Three Nilth - a work of 'faction'

Remarkable occurrences happen all the time, usually to unremarkable people. They are ubiquitous. The TV news is a crazed messenger, churning out up-to-the-minute, remarkable stories of woe, dread, disease and instability. Each one claimed as an ‘exclusive’ and yet all still appear on every channel.

The written word was a remarkable occurrence in itself. It propelled man from Neanderthal beast to knowing being. Its linear text in every volumous tome contains whimsical remarkable moments. Occupying every shelf in every bookshop is an infinity of narrative explorations into moments of remarkable achievement, behaviour, vision and reflection. Without these chapters of captured remarkableness, we, the remarkable humans, would undoubtedly fail to ask questions of our existence.

However, rare are those remarkable moments, those glitches in the psychic system, those question marks in a sentence that delightfully occupy those regions of the ‘unknown’, or the state that we do not yet know. Occasionally, our remarkable moments are remarkably co-existent.

Agnetha, Anni-Frid, Benny and Björn were, as a collective, unequivocally remarkable. They were the harbingers of Euro-vision, a mantle they wore with gleeful, Scandinavian recklessness. Yet, on this particular date, and despite its befitting nature, their performance was to fashion their very future together.

They had been invited to put their talents on display before royalty. The cream of the Swedish entertainment world had gathered together to applaud the marriage of their King, Carl XVI Gustaf Folke Hubertus, and his German-Brazilian wife, Silvia Renate Bernadotte Sommerlath. The song chosen by the band to mark the occasion was ‘Dancing Queen’.

Although the auspicious show and the consequent engagement was an implicit success, the subsequent deluge of events was truly extraordinary. The Swedish press hounded the band for writing what they deemed an inappropriate song for a royal occasion. The band was distraught, and innocently claimed the song was born some six months previous. Ravaged by the media’s campaign to ignite national animosity towards the band, the four members fled overseas in order to use their fame to it’s the full advantage. Sweden would never witness their brilliance, as a complete entity, again.

Soon, cracks started to make themselves known and load bearing shoulders drooped in accord with their heads. The tension filtering through the band steadily grew inescapably until nothing but a split was satisfactory.

Agnetha, Benny and Björn reunited just once to perform ‘Dancing Queen’ live on stage – at a gala held by the King of Sweden to celebrate his 30th wedding anniversary with his Queen Silvia. Anni-Frid did not attend, although she had been invited. She was the song’s original author and gave her consent for it to be played with great, yet furtive, anguish.

Had the true meaning of the song been leaked to either the band or the Swedish press, there would have been a greater understanding of the real reasons she left the band. Her initial penned formula, during her formative fjord-dwelling years, depicted a metaphorically, fictional and unrelenting autobiographical account of a young woman’s desire to lay claim to the Swedish King. For Anni-Frid the song represented everything she had once felt for a King she did not know.

As Anni-Frid began to sing the “young and sweet, only seventeen” chorus, keeping an exemplary, shining entertainer’s exterior, in the presence of the King and his wife, she inwardly felt every word as a blow from a knife.

At that very same moment, separated by some three thousand miles and eight different time zones, Pak Poon, a young biology student and scientific visionary, was sat at his desk in the Biochemistry Department of the Arizona State University. His only companion was his radio, clumsily wedged between a book about the binary system and an Arizona State snow storm he’d once bought because he liked the irony. He was tuned in locally to WKRB…

“…and this is one goes out to all those stargasers out there, searching for the answer to all your dreams. This is Abba and ‘Dancing Queen’….”

Being that it had been Pak’s favourite song of the year to date; ‘Dancing Queen’ was instantly recognisable as a relative soundtrack to his life at the present time. And the fact that the DJ had introduced it in such a manner meant that this remarkable defining moment mirrored that of Anni-Frid’s. Pak was waiting on some news, and Abba were the mediator’s choral backing.

Many arduous months and a scattering of short seasons had passed since Pak and fellow scientist, Michael Wells, had begun working on this latest project. Little else had been their existence since they had first met. In that time Michael’s hair had grown from army-surplus style to dangling-in-his-cereal style. Michael lived for cereal and science. The paper they were writing was based around the ‘Ultracentrification of hydrated egg lecithin in benzene solution’, and their ferocious work ethic had augmented into feisty quarrels at times. Michael suffered substantial losses in his personal life, Pak suffered substantial losses to his hair.

Anni-Frid was just beginning her chorus when Michael tumbled through the doorway with a demented glare upon his face. Their project had been accepted. They had finally been published.

Remarkably, whilst Pak had been alone in the office, awaiting yet another disappointment, he had toyed with the idea of capitulating to the Gods of science and decreeing self-banishment from the subject for lack of qualification. He meandered, instead, around the recollections of his youthful aspirations and the pursuit of a fire-fighter’s commission. Of course, once Michael had delivered, there was no need to follow on. It had been purely by accident that he was in the field of science after a bizarre twist of fate had placed him in the wrong class.

