I’ve always been fascinated by some of the world’s great mysteries, like how exactly the aliens built the pyramids and how the Illuminati managed to get George Bush into office not once but twice.
Then there are the Nazsca lines in Peru. That one really has me stumped. How the aliens were supposed to navigate their spaceships by the 35 km square monkey drawn on the ground just boggles the mind.
I think there may be a clue in the close resemblance between Bush and the monkey, giving some credence to the theory that the aliens originally crash-landed in Sumeria and spliced their genes with an ape to make slaves to work in the mines.
Caption: George Bush (left) and the giant monkey in Peru.
Then there’s the Mona Lisa’s smile. What could it possibly mean? I just don’t buy the theory that it’s actually Leonardo Da Vinci thinking about his apprentices in the shower. C’mon. Look at the differences.
Caption: Leonardo (left) and Mona.
Then there are the heads on Easter Island, Atlantis (and also the island that disappeared under the sea), the maps of Antarctica before the Ice Age, the crop circles, Stonehenge and that real brain-teaser Paris Hilton (see illustration below).
Caption: Paris Hilton before the personality bypass.
I will not even begin to get into the existential and metaphysical realm of why men get married more than once and what women want.
It is a strange and mystical world indeed, but there is no greater mystery to me than the Incident with Gary and the Curry Powder.
As with all great tales of intrigue, this story began with the band going out to see if we could get pissed.
Because we are such a hard-working band, the experiment was a roaring success, and we blearily staggered off to find the car in the middle of the night.
When Gary attempted to drive off in a small bus using a small sachet of sugar as a key, it occurred to me that I’d better be the one to drive us all home.
And so we set off, Gary’s head lolling about on his shoulders rather alarmingly. I had no idea someone with absolutely no ability or inclination to dance could pull off those moves.
Anyway we eventually made it home. I got Gary up the lift.
At the door to our abode I made a critical decision.
I thought. That’s OK, we’re home now. So I peeled right to get to my bed on the balcony. (Bed is a very strong word for the thing I slept on.)
But I digress. I saw Gary reeling off to the right and I thought: It’s five steps, how much trouble could he get into?
I slept.
In the morning I shuffled off to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee and nearly broke my neck when one of my slippers shot out from under me, having slipped on something.
Steadying myself on the used pots and pans stacked in the corner, I beheld a truly awesome sight.
The floor was covered in curry powder. I mean not just a light sprinkling, like they do on your plates in the fancy restaurants to justify the prices, but a good solid, inch-thick layer of Robertson’s hot curry powder (the reddish packet).
Just then H stumbled in for his morning sugar with a dash of coffee.
What the f… broe, said H, which is usually how he greets me in the morning anyway.
I don’t know what’s going on broe, I said. I had nothing to do with this.
We looked around, and spotted a trail of curry powder leading to Gary’s room.
Like Hansel and Gretel we followed the trail into Gary’s room.
Said drummer was passed out on his bed, the wrong way round, head hanging over the back, fast asleep.
Next to him was an empty tequila bottle with a layer of thick fluid that looked suspiciously like some kind of liquid mixed with curry powder, which is exactly what it turned out to be.
The mystery deepened. Next to the bottle was a small teaspoon.
What the f… broe? H is a man of few words.
We stood staring at this truly wondrous phenomenon. What could Gary possibly have been doing with an empty tequila bottle, a spoon and a film of curry sludge?
Was he cooking the stuff and spiking it? We could find no sign of a needle.
What do drummers do with curry powder and small spoons in the middle of the night? What wonderful world do these strange creatures inhabit that leads them to take to bed with them an empty tequila bottle, some curry powder and a small spoon?
Why did we know nothing of what clearly must be another way to get your kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames?
Alas we were never to find out.
Gary, awoken from his slumber, had no answers. He was as mystified as we were.
What the f… broe, were his exact words, as I recall.
We’ve never solved that little mystery, and I suspect we never will.
The Ponies 