There goes the neighbourhood

In 2010, George Monbiot partook in a risque comparison between newly released blockbuster ‘Avatar’, and a period of history of which I had no prior comprehensive knowledge of: the 17th Century European-orchestrated genocide of Native Americans (ooh, that’s a bit wordy and forbidding) also known as the ‘Civilisation of the Western Hemisphere’ (much better). Between 2010 and present day, I had worked for a company owned by the Seminole Tribe of Florida, who reacquired land and assets from the US Federal Government between 1940 – 2000, after the introduction of the ‘Indian Claims Commission’ – an enormous compensation package set up as a cause of restitution for over half a millennia’s worth of maltreatment.

Monbiot’s article had been stashed in a draw for 6 years until a recent reviewing of Mel Gibson’s ‘Apocalypto’, which culminates with a Conquistador ship breaching the horizon of Guatemala (much to the bemusement of the indigenous Mayas). It reminded me to revisit the topic, Monbiot’s article and US scholar David Stannard’s core text: ‘American Holocaust’.

“I am the Nina, the Pinta, the Santa Maria…”

There is an argument which serves to suggest that there is little point in criticising rationale for an event which a) happened centuries ago, and b) has no direct connection outside ones influence. However, to be aware of these happenings surely serves to help understand the tensions between cultures and how certain animosities between peoples are formed over substantial periods of time. What has spurred me to place a marker is the sheer ignorance we have displayed towards these events, events which – by Stannard’s reckoning – led to the extermination of 100,000,000 natives by the end of the 19th Century (displayed in numerical form to lay bare the atrocity in its fullest form).

Regardless of timescale, how can it be that such a wholesale slaughter of almost an entire race be brushed aside like a historical irrelevancy? Furthermore, how can the standard-bearers of this genocide be revered in such a fashion? One suggestion is that when you destroy 95% of a population and become the official mouthpiece of its outcome, it is relatively easy to tell the story you want to tell, especially when you have the backing of the state, the Church and countless other benefactors.

The majority of accounts detailing the events come directly from the Europeans. The most puzzling of all is the degree of admiration shown towards the natives before the skirmishes, like a hunter appreciating the beauty of a lion before the kill. One of Stanndard’s extracts recalls the account of an English settler Edmund S. Morgan, who recounts:

Wingina [the local chief] welcomed the visitors, and the Indians gave freely of their supplies to the English. By the time the colonists were settled, it was too late to plant corn, and they seemed to be helpless when it came to living off the land.

The natives were praised for their advanced farming methods, efficiency and consideration for the Earth’s resources, and welcoming disposition towards ‘visitors’. It was this latter naivety – coupled with a natural inertness towards conflict – which ultimately led to their near-extermination.

The Indians could have done the English in simply by deserting them. They did not desert them, however, and in that act they sealed their fate.

In many cases, everything from smallpox, typhoid and yellow fever preceded Columbus, Cortez and Cartier, destroying a population who had not previously been exposed to such plague. Through the eyes of the Conquistadors and colonialists who brought the diseases, this was God’s ruling, making them impervious to the same bacterial infections that ravaged the indigenous.

There are particular reasons why American Holocaust grabbed me in the way it did. Firstly, for what seems to be such an integral moment in the human chronicle, it receives less attention on the UK educational syllabus than the Normans, and the majority of Americans would rather celebrate Columbus Day, albeit certain states choose the counter-celebration Indigenous Peoples’ Day.

There is a new trend which attributes historical acknowledgement to ‘white guilt’, with political writer Shelby Steele relating it to Black Power:

Whites (and American institutions) must acknowledge historical racism to show themselves redeemed by it, but once they acknowledge it, they lose moral authority over everything having to do with race, equality, social justice, poverty and so on.

I am more inclined to say that my source of outspokenness has derived from a lack of information around such events, and if everyone had grown up with better understanding of our origins, our past discrimination and piousness, perhaps we would have evolved to become a more tolerant society.

My generation may end up being defined by the Brexit vote, by Donald Trump, Theresa May and Assad, but it will come with a dose of Indigenous Peoples’ Day, democratic revolution across the Middle East, the lowering of the Confederate Flag in South Carolina, ‘Fearless Girl’ and Gay Marriage equality in Ireland to name a few. In these instances, people have overcome oppression and prejudice in the face of adversity – in whatever form it may take – but there are those who still believe that they are more entitled, more inherently deserving of special treatment than others, simply because of their birthright.