As a young, ebullient boy he absorb every story he could find about Red Adair, the lauded fire-fighter and national hero; the man who had fought the 137-metre tall ‘Devil’s Cigarette’ pillar of fire in the Sahara in 1962; the man that only John Wayne could play in the movie version of the same feat, Hellfighters; the man who, unbeknownst to Pak, was eating his celebratory 61st birthday lunch as Pak revisited those childhood dreams.

Red also liked music. He enjoyed the way the southern drawl of a country song helped to eradicate any moment of doubt that came before the danger zone. Equally, he was partial to the twee soulfulness of any American female vocalist who would subsequently bring him back from the brink. Now beginning his 62nd year, this remarkable man planned to spend the day relaxing. Ted Nugent had personally invited Red to his concert at the Sam Houston Coliseum in Red’s beloved Texas. Nugent had heard rumours that Red had once successfully tackled a raging oil refinery blast only moments after listening to his Free-For-All album. Nugent wanted to ask Red in person if this was just pure speculation.

“No, no. That’s not true; it was actually Fleetwood Mac,” Red confessed, immediately wishing he hadn’t.

“Wassat, Red. You’ll have to repeat what you said? I can’t hear you too well. I’m deaf in this left ear,” Nugent replied loudly.

Luckily for Red a vociferous sound check was in process just metres away from Nugent’s good ear. Red never liked to upset or disappoint anyone and this noisy blessing gave him the opportunity to spin a white lie; thus feeling more gracious about accepting such a friendly invitation on his birthday.

“Yep, it sure was. Funnily enough I had been list ‘Turn It Up’ when the call came in. We’d already known about the fire a few hours earlier but me and the crew hadn’t got the call up until that point. But sure enough there I was…,” and sure enough Red launched into the other aspect of his personality that he excelled at, namely telling stories about himself. Besides, it was his birthday and he had rescued 28 people from a fire that eventually lasted 36 hours.

Once Red got rolling with his stories, it would need a mighty big fire to put him out. Predictably, Nugent soon began to bore of the Texan, almost snidely wishing he hadn’t invited him. The copious amount of cigar smoke blowing from his Red’s gills, although an appropriate prop for tales about fire, only added to Nugent’s growing misery as a recent non-smoker.

(FOR THE REMAINDER OF THIS PIECE, PLEASE CONTACT CHRISTIAN)

England Vs Trinidad & Tobago

The hard bit is over – the nightmare train journey to get to the first game has passed; with hindsight, 3 cities in 24 hours seems a breeze; the high-adrenaline of the England-Paraguay game (the hardest in the group – trust me, the Swedes are rubbish) is a dim memory; now it’s time to relax.

So this is the middle part of our group campaign and what better way to kick back than to watch Trinidad and Tobago succumb to the god-like genius of Steven Gerrard. We don’t need the rest of the team to play, he can do it all by himself! (I made this prediction before the game, and was I right?!).

Here are some tips to help guide you through that crucial 2nd group match:

- To prepare for Nürnberg, take a detour via the idyllic town of Offenberg so you can experience World Cup fever at a provicial level. An added bonus - Offenberg is only one stop away from the England base camp, Baden-Baden, giving you the opportunity to shout, “Sven, Sven, give us a wave, give us a wave, give us a wave” as you speed by the mountain-side resort at 150 mph.

- Save money on food: taking lunch from the youth hostel breakfast buffet will cost you €1, whereas stealing from the hotel won’t (as long as the nice old lady isn’t looking as you stuff your girlfriend’s strategically placed handbag with a mini-picnic’s worth of Babybels, apples and Actimel yoghurt drinks).

- Don’t miss a minute of any World Cups matches AND work on your suntan: congregate in the delightful town square where a beach atmosphere has been created with deckchairs, parasols and water jets for children (and drunk adults!) to play in. If the beach isn’t to your liking, then why not try the box seat - a deluxe makeshift restaurant on a raised platform complete with white linen, football-related paraphenalia and a superb view of the screen.

- Show your national (or adopted-national) pride during Australia’s first game by getting kitted up with flags, face paint and sun-visors, only to find the square practically empty when you get there. No matter, a few Radler ciders or large Reislings and your vocal support will soon rear its profanitous head, despite the presence of local children. Well, after all, you are Aussie, you are drunk and your team is losing unnecessarily in a tense World Cup clash with Japan.

- When Australia finally wins the thrilling match 3-1, thanks to some inspired play by Everton’s main man, Tim Cahill, tie your flag to the small balcony of your street-facing hotel room. If you cant find any string to secure it, simply do the Aussie thing: use the rubber-elastic headband from your Speedo goggles instead. Bonza!

- Despite causing a tremendous scene earlier in the day, your show of support will be dwarfed later that evening. Over 100 screaming Italian fans, aided by a selection of horns, flags and drums, will make you wonder if you are still in Germany.

