger cake, whilst the embalmed corpse of Chi Chi the Panda covertly observed us from behind its glass case. I sat in silence enduring Zac as he gloated over my damp squib recruitment day and lavished scorn upon our website. “I can’t believe what you wrote about the dinosaurs,” he chortled, spitting cake crumbs across the table, “the dinosaur bones are black because they’re plaster casts, they aren’t real but there’s no secret about it.” I didn’t say anything to this. (But don’t you think it’s a teensy-weensy bit convenient that they have to lock the “real” skeletons away from scrutinising eyes and substitute them with plaster ones?)
On the tube on the way home I flicked through the ‘God Is Not Great’ book that Zac had given me. I must say I was a little shocked. The author Mr Hitchens has always seemed to me (from his various Question Time appearances and Mail on Sunday columns) to be a pious and principled man, a committed Christian (albeit an Anglican) bracingly intolerant of gays and liberals, yet here he was denouncing religion and all its works for being, (guess what?) intolerant and illiberal! Well, this really set my head reeling! Was he yet another Anne Widdecombe, a media hypocrite indulging in secularism behind closed doors? T’would seem so, alas.
When I got home that day Dan was still out, at ‘The Garage’ with Joel, and I still felt a little poorly so I went and had a lie down. Bad idea! I had a very disturbing nightmare involving Aaron Johnson (in his ‘Kick-Ass’ costume) Andrew Garfield (in his Spiderman outfit) Rory from Doctor Who (in his Roman Centurion get-up), Ron Weaselly (naked) and David Miliband (with his banana).
Above; boyishly handsome Blairite MP David Miliband. (You don’t know want to know where he was putting that fruit!)
I woke up with a start, the ghastly images still cavorting in my brain and I quickly gathered up my pyjamas and bed-sheets and hastened to the washing machine in our kitchen but to my horror Dan was sat in there waiting (he had arrived home whilst I was sleeping) and was sternly skim-reading the Hitchens book (I had foolishly left it on the table). He wrestled my bed-sheets off me and gave them a cursory inspection. Well, I just wanted to die right there and then! I shrank to the floor, my head in my hands as Dan stood over me. “Shall we take a little trip to The Garage, Matthew?” he asked. “No, no,” I pleaded pathetically, tears streaming down my face as I cowered at his feet, “please, Dan, don’t take me to The Garage!” “But Matthew, it looks to me like you might need a little ‘M.O.T’?” “No! No!” I shrieked, quaking with terror “please, no, anything but that!” (Golly, it really does shame me to think of my behaviour now!) Thankfully Dan was merciful and merely sat me down and we both prayed for my soul. “And how about Zac?” asked Dan, as he switched on the washing machine.
“What about him?” I asked, as I began to make us some supper.
“Well, if he’s so troublesome, perhaps he needs to join Joel in The Garage?”
“Oh no,” I said, “Zac’s not worth bothering about.”
Dan stared at me suspiciously through narrowed eyes.
“You’re not protecting him are you?” he spat.
“Of course not,” I protested, (quite truthfully, he can go to hell as far I’m concerned- and he will of course, LOL!)
“Good,” said Dan, and he lit a candle and thrust the Hitchens book into the flame whilst we both held hands and watched it burn.
Matthew’s Blog: A Ripping Day Out In Whitechapel!
Posted on October 25, 20124
This morning Dan and myself made a visit to one of London’s hidden gems, the Ripper Museum. Located in Mitre Square in Whitechapel, East London, it is owned by the Guild Of Ripperologists and it’s four artefact-crammed rooms are devoted to the unsolved ‘Jack the Ripper’ murders of Victorian times. But this is no ‘Chamber of Horrors’ or ‘London Dungeon’ but a serious, rather old-fashioned, somewhat antiquated museum, (let’s just say, it could do with a good dusting!). And it’s aim is to commemorate the sad victims of the murders, as well as to serve as a warning from history to young ladies of the present day that there can often be a heavy price to pay for sexual ‘liberation’!
There are shelves stuffed with various odds and ends connected with the case. Framed on the walls are the actual “Dear Boss, From Hell” letters, (purportedly written by the killer himself!). Perhaps most ghoulish of all the things we saw was a jar containing the preserved human kidney (see left) that was sent by the Ripper to the police, (believed to belong to one of the victims). Various press cuttings hang on the walls alongside police photographs of the bodies and crime scenes, (be warned- you’ll need a strong stomach to view those!) and perhaps most intriguing of all are some very peculiar looking waxworks of the murders from a display which appeared at the time of the killings, way back in 1888. As you leave the exhibit, you are faced with the Wall of Suspects; pictures of all those who have been suggested as possible Rippers down the years. (We checked, and Oscar Wilde isn’t up there yet!)
We were shown around the museum this morning by its curator, Mr Geoffrey Kensal, a rather rickety but amiable old man with a cheery grin and a twinkle in his eye, who was a fount of macabre information. (Exciting news flash: Mr Kensal has agreed to host a special event for us at his museum next month to help publicise Dan’s forthcoming book The Importance Of Being Jack. More details soon!)(above: one of the framed ‘Ripper’ letters on display at the museum.)
After our little tour, we went downstairs and perused the fabulous gift shop selling mugs, tea towels and stationery as well as dolls of the victims (complete with removable internal organs- yikes!). Then we went to the café and sat down with Geoffrey to have a nice pot of tea and some scones and a jolly old chat.
“So what do you reckon to our theory?” asked Dan, as he spread clotted cream and jam onto his scone.
“Oh, Oscar Wilde?” asked Geoffrey with a chuckle. “It’s bound to ruffle a few feathers, I shouldn’t wonder. But it’s all fuel to the fire. If it gets more people through these doors then I shan’t complain!”
“But you don’t believe it?” asked Dan with a raised eyebrow.
Geoffrey chuckled again. “I look forward to hearing the full irrefutable facts and finding out what damning evidence you’ve unearthed.” I thought I detected a hint of sarcasm in Geoffrey’s tone and I think Dan did too. I saw his fist tighten around his jam-stained knife.
“Oh,” said Dan calmly, “and who in your expert opinion was the true culprit then?” (Sarcasm detector pinging again!)
