A gonzo tale of two cities
March 26, 2004 | 12:00am
VLADIMIR: Well? Shall we go?
ESTRAGON: Yes, let’s go.
STAGE DIRECTION: They do not move. - From Waiting for Godot
By Samuel Beckett
After a ten-decade flight it seemed, I arrived at Edinburgh Airport. I went to the Scottish capital latelast year to cover an event for the paper. On the plane, I sat beside an old man with bladder problems (I’ve never encountered anyone pee before and after eating peanuts); across two old Japanese women who spoke non-stop across two continents (must be talking about haikus); and in front of a man who slurped loudly whatever he was eating (soup, soupy beef, juicy fruit, dry bread, arid dessert, and probably even air or bits of gravel – as long as they were served on a goddamn tray). We touched ground and I was a sweaty wreck: like a mattress in a porn star convention in Sweden.
When I got to the hotel, I got the sloth’s mentality. At first, I refused to go out of the boutique hotel room I was booked in. Inertia took the better of me. Laziness became my mood for the day. It was as if Entropy signed a two-day lease in my hollow head. Inside was comfy and crisply warm; outside was avalanche-cold. I brought lots of sweaters for the trip (my editor even gave me a funky trench-coat), but I had the same feeling I get when I’m in my home city of Malabon during a storm, during high tide and during theater-of-the-absurd moments when I wanted to build an ark, pack it with animals (rats, cockroaches, bed bugs, centipedes, a parrot, two dogs – all the animals in that menagerie of an apartment where I live) and get the hell out of there. Or stay in my warm room with wooly blankets and Bill Evans records ("Sunday at the Village Vanguard" goes so well with the rain). Yeah, indoors rule! "Staying home is the new going out," as the homebody’s credo goes.
But even a sloth goes out for food – or to snag a mate – so I hauled my ass out of that kitschy hotel room on Princes Street and walked the cold, clammy alleys (or close, according to locals) of Edinburgh. Scotland’s capital city (dubbed as the "Athens of the North") is the land of sinister castles, quirky architecture, dizzying alleyways, succulent sheep-stomach-bag meals (haggis, they call ‘em), eerie underground vaults and grown men in skirts. The place is creepy in a beautiful way.
I got my press credentials at the Apex International Hotel (which I located after asking three dozen Scots for directions), and was really impressed with how the city of Edinburgh (via organizations like the Scottish Enterprise, The City of Edinburgh Council, Edinburgh & Lothians Tourist Board and Visit Scotland) welcomed the journalists from all over the world, giving the press free access to various attractions in Edinburgh.
The girl at the counter told me that since I was traveling alone it would be best to join the tour, since a lot of beautiful female reporters around the world are likely to take part. I got excited like a sloth in heat spotting a sloth in skirt. An agitating hour later, I was at the tour counter and saw my groupies, er, companions: three German guys, an East European girl who looked like an East European guy, plus a Scot in skirt. Yippee.
Anyway, I forgot about my disappointed gonads since the tour was stimulating. Our guide, a chap by the name of Ian McDonald, took us on an abbreviated exploration of the city. He showed us where distinguished historical figures lived, stayed for a time, or simply passed through. "John Knox lived in this house, Deacon Brodie went to that pub…" the guide paused, "and Justin Timberlake stayed in that hotel."
He took us to the shops of fleshers (butchers) and baxters (bakers), as well as to St. Giles Cathedral, named after the patron of beggars and the homeless (with the way I was crazily spending on CDs and taxicabs I came really close to invoking that saint).
We also went to Mercat Square, which was once a center for "shopping and executions." Dig this: Centuries ago, petty criminals were dragged to the square and their ears were nailed to a door for a period of time. Those guys even got off lightly, relatively. You could call it kid-glove treatment compared to the cruel and usual punishments inflicted on convicted witches and traitors. There were hangings, stranglings, drownings, burnings at stake and beheadings in old Edinburgh. The severed heads were nailed to a spike, presumably to draw the flies away from the market stalls, and maybe pose as gate décor. Imagine the conversations:
HOUSEWIFE ONE: Oh… I absolutely adore your garden!
HOUSEWIFE TWO: Thanks! Notice the way the head of the Duke of Queensberry complements the begonias?
