Alison Robertson – Born 1967 – Died 2017 – cause of death – idiocy.

Alison Robertson – Born 1967 – Died 2017 – cause of death – idiocy.

Alison had been fascinated ever since she saw that old black and white film about some dork, (name I’ma Dork), with fuck all else to do, than pop himself in a barrel and in front of rolling cameras, fell off the Niagara Falls – and survive.

Big deal – shouted the Rhodies. Try that at the Victoria Falls.

I’ma Dork, duly disobeyed sanctions and the Rhodesian government happily paid for his flight, including a free baggage allowance for his barrel. THIS- would put Rhodesia on the map big time - without the politics.

Things went pear shaped almost as soon as he was booked into the Royal suite at the Vic Falls Hotel.
The local Nat Parks lads showed him around.

With the  falls in full flood, and a choice of several places to ‘take off’- I’ma Dork, concluded that the ‘Devil’s Cataract’ looked challenging. The park guides thought to give him a demonstration of the power he was facing – unlike some whishy-washy bit of water that freezes in winter.

They attached a three metre length of rail line to a chain and set it off, let swirl around a bit and when they pulled it up – it was shaped like half a cork screw – and, I’ma Dork, shat in his pants, and caught the next flight home.

This, was 1975 – a well known report published in the Rhodesian Herald.

Alison Robertson, was fascinated by the story and took a degree in English Literature at the University of Dunces in Massachusetts, Democratic Republic of Congo. Her hope? To write before and after her stunt. She also took up weight lifting, being a rather big lass, she could drop a rapist with just some Kung Fu fighting she had picked up from watching a series on TV.

Stunt? What stunt?

Brilliant in conception, she sketched it all out.

Kitted out in a Roman mail shirt, a scuba outfit with an oxygen tank and four, three metre lengths of rail road tracks strapped tightly to her body by strips of old bicycle innertube, and… with a recovery chain- to be hauled back to the top by hundreds of tourists, ‘Game for a Laugh’. She jumped in.

Alison had calculated that she had twenty minutes of oxygen. After 19 minutes – she was pulled up from the deeps.  What to expect?

Actually - Not a lot. A skeleton wrapped in twisted steel with a Tiger Fish still wriggling in clenched jaws. The crowds were ecstatic.

Popped on a pedestal in the middle of the Victoria Falls main drag – Alison’s remains, now labelled ‘The Human Corkscrew’, attract thousands willing to pay 30 US bucks to look.

IF – you DO NOT believe me – go and look for yourself.

The Rhodie man who fell to the tarmac.

The Rhodie man who fell to the tarmac.

This happened in 1976. Just outside the Avondale Vistarama, Salisbury, illegal Republic of Rhodesia, Central Africa, planet Earth, Solar system, Milky Way, the Universe.

Why the long address? – because…

18 year old, Stanley ‘the knife’ Tosser, went with his present squeeze (53 year old art teacher, widow Knockshop), to watch the David Bowie film – ‘The man who fell to Earth’. I mean – even an alien needs directions, because GPS had not been invented yet.

Stanley was dressed for the night out in fine Rhodie style. Sweat stained camo T’shirt and a pair of khaki shorts from when he was 15 years old. Complete with a stolen Allan Wilson belt because he had actually been expelled from Ellis Robbins for being too stupid for his own good.

Of course, the tight fitting shorts showed a fine pair of bronzed legs, and a perfect humping ass, and the bulge in the front proclaiming to all humanity - that even when in sleep mode most gays would write him Valentine cards.

Well swilled up on Castle beer and his aging shagbag snoring away through the first part of the film – Interval came.

Stanley, hit the bar first and came back with 10 bottles of golden amber. Half way through the second half with half consumed. He fell asleep and urinated. Now THIS is when things get a bit sticky.

His body temperature started to dry the shorts and steam arose, blocking out the view from those sitting behind them, but they didn’t care as most were just randy couples playing finger bowls and gear sticks.

When the film ended, Stanley realised he had a terrible pain below his midriff. He could hardly walk and was supported by widow Knockshop outside, when

‘Stanley, your testicles… they are hanging out both sides of your shorts and your bum is eating them!’

‘My bum is eating my testicles. Eish – what a bummer.’

‘No man. Ekse, your bum is eating your shorts and strangling your one eyed cobra.’

Stanley screamed in agony, hit the deck and broke his neck. And died.

The End.

The possibilism of extra-terrestrial life.

The possibilism of extra-terrestrial life.

In 2011, the creators of the film ‘Blair Witch Project’ thought they could pull a similar stunt. It went badly wrong. Very.

Full of spunk and vinegar, with some serious dosh under their belts after the success of ‘Blair Witch Project’, they recruited some more hopeless layabouts, gave them cameras and sent them up into the Rocky Mountains – where HILLBILLIES live.

The quest – to interview these incestuous and anus mad fuckers and ask them if they believed ‘The possibilism of extra-terrestrial life?’

Well, retrieved footage of the digital cameras by an elite squad of SEALS (all shitting themselves), revealed and only shot where this (can only described), as semi-human thing, replied to the question in excellent English and French -

‘Cannibalism and  extra-terrestrials equals for us, Bon appetite.’