“Oh, some nobody,” said Geoffrey with a chuckle, “his name lost forever in the mists of time. Serial killers are always nobodies, and London was as full of nobodies back then as it is now, but by the sounds of all these books you’d think the only people in London in 1888 were the Duke of Clarence, Walter Sickert, Dr Barnardo or whatnot.”
Dan put down his half eaten scone and leaned back in his chair.
“Would a nobody have had the surgical expertise required to carry out those murders?” snapped Dan.
Geoffrey snorted derisively at this, “surgical expertise? Oh, please, not that old codswallop! And anyway, unless I’m vastly mistaken Wilde wasn’t a surgeon, was he?”
“His father was!” Dan shot back triumphantly, “he learnt at the feet of a master!”
“Those killings displayed no surgical expertise whatsoever!” snapped Geoffrey, no longer chuckling, “That’d be an argument only if he’d managed to keep the poor women alive somehow, but any damn fool can hack someone to pieces if they feel so inclined. Just look at Jeffrey Dahmer or Dennis Nielsen, neither of whom were trained surgeons!”
“Ah,” said Dan, “but they were both homosexuals, just like Wilde!” (Dan had got him there!)
“Yes, well,” said Geoffrey, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, and clearly unable to formulate an effective response, “I’ve got a spot of work to do so I shan’t detain you chaps any longer.” I thought I detected some slight reddening in his cheeks. And with that he got up, shaking both our hands and bid us adieu. (No wedding ring, I noticed.)
But anyway, do pop along to the Ripper Museum. It’s a great day out, (perhaps not for all the family, though). Open Mondays to Saturdays 10-5, and Sundays 12-4. They also serve a range of pies in the café named after each of the victims and filled with various offal. (Although Dan and I weren’t quite brave enough to try them!) They’ve got Nichols Pie (steak and kidney) Chapman Pie (chopped chicken liver) Stride Pie (cow lung) Eddowes Pie (sheep’s stomach) and Kelly Pie (pig intestines in congealed pigs blood). Remember to keep checking back here for further details of our special event at the museum next month!
Matthew’s Blog: Family Values
Firstly, some of you regular readers of this blog may well have noticed comments popping up below-the-line over the past few weeks from a certain Bryony Ditty who leaves embarrassing, hysterical, incoherent and foul-mouthed tirades directed at yours truly. As you may have divined from her surname, Ms Ditty is indeed my sister. I have chosen not to respond directly to her messages but have left them on display as I think they only reflect badly on herself and they demonstrate the aggression and hostility which a well-meaning organisation like Dawn Rescue is subjected to by the secular establishment. You’d think she’d have better things to do seeing as she works at the BBC and should be addressing her complicity in the Jimmy Savile sex abuse scandal. How much did she know? Why didn’t she challenge BBC top brass over their decision to shelve the Newsnight broadcast? Ok, admittedly she only works in the production office of CBeebies, (she’s the diversity and equalities co-ordinator, natch) but surely all the more reason to have investigated the rumours more thoroughly, considering the “diversity” of victims coming forward who were all children at the time (although admittedly not quite in the Cbeebies age bracket- so far as we yet know!). Or does she think the limits of her job merely entail ensuring that Pakistanis are properly represented in ‘In The Night Garden’ and that the ‘Teletubbies’ caters to transgender toddlers (is that still running? I have no idea)?
Family is something of a running theme this week as Dan’s mum Linda is gifting us the pleasure of her divine company. She arrived yesterday afternoon whilst Dan was out. There she was on the doorstep in her trademark pink Adidas tracksuit, swigging water from her bottle, looking not a day over 40 even though she must be, ooh, at least…. (but no, naughty me, I shouldn’t spill the beans!). She seemed slightly crestfallen to see me, no doubt quite understandably preferring to see her beloved son.
“Where’s Dan?” she asked, (refreshingly to-the-point, as always!).
“Hello Linda,” I replied, “Dan’s meeting with investors. Do come in.”
But Linda had already pushed past me by that point and had jogged straight through to the kitchen, making herself at home, sat down with her feet (in sparkling Nike trainers) up on the kitchen table. As ever she took a kindly interest in my welfare and what I was doing, firing off various friendly questions. What was I doing? Was I bringing any money in? Why not? What’s all this about some boy called ‘Zac’? Was I pulling my weight? What the hell was I playing at? Was I fully committed to the cause? Did I want to end up in the ‘Garage’? I was doing my best to field all these enquiries when I heard the key in the front door and Dan entered. Well it’s always a joy to see those two when they meet, there is such shared love between them! “Mummy!” cried Dan. “Danny darling!” cried Linda and they ran to each other and embraced, immediately launching into singing their song “Daddy’s Burning!” (a family tradition this, it’s sung to the tune of “London’s Burning” and goes, “daddy’s burning/ daddy’s burning/ In hell/ In hell/ Pour on petrol/ pour on petrol” etc)
A little background here; Dan’s father was an Anglican vicar who met with national tabloid disgrace in 1995 when he was discovered in a public lavatory drilling a “glory hole” in a cubicle wall. The Sun and Daily Star ran stories about the “Bent Vicar” and “Pervy Parson” (he wasn’t a parson, they just liked the alliteration). It was all too much for the Reverend Giles Erpingham, who hung himself in the vicarage attic on the day he and his family were to be evicted. Mother and young son were of course in complete shock, but every cloud has a silver lining and from behind this sordid, seedy cumulus eventually emerged the bright sun of Dawn Rescue, which Dan set up to prevent more tragedies like that of his father, (with his mother’s blessing and encouragement of course!).
Special event at the Ripper Museum, Whitechapel, this Thursday!
Mark the date in your diaries!
This Thursday the 8th of November we’ll be holding a special event to accompany the forthcoming publication of Dan’s groundbreaking book The Importance Of Being Jack at the excellent Ripper Museum in Mitre Square, EC3, London!
This Thursday we will reveal once and for all the true identity of the infamous serial killer Jack the Ripper! Before the night is out it’ll be ‘case closed’ as the greatest ‘cold case’ in history is finally cracked by Dawn Rescue’s very own in-house super-sleuth. The shocking revelations are bound to do for the culprit (clue: he’s a revered ‘wit,’ aesthete, playwright and sometime resident of Reading Gaol who liked to take a walk on the Wilde side) what recent revelations have done for the reputation of Jimmy Savile. Just as never again will the BBC show re-runs of ‘Jim Will Fix It’ so never again will actresses proclaim “a handbag!” whilst treading the boards in a certain person’s plays, and never again will clever-clogs types like Stephen Fry quote a certain person’s epigrams.