Amazon: American Holocaust, by David Stannard


“Do you want the 32-ounce, or the large?”

“Shit, how big is that large?”

“You goin’ to want to pull yer car ’round back, I goin’ start the pump”.

Bill Hicks viewed his country through the eyes of a travelling Englishman, who saw the ridiculousness in America’s fixation with excess, and exposed it in a way only an outsider could. The opening dialogue between Hicks and a truck stop clerk is not a million miles from reality. Rob enters the car from stage left with a elbow-catching bucket cup draped in DNC colours and slogans – “When I realised it was Republican, I had to find a Democrat cup and decant from one into the other”.

It was my fourth trip to the States, after two jaunts to New York City (2005, 2011) and a third to Florida in 2013. After every few years, the itch regroups and inevitably must be scratched. This particular trip took myself and three friends up and down the length of California, beginning and ending in Los Angeles and visiting all the ‘gap yar’ hot-spots you have come to know and love from recounts of countless other fuckwits before us. The difference, or course, is that we were embarking on this trip at 27/28 years old, complete with contact lens cleaner, travel sweets and netted socks.

Even with our ‘experienced’ touch, we were still caught out by the routines of American life, arguing over tip entitlement like pensioners, and failing to use our British naivety to negotiate our way out of toll fares when we ran out of change (the charm turned to panic when the attempt failed and we frantically rifled through glove box and seat crevasses to make up the difference). We were eventually let off the outstanding 90 cents but I think this was out of pity than panache.


Once out of the clutches of America’s interstate, tutting at carpool lane chancers as we went, we were ready and free to explore California’s vast, beautiful landscape.

A note on California’s vast, beautiful landscape: allow me to clear up the mystique surrounding travelling imagery which so often finds its way onto your social media pages, making you feel under-accomplished and untraveled. California is a spectacularly serene place, but still has all the tourist hallmarks of a coaching holiday around the Algarve. The idea of a zen explorer gazing longingly over sequestered scenery is wholly artificial in the majority of cases. In their photography, they hide behind the fourth wall and successfully restrict the viewer’s gaze towards a vista to which the subject faces out to. Pan the camera back and you will see the car park, the picnic tables, the scores of camera-clutching tourists and bin-circling wasps.

Furthermore, why travel thousands of miles to one of these places of beauty, only to turn your back on it for the purpose of a ‘selfie’?  Consider these wanderlust wankers firmly placed in Room 101.


Yosemite National Park

In the interest of myth-busting, the one idiosyncrasy of American lifestyle immune to prosecution is its love of ‘fried everything’. Over the course of two and a half weeks, we sampled the finest fast-food delicacies the US had to offer – if it didn’t end in ‘y’s’, we didn’t eat there. The commitment to the cause became almost laughable (where else can you get a breakfast milkshake on the side of your peanut butter omelette?) The country has a slight eating problem, and I don’t think anyone cares. My personal highlight was hearing a proud patriot announce “I don’t push drugs, I only push chicken”. This, by its very nature, is what has made America great for its 69% larger than life population.

We were left to our own devices in California. Without restraint, the Golden State would have happily let us eat ourselves to death (or diabetes), and I am convinced that we would have – I gained over 7 pounds in the relatively short time we were there, and showed no sign of slowing.

Sporting fixtures gave us another reason to continue our food odyssey. Our first taste came in Oakland, as the A’s marched to an uncharacteristic win over the Texas Rangers, complete with a 7 run haul in the 2nd inning. The fortune did not spread to the AT&T Park, as a lacklustre performance by a Wild Card chasing San Francisco Giants team failed to get so much as a man on 3rd the entire game. Seemingly, they saved their best performances for after we left the city, winning five games on the bounce to secure the Wild Card spot over the Cardinals and the Mets. The Giants had won their most recent World Series titles in 2010, 2012 & 2014, and were riding on the crest of a superstitious wave, looking to continue their ‘beliEVEN’ run in 2016. It wasn’t to be, and they lost the post-season playoff to the Chicago Cubs.


Giants vs Rockies – 29.09.16

We were as active participants on the music scene as the sporting scene, with an impromptu visit to Whisky A Go-Go in Los Angeles to discover Manchester based ‘Partisan’, before catching Abbey Grange at the The Viper Room, famous for being the venue where River Phoenix suffered an overdose and died, or perhaps more famous for being the venue where Jason Donovan suffered a drug-induced seizure and survived.