- Waking the next day with an Italian-sized headache, the weather will be Italian-hot so be sure to wear your shortest shorts. And if you’re thinking about wearing socks with your sandels, do not fret, it is still cool with the natives!

- Get ‘French Manicure White’ and NOT ‘Nivea Turbo Colour (not-so-white) White’ nail polish for those extra special St George’s cross toenails you’ve been dying to paint all week.

- To further break up your journey to Nürnberg, visit the city of Ulm on the river Donau. Whilst you are waiting to check in at the Jugendherdberge (Youth Hostel), do not fear when a gang of German youths approach. They aren’t out to get you, they just want to practice their English with stereotypical questions like; “Where are you from?” “How old are you?” and “Do you think Sven should play the 4-4-1-1 technique he so readily adopts, or should he punch above his weight against lesser teams, such as Trinidad & Tobago, thus proving England are a finely-tuned goal-scoring machine?”

- Germany bicycles. They like to be hired: Nothing beats cyling through the Baden-Würtemberg* landscape, discovering hidden lakes and stopping for lunch in beer gardens next to babbling streams.

- The best place to watch the all-important Germany-Poland game is a kebab shop, because;
a) you will find two spare seats
b) they serve you beer without the pfand/refund policy
c) they have queue-less toilets
d) you will see the game quicker on the small screen TV, as there is a time delay of about 3 seconds on the bigger screens outside which makes for some interesting three-part harmony ooohs, aahhs, and Es komme heim, es komme heim, Fussball komme heim*.

- When trying to sing along with the German national anthem, to demonstrate your goodwill, it is not PC to bellow “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles”* – the lyrics have actually been altered to reflect the changing times.

- Rather than trash the train to Nürnberg in true English style, maybe sit quietly reading an old copy of Time Out or NME or, if you’re feeling up to it, practice your German by starting a conversation with some very friendly locals about which region hat die besten Bratwürsten*.

- If the friendly local asks you if there is any difference between England, Scotland and Wales in the World Cup, you should reply with a resounding “Yes, England are good”.

- What’s the best way to psych yourself before the game? Is it:
a) get tanked in the Old Town – shirts off, shaved heads, bad tattoos, pie-shaped bellies, taunting whoever is watching? OR
b) conduct your very own mini carnival complete with costumes, marching drummers and plenty o’ rump shakin’, Triiiiinidaad styleeee?

- If you want to see your team leave for the stadium, just look for the biggest hotel near the main station. It will be the one with the word ‘Grand’ in its name and a helicopter hovering permanently above it.

- Once at the stadium, avoid those fans going in the opposite direction, taking out their false teeth with a look of menace on their tattooed faces. There may be trouble ahead.

- Pre-match entertainment is brought to you courtesy of the Korean & Japanese refereeing staff, whose tai-chi/jujitsu warm up is perfectly in sync with Abba’s Supertrooper playing over the tannoy. Priceless.

- During a close game, Sven will bow to the pressure of 30,000 fans chanting “Roooooooney, Roooooooney” and bring on the young scallywag to inject some much needed pace into the game.

- In post-win high spirits remember that riding down the luggage escalator in the main station is not clever! Especially as the German polizei are video taping your every drunken move.

- Nürnberg is a beautiful city, full of biergartens and quaint bridges and is probably best seen without 40,000 English fans running amok, so make a note to come back again one day.

- Before you leave, be sure to have the Nürnbergen bratwürst*. These mini sausages are eaten three at a time in a small baguette. Make them your late meal at the Opera house biergarten and then, if it takes your fancy, head for the red light district, only metres away on the conveniently named Frauenmauer Strasse*, for a game of ‘hide the mini bratwürst’.

Thanks to some inspired play by young Aaron “Speedy Gonzales”
Lennon, the second of England’s group games was rescued from the jaws of utter despondency, to bump it up from a 6 to a 7 out of 10.

In closing, let me just say how glad I am to have pulled Serbia & Montenegro in the sweepstakes – the ‘most goals conceded’ title is mine for the taking.


*we take no responsibilty for the bad German spelling and grammar in this article

England Vs Paraguay

I weep for our paled-skinned, backward nation. Germany is just as good as England, only better. They do everything we do, but better, have everthing we have, yet it’s better – you get the idea…

In England the sun doesn’t always shine, the people never smile, (especially if you’re a foreigner), and youths certainly won’t want to pratice their Germany on you. You wouldn’t get 24 bottles (not cans!) of high quality (not wifebeater) beer for £6 in your local Tescos. You wouldn’t get a special luggage conveyor belt running up the steep stairs of the Piccadilly line interchange. You wouldn’t get sparkling clean rivers running through any major cities (you would, however, be able to use Chip & Pin. Huzzah for England!).

As I lie here in my hotel, in my pants (because it’s so hot) with my big fat Pilsner belly, I feel I should be sharing some incites I’ve had on the England (cup-winning) trail so far.

So here is how to tackle your first group match:

• When you land at Dusseldorf airport, walk a little faster than normal, as the train you need to catch is guarenteed to be pulling away just as you descend the stairs to the S-bahn.

