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Krampusnacht 2018. Part One.

Sun, 17 Nov 2019 17:03:42 GMT

Our Austrian adventure began in the usual mundane fashion at Bristol airport, where EasyJet had the temerity to send us a broken aeroplane, we had a three hour delay while we waited for a more air-worthy vehicle.
Finally we were airborne, and in a couple of hours we were in beautiful Vienna, which was looking suitably seasonal with a light dusting of snow. From the airport, we boarded the metro to the Leopoldstadt area where we found our hotel, Der Wilhelmshof, a modern, and rather arty place in a nineteenth century building.
Being ancient, we felt justified in having a quick bite to eat in the hotel bar and retiring to our bed early. It had been a long day.

We were up (reasonably) early, and after a hearty breakfast, ventured out onto the streets of Vienna. I was particularly looking forward to visiting the National Library, and after an hours walk, we found it. Closed. Disappointed, but undeterred, we found The Natural History Museum a short walk away, there were many fascinating artefacts to be found, and we spent a couple of captivating hours there. Most compelling for me was the mass grave of 47 soldiers who died in The Battle of Lutzen in 1632, represented here precisely as the archaeologists found it, for me it perfectly demonstrates the horror and wickedness of war.

From the museum, we made our way through the vibrant streets of Vienna to Stephensplatz, perhaps the most beautiful square in Vienna, which is dominated by the imposing St Stephen’s Cathedral, a perfect example of ‘our kind of architecture’. I may not believe in the existence of the one true god, however, I am always impressed by the buildings erected by his followers, who had way more money than sense.
The inside of the Cathedral is as impressive as its exterior, however, what really interested us, was the crypt (of course). The vast Stephansdom crypt is accessed via a staircase to the left of the main floor, it is divided into a number of smaller crypts and catacombs, and is still used for its original purpose to this day, although entry requirements are strict, you will need to be royalty or an archbishop to spend your eternity in this place. Within the cold walls of the Ducal Crypt, the organs of Emperors, Queens and Princes are kept, we stood surrounded by over 60 stone jars containing the viscera and intestines of Vienna’s great and good, including Empress Maria Therisia’s stomach.
In 1735, the bubonic plague decimated the population of Vienna, and the bodies were piling up, all the local cemeteries and charnel houses were literally oozing corpses, so pits were dug in the floor of the crypt, and thousands of bodies were thrown into them.
The Viennese are an orderly lot, so they sent down some prison inmates to scrub the flesh from the bones of the stinking, rotting corpses, breaking the skeletons down into individual bones and stacking them neatly in deep rows. The smell is gone, but the bones and skulls remain, glaring balefully from the carefully arranged tiers at their living visitors.

The next day, we found The National Library open, and it was worth the wait. Commissioned by Emperor Charles VI in the eighteenth century, it contains over 200,000 books, and is perhaps the most beautiful room I have ever seen. The rich patina of carved wood and marble causes the space to glow, and the smell of all those leather bound tomes is intoxicating, being surrounded by all that accumulated knowledge was oddly exhilarating. If you ever find yourself in Vienna, you simply must visit this inspiring place.

On the way back to our hotel, we stopped at The Sacher Café, attached to the infamous Sacher Hotel, home of the Sacher Torte, where we sampled their most famous offering. The coffee was good….

Only one sleep until Salzburg, and our first ever Krampusnacht parade!

Krampusnacht 2018 Part Two.

Mon, 21 Jan 2019 20:41:59 GMT

Our ‘hotel’ in Salzburg had the uninspiring name ‘K6 Rooms’ and our room was in fact one of several in a block of flats adopted by the hotel proper which was situated across the road, it was a perfectly comfortable room, and surprisingly quiet given its location close to the railway station on a busy street.
By the time we had found our room, settled in and popped over to burger king for a not very traditional Viennese meal, it was time to make our way to the Christmas market and The Krampus Parade.