The most eventful gig came with Echo and the Bunnymen at the Regency Ballroom, San Francisco, where talking at any point during the concert was supposedly prohibited, and Lee was quite openly discriminated against for being too tall. The exchange went something like this:

“You’re too tall, can you move to the back?”

“Erm.. no?”

“Fuck you”

“Fuck off”

“Fuck you”

“Fuck off”

“Excuse me, can you both stop talking, I can’t hear the music”.

Ian McCulloch was so blissfully unaware, and spent most of the gig dishing out Scouse phrases and asking the crowd if they understood what he was saying.


“The last time I checked, this was America”

I expect that if Donald Trump succeeded in becoming President, this is exactly the kind of nonsense he would overturn. Who are Jack’s Diner to say that you cannot go pant-less in your own country? IN YOUR OWN COUNTRY! The sooner Trump takes office and starts removing the buttoned shackles of oppression, the better.

We rocked up at San Francisco in the hope of catching the first Presidential debate with some locals. Indeed we did, and shared moments of uncertainty and frustration with a nation being torn apart by two unstable parties and an overall obsolete political system. San Francisco, according to the barmaid, was overwhelmingly Democratic (or anti-Trump, whichever way you want to look at it) and declared as a rule of thumb that the coastal states share a similar ideology, whereas centre states go the other way. Give or take a few swing stakes, and you have the same patterns and allegiances as told throughout history. The barmaid said she was embarrassed for us to see US politics in such a light as the debate was presented, but we were quick to reassure her that British politics wear the same masks, only in different suits.

Mark in Monterrey held a very different opinion of his country’s destiny. In his own words, he “fucking hates Hilary Clinton, that evil bitch”. When asked where this resentment hails from, the answer was a little skewed, with a cocktail of Bill-bashing and ethical criticisms (imagine!). When faced with what Jake described as a gentle Theroux-esk probing, the responses became more fallacious.

“Since Angela Merkel let immigrants swarm into Germany, one thousand women have been raped – one thousand! ONE THOUSAND!”


Mark, whose possessions are safe and guns are plenty

We decided to grab a late dinner/early breakfast with Mark, who continued on his one man crusade, carefully explaining that for ‘every shooting of a black man by cops, ten cops have been killed by black men’. We asked him about gun possession, Mark – a Vietnam veteran – owns a lot of guns, and proceeded to tell us which gun he would use to dispatch a potential intruder in various different situations. The AR-15 seemed to be his weapon of choice for most scenarios: “If you’re going to come into my house, I’m going to fuck you up”. Strangely, Jake and I found ourselves unable to disagree, but in the same instance, admitted we would try to negotiate an outcome beneficial for both parties, and failing that, reach for the frying pan.

All being said, I still have a incurable obsession with America, and California is a treasured jewel. I very much enjoyed coming away from Las Vegas in the black, after two consecutive nights winning on Blackjack (I figure I won $150.00 and lost around $140-145.00). We revelled in the majesty of a Nevada sunset, and watched the temperature plummet in a matter of minutes. We gazed at the Hollywood hills – albeit from afar – and placed our hands in the casts of Monroe, Crosby.. and Segal.


Elephant Seals along the Highway 1 Coastline

On the return flight, the subject of a 5 hour delay and greeted with the British compo contingent, I watched three crap films and attempted to spread a rock-solid stick of butter onto a bread roll. The Metrolink photograph in Terminal 2 showed the expressions of dull-faced commuters, welcoming you home with a ‘please don’t talk to me’ outlook. The rain poured in Manchester and our taxi got caught in the rush hour traffic. And yet, we are still somehow revelled over in the states. As one taxi driver put it, “Britain is our last remaining Ally”. Is it any wonder that our trains are on the same tracks?

A note on neologisms

Occasionally a newly coined word, phrase or acronym derived from the Internet will make its way into everyday conversation. It’s a form of dialogue which I have yet to come to terms with.

I find it downright bizarre when a respectable media outlet popularises a term which originated online, usually conceived on a Reddit or 4Chan forum. Brands are as equally at fault, and can often result in embarassing consequences when used without consideration of the term’s origin.