• Make sure to stash a lot of 50 cent pieces in your pockets so that every time you arrive at a Hauptbahnhof you can use the extra nice and clean facilities (70 cent if it’s a super posh one).

• Enjoy the opening game of the World Cup in a town full of partying Germans. And don’t be afraid when an over-enthusiastic drunk flag waver says “Entschuldigen” after almost breaking his flag over your head - this means “sorry” not “what the fuck are you lookin’ at?!”

• Partake in as many foot-long bratwurst-in-a-six-inch-bun as possible.

• Laugh as hordes of German and Swedish fans come together to suddenly support Equador quite vocally.

• When you are catching your inter city express train to Frankfurt have faith that it will leave from the platform indicated on the yellow departure notice boards. Do NOT listen to friendly staff who tell you to go to platform 7 – they are lying. Don’t get on the first train that comes along either because even though it might have your destination written on the front it will be the 3-hour beautiful scenic detour of the Rhine vineyard district, which is great if you don’t have a World Cup game to go to in the few hours.

• Trust the onboard DeutschBahn rail staff with impeccable English as they patiently assist every English fan who has bought the wrong ticket (you wouldn’t see that on the 16:28 from Doncaster to Plymouth).

• Make sure that three years prior to the World Cup you make friends with as many Germans as possible. Come the day of the first game, you will have someone to call when you arrive at Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof (with your 32kg purple suitcase full of cold weather clothing that you’ll never use) to find all storage lockers full and the luggage office closed.

• Make sure your mobile phone is set for international roaming so you can call said German friend when fit hits the shan.

• When an empty S-bahn train pulls up to a platform full of singing English fans, you can guarentee it will drive off again without opening the doors. This is because the Germans have seen the movie Football Factory and believe we are all gagging-for-a-fight hooligans. This perception will be confirmed later by your German friend, when, drunkenly, he tries to incite you to riot with him just for a laugh.

• Don’t take the risk of buying black market tickets – the entrance proceedure is Teutonically efficient and they will check everyone’s ticket and passport. And anyway, if you’re a real fan, you would’ve bought your tickets on the Fifa website over a year ago.

• Don’t bring a West Ham flag to the game, the hammer insignia can be misconstrued as having nazi or fascist connitations and will be confiscated.

• Marvel at the brand, spanking new Frankfurt stadium, complete with ultra large screens suspended high above the pitch (but not high enough to be safe from an errant Paul Robinson goal kick!)

• Avoid queues for beer by purchasing your beverages during the national anthems. As a side note, be mindful of getting back to your seat before the kick off, however, because you don’t want to miss that early goal now do ya?

• Blokes, time for payback during the half time interval, avoid embarrassing urine stains by using the women’s loos for a change, otherwise you are likely to miss the start of the second half as the queue for the men’s is longer than Shaun Wright-Phillips’ World Cup wait.

• Don’t embarrass yourself and your nation by singing the “There were 10 German bombers in the air” song – it’s just plain rude and you HAVE been watching too much Football Factory!

• Remember to boo along with the rest of the 90% English crowd when Micheal Owen is replaced by the wunderkind Hargreaves.

• Pay for your match drinks and post-match dinner by staying behind after the game and collecting as many plastic cups as you can – you can cash in on everyone’s laziness because each one is worth €1 in pfand or glass deposit.

• Staying behind also means you can play the ‘spot Victoria Beckham leaving the stadium’ game or the ‘try to get your flag waving, post-match winning dance on the big screen’ game (did you see us?!)

• After the game, if you’re trying to buy an official MasterCard Addidas Phillips Coca Cola Budweiser Fuji Yahoo Hyundai Deutches Telekom Continental McDonald’s World Cup program make sure your German comprehension is up to scratch because there wont be any English versions left. While you’re at the counter it would be funny for everyone around you if you ask the server, in a loud voice, if he is totally out of Hargreaves shirts yet.

• Also check that your girlfriend is in a line of sight as she will be mobbed by English lads on the post-match pull.

• And finally, before leaving for Germany, be sure to remember the name of every person you ever met, because you are bound to bump into at least one of them at the game.

Post-match barbeques with the natives and travelling into the sunset on the train to Heidelberg with a crowd estatic Geordies gives this first game an overall 8 out 10 mark from us.

Bring on Nurenburg and the Tobagons!

Syriana

Come and listen to a story about a man named Jed
A poor mountaineer, barely kept his family fed,
Then one day he was shootin at some food,
And up through the ground came a bubblin crude.
Oil that is, black gold, Texas tea.

Cue the stetsons, cue the oversized shoulder pads and praise be, its Dallas all over again. Only this time there’s more deadly assassins, corrupt politicians and unscrupulous tycoons than you could ever dream of. Unless, of course, you’re Victoria Principle and you wake up to find Patrick Duffy alive and kicking and taking a shower in your bathroom.