So head on down to the Ripper Museum this Thursday. The talk is FREE and starts at 7pm, and is followed by a Q and A and a special author signing. (The book is hot off the presses and doesn’t go on sale officially until the new year so this is your opportunity to get your mitts on an advance copy and a piece of history!)
We’ll be downstairs in the Museum’s cafe, right next to the marvellous gift shop. (Why not get there early and do a spot of shopping! You can check out the souvenir dolls of the victims, complete with removable internal organs- surely the ideal stocking filler!)
Exclusive extract: The Importance Of Being Jack
Posted on November 8, 2012
In preparation for tonight’s exciting event at the Ripper Museum, here is an exclusive extract from Dan’s new book ‘The Importance Of Being Jack.’ None of the following is conjecture, it is all based on meticulous research conducted by Dan. In short, it is 100% fact, and precisely 0% fiction!
Dead of night. A distant clock chimes twelve times. The near-by sound of horse hooves and carriage wheels on cobbles. A young woman hurries through the dark, deserted square. Suddenly, a figure emerges through the unfurling London fog in front of her.
“Lor, guv’nor, you aint ‘alf scared me!” cries the woman.
The figure doffs his top hat.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” he says in his lugubrious tones.
The woman’s ears prick up at the obvious wealth and breeding of this stranger as displayed in his elegant accent and diction.
“Cor, you sounds like a likely sort of swell, bet’s you knows how to treat a lady, dontcha?”
The man chuckles. “Oh I do indeed know how to treat a lady, madam!”
“How’s abaht we go somewhere then, guv’nor. I aint cheap, mind, it’ll cost you tuppence ha’penny and nuffink less!”
“Oh, there’s no need to go anywhere, right here will do for what I have in mind. And I do believe I have tuppence ha’penny in my bag.”
“A handbag?” cries the woman in surprise as she sees the gentleman thrust his hand into a large brown leather bag he has been carrying. But he doesn’t retrieve any money from his bag, but instead something shinier than coins!
“Cor, what you gonna do with that, then?” says the woman as the knife glints in the moonlight.
“Why, with this I shall create a work of art,” muses the man, “perhaps my finest work to date. One that shall life forever in the annals of infamy, for there is only one thing worse in life than being talked about, and that is not being talked about!”
And with that he nonchalantly sinks the blade into the woman’s stomach.
“You are wicked!” she gasps as he pulls the knife out and she drops to the cobbles, blood spattering around her.
“Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others,” quips the man as he opens his capacious bag again and takes out various surgical implements, delicately placing them on the ground.
The woman watches in horror as the man gets to work. “Why?” she croaks.
“Because you are A Woman Of No Importance!”
“And you are Lucifer himself!” she wheezes.
“Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say I think there are lots of other much nicer names. I think Jack, for instance, a charming name.”
“Me name’s not Gwendolen, it’s…..” but before she can tell him her name, the spirit leaves the body of Polly Nichols.
“Murder is so awfully taxing on one’s wardrobe!” the man mutters to himself, dabbing at his bloodstained clothes with his handkerchief as he disappears into the fog on that cold, dark night, leaving Polly behind him, sleeping her last sweet sleep, the eternal slumber from which she will never again awaken, in her warm bed of blood and entrails…
Matthew’s Blog: Walk Through The Fire
Posted on November 14, 2012
The bruises are starting to heal. Dan is now out of bed and walking again. For my part, it no longer causes me violent paroxysms of pain whenever I laugh (not that I’ve had much cause to do that these past few days!).
How did it all go so wrong? Last Thursday’s event had looked set to be a huge success. Twitter was all abuzz, so when we arrived at the Ripper Museum for Dan’s talk, there was already a queue snaking round Mitre Square! Geoffrey, the museum curator, stood in the doorway, peering over his spectacles with a ‘rabbit-in-the-headlights’ look.
“Thank God you’re here!” he cried with relief, hurriedly ushering us inside and locking the door behind us.
Well, the scene that greeted us took my breath away! The whole cafe was lit by candlelight, it was as if we had been transported aboard the TARDIS back to Victorian times, and Geoffrey was the Doctor (more William Hartnell than Matt Smith). On a table at the far end of the room, (where Dan was to give his talk) sat the prized possession from the collection, the human kidney sent by the Ripper to the police! Two candles stood either side of the glass jar, guarding it like sentries, and it almost seemed to glow and pulsate in the flickering light, as if it were alive.
“Yes, I thought you’d like that,” said Geoffrey, chuckling, “adds an extra gothic element, don’t you think? Just do be careful you don’t knock it over, the alcohol in the jar is highly flammable! What’s that you’re carrying?”
“A smoke machine and an overhead projector,” I gasped, dropping both heavy items to the floor. (I had asked Dan to help me carry them from the station, but he was carrying his costume and also, as he pointed out quite reasonably, he needed to preserve his energy for his performance).
We set up, Dan changed into his Victorian costume and Geoffrey opened the doors to let in the hordes. Our audience was a motley bunch. It soon transpired they were evenly divided between ‘Ripperologists’ and ‘Wildeans’ (many of the latter sporting green carnations) and they were all, quite frankly, weirdoes to a man (and they were ALL men!) Geoffrey briefly introduced us and then the show commenced. I switched on the smoke machine and Dan entered from the toilets in top hat and cloak.