The following interlude is a lesson in what happens when one fails to research ahead of time, and how easily things can be lost in translation when talking to the lovely lady at reception.
We arrived with time to spare at Linzer Gasse, the side street where the Krampus parade was set to begin. After a short wait, I heard the rattling of chains, and the clanging of cow bells.
St Nicholas appeared first, talking jovially to the children and handing out sweets, he was followed by the Krampus’ who scampered around, shaking their respective booty’s, causing the cow bells they all wore attached to their belts to clang menacingly. My excitement levels began to rise, alas, however, it was short lived, there were perhaps a dozen Krampus, all of whom were surprisingly well behaved, and the whole thing was over in twenty minutes.
I have never felt such a sense of underwhelmed deflation in my life.

Determined not to allow our disappointment to ruin the evening, and keeping in mind we still had our night in Bad Goisern to look forward to, we made our way to the Christmas Market, across the river at the Alter Markt, where we soaked up the infectious seasonal atmosphere and enjoyed the many stalls selling everything from Schnapps to baubels, we did take the opportunity to purchase a hand blown glass Krampus tree decoration, which improved my mood somewhat.

But Hark! What did I hear? The distant sound of rusted chains dragging upon cobbled streets? The jarring, yet melodious sound of countless cowbells swaying on the waists of many stampeding Krampus’?
Ms Crockofshit and I hurried toward the sound, and arriving at the junction of Alter Markt and Kranzlmarkt, we blundered directly into the head of the Krampus parade, and to my great delight, there were hundreds of them!
We spent the following couple of hours or so, marvelling at the many and varied Krampus’. Participants had come from all over Austria to show off their beautifully crafted costumes and the extraordinarily detailed carved wooden masks, it was indeed a fitting tribute to the Yule Lord, and I am sure he would have been pleased with the enthusiastic display from the participants and the delighted crowd.
There was a certain degree of crowd participation, there being no barriers between the crowd and the Krampus’ We all received a few gentle whippings from well aimed switches, and everyone got the opportunity to get a sweaty, goaty hug and a photo with at least one Krampus.

When the final Krampus had passed by, we followed the parade around the back streets, where we saw more than one exhausted Krampus collapsed exhausted and dripping with sweat in voluminous costumes, their shaggy head dress and horned masks hastily discarded on the cobbles as friends attempted to cool them down with bottles of water. We picked our way through these scenes of carnage, and followed the still upright members of the parade to a gloomy tunnel, where they milled around for some minutes before bursting forth into the Christmas Market, proceeding to scamper around the stalls trying to terrifying the children, although Austrian children seem to find them more amusing than anything else, there was more laughter than screaming.
The parade ended with many of the Krampus’ invading a stage which had been used for a Christmas choir earlier in the evening, I am not sure if this was planned or not, however, the man with the microphone who was trying to calm the Krampus’ down, was shouting a lot and my German being shamefully bad, I could not tell if he was having a good time or pleading for mercy.
To witness the wonderful tradition of the Krampusnacht parade in this special place was truly a wonderful experience, one of the best of my life, and we still had Bad Goisern to come, regarded by many as the best of the best!

The following day was spent exploring beautiful Salzburg, which has much to offer, however, in the interest of brevity, I shall tell you about our favourite find, St Sebastian’s cemetery.
Built in 1502, this deliciously macabre boneyard is the final resting place of both Mozart’s Wife and Father, Archbishop Wolf Dietrich, and the famous occultist Theophrastus Paracelsus, credited by many as being the father of modern medicine. Within the walls of this melancholy place, countless carvings abound to remind the visitor of their own mortality, death itself is depicted here, and many skulls, skulls with snakes emerging from their eye sockets, skulls with wings, skulls at the feet of angels, even skulls to hold holy water, you get the picture. Ms Crockofshit and I spent a most enjoyable time here, trying to spot the more unusual carvings.
Next: Bad Goisern!

Krampusnacht.