Using a stellar cast, some nifty camerawork and Robert Baer's book ‘See No Evil’ as inspiration, director Stephen ‘never heard of him’ Gaugan has delivered a bold and ambitious view into a world most of us would rather stay out of, depite the wads and wads of lovely lovely cash….hmmmmmmm…..MINE!!

Gaugan is most notably known for writing on the copied-to-death TV series NYPD Blue and, more recently, for winning the longest-titled Oscar award ever (for Traffic in 2001): Best Writing, Screenplay Based on Material Previously Produced or Published.

If you liked Traffic, or indeed if you liked this year’s Oscar-winning Crash, then you will enjoy numbing your bum in front of Syriana at your local multiplex. Equal measures of ‘who the hell is this character?’ and ‘how are they all connected?’ provide us with a confusing, yet compelling, portrayal of America’s obsession with oil and the Middle East. The plot stalks the lives of five main characters, each with their own reason for wanting to bathe in the slimey oil.

Firstly, Georgey-Porgey Cloonface gets up to all kinds of mischief as an agent of the CIA. He dishes out comments like,
“I want you to take him from his hotel, drug him, put him in the front of a car, and run a truck into it at 50 mph,” and,

“If anything happens to me or my family, an accident, an accusation, anything, then first your son will disappear, his body will never be found. Then your wife. Her body will never be found either. This is guaranteed. Then, whatever is the most dangerous thing you do in your life, it might be flying in a small plane, it might be walking to the bank, you will be killed. Do you understand what I'm saying?”
Basically, this is a man you do not want to mess with. He would eat the Mitchell brothers for dinner, probably with a nice Chianti…thf-thf-thf. Which is almost a very close estimation because old Georgey answers the age-old question that many a football fan has chanted on a Saturday afternoon up on the terracies, “Who ate all the pies?”. He bulked up by an whopping 15kgs to play the role, then turned that 15kgs into gold by picking up the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor this year.

Next up is Matt ‘The Boywonder’ Damon playing a broker who profits from the death of his own son. That kind of behaviour explains it all really. He becomes aide to an Arab Prince who is at loggerheads with his younger, less socially-conscious brother over the rightful heirship to their father’s throne. Never trust a Arab Prince with a posh English accent I say, you just know he’s got to be dodgy!

The other end of the money scale is represented by a young Pakistani immigrant worker who is condemned, through a culmination of desperation and religious fanaticism, to a single decisive action.

Undoubtedly, with names like Damon and Clooney scrollling down the credits, one might assume that theirs were the most significant performances in Syriana, but the olive laurel best fits the head of Jeffrey Wright. His impressive portrayal of Bennett Holiday, a corporate lawyer with the moral and testicular fortitude to play with the big boys, puts him firmly in the ‘one to watch for the future’ column of your little black book. He was also the only good thing that came out of Bill Murray’s disastrous movie, Broken Flowers.

The added appearances of Chris ‘cant say no to a job offer’ Cooper and Tim ‘goofiest of the Oh Brother Where Art Thou-s’ Blake Nelson also add to the movie’s already hefty credibility.

The complexity of the plot may seem baffling to some, and even deter others from buying a ticket at all, but that would be evading the point entirely. It is deliberately constructed to confuse, to keep the viewer in the dark, to make flimsy suggestions regarding worlds we would never fully understand.

Throughout the movie there is an impending feeling of doom, as though something terrible could happen during any scene. This is hardly surprising, however, as almost every character is as bent as a five pound note (you heard me!).

The overwhelming fear that these people must live under, constantly threatened by all kinds of nastiness, helps the story to unfold like a Shakespearean tragedy. Backstabbers circle around the scenes, all brimming with greedy madness. Yet there is no outright ‘bad guy’ here, only several individuals acting on the uncontrollable desire for monstrous amounts of power and wealth.

American-bashing; the world’s favourite sport. Syriana, by dealing with the corrupt powers of American business and the government’s questionable foreign affairs, didn’t stand a chance of cleaning up at the Oscars this year. Which is the very same reason that you should see it.

If it were a gushing fountain of black liquid gold, it would be making an awful mess of the carpet. Otherwise 8 out of 10

It could've been me

On Monday night this week, six men aged between 18 and 45 went from healthy to suffering severe organ and respiratory failure within a matter of hours. These men had voluntarily offered themselves as human ‘guinea pigs’ for a drugs trial involving a Phase 1 antibody-based product, designed to treat "chronic inflammatory conditions and leukaemia”, at the Parexel medical unit in Northwick Park Hospital, north-west London.

Many people quite rightly feel compassion for these unfortunate men and their families as it appears that their fate may have, in some part (pending investigation), been due to human error or negligence. As a freelance journalist it is essential to one’s integrity to remain as stoic and objective as possible at all times. Yet, in this instance I afford myself a selfishly high level of gratitude because it could so easily have been me in Intensive Care right now.