In 1603, an already dead guy (Francis Maubray) was even tried, found guilty of treason, hanged and quartered. "Double-dead," as we Filipinos would call it. A woman survived a hanging and lived out the rest of her life as "Half-hangit Maggie." Walter Graham, the Earl of Atholl, and his grandsons were convicted of treason. The punishment: A grandson had his hand nailed to the gallows that was dragged by a cart; another had the fleshy parts of his body pierced with red-hot iron spikes; and the mastermind was attached to a crane by a rope, dropped, and then afterwards split open like a melon and dredged of vital organs. Hmm… makes you think of rellenong bangus, doesn’t it?
Our German companion was so shocked about the stories of violence he heard… And to think the guy was German. The East European girl who looked like a guy was speechless. Must have swallowed her Adam’s apple. I dreaded sleeping alone in the room that night with the city’s history of violence hanging heavily around me.
Scotland also has the punters and lassies that would make Marilyn Manson seem like a member of the Red Cross or the Legion of Mary. Such as the Hellfire Club, a group of nobles who met up in the South Bridge and practiced the occult and other unspeakable acts. Or the nefarious Burke and Hare who sold the bodies of their victims. Of course, none could out-evil Auld Clootie (Satan himself) who was spotted in the Old Town, apparently visiting pubs or painting the town red, literally.
A curiosity: In the 16th century, a guy by the name of Dr. Fian cast love spells on luscious women. One girl’s mother who also practiced the black arts struck back, redirecting the doctor’s love spell to (I am not making this up) one of her cows. Dr. Fian spent a long time ridiculously fighting of advances by an amorous farm animal.
The ironic thing is, the Scottish men and women I encountered were very cordial and friendly. I got lost plenty of times, and the Scots I asked were never too busy to give me directions – very nice people, very cordial to a lost tourist with an antiquated map.
Plus, I spotted no severed heads on the trip, I’m glad to report. No love-struck cows, either.
If all the dead people buried around here stood up at once, we’d have one hell of a population problem.
An author of a guide book on Edinburgh ripped off that line from the ‘80s teen flick The Lost Boys to describe the Scottish capital with its history of ghosts and grisly murders; its ancient castles, churches and buildings; and its streets underneath streets.
One evening, this writer – fueled by boredom and ridiculous amounts of ale, draft beer and Guinness – joined the tour of Edinburgh’s Underground Vaults, which was once featured by host Linda Blair on a TV show called The Scariest Places on Earth.
First, I wanted to take part in the Witchery Tour, an entertaining romp through the various spots in Old Edinburgh where witches were hanged and the like. One guy from the hotel said that if I have the balls for it, I should go for the scarier, more popular tour: the Haunted Underground Experience. Feeling challenged, I did so. Stupidly.
Mercat Tours Ltd. offers a slew of attractions: Secrets of the Royal Mile, the Vaults Tour, Ghosts & Ghouls and the tourist flypaper, the Haunted Underground Experience. The ticket cost around 6 pounds (P540 at that time) and the meeting place was the Mercat Cross on the Royal Mile at 7 in the evening. It was chilly when I got there – chilly, in a Christopher Lee/Boris Karloff/Gabi ng Lagim sense. Before joining the tour, I loaded up on alcohol to steady the nerves. As if that would help.
The Underground Vaults, particularly the South Bridge Vaults, has been described as "possibly the most haunted place in Britain." It was the site of the Edinburgh Ghost Project in 2001. Lots of scary stuff took place in those dark and dank catacombs, according to Blair in her best Exorcist voice. And our group – composed of three female Scots, a French couple, a Brit boy who looked a bit like Jack Osbourne, and this shivering bag of hair, nerves and Dracula movie memories – stayed in those vaults for an hour. Which seemed like a nerve-wracking eternity. And to think we parted with our precious pounds to do so.
Our guide David was a dramatic dude, almost Shakespearean. He handed each of us flashlights, gave us pointers on how to navigate the slippery chambers, and told ghost stories with attendant dramatics – not old sightings found in history books, but new occurrences experienced during the tour itself.