Sun, 25 Nov 2018 14:42:39 GMT

Only seven days until Ms Crockofshit and I fly to Austria for a week's sojourn, during which time, we shall be attending at least two Krampusnacht parades, one in Salzburg, and another in Bad Goisern, when we shall surprise our old friend Krampus!
Will you spot 'The Real Deal' in amongst all the costumed roisterers?

The Malacoda Club.

Sun, 26 Aug 2018 16:10:09 GMT

It is surprising the stories one may stumble upon while enjoying a bracing walk on the beautifully rugged Somerset coastline....

Pigash Island, an uninspiring spit of grey rock in the muddy, turbulent waters of the Severn Sea. It lay deserted and unused until 1864, when Henry Pigash commissioned the construction of a pier to house his private club. A place for ‘gentlemen of quality’ to relax in decadent luxury, indulging a proclivity for pastimes they preferred to keep hidden from their families and the general population.
Local folklore tells of Hafren, a water nymph, a usually benevolent creature enraged by the presence of this depraved establishment within her element, who destroyed The Malacoda Club in a furious storm, shattering the jetty and razing the buildings, killing all inside.
The Pigash family quickly erected signs forbidding trespass on the island, leaving what remained of the club to crumble in deserted isolation.
150 years after the destruction of the pier, Jamie Clutterbuck zipped up his wet-suit and waded into the coiling waters he knew so well, the undertow was strong, more so than usual, but he felt confident, he had done this countless times, being a wild swimmer of considerable experience.
Recognising his miscalculation too late, and in the merciless grip of the current, he struggled for twenty minutes until he tangled in the decaying iron stanchions of Pigash pier. Exhausted and shivering in the November chill, and in no condition to risk the swim to the mainland, he plunged back into the frigid water, allowing the current to drag him onto the rocks of Pigash Island where he lay on the shoreline gazing up at the decomposing East Pavilion.
He heard a splash and the crunch of shale, shifting his gaze toward the sound, he saw laying partly in the water within inches of his feet, a young woman, her bloated, opaque flesh peppered with hundreds of bites. She opened her mouth impossibly wide, bearing down on him, maw bristling with dozens of blunt, nail like teeth.
Jamie scrambled away, kicking his feet desperately, digging into the sharp scree with his elbows, he had no doubt what the cavernous mouth with its rows of teeth meant, what her intention was. He gained his feet, scrambling up to the cluster of broken buildings above. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw she was not pursuing, remaining on the beach, glaring at him.
He reached the top and stumbled into a courtyard, where a group of indistinct men dressed in dank evening suits were engaged in some raucous entertainment. As Jamie watched, a dazed woman fought her way from within their midst, she ran at the stone safety wall, and without breaking her stride, leapt over it.
‘NO!’ Jamie shouted instinctively.
The men turned to face him, their hazy forms coalescing into something more solid, each one unhinged his jaw in the same impossibly wide manner as the thing on the beach, bearing rows of nail like teeth as they howled at him.
He didn’t run far, halted at the break in the wall where the jetty once connected to the island. He glanced behind, it seemed the dead did not shamble haltingly in the stereotypical manner of the zombie, they rushed at him with grim purpose. Jamie eyed the rocks and the churning water below as the bellowing ghosts drew closer.
His decision was made for him when a slender, sallow hand grasped his ankle, yanking him downward. Hitting the rocks, his skull cracked, and several ribs snapped, puncturing both lungs.
A final bubbling breath frothed over his lips and it was over.
Then it began.
He screamed in agony, the woman he had first seen was stripping the flesh from his arm using a flint knife, more of his body was being peeled in a similar fashion by other young women. He watched helplessly as they efficiently removed his skin in neat strips, shrieking as his tendons were stripped away, the fat and muscle scraped from his bones.
They cracked his skeletonised limbs apart at the joints with practised fingers, snapping ribs with ease, stacking his bones neatly next to his flesh. His head, now independent of its body, rolled slightly on the rock, and his dead eyes saw what he was unable to see in life. A bridge jutting from the island. It was composed of human bone, lashed together with strips of flesh and tendons, and studded at uneven intervals with the heads of countless men, women, and children, each one returned his horrified stare, wailing in agony and terror as their bones and tissues ground against one another’s under terrible strain as they projected out over the water.
The pain in his dismembered body, which was now ready to join the shrieking bridge, was an all-encompassing white noise of torment, something that made no sense, yet already seemed perfectly natural. One of the women, the one he had first encountered on the beach, picked his head up by the hair, bringing his face level with her own.
He blinked at her proximity, trying to focus on her face, she helpfully moved him a few inches back.
‘Thank you’. She said. ‘Your contribution is appreciated.’
‘Fuck you.’ Jamie said, feeling incongruously, but profoundly offended at being dangled in such a tactless manner.
The dead woman smiled indulgently. ‘This is the only way, we cannot leave this cursed place by any means created by the living, this bridge is our only way out.’
Jamie rolled his eyes upward, indicating the men watching from above. ‘You think they will ever let you go?’
Her face registered a moment’s hesitation before she flung his head at the feet of the other women.
‘Get him lashed on girls, only a few more and we’ll be free.’
One of the gentlemen above snorted derisively.
‘That’s correct Joan, if you ladies of the night continue your endeavours, we will all be able to move on soon enough. In the meantime, you have other obligations besides construction work, now bring your pretty little sit-upon up here, I have a use for it.’