Only a few weeks ago I considered the option of screening for the very same trial (a ‘screening’ is the initial full medical examination that takes place in order to determine who may or may not participate on a medical trial. Exclusions include smokers, recreational drug users and those that do not adhere to the strict dietary and physical activity restrictions). Thanks to an unforeseen extension on my current work contract, I was forced to postpone signing up for the trial, leaving me now with a feeling akin to witnessing a car accident.

On the surface, this may appear to be an about-face of mine considering the article I wrote last year regaling the idea of medical trials as ‘Money For Nothing’ (see link below). I have, for many years, unscrupulously accepted many a place on many a medical trial with the constant chime of sterling ringing in my ears and rolling around my eyes. In fact, I was once even paid by The Mirror newspaper for an interview regarding my thoughts on drug trials.

Truth be told, though, I still believe drug trials to be a safe and lucrative environment for travellers, students, creatives and small business-owners to sow the seeds of their unorthodox lifestyle practices. In the 10-15 trials I have completed in the 8 years since I first started, I have only once felt any significant side effects from a drug. It was on an occasion when the effects were actually predetermined and deliberately instigated. I was injected in the stomach with a small dosage of scapolimine to replicate the effects of Alzheimers. This was then erradicated with the trial drug a few hours later. I was monitored by nurses throughout the whole procedure.

The most frightening experience I have had in connection with a medical trial was during a screening process last year. A small Walkman-sized monitor was fixed to my upper body for a period of 24 hours whilst I continued my daily patterns. However, this was during the weeks directly after the shooting of Jean-Charles De Menezes at Stockwell station, so it easy to understand why I was nervous wearing the contraption on the underground (this practice has now been discontinued by the Parexel unit).

As with most men on the trials (limited number of trials open to female volunteers) the lure of easy money is strong and the last trial you did is never just that - the last. Despite volunteers only being allowed to take part in one trial every 3-4 months, the addictive and simple nature of the process stays with you like a vacation. It is a quick break from the outside world, a chance to relax and read the papers, watch the Commonwealth Games, meet interesting like-minded, usually Antipodean, free spirits such as yourself. Very rarily does anything remotely dramatic happen in the wards.

I spoke with three friends, A, B and C, who chose to remain anonymous for fear of being hounded by the press. They are acquaintances of mine through previous trials at the Parexel unit . I was particularly interested to hear their version of the events that took place on Monday as all three of them were present when these incidents occurred. They had been part of another trial taking place at the same time. For Friend A this was trial number 10 at the Parexel unit. For Friend B, it was number 3. Friend C was on his 2nd outing.

All, like myself, have NEVER experienced any incidents anywhere near the magnitude of this (mild headaches and fatigue being the most regularly-mentioned symptoms previously).

On the ward

Upon arriving on Monday morning my Friends encountered a mood that was very different from the subdued atmosphere one usually expects on Day 1 of a trial. Friend A told me how, “the air amongst the staff was noticeably anxious. When I arrived at 11am, which would have been around 3 hours after the guys [taken ill] had been dosed, there were 3 ‘suits’ looking very tense, pacing up and down the corridor. These later proved to be German visitors from TeGenero, the company responsible for the drug trial.”

By 2pm a senior nurse had gathered the group together and told them to move all their belongings out of Ward 1, the ward nearest the exit, and into the common area. At 2.30pm, Friend A went back into Ward 1 to collect a towel that he had left behind.
“I saw that one volunteer was on a respirator and a second had all the curtains fully drawn around his bed with a flotilla of staff revolving around him. During the course of the afternoon I observed nurses systematically taking all of the oxygen tanks from each of the wards to use in Ward 1, and at some point in the early evening I overheard a conversation between several staff saying that they had now used up all of the oxygen in the whole Parexel unit - which I guess would be a minimum of 14 cylinders.”

According to information that was overheard or filtered from other volunteers, my Friends discovered that within 45 mins of having the drug administered (by I.V.) the 6 men had pulse rates of upto 160 and their blood pressure was crashing. In addition, they had been alternately burning hot with sweats and dropping to ice cold temperatures within minutes. This was concurrent with eratic periods of convulsing and vomiting.

Two of the 8 men taking part on the TeGenero trial were given placebos. Friend C described how one of them felt about the situation, “the look on the faces of the men taking the placebos was something to witness. I have no idea how I would have felt, but I remember a not-particularly notable chap sitting in the corner minding his own business, and after we had been discussing what was happening for a few minutes, he finally piped up and said he was the placebo. I could see he was in a kind of surreal state. I don't think he even realised the seriousness of the events at that point, but you could see he wasn't sure if he was supposed to be happy that it wasn't him in that ward, or if he should feel genuinely sorry for the other six. As someone had mentioned before, it was like a game of Russian roulette, and his number hadn't come up.”

Everyone was then moved away from the scene in Ward 1 toward the other end of the unit. When asked, the staff said it wasn’t serious and that it was just that they were feeling a ‘bit sick’, according to Friend B.