There is no place for Internet speak in the real world, but it is staggering how easily these phrases firstly get picked up, but more importantly, how quickly they are incorporated into modern day speech. I’m not in support of throwaway words such as “selfie”, “bae” and “twerk” gaining dictionary status, mainly because they will expire not long after its inception, but also because they make my face contort uncontrollably. I can’t think of any longstanding words or phrases which have the same affect, and I blame Delia Smith for non-phrases becoming hastily recognised before being quickly forgotten.

The terms troll/trolling/don’t feed the trolls is equally perplexing to me. Such a name legitimises and almost encourages online abuse. Believe it or not, people take pride in being labelled a ‘troll’, so if you want to stop ‘feeding them’, start referring to them as what they are – lonely, faceless, mysogonist, rasicist. ‘Trolling’ is not prosecutable, but online abuse is. It is essentially the same thing, but the variation in terminology makes one term sound more innocuous than the other.

Now go and think it over with a muffit of tea:

He was only a hobo, but one more is gone [Part 1]

Amidst the ongoing economic resurgence of Manchester, something lurking in the city’s underbelly is beginning to ruin Osborne and Wharton’s tea party.

Ali explained the concept of ‘Swan Upping’ to me this weekend – the annual census of the swan population. It’s a majestic and well regulated tradition, dating back to the twelfth century, when the Crown claimed ownership of all mute swans throughout parts of the River Thames.

Similarly in Manchester, the council undertake the less glamorous task of documenting rough sleepers in the city centre. It’s a process of which published data from the recording is both lauded and ridiculed, depending on the motives of the recipients. Where councillors will declare that there has been a reduction of homeless people of Manchester’s streets, others will be quick to point out that the figures have been somewhat skewed to create a false sense of achievement. This may include ambiguous terminology relating to the status of a homeless person, or offering rough sleepers accommodation on the evening of the census taking to downplay the issue.

For Manchester residents however, no degree of data manipulation can hide what is visible to them every day, and it is the citizenry rather than the powers of influence which have risen to the challenge of tackling this sociological problem.

To continue the ongoing observations into Manchester’s city centre homeless crisis, here is a list of some of the organisations, individuals and the like I have had contact with over the past couple of years:

The Booth Centre (@BoothCentre)
The Booth Centre provides activities, advice and support to people who are homeless in Manchester.

Mustard Tree (@MustardTreeMCR)
Combatting homelessness and disadvantage.

No Place Like (@NoPlaceLike_)
Perspectives on homelessness/the housing crisis in and around Manchester. Currently on the lookout for creative work to share via zine/blog.

Jed Austin (The Urban Poet) & Brogan Fox (@BroganProduction)
Currently working directly with Manchester homeless community to instil change and encourage debate. Also creators of recent #OutsideTheBox exhibition.
‘The Urban Poet’ YouTube channel


The end of Peep Show: What’s next for British Sitcom?

It may not be the most pressing issue at the moment, but the harsh fact is that Peep Show is kaput, leaving a requiem of great British comedies in its wake.

Admittedly, the long-standing series had run its course, and I think most would agree that the time was right to wrap it up – albeit perhaps a season too late. Either way, the door has been left wide open for the ‘next big thing’ to announce itself on the comedic stage and sweep up the easy pickings.. but from where?

With so many outlets now available, one would expect a plethora of new ideas, battling for viewers’ attention with original and exciting content, but inspiration seems to be lacking.

I feel there are many contributing factors to this, one being the way new shows are critiqued and subsequently lambasted in real-time, creating an almost instant aura of negativity around shows that lack the ability to strike an instant rapport with its audience. Pilots may no longer be an adequate method of forecasting the perceived response of viewers, and with ever-shortening attention spans, writers must make the discourse more exuberant, the scenes more snappy and the conclusions more rewarding. What you end up with is an undaring plot with conspicuous characters who no real substance or back story.

Canned laughter – if used sparingly – can add an extra dimension and compliment a show. This is not the case for this era of British comedies, which instead possess a frustrating commonality, almost insulting to viewers who are being reassured that what is occurring on screen is simply hilarious, and you are a pariah for not joining in. Canned laughter within older sitcoms tend to be more subtle, as if it is the producer’s intention to make you believe that the show was filmed in front of a live audience (incidentally, it is known that the laugh track used in many old shows originated from the live audience recordings of I Love Lucy).