“Night. A clock chimes twelve times,” intoned Dan, swishing his cloak around. “A young woman hurries through the dark, deserted square. Suddenly, a figure emerges through the unfurling London fog in front of her.” I thought Dan was giving a stunning performance, really showing the benefits of his abortive RADA training (another story for another time, dear reader) but there was some tittering from one corner of the room, tittering which gradually began to spread across the room like a Mexican wave. It was when Dan began to do the voices that people really began to hoot. His ‘cockney prostitute’ voice was too much for some. Rather red faced, he bravely finished reciting the book’s opening chapter to scattered (and somewhat sarcastic) applause. Then he began the ‘meat’ of the night, his detailed presentation of the evidence against Wilde. Then, lastly, came the Q and A. We were both somewhat taken aback by the hostility of the questions. The Oscar Wilde society were furious. One compared Dan to the Marquis of Queensbury, another angrily accused us of trying to defame a dead man who couldn’t defend himself (he got a huge round of applause for this). Understandable perhaps as he was their ‘hero’ so the sordid truth must hurt, (Jimmy Savile fans must be currently undergoing similar torments) but if anything the ‘Ripperologists’ were even worse! They picked holes in everything, pointing out that Wilde was in Paris at the time of one murder, in Dublin at the time of another, etc etc etc (Well of course he’d have given himself alibis, wouldn’t he?) One man, after mistakenly presuming he’d torn our argument to shreds, smugly asserted that “of course everyone knows that the real Ripper was in fact Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man!” to be shouted at by every other Ripperologist in the room, saying, “no, no, it was obviously George Bernard Shaw!” or “nonsense! Even a damn fool knows it must’ve been Prime Minister William Gladstone,” to which someone else retorted “Tory lies! It was blatantly Disraeli!” It was at this point that I noticed something was seriously awry with the smoke machine. It had been gently releasing a steady stream of dry ice across the floor, but now it had malfunctioned somehow and huge clouds of smoke were gushing out, quickly filling the room till nothing could be seen through the dense fog, whilst a succession of disembodied voices angrily shouted out names; “George Gissing!” “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!” “W.B Yeats!” “No, no, Florence Nightingale!” “You’re all wrong, it was Emmeline Pankhurst, I have the proof right here!” At this, everyone seemed to suddenly notice that they couldn’t actually see anything, and widespread panic broke out.
“Please, remain in your seats,” urged Geoffrey’s alarmed voice, but it was no use, pandemonium was unleashed. Tables and chairs could be heard toppling over as people cursed and cried out in pain.
Dan was angrily hissing at me, “Switch it off, Matthew!”
“I can’t,” I whimpered. There was the sound of something glass smashing to the floor nearby. I stepped forward, and something squelched under my foot (I think you can guess what!). I yelped in disgust as I slipped over onto my back. A burst of flame flared up over me, the room was filling with real smoke now, black and thick, setting off the fire alarms and sprinklers. Everyone was coughing and screaming. Someone had found the door and flung it open, smoke spilling out into Mitre Square, dispersing enough for everyone to see their way out. As I exited through the door I grabbed a sobbing Geoffrey and we hurtled across the square just as his beloved museum exploded behind us, all the evidence and artefacts pertaining to the Ripper’s crimes incinerated forever!
So, if you were planning a trip to the Ripper Museum anytime soon, sorry, too late! As Geoffrey sadly noted in the police station later that night, as he rocked backwards and forwards, “it survived the Blitz, it’s survived multiple funding cuts and threats of closure, but it couldn’t survive one night with Dawn Rescue!” Well, perhaps there’s a little lesson there, Geoffrey. If you’re going to run a museum glorifying an evil murderer, well, the good Lord might get a little cross about that and, as it were, ‘send the boys in’! “For a fire is kindled in mine anger, and shall burn unto the lowest hell, and shall consume the earth with her increase…” (Deuteronomy 32:22)
Keep it on the QT!
Posted on December 16, 2012
“It was Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, not Adam and Steve!”
It truly was a fantastically pithy (and rather witty!) little statement, annihilating any possible arguments in favour of ‘gay marriage.’ Once Dan had delivered that sentence live on British television, why, then the debate would surely be over and all plans to redefine marriage abandoned permanently!
Dan and myself were in the living room of Linda’s house in Clifton, helping Linda (that’s Dan’s mum, remember!) decorate her Christmas tree whilst the Kings College choir sang “I Saw Three Ships Go Sailing By” on the CD player. What was especially apt was that Dan had just delivered this winning statement at exactly the same time as Linda had turned on the Christmas tree lights, so it was like a hundred light bulbs switching on at such genius! As Linda and myself congratulated Dan on his brainwave, we emptied the last of the tinsel and baubles from the box until there was but one last decoration to be fished out and dangled from the tree. It was a little figurine of a vicar with some string forming a noose around his neck.
“Hang daddy from the tree,” commanded Linda in a hoarse whisper as she pressed the figure into Dan’s hands. I could see tears welling up in Dan’s eyes as with trembling hands he hung the miniature clergyman from a branch and watched as it’s little feet formed tiny semi-circles as they must have done all those years ago when young Dan discovered his father’s corpse swinging from the vicarage rafters.
We had been staying at Linda’s as Dan had won tickets to be in the audience of Thursday’s edition of the BBC show Question Time, which last week was visiting nearby Bristol. It was intensely exciting, as we knew the hot topic of ‘gay marriage’ was bound to be debated and Dan was determined to make his views known!
So we arrived early at the recording venue and sat as near to the front as we possibly could. It was a long evening. Proceedings kicked off just after 8pm with a warm up act. It’s a little known fact that Question Time employs comedians to tell topical jokes before each show- to fully prep the audience so they are fully versed in the topics to be discussed, and also to ‘banter’ with them and get them out of their shells and happy to ask questions. (This is why QT audiences sometimes seem curiously well-informed and opinionated compared to the population at large.) This week it was the turn of diminutive Scottish schoolboy comic Wee Jimmy Krankie to be the warm-up act, rattling off quick-fire gags through his barely intelligible Glasweigan accent. Wee Jimmy is nobody’s idea of a topical satirist, nevertheless his quip about how his dad couldn’t be there tonight because he was “marrying Alex Salmond” sent shivers up my spine! (However, I must say it is a little concerning that such a young lad was not being chaperoned, especially considering recent revelations about the BBC!).
The recording began at 9pm (no, it is not live, and has not been ever since Mo Mowlam addressed Richard Littlejohn with the ‘C’ word on air back in 2002). On the panel were former Shooting Stars team captain Will Self, (hmm, wonder what he’s been up to since?) a foreign man called Lord Balamory (no, me neither!), a Tory woman, a Labour woman, and Mail on Sunday columnist Peter Hitchens, (it turns out this is not the same Hitchens who wrote the book Zac gave to me, confusingly it seems there are two Hitchens who look a bit similar and share the same surname). As ever, David Dimbleby chaired proceedings (little known fact; JK Rowling based the character of Dumbledore in her Satanic ‘Harry Potter’ series on this venerable and wizened broadcaster). As luck would have it, the first question was indeed regarding the backbench Tory revolt over same sex ‘marriage’. Dan’s arm immediately shot up and remained there whilst the panellists offered their responses.