He Digs A Hole, By Danger Slater.

Sat, 12 May 2018 17:35:56 GMT

Initially it seems somewhat formulaic, we have heard it before many times, boy meets girl in the rope aisle of a DIY store, while contemplating which one might best hold their weight. Boy and girl fall in love, get married, buy a beautiful home in a quiet neighbourhood, marriage becomes stale, boredom and contempt set in. The boy, now a man, rips of his hands with a power saw and rams digging tools into the bloody stumps and commences digging a very, very deep hole. Are you seeing the subtext? Are the metaphors becoming clear? You had better hope so, or the narrator will not be at all pleased. At some point, the man and his wife disappear into his massive hole, and quickly realise what a pointless waste their lives are, and in the end they are nothing more than worm food, or perhaps sex toys for worms. At some later point, (no spoilers here), they probably have some kind of realisation, which could crush them completely, or make them stronger, helping them to conquer and overcome their situation, I would not like to say which.
Modern human existence comes in for some scathing analysis, however the story is not depressing, but witty, fearless, horrific and funny. Written in a flowing, friendly, 'bantery', manner, the narrator made me laugh often, and I believed he was talking directly to me. In my opinion, Carlton Mellick III has been the King of Bizarro fiction for years. Look out Mr III, Danger is gaining on you fast! Read this book, you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll google worm porn, you'll vomit up your gizzards!

Griggling.

Sun, 18 Mar 2018 12:52:27 GMT

Hello, my name is Vladimir, and I am a Logophile.
The English language is indeed a rich and beautiful one, however I have a particular affection for words not found in any dictionary, wonderful, colloquial words used in the many regions of these sceptered isles.
Being the latest in an ancient family endemic to the beautiful county of Somerset, it is natural that I have a particular interest in the dialect of this venerable Shire.
I would therefore like to share with you some of these little-known words. The first word in this new category of my personal blog page entitled, 'Logophilia,' is:

GRIGGLING.

'Griggling,' is a word used in Somerset to describe the act of gathering apples left on the trees after the main harvest has been picked.

Nemetona, Goddess of the sacred grove.

Sick House by Jeff Strand.

Sun, 18 Feb 2018 19:54:22 GMT

Reading Sick House is like entering a mangled elevator in a blackout, you only have yourself to blame as the cables snap and you are plunged at break-neck speed into the visceral dark recesses, crushing the maimed corpses of previous terrified passengers along the way. Finally you hit the ground feeling nauseous, dazed and violated, screaming, AGAIN, AGAIN!

