Plump Pillows, Pandora

There was nothing to celebrate the beach hut life at Mudeford sandbank for decades, except for the warm memories of several generations seduced my marram grass and maritime marsh methane competing with lemonade and love. Look on ebay and all you can find from those decades are postcards from the 30’s to the 80’s.  It all went digital and before you knew it estate agents put notes under your door to buy your families beach huts not for rich clients, but themselves. This was when about 1995 the colour supplements started their inky trail  around the coast, from the South East for the easier links with London to the South West.  Writers sold their hideaway  perfumed with old wood and brine ramshackle love pods hidden in clefts in the cliffs and not too far from the coves. The older ones, harder to find,  were not as easily colonised as the honey-pot cedarwood sharp suited couple-caves becoming familiar to the savvy aspirants.

circa 2005

354 huts here, and only a couple change hands each year, usually to the children

Mudeford fell into the middle of that search, far enough from London to be a get away, but near enough to allow rapid returns when the markets needed new attentions to pay for it all. We sold out in 1995 to a senior BBC manager, and that made sense as for a decade I had been interviewed by local, regional, national and overseas Television all bouyed on the new craze for beach hut living. Then, after everything that could be said about price, profit or position had been said, life went back to normal, except now the hutters were seeking WiFi access, and old timbered sheds once too expensive to demolish started to get the Grand Designs treatment. Or nearly, I showed a picture of a favourite hut to Kevin McCloud of Grand Designs and said would they do a rebuild about a beach hut and the answer was yes. Jocasta Innes did her thing with artistic wooden cabinet ageing washes, but within a year the improvements were themselves a wash out. Done for the camera, not meant to last, whatever good the programme did was probably just another £10,000 on each remaining hut for sale, then and until now. So, as the editor of msbnews…Mudeford Sandbank news, I felt it had now all been said, except for a curious story that emerged when I researched the local kiddie theme park….a modest maze containing Alice in Wonderland theme park. Beach huts had become a well trodden consumer fetish but the local theme park seemed connected in some way with military grade mind control experiments in America. This was something I had to get into an article to at least annoy the owner, whom I knew.I knew I could find something cheeky with a maverick mathematician Lewis Carrol involved in the generic Alice story. I never expected it to conceal and reveal as I dipped here and there with google, life changing consequences without even setting foot in the place. The key that unlocked the lock of this so called Monarch Programming was simply the curiosity of a blogger. And it took 5 weeks of fast and thorough googling to absorb the “story”. That is the real story of my riding carefree on the back of a beach hut theme. Had I not strayed into the theme park just 5 miles away I would have remained in the dark, and not come to meet Mengele, or be made to forget clues to the story for up to 9 years. That is the lie of this land and the legacy of my parents and my endowment, a pandora’s box for an unknown number of the following generation. It has taken me from the studied ancient practices of art, theatre and pantomime (to change our outlook for the better) to the efforts of nations to master the games we play to create slaves of we, the people, to protect us from worse. Now dead, the answer to the question when did this happen,  is Dr Josef Mengele, and as you can find out in minutes, he has been working for us….in secret of course.

This man perfected the creation of trauma in any media to break victims
without their later recollection

Mengele, becomes palpable to those who can re-arrange the building blocks of his history. He has been, to me at least, re-activated sufficiently to have left a trace in the literature without me, and believe it or not, with me…on my life. It is quite possible for a simple blogger to innocently approach a dense and diluting subject from an obtuse or acute angle, as I did. With the inter-web-net-thingy the lego-like structure of words forming a “history”  may surround the interloper, as if they were books explaining the lives of others. A blogger may re-construct the edifice and its purpose from the lego that is left around. And see what has been left for history to consume is a shill, a jigsaw that does not fit in the official version, but does if you read widely from anecdotal my meeting Mengele when the man was surely dead already? The problem comes when you realise none of it is likely to ever be proved. The world is shaped not by the blogger, but by the bully, the bullies of history, because that is how it is with stuff that has yo running to your beach hut for a safe haven and peaceful rest. See:




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