I watch through my fingers and notice that in a post ‘Sachsgate’, post Deayton and post Clarkson universe, such institutions as the BBC have become so embroiled in their own self-censorship that all aspects of racy comedy has been replaced by safer slapstick and/or unfunny one-liners, usually delivered by accomplished stand-up comedians who have tried their hand at situation comedy, such as Lee Mack, Miranda Hart and Tim Vine.

Comedy without controversy is doomed to fail. Ben Elton and Rik Mayall’s ‘The Young Ones’ shares many qualities with Peep Show, not only for identifying with a disassociated youth, but by tangling with sub-cultures, poking fun at political ideas (namely Thatcherism) and putting petty squabbles on a pedestal.

The Young Ones’ postmodernist take on 1980’s London

It’s easy to create a joke out of a subject matter which already carries ridicule, whether it be Catholocism (Father Ted), Parliamentary behaviour (Yes Minister) or social degradation (Phoenix Nights).

If ideology is one thing, then content writing is another. Some of the best British comedies were hampered by restrictive budgets, which often led to confined sets. Whether it be Del and Rodney’s flat in Only Fools and Horses, or the sepia-toned living room in the Royale Family, the show requires an exquisite pen behind the camera, such as John Sullivan or Caroline Aherne (it is no coincidence that these shows lost their spark once they passed on or quit).

Peep Show ran for over 12 years with a captive audience

My biggest peeve is (both in comedy and drama alike), is the inclusion of modern technology within a plot. It’s lazy, unflattering on screen and above all panders to a demographic who cannot focus attention without a popular branded devise being present. At a recent test screening for a sitcom set to feature on Comedy Central, 4 out of 6 of the storylines heavily featured smartphone technology. In one particular episode, two colleagues struggle to explain the concept of ‘Snapchat’ to their boss.

I’m waiting to be impressed by a new and original British comedy (Matt Berry’s ‘Toast of London’ is the only thing coming close at the moment). Until then, I’m happy to revisit the genius of Barker(s), Cleese, Jason and Atkinson, whose prowess is everlasting, and who somehow remain just as prominent and applicable today – how many current comedy characters will you able to say that about in 30 years time?

The King of Spin


While the public still await the outcome of the ‘Chilcot Inquiry’ into our country’s last illegitimate conflict, and before we have even established the official name of our enemy (is it ISIS, ISL, I.S, Daesh?), the UK have already began their next pursuit into uncharted territory with a fresh bombing campaign in Syria.

You have to applaud Cameron – his powers of persuasion are second to none. Though somewhat taking a passive position behind Philip Hammond and Hilary Benn during the Commons debate last night, you would be forgiven for assuming that the puppet master already had the motions in place for certain success, with key MP’s duly groomed and prepped for the inevitable ‘Yes’ vote.

The significant difference between the two main opposing parties is that the Tory contingent – with the obvious exception of Basildon MP John Baron – appear to be more galvanised during recent debates. They have less rebels to worry about than the Labour Party, and the whips take care of the easily influenced swing-voters.

The 10 hour debate – which largely exists to create the false illusion that a democratic process has taken place – has ended up being centred around the Shadow Foreign Secretary’s impassioned speech endorsing the airstrikes. I can only imagine what his Father would have thought of this, who delivered a dichotomous speech about bombing Iraq over a decade ago.

Although the words received applause from both sides of the house, Benn then had to take up his seat next to a less than impressed Jeremy Corbyn, who many say was upstaged by his counterpart and recent adversary.

It was the kind of mortification Corbyn didn’t need, and one that the Tories were always going to draw attention to. The vote may not have hinged on the participation of a number of disassociated Labour Party members, but it did enforce the case for change within its walls.

Perhaps Cameron’s injudicious comment about none-backers being ‘terrorist sympathisers’ was more geared towards the electorate, but this type of malicious rhetoric is all too common in today’s debates. A pacifist is now a virtual jihadist, a demonstrator is a hooligan and anyone who leans slightly to the left or is concerned for workers’ rights is a staunch Communist.

So quickly we have forgotten about the cause and effect of entering a war without rationale, arming another rebel insurgency, attempting to install an artificial democracy and leaving it to defend for itself against the ‘next big threat to the world’.