Jeff Strand is the master of horror-comedy, I laughed out loud often, a necessary reprieve from the relentless tension, which was relieved only by the sudden, visceral violence, followed swiftly by another witty, sarcastic observation. The writing is nimble and flowing, dragging the reader along from one well-crafted scene to the next, and just when you think things couldn’t get any worse for the unfortunate Gardner family, of course, they do.

The Gardners are in the wrong place at the wrong time as their family home is invaded by intruders from beyond the grave, Boney, Chokey, and stretchy, three ghosts, who in life had been ruthless killers for hire, murdered themselves by a witch named Gina in revenge for her sister’s gruesome murder. The Three Stooges of ghosts have returned, from somewhere that is not quite hell to suck the energy from the house and its occupants so they might return to the land of the living.

The fight for survival begins, and it seems the odds are stacked heavily against the Gardners, Boyd, the father, in desperation even finds himself visiting ‘Not Quite Hell’ in his desperate attempt to save his family. It is here that Jeff Strand’s extraordinary talent for description impresses the most, Boyd’s experiences here are both horrifying and very, very funny. I had to choose a quote from this sequence, it was difficult, there were many worthy of repeating, however, I believe this one sums it up:

‘Many people would love to be a severed head. Less responsibility. Nobody telling you to lose weight. No fish heads protruding from your chest.’

If you enjoy horror, a good ghost story, and are prepared to laugh at some very dark subject matter, I cannot recommend this book enough.

Serafina and the Black Cloak by Robert Beatty.

Sun, 18 Feb 2018 16:59:49 GMT

A captivating story, well told using language easily grasped by your little pagans, though not in the least patronising, so much so, that I found myself absorbed in the tale, forgetting this novel is aimed at the 8+ age range. Many moons have passed over my head since I was eight years old!

The story, set in the sprawling Biltmore estate, North Carolina, is certainly dark, and at times violent, though never gratuitously so, Serafina’s chilling initial encounter with the ‘Black Cloak,’ left me breathless, and perhaps some parents may find the subject matter too intense for their delicate little flowers. Parental discretion may be in order, as with any book, movie, video game or TV show, the final responsibility of course resides with the parent, only they are in a position to judge their offspring’s maturity in this respect.

This is not a tale for ‘snowflakes’ then, however if your 8+ children love a good story, well told, and enjoy losing themselves in fictitious worlds, that not unlike the real one can at times be dark, and populated by characters that can be unpleasant, even malevolent, without causing them lasting trauma, then this bewitching book is for them.

Serafina has much to teach your children if you allow it, living in the bowels of the great house in its dank basement, while on the floors above the gilded and the privileged live in the lap of luxury, she does not wallow in self-pity. Indeed, she is proud of her position as ‘Chief Rat Catcher’ as she lives a life unknown and unimaginable to the gentrified owners of Biltmore. She does not allow her lowly position to stop her fighting for what she believes to be right, she will not be held back in discovering who she truly is, and establishing her place in the world. She knows that if she works hard, and treats those around her with respect, she will earn respect herself, and this determination and self-confidence is displayed during her struggle to identify and battle ‘The Black Cloak.’

If you are looking for a positive role model for your offspring, especially your daughters, you would do well to introduce them to the brave, clever, and big-hearted Serafina.

Lupercalia.

Tue, 13 Feb 2018 20:22:43 GMT

Happy Lupercalia all of you hopeless Paramours!

The Ides of February are upon us, and it is time to celebrate the ancient Pagan fertility festival of Lupercalia, named for the she-wolf, or ‘Lupa’, who is said to have raised Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome. Tradition has it that Pagan Priests would disrobe and sacrifice a goat for fertility and a dog for purification.

That really chaffs you know!

The men would slice the goat hide into strips, plunging them into the sacrificial blood, they would then take to the streets, whipping the naked women who lined up to be slapped with the blood soaked strips in the belief it would increase their fertility.