Evidently, the Parexel staff asked the 6 men if they would like to eat, and only two of them said yes. They were then individually brought to the dining area in wheelchairs, where all three of my Friends observed their condition.

“When the two guys appeared in the doorway a part of me wanted to get up and receive them as heroes. I could tell these two guys were putting on their happy faces and trying to keep their spirits up, but it didn't take long before their conditions worsened again,” Friend C noted.

Friend B spoke about how, “they tried to eat some dinner, but one guy couldn't even lift the fork and the other was so out of it that he had flopped down with his head flat on the table and his arms hanging down. The nurses stood by nervously asking if they were ok. Stupid question I know. One of them, with dribble coming from his mouth, said, ‘Yeah I feel better now’.”

Friend A noticed how, “the first guy was drenched in sweat and his face was swollen and white, but with dark red blotches and wide, heavily bloodshot eyes. He was clearly in agony, and spoke of searing pains shooting through his whole body. He said that whichever way he moved or turned in bed more pain seemed to ensue. I asked him if he felt better than he had been. He replied that he was definitely better and that he was slowly recovering. He even joked a little about what he had been through, and about what bad luck it was since this was his first medical trial. The second volunteer was brought out. He sat with his head on the table and was convulsing quite severely. Various staff attended to him and asked if he wanted to return to bed but he remained where he was for 15 to 20 minutes until they finally took him back in the wheelchair, his meal untouched. I remember thinking that these were the sickest looking people I'd ever seen, and yet these were the two who had recovered the most. I wondered what the condition of the remaining four must be like in comparison.”

As is the usual routine on these trials a ‘lights out’ call comes promptly at midnight, yet unusually, no such action was taken on Monday night. As no news had been officially passed back to my three Friends, they approached some of the senior nurses themselves about an update. According to Friend A, “she said that in 16 years of working with medical trials she'd never seen, or even heard of, anything like this before. We asked her if she thought the guys would be OK. She replied they'd almost certainly be fine by the morning, by which time things would have flushed from their systems. She said that nausea is a terrible thing to have.”

When they awoke the next morning, well passed the scheduled time of resumption for their own trial, a doctor told them that only one of the sick men had gone to the ITU, as a precaution procedure, and that the others were fine.

Friend A confirmed that, “we were told that a couple of them were "holding their own". That didn't seem hopeful, to say the least, and I thought that even when they do recover they would surely have suffered organ damage from the toxin that their kidneys and liver were trying to remove. It didn't even occur to me that some of them might never recover at all. There was a sense of disorganisation about the place which I'd not encountered before. It felt like there were lots of staff there but no-one really knew what to do in the circumstance.”

They were then told that their trial was to be put on hold (due to staff working with the ill patients) and told to go home. The trial has since been extended by one week and a further £500 compensation has been given to the participants. Friend C told me that he had, “heard of trials being cancelled early, but that one trial should effect all others had to mean something more ominous.”

So how could a drug that had been tested on animals without any significant drawbacks have such a severe adverse reaction in healthy humans? Was the dosage too high? Was there any human error involved? Was there a problem with storage of the drug? Was there unforseen affects that occurred that would not have been proved through animal testing? Or is it down to inexperience?

According to Parexel, the staff acted completely within regulatory, medical and clinical research guidelines when administering the appropriate dosage to the volunteers. A protocol had been designed by TeGenero and had been approved by the ethics committee and the MHRA (the Medicines and Healthcare products Regulatory Agency).

TeGenero, a privately-owned German biotechnology company with only 15 members of staff, was founded as recently as June of 2000 by a group of immunologists. It was specifically created to exploit the commercial potential of their discovery, the TGN1412 antibody. It would seem that this is the first time TeGenero has ever tested on humans.

What does this awful incident tell us about medical trials and what can we learn?

Friend A gave me his perspective on the matter: “Compare TeGeneros meagre finances to the $millions and huge human resources that it costs to bring most other drugs to human testing stage. I think you can see the potential for shortcuts and speedups in the efforts to make a saleable product! It's interesting how this major incident has brought into focus (for the wider population) the exact nature of the tests. The necessity of human testing doesn't seem to be something that most people have any previous awareness of. The other thing that this drug has highlighted is the potential fallibility of animal testing. If we assume that this drug was administered properly, and was not contaminated, then it can only be the case that a molecule that was heavily tested on animals over several years, and was subsequently passed as safe by an independent ethics committee, has had a totally different impact in human subjects. Either that or the early testing was improperly done.”

Friend B has, “no problem with human medical trials, as they are an essential part of medical research. People should stop pissing themselves over this incident because that’s the point of human medical trials, to see if they are safe in man. This one obviously isn't. The issue is whether the sponsor fucked up the dosing or ingredients of the drug.”

A thorough investigation, including branches of Scotland Yard, is currently in operation.

As the nation awaits the outcome of the six men involved, myself and others like me begin to wonder whether we continue to take part in trials after witnessing these terrible situations?