The odious Will Self drawled that “can we not simply apply the principle of Ockham’s razor (?) to those who oppose gay marriage, and say ‘these people are homophobes, they don’t like gay people’?” prompting a furious response from the fine Mr Hitchens, who in a rousing speech declared that those conservatives who oppose gay marriage are now being hounded in a way gay people once were, only to be rudely interrupted by a jeering Will Self who chillingly threatened, “Yes, we will hound you, we will imprison you! We will arrest you in toilets, Peter, and force you to undergo electro-shock therapy!” He said it like it was a joke, but recall that this was a man who, moments ago, was advocating that we apply a razor to the throats of all those who oppose gay marriage!!! Be afeard, good Christians, be very afeard!
Finally Dimbleby noticed Dan. “You, there, the man in the blue shirt,” he barked, pointing straight at Dan, “what’s your opinion about all this?” It was Dan’s moment, all eyes were on Dan, the camera was trained on him, the boom mic dangling over his sweating forehead, the panellists all waiting expectantly. He seemed flustered, momentarily unable to speak, but then he spoke; “It was Adam and Steve in the Garden of Eden, not Adam and Eve!”
It took a moment to fully register what had gone wrong, and why almost everyone in the room was laughing. “Was it?” chortled Dimbleby, “I don’t remember that in my religious studies class!” whilst a sniggering Will Self remarked in his languorous nasal whine “Yes, I think I’ve seen that particular DVD on sale in Soho” to yet more merriment. Only Hitchens looked un-amused, indeed he shook his head in disgust at Dan and raised his imperious Romanesque nose in disdain. (Our only potential ally on the panel, and we’d let him down!)
“No, no, I meant to say…” protested Dan, but the boom mic had already departed to another head in the audience, for in the harsh arena of QT, you only get one shot! For the remainder of the recording, Dan sat red-faced and fuming. As soon as the show ended, Dan stormed out, with me in hot pursuit.
We arrived back at Linda’s an hour later, just as the show was being broadcast on BBC1. Linda was sat on her sofa with a cup of tea, the opening music blaring from the box.
“No, turn it off!” cried Dan, as he lurched through the front door.
“But I want to see it!” said Dan’s startled mum, almost spilling her tea.
“But there’s no point! I didn’t say anything,” lied Dan, “I had my hand up but Dimbleby never came to me.” Linda was disappointed but she shrugged and said, “oh well, I’d still like to watch it anyway.” Dan laughed, trying to mask his panic as he sat down on the sofa next to her and took the remote from her hand, switching the TV off, “but how about we spend some quality time together mummy?” Linda, however, was having none of it, and she snatched the remote back and switched the TV on again. “I want to watch Question Time, Daniel, and I shall not be gainsaid!”
So we sat in horrified anticipation, waiting for disaster to be replayed. Only it never was! Dan’s national disgrace never happened- they had cut his contribution from the final broadcast! “So there is a God!” I quipped to Dan whilst Linda had popped to the kitchen to make more tea. “Was that a joke, Matthew?” hissed Dan, “Leave the comedy to the professionals, like Wee Jimmy Crankie.”
Matthew’s Blog: New Year, New Dawn
Posted on January 15, 2013
Happy (belated) 2013! Have you made any new year resolutions? What were they? And have you managed to stick to them? Come on now, be honest! Ooh look, you’ve turned bright puce! Naughty, naughty, tut tut! I’ve made my usual resolutions, the same resolutions I make every year (to have no more impure thoughts, to finally quit the self-abuse, to completely change my sexual orientation, etc etc) and after my “annus horribilis” of 2012 (whence I was tempted by a certain slithering serpent, lest we forget ) I have high hopes that 2013 will finally be my year! Fingers crossed!
How was your Christmas? Did you get lots of lovely pressies? Here at Dawn Rescue we had the best Christmas presents ever! Dan’s mum Linda graced us once again with her invigorating company (her divine presence is surely enough of a present in itself!). On Christmas morning we sat around the tree doling out the spoils. From Dan I got a signed first edition of his book The Importance of Being Jack (bound to be a collectors item one of these days!) and from Linda an intriguing memoir entitled Gimme Gimme Gimme A Man After Midnight (Named Jesus) by Orson V. Schnitzel, an American chap, detailing his struggles to remain on the ‘straight and narrow’. “I think it’d be a very beneficial book for you to read!” intoned Linda with a hint of steel in her voice as I unwrapped it and Orson’s toothsome, suntanned visage smiled back at me from the front cover.
Like myself, Orson is tussling daily with his personal demons, and it seems he has been having some commendable success in swatting them away. Having said that, his irreverent writing style seems to occasionally teeter dangerously on the border of blasphemy, (if not passing straight through immigration control with passport stamped and full citizenship granted!). Take this, from page 42, “Whereas once I used to kneel on restroom floors before some guy,” he breathlessly informs us, “and take an intimate part of his anatomy in my mouth, I now kneel on church floors in front of a priest and swallow part of the Lord’s body instead!”And later; “As Barbra Streisand once sang, ‘someday he’ll come along, the man I love,’ well there’s only one hot stud in my life right now and his name is Jesus! Sure, he’s no ‘twink’, (he’s more of an ‘otter’), but like Brad Pitt and that cutie from Kings of Leon, JC totally rocks the bearded look!” (There’s a lot more in this vein!) I don’t doubt Mr Schnitzel’s sincerity and I wish him all the luck on his quest to gain admission to the Kingdom of Heaven, however one does register slight concern as to what exactly Orson plans to do to the Messiah once he gets there! But perhaps we should be lenient. Maybe it’s like nicotine patches, and this is his first faltering step on the way to weaning himself off his unnatural urges for good.