Let the whipping commence!

Later, as the celebrations continued, all of the unattached young women present would place their names in a large urn, the bachelors would draw out a name and be paired with their chosen maiden for the remainder of the festival. Some of these matches were known to survive the festival, and even result in marriage, which may conceivably account for the ‘love connection’.

Emperor Claudius II.

It is perhaps unsurprising that this was a very popular festival which would last for several days, commonly from 13th to 15th of February, and it is one that Christianity had trouble stamping out. As is the habit of the insidious creeping death known as the Roman Catholic Church, they decided to absorb the festival, renaming it St Valentine’s day in honour of not one, but two of their ‘Martyrs’, both named Valentine.

The Pagan Emperor Claudius 2nd was, it must be said, a bit ‘murdery’, especially where Christians were concerned, though these executions were scarcely more than insignificant ‘pre-emptive strikes’ when one considers the industrial scale murder that Christianity was about to unleash.

One of the Valentines losing his head.

The first Valentine, Valentine of Terni, was executed under Claudius, though by the direct order of a prefect with the wonderful name of Placid Furius around AD 200. The second, Valentine of Rome was executed around AD 289. Legend has it both men died on 14th February, which of course suited the Christian usurpers very well.

Pope Gelasius.

It was in the 5th century that Pope Gelasius combined the new ‘St Valentine’s Day’, with Lupercalia in his attempt to finally dislodge the Pagan rituals. However the festival continued to be a watered down version of its original incarnation, still a drunken bacchanal, but with more clothes and less whipping with blood- soaked animal skin.

Fernando celebrates Valentines day.

You may of course choose to enjoy this time as you see fit, and I sincerely hope you have a wonderful time with the love of your life. Have fun exchanging cards and chocolates in honour of two dubious ‘martyrs’ representing a religious empire you may or may not believe in, which erroneously re- named the celebration after them for nothing more than convenience.

Personally, to acknowledge the burgeoning fertility of the land and the beauty of this Planet Earth I call home, I will be disrobing, wassailing and carousing while whipping Ms Crockofshit’s exposed fundament with bloody strips of goat!

HUZZA!

The Unhappy Medium.

Sat, 10 Feb 2018 13:22:16 GMT

I was obliged to download this superb book on the beach in Croatia recently, despite having more than fifty unread novels on my Kindle. (I know, I know, I have an acute case of abibliophobia, and as a result, I hoard real books and digital ones.)

I was compelled to download this particular book after spending the first day and a half of our sojourn listening to Ms Crockofshit shrieking with laughter and watching the tears roll down her face as she writhed about on the sunbed next to me.

I simply had to read it myself, to find out if it really was that good, or if my dearly beloved was indulging too heavily in the 'cocktail of the day'. Download it I did, and it transpired her one word review, (GENIUS!') was not in the least over stated.

I will not bore you with a synopsis, you can read that in the book description, I will simply tell you what I thought of it.

It is one of the funniest books I have ever read, the characters are all believable (even the dead ones), likeable (even the evil ones), and three dimensional.

The story takes place in various locations, from sleepy Dorset, to the big city, rural Spain, and even Purgatory. Great writing is capable of transporting the reader to anywhere, by this standard, this is indeed great writing.

If you enjoy a tremendous, imaginative, story, told with passion and affection, and if you like laughing until your face aches, your stomach hurts, and your face is wet with tears, and if you don't mind nearby people staring at you with amazement and amusement, then you must buy this book. You will not regret it.

If you read this book and don't pull a muscle somewhere in your face, then you would probably qualify for a job as a lower level administrative assistant somewhere in the bowels of purgatory."

If like myself, you are an admirer of Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, I believe you will enjoy the work of T.J.Brown tremendously.

Connect with T.J.Brown on facebook here: www.facebook.com/The-Unhappy-Medium-520092791442428/