Friend C has decided to call it a day on completion of his current trial:
“I'm going to finish this trial, because I've already had the first dose and know it doesn't do anything, but I don't think Parexel will be hearing from me again any time soon. I'll bank my money while I'm still up!”

Both Friend A and B, however, told me that they would definitely do another trial, Friend A in particular stating that if he were to do another trial in the future he, “would probably do far more research into the background of the compound and sponsor than I have done in the past. In that sense, I think that this incident has highlighted the importance of my personal responsibility for my actions.”

Personally, I choose to await the publicity of the investigative findings before making a decision on whether to take part in another trial. I also follow closely the news on the condition of the 6 men still in Intensive Care……

Perhaps I should put my trust in Professor Herman Scholtz, head of international clinical pharmacology for Parexel, when he says: "Such an adverse drug reaction occurs extremely rarely and this is an unfortunate and unusual situation."

For photographic purposes

HIYAA!!

Space

“Human nature dictates that we are pleasure-seeking beings and require elements of enjoyment in our lives. It gives our existence on planet Earth more meaning. Some people turn to religion, some take up golf or squash, others dabble in a cocktail of drugs and alcohol. Some social misfits even rely on their pet poodle’s entry into dog shows to get their kicks.

But over the last few millenia it has become increasingly apparent that a new drug is slowly creaping up on all of us, one that could potentially put our whole species at risk: SPACE.

SPACE is everywhere and it’s continually growing. There is Space between your private property and that of your neighbours; there is Space between the end of your sentence and the beginning of your next; there is Space taken up by your big, fuel-guzzling Saab; there is Space taken up by your fat, biscuit-eating sister; there is a Space where you once went clubbing with a mate called Dangerous Dave; there is also a Space you once saw live on stage; there is Space on an Excel spreadsheet waiting for data; there is Space inside a bubble-wrap bubble waiting to be deflated; there is Space that the shuttle travels out to, but has difficultly getting back from; there is Space that Stanley Kubrik created an Odyssey for; there is Space between your first joke’s punchline and the subsequent laugh at open-mike comedy night; there is Space between weekends called work; there are Space wars that take place between high street gangs such as Nike, Top Shop and Boots; there is Space that old people occupy; some people even confess to wanting more of their own ‘personal’ Space.

Allegedly, Russia has 17,075,200 square kilometres of SPACE in it’s possession (compared to that of The Principality of Liechtenstein which only has a-160 sq km supply). Apparently, the Space that an adult mind owns is 4 billion cubic thought metres, whereas a totally innocent and unbiased newborn baby uses a massive 8 billion cubic thought metres. Disturbing stuff I’m sure you’ll agree. Perhaps most frightening of all though is the fact that the millions of Earth-dwellers who use a personal computer at work will, on average, use their keyboard’s ‘space’ button up to 300 times a day!

I went out into the street to ask the general public what they thought: of these ominous figures. One SPACED-crazed 5 year old youngster told me he wanted “to go into SPACE to fight the aliens”. An old lady, who was quite obviously out of her mind on SPACE, told me she “didn’t have enough SPACE for her geraniums”. Clearly, this is a local, regional, national, even international problem.

I’m Kip Licher, and I’m going undercover on tonight’s show to find out exactly what the governments of this world intend on doing about this predicament. Welcome to tonight’s show, ‘SPACE: the fight for our lives’.”

[TV show intro fades in]

I Woke Up Drunk Again

“I woke up drunk again,” came the inappropriate ooze, treacle-thick with chuckles. The way she told me was as though I was on her side and that we had got drunk together. Using the phone to relay her irresponsible predicament meant that I wasn’t able to stand beside her and witness her pathetic display, thankfully. It would have been sickening.

“You don’t sound drunk to me,” was my reply.

“I’ve had a couple of strong coffees and a shower, but…” and then she trailed off into a yawn. She began to mumble, either to herself, in her private intoxication, or mistakenly to me, as though I was actually paying attention. Pointless either way really.

Once her charm offensive was over and I was forced to return to my natural role in her life, the conversation ended abruptedly. She could’ve spewed forth more excuses and apologies but my patience was being eroded rapidly. I’m sure if I were to sit down now and think about it for a long time I could recall some of the things she had started to tell me, but the standard “I woke up drunk again” always expended my enthusiasm.

Should I feel guilt for regarding her with so much disdain? Perhaps secretly, even from myself, I exaggerated my authority over her because I found her, and the irresponsible life-cycle she appeared to subject herself to, appealing. Was it alluring to see her as a “woke up drunk” kind of person, or was I just unaware of the human condition known as ‘fun’. My supremacy was a conduit to condemn. I doubt it would have made any difference anyway. If it hadn’t been me that reminded her she was under contract and needed to get to work as soon as poosible, then I’m sure someone else would’ve instead.

Laura Louise Johnson, aged 22, junior medical periodical journalist, stranger to some, acquaintance to others, colleague of mine, daughter to some poor folk. Drove her car too fast to work today, after she’d “woke up drunk again”.