But Dan got given the best present of all! A huge box wrapped in glistening gold paper and adorned with a mighty red bow, it loomed like Sauron’s tower of Mordor over all the other paltry little bundles. Dan had been dropping hints to his mum about an HD TV all year so his excitement was palpable as he vigorously undressed the box, stripping it down to it’s cardboard nakedness and forcefully thrusting his hands through it’s flaps to root around inside, tossing bundles of bubble wrap over his shoulder.
“I do hope you like it, Danny darling,” said Linda with an intriguing twinkle in her eye. “I’ve kept the receipt just in case!” The suspense was killing me as I waited with baited breath to see what Dan would fish from its boxy depths and bring victoriously to the surface. But nothing was forthcoming. There was much furrowing of Dan’s brow as his fingers scrabbled around in the nooks and crannies of the cube but to no avail. Linda clasped her hand over her mouth in attempt to suppress all audio emissions of mirth as Dan upended the empty vessel but still no contents came plopping out. He looked up and surveyed his giggling Mater with a wounded mix of hurt and confusion. Was this some cruel trick? Or some unusual punishment, and if so, what for?
“Well?” said Linda, “Don’t you like it?”
Son stared back at mother, nonplussed.
“It’s the Gift of God’s love!” explained Linda, with a stating-the-obvious sigh, “Is it not simply wondrous?”
The penny dropped! Instantaneously Dan’s expression changed to pure relief and elation. “Oh mummy!” he cried, flinging his arms around the Mothership, “It’s the best present ever!” And truly it was! Bet you didn’t get a present as cool as that!
Matthew’s Blog: The Light Continent
Posted on January 27, 2013
Have you been watching ‘Africa’ on the BBC? If you’re anything like me, you’ll have been glued to Attenborough’s latest on the goggle-box as the intrepid octogenarian travails the vast expanses of that mighty continent. (Of course one must always be on one’s guard with Sir David, always ready at a moment’s notice to stick one’s fingers in one’s ears and sing “la la la” whenever he starts spouting his atheist lies about “evolution.”)
Watching ‘Africa’ is also a good way of remaining close to Dan, who is currently, like Attenborough, beating a path through the tough African terrain, accompanied by his dearest mother Linda. (I imagine they both look great in explorer’s hats and khaki shorts!) However whilst Attenborough hobbles off in pursuit of cheetahs and shakes his walking stick at angry rhinos, Dan and Linda have rather more pressing matters at hand. They’re not there to frivolously admire the wildlife, but to educate the good Christians of the ‘Dark Continent’ (it’s actually quite sunny there, so I’m led to believe) as to the perils of ‘tolerating’ sexual perversion, ably assisted by a travelling slide-show of shocking images guaranteed to bring Mr Vomit rushing up the elevator and loitering with intent at the back of one’s throat.
Prior to leaving, Dan and Linda had spent many hours sat on the sofa in the front room of our flat with the laptop on Dan’s lap, trawling the info super-highway in search of the filthiest, most despicable images with which to refresh their dossier of depravity.
Unfortunately, Google Images seemed somewhat half-hearted with its suggestions, shyly offering up a few desultory offerings that Linda and Dan both felt didn’t quite have that ‘je ne sais quoi’ quality required to truly enrage pious Africans and get them hurriedly forming an orderly lynch mob outside the hut of the nearest ‘flamboyant’ villager.
I was happily leaving them to their dirty work as I sat on the sofa opposite, flicking through the latest issue of Empire magazine, so engrossed in some pics of Aaron Taylor Johnson on the set of Kick Ass 2 that at first I didn’t notice that both Erpinghams had diverted their attention from the computer screen and re-routed it in my direction. After a minute or so I began to feel the heat of their rays burning into me and as I looked up to answer their gaze my heart hit an iceberg and plummeted into the abyss. I knew at once that my services were to be enlisted.
Thus I was despatched to the nearest sin-pot to sniff out a suitable muse to assist in the tableaux. There was a likely looking lad perched at the bar as I walked in and I wasted no time in “chatting him up.” Although interested enough in me, he seemed in no hurry to escort me homewards, so with Dan impatiently texting me I whipped out the wallet and flashed a few twenties under the young chap’s nostrils, at which he hastily plonked his pint glass down on the counter and dutifully trooped out in my slipstream.
He seemed a little bemused when he arrived back at the flat to be greeted by both Dan and Linda setting up the camera on its tripod in the bathroom, but after a few more twenties were flashed in front of his nose he quit whimpering as I nudged him into the makeshift studio to begin our gruelling five hour ordeal. And here, dear reader, a curtain of discretion must descend upon proceedings. What we did, we did in the service of Dawn Rescue, and I won’t begin to describe any of the terrible images we conjured up on that long, long night, suffice to say they will remain forever etched into my mind however hard I might try to erase them, (and would doubtless remain forever etched in yours too, should you ever be unlucky enough to see them). Eventually Linda declared “it’s a wrap, guys!” so that myself and the ‘rough trade’ could wipe ourselves clean and put our clothes back on. I had to stuff a few more twenties into the stunned hustler’s trembling hands to silence any lingering objections he might have, and then hurriedly marched him out the door so we could assess the results. And according to the latest email which has just slam-dunked into my inbox, those pictures have most definitely been having the desired effect on the good people of Uganda! (Next stop, Ethiopia!) Which is reassuring to know, don’t you think?
The things Muggins here does for Dawn Rescue!
Matthew’s Blog: Master of the House!
So, have you seen Les Mis? Isn’t it just super! Now come on, spill the beans, peeps; did you have a nice big juicy cry at the end? Don’t worry, yours truly had to wipe away a few stray tears as the credits rolled, and I’m not at all ashamed to admit it! Because not only is it a masterpiece of cinema, it’s also a deeply Christian film! (And you can’t say that very often nowadays, can you?) Oh, and isn’t Eddie Redmayne simply sublime as Marius? I shall have to keep my eye on this charming, freckle-faced young chap! (Because of his considerable acting and singing talents, of course! Why else do you think?)
For the past few days since seeing the film I’ve been walking around the flat trilling all the songs. Thankfully Dan hasn’t been around, or he’d have flipped with rage by now. He’s still traversing the African plains with his dear old mama, leaving me all on my tod to be ‘Master of the House!’ (well, ok, ‘master of the flat’!)