Planning your ‘root’

My Grandad was one of the most fascinating, yet innate beings I have ever known. He had an intellectual mystique of which he called upon on demand, sometimes to enlighten one of a particular topic subject, often to contest and correct a previous remark. It was the most sinister form of rhetoric, but usually went untested still.

What I knew of the man was right in front of me and that would never change. The local family would come together each Saturday afternoon till late. I would always find him sat at the table in ‘his chair’, instantly recognisable by the smoggy tobacco stain left on the ceiling directly above, resembling near-on twenty years of pipe smoking activity. Even on the seldom occasions where he wasn’t to be found (usually mid-afternoon before he would retire to his comfort zone) you could tell he wasn’t far away, judging by the thriving activity on the partitioned section of the table. Burning embers and a railway magazine were usually the giveaway. I’d go find him, half out of courteousness, half of intrigue. If the weather flattered, the sun would cast into the garden, illuminating what someone of my age at the time may seem as an unattainable jungle. On closer inspection, it was an intricately kept botanical miracle, compiling of various organisms collected and grown over the years. I had no idea that Lancaster could provide a suitable climate for these types of plantation, but under the rigorous observation of himself and my Nanna, they not only coerced them to docility, but made them feel privileged to be there. Amongst them were either my Nanna or Grandad (the overpopulated environment could not incorporate the presence of both at any one time), and they would sit on a miniature stool or the stone step which led into the kitchen.

I’d talk to them about school, the default subject between family members who don’t see each other often. I was more captivated by the enormous graveyard beyond the wall and across the alleyway, which ran adjacent to the whole of my grandparents’ street. Naturally it was haunted, as was the common opinion of my two Uncles who had grown up under the same roof as my mum. Together they were extremely devilish, and clearly saw me as an impish pawn to whom they could play their dastardly tricks on. In doing so, they planted the seed in my mind, the idea of which was that the only place more haunted than the graveyard was my Grandad’s cellar. The cellar itself was out of bounds when my Grandad himself wasn’t down there. Of course, to a child, ‘out of bounds’ as a statement was nothing but a supplement for daring adventure.

As part of their iniquitous deed, I was told by one of my Uncles that the previous owners of the house had an argument at the entrance of the cellar, which began verbally but ended physically when the husband pushed the wife down the stone stairs and into the bleakness. He left her down there for days, presuming she was either knocked unconsciousness or worser still while his guilt became more and more unbearable. Eventually he ventured down the stairs in a mournful sob, expecting to find his deceased beloved at the bottom. The basement floor scantily came into view as he neared the bottom step, but she wasn’t to be seen anywhere. As his curiosity and panic flooded him, he wandered further into the abyss, unaware that he was about to be struck from behind by the very entity he was opting to seek.

When I first heard the story, I was petrified, but also stumbled into cognitive dissonance over the tale, pondering if it was passed down by my Grandad onto my Uncles to keep them from exploring where they shouldn’t explore. Nonetheless, I wasn’t ready to find out whether my hypothesis was correct, as the iconography was suitably present to convey the realism that my Uncle’s story suggested. The door to the cellar was barely on its hinge, splintered to such a degree that I could have sworn Wendy Torrence was cowering on the other side. The stone stairs had no indication of diligent masonry, wildly varying in width and depth. The walls undecorated and smelled of damp plaster, and above all, it was freezing. The point of any good ghost story is to describe the darkness of the environment, and Stephen Tobolowsky mentioned that darkness is a pretty good indicator of somewhere you don’t wanna be. Well here, at the zenith of the cellar looking down, there was lots of it. Also, like any good basement, the light switch is at the bottom of the stairs, out of sight. This made the decent slightly less agreeable. It was at this point that my atheist-like reflex kicked in, in the form of adaptive preferences. Suddenly I had nothing to prove any nobody to prove wrong. I was the fox who didn’t care for the grapes (only after he couldn’t jump high enough to reach them).

We like to extenuate ghost stories for narrative purposes, to scare our friends and fraternize fundamental unbelievers, but more often than not the results of any given experience are disappointing. It doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a good scare though, I have bags of ghost stories to tell. It’s just that the movie protagonist doesn’t have the rational I possess, so the outcome is generally more gruesome and gratifying. At the end of the movie, I’m the one who always remarks “well if the house was haunted, why didn’t they go stay with their friends?” The person next to me always gives me a daring glare and replies “what kind of movie would that be?”