I’ve been getting along just fine of course, despite Dan and Linda’s touching concern for me before they left. “You’ll be all by yourself,” warned Dan, “but don’t think you can go getting up to any mischief in my absence! Remember, I can read you like a book, Matthew, I’ll know!” “And God witnesses everything!” added Linda as she heaved her suitcases behind her out the door.
But there are the occasional moments where one yearns for the brain and braun of Mr Dan Erpingham to be on hand. Take yesterday for instance.
I’d just popped out to the shops to get some groceries and returned to the front entrance of the flats to find a mean looking young lad in a hoodie loitering by the door. I hurried past him and hastily let myself in but as I had feared the youth followed me into the hallway. My heart pounded in my chest as I took the stairwell and ascended quickly, he in hot pursuit. As I reached the door of my flat, it became apparent that my pursuer was still snapping at my heels, so I would simply have to man up and confront the fellow. I spun round to face him, but before I could squeak “please don’t hurt me!” he had thrust a crumpled photograph under my nose. Well, this didn’t seem like the modus operandi of any young felon I’d read about, so I began to breathe a sigh of relief only to have said sigh halted mid-exhalation and reversed back into a sharp intake of breath as I observed who the photograph depicted. It was Joel, our former admin assistant and lodger, (up until he wavered and had to be taken to ‘The Garage’ for his ‘MOT’).
“Where’s Joel!” he snapped.
“Who?” I queried, taking care to suitably furrow my brow. “I know no Joels!”
“Yes you do, he lives here!” barked the boy. I didn’t like the racket he was kicking up for the neighbours entertainment so I opened the door and ushered him inside.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I asked, in an attempt to pacify the brute via the medium of hot beverages.
“Joel!” hollered the young man, rudely barging into every room in search of our fallen comrade. “Where is he? What the f*** have you done with him?”
I attempted in vain to maintain the fiction that this Joel was a complete stranger to myself but the intruder fished a letter from his inside pocket and waved it accusingly in my face, a letter written by Joel some months ago. Having disgorged several items of paperwork from a filing cabinet which established that a Matthew Ditty and Dan Erpingham both resided in the residence, (and that being in the residence I was likely to be one of them) he then began reading aloud choice passages from Joel’s letter that seemed to further verify that myself, Joel and Dan were indeed intimately acquainted, despite my earlier protestations to the contrary.
“I think you’d better sit down,” I said calmly, leading him to the kitchen table as I made us some tea.
Turns out young Declan (for that is his name) has a lurking suspicion that all isn’t quite tickety boo with his old chum. Joel wrote to his old school pal Declan whilst ensconsed in our spare room, just to say “so long, adieu, auf wiedersehen goodbye” or words to that effect. But he’d listed our address on the letter and given lengthy descriptions of Dan and myself. Well, mostly Dan, actually. (Referred to throughout as the “handsome one”! Hmm.)
Declan resides in Brighton (where Joel hailed from). Apparently Joel had announced one Friday to Dec that he was off to London for the weekend to taste the “hedonistic splendour of gay London” (or words to that effect) as he’d grown tired of the rather provincial Brighton scene. So nobody was more shocked than Declan when Joel returned to sixth form college the following Monday to announce that he’d become a Christian. Joel’s parents, (two militant lesbians) were outraged, immediately turfing him out into the street in disgust.
So Joel came hurtling back to London on the next train and sought me out (the cause of his conversion, natch), pitching up in our flat for the next few months. (You can see Joel in our promotional video, re-enacting his first encounter with me, about 3:39 minutes in). Then of course there was the fateful phone call to one of his mothers, the olive branch of peace was extended and he was to be tentatively welcomed back into the fold.
Except of course he never arrived. But Joel’s mothers did receive a message on their answer-phone from Joel. “Hello Mums,” Joel’s quavering voice had said, “I’ve decided not to come home after all. Ever. Don’t try and contact me. I hate you and I never want to speak to either of you ever again. Goodbye.”
“Well, then,” I said, “mystery solved.”
“No, it’s not mystery solved! Where is he?”
“He just took off one day,” I said, “said he fancied doing some travelling, something about India I think. Said he wanted to find himself, go on a spiritual journey, or some such.”
“But he’s a Christian!”
“No,” I corrected him, “he got bored with Christ, said he fancied giving Eastern mysticism a whirl, like so many pampered Westerners before him.” And on that point, I emitted a weary little sigh and rolled my eyes.
“I don’t know,” shrugged Declan, flummoxed. “I just thought it was all a bit suspicious. I heard that answerphone message and thought it sounded a bit weird, like you’d made him record it under duress or something.”
I laughed at this to demonstrate how ridiculous I thought it sounded.
“I tried to get his mums to report him missing to the police, but they didn’t seem to give a toss. I was like, “he’s your son!” and one of his mum’s was like, “no son of mine is a Christian!” and the other mum was like, “yes, and he’s probably started reading the Daily Mail too, and voting Tory!” And they both shuddered, and one of them said, “what would the neighbours say if they saw him walking up the street with his crucifix necklace, his Daily Mail and his blue rosette, we’d be cast out of Brighton society! Never again will Caroline Lucas MP invite us to her vegan summer barbecues! Julie Burchill will spit in our faces!” And I was like, “but Julie Burchill’s a Christian!” and his mums were both, like, “all the more reason why she’d spit in our faces, Julie hates anyone copying her!” I gave up trying to reason with them, so I thought I’d try and find Joel myself!”
“But maybe,” I said sadly, squeezing Declan’s hand, “Joel doesn’t want to be found?”
“But I’m his BFF!” protested Declan.
A brainwave suddenly occured to me. “Tell me Declan, did Joel have any other friends called Declan?”
“No,” said Declan, “just me. Why?”
I bit my lip. “Because he often used to talk about someone called Declan whom he found really annoying, and secretly despised, and how he’d be so happy never to see him again.”
As Declan stared at me I thought ‘here it comes,’ as the flood gates opened and he burst into tears.
“Oh dear, come here, Declan,” I murmured, enfolding him in my arms. “There, there!” And as I cradled him I sang ‘Do You Hear The People Sing?’ from Les Miserables. And what do you know, after a couple of verses Declan joined in!
So a round of applause please for clever-clogs Matthew who successfully managed to defuse this potentially explosive situation! Who says I can’t look after myself, eh?
All together now, “master of the house, doling out the charm, ready with a handshake and an open palm…..”
Dawn Rescue under attack!
Posted on March 29, 2013
Well it had to happen sooner or later, folks, didn’t it? Our noble organisation of Dawn Rescue is under attack from the secular establishment, by that fortress of Communist propaganda; the BBC! The above video has been vomited over the web, styling itself as an ‘investigation’ into Dawn Rescue, and making a whole load of fanciful and unsubstantiated claims. In a nutshell; IT’S ALL LIES, FOLKS! (But you knew that already of course!) And who is behind this barrage of hate-filled bigotry? Why, if it isn’t Bryony Ditty, none other than the sister of our own Matthew Ditty, (although she was long ago disowned by Matthew, you’ll be pleased to hear). She has previous form on this. See her numerous aggressive and hysterical BTL comments on our site.
How fitting that this should hapen now of all times, on Good Friday! Just as our Lord was betrayed and punished for others sins, so do our enemies atempt to crucify Dawn Rescue! But unlike Jesus, we’re not quitters!
We win award at film festival!!!
Posted on June 8, 2013
Yes, we know it’s all gone a bit quiet on the Dawn Rescue front lately, but fret not, we’re back and we’ve got some BIG news! Our promo film (above) wowed the crowds last night at this year’s ‘QueerFest’ film festival, where we walked off with the much coveted ‘Golden Sebastiane’* prize.
Now, before you despatch telegrams of congratulations, let us just point out that this is something of a mixed blessing. You see, we had thought it would be a cunning ruse to send our short film to various ‘gay film festivals’ so that our message could reach the intended audience (to preach to the un-converted, if you will) and to that end we gave ourselves fictional actor names and credited it all to a made-up writing/directing duo of two brothers (because as we all know, the film world is rife with nepotism, LOL!) Our master-plan was this; our film would be screened, the audience would be hit (whack!) straight in the face with our message, the mote would fall from their eyes, etc etc, and ‘Bob’s your Uncle,’ we leave the venue with a couple of hundred new recruits in tow! We had of course entered our film to the LLGFF (London Lesbian & Gay Film Festival) but to no avail, (we discovered, too late, that in order to qualify you must include a shower scene).
‘QueerFest’ bills itself as “an alternative, counter-cultural antidote to the increasing homogenisation of homosexuality” (whatever that means!). The venue was a disused warehouse in East London, and the audience members did not much resemble the sartorially snazzy sorts I’ve previously come across on my sojourns around Soho. Instead there was lots of green and purple hair (dyed, presumably, one can only hope!) facial piercings, and quite a few rather mean, burly looking types with shaven heads and tattoos (and that was just the women, LOL!**)
The films were mostly rather gruesome. There were shower scenes aplenty (presumably more failed entrants to the LLGFF), indeed most of the films blurred into one long shower scene, but an exception which will doubtless linger in my nightmares was the repulsive Corpse Lover, in which a mortuary attendant opens a freezer to pull out the naked body of a young man and then…..(but I shall go no further! I’m sure you can all guess the rest!) There was another called Guitar Licks about two Canadian lesbian singer-songwriters. It’s a case of opposites attract when Ani Difranco-fan Brenda meets Melissa Etheridge-fan Wanda at an open mic night in Toronto and they go for a coffee in a late-night café… (I’m quoting from the festival brochure here). It was rather tedious, but it livened up somewhat towards the end when, after taking a late-night skinny dip in one of Canada’s Great Lakes, the two women are mauled by a grizzly bear whilst trying to retrieve their clothes. Dan and myself both cheered on the bear, (we felt it represented traditional Christian civilization reasserting itself!) prompting angry looks from all around us. Finally, our film was shown! But instead of the desired Damascene conversions, there was either much tittering throughout, (they thought it was a comedy!) or else bored indifference.
Dan and myself were in shock as the lights came up and the festival organiser announced that a “very special guest” was arriving to dole out the prizes, whereupon a coffin was wheeled in to the music from “The Omen” and out sprang a drag queen dressed as Margaret Thatcher! Well, Dan and myself were practically choking on our popcorn at this sacrilege! “You’re all disgusting and immoral!” bellowed the tranny Mrs T to pantomime boos and hisses from the audience. “Maggie” then proceeded to hand out ‘Sebastianes’ from “her” capacious handbag.*** (In case you’re wondering, Corpse Lover won the bronze and Guitar Licks won the silver.)
Dan went up to collect the award on our behalf and used his speech to reveal to the crowd that the film was not in fact a comedy and begged them all to heed it’s angry message, but instead of the expected epiphanies, the crowd all hooted still further, they thought Dan’s speech was all part of some ghastly extended parody!
We both stormed out, furiously. But as we left via the side-exit, who should we bump into but my hideous sister Bryony standing on the street, cigarette en route to slanderous mouth!
“Bryony!” I shrieked, my suspicions instantly aroused “what are you doing here?”
“I came to see a film by one of my work colleagues, I had no idea your film would be showing!” snapped my errant sibling. She then gestured to the stick-thin young fellow standing beside her with giant curly hair, clothed in “hipster” attire (Kim Jong-Il T-shirt, red braces, black skinny jeans) “This is Charlie Wyrrel-Fife, he wrote and directed Corpse Lover, he’s also head writer on The Fimbles.” (yes, really! These are the sorts of depraved minds at work on our kids TV shows!)
“OMG,” squealed Charlie, “So you’re Bry’s Bro, yah?”
He extended his tiny hand to shake mine, but Dan angrily dragged me off up the street to the tube station, tossing our Golden Sebastiane into a skip on the way there.
*The ‘Golden Sebastiane’ prize is, as you might have surmised, a blasphemous & idolatrous spray-painted figurine of the scantily-clad saint impaled with arrows….there’s something a little odd about anyone who would find such a macabre image ‘homo-erotic’ don’t you think?
**No, REALLY, that WAS just the women!
***No, I don’t quite get the logic of Margaret Thatcher returning from the dead, arriving at a gay film festival to abuse the crowd and then thinking, “oh, ok, whilst I’m here I may as well stay and hand out some awards.” Somehow it doesn’t quite sound like the uncompromising “not for turning” Iron Lady we all knew and loved, does it?