We came in through a metal door that was padlocked shortly afterwards. Descending the stairs into those blasted catacombs, we felt really cold, as if we were in a meat freezer. I was the last guy in. The guide nonchalantly asked if I was aware that in horror movies, the person at the back usually gets the scythe first. Come to think of it, the people on that particular tour resembled characters in a Friday the 13th flick: the Scottish women (the blonde bombshells), "Jack Osbourne" (the nerd, the comic relief), the French couple (the gooey lovers), me (the token Asian fellow), and the tour guide (the protagonist who lives to tell the harrowing tale). I promptly moved to the middle of the pack. Better safe than dismembered.
The group filed slowly, languidly into the torture chambers. It was hard to breathe in the catacombs; that’s why claustrophobics are strongly advised against taking part in that tour. The guide told us about the occupants: the cobbler (a gentle spirit, a protector), Mr. Boots (a burly ghost with long beard, blue overcoat and big, noisy boots), the slumlord (an extremely territorial ghoul that lives in the "Hate Room"), a boy with a red ball and an extremely frolicsome dog, among other spirits.
David told us about the "Mercat Tours Pregnancy Test." There is a spirit residing in one of the catacombs that abhorred pregnant women. Expectant mothers (as well as girls who have no idea they’re carrying a baby) would be hurled, pushed or violently dragged as they enter that particular room in the Vaults. No male has been victimized, so far. I wonder how that ghost would react to a girl with Adam’s apple, though.
In one of the rooms, I felt a force lightly brush my hands – like an overeager child. That was even before the guide told us about the little girl who supposedly resides in that spot. Must be the effect of the ale.
The guide took us to a narrow hallway. This passage is quite notorious for sudden and unexpected blackouts. One time, some boy scouts visited the Vaults, and when they came to the infamous hall, the lights went out on cue. They whipped out their ever-ready flashlights, which also failed to work. The scouts probably wet their pants. "Pray hard that we won’t experience total darkness when we pass that hall," the guide whispered.
Nothing happened and we passed by without a hitch. Thankfully – or I would have burst my pancreas full of ale.
There is also a room in the Vaults where a woman was "clawed" by a mysterious presence. Another tourist got minor burns from a spot where a fireplace used to be. Guides reported mystifying sightings, inexplicable noises and strange scents.
"One of our colleagues caught the whiff of whisky," David recounted. "He tried following the scent but heard a voice, faint at first, telling him, ‘Get out! Get out! GET OUT!!!’" This startled "Jack Osbourne," who screamed like a schoolgirl. Eeeeeee…
After the protracted hour, we thankfully got out of the Underground Vaults. Hey, the tour was scary, but I guess the ghost of the Guinness was stronger. I staggered back to the hotel, and into my own plush catacomb. And in the morning to wake up (no matter whether in Edinburgh, Glasgow or Malabon) still living inside the skin of a lonely, alienated, miserable man – the scariest place on earth.
I spent an hour in a wobbly plane from Edinburgh to London with pop singer Pink. One of my favorite rock journalists, Cameron Crowe, was with Led Zeppelin in a plane that developed engine trouble back in the ’70s. Being on board that almost doomed aircraft with the mighty Jimmy Page, Robert Plant, John Paul Jones and the late John Bonham was a tale worth retelling for Crowe, undoubtedly an Almost Famous moment. But this writer in a shaky plane with the woman who sang Get The Puh-tee Started and dressed up as a clownish whore in the Lady Marmalade video? The universe’s idea of a joke, I suppose.
We were cruising above idyllic Scottish fields topped by the bluest skies I’ve ever seen. It was so beautiful I could almost hear flute music from a Bugs Bunny episode (well, before Elmer Fudd comes along announcing wabbit, er, rabbit season). Near the landing strip, the plane had to go through those clouds riddled with air pockets, and then the wobbling began. I could almost hear Slayer playing a track about annihilating rabbits. I was so scared my hair almost turned pink, while Pink and her posse were unruffled. Nothing that I feared happened, though. More bad songs and bad articles will be unleashed on the world as a result.
In London, on a cold and damp night, I joined the Jack the Ripper walking tour, which is described as "(A tour that evokes) that autumn of gaslight and fog, of menacing shadows and stealthy footsteps… (It invites the curious to) inspect the murder sites, sift through the evidence – in all its gory detail – and get to grips of the main suspects… Yes, something wicked this way walked." Yeah, a walk to dismember.
Our guide was one dramatic storyteller. She relished every line, every phrase she uttered, like a female Michael Caine: "Prepare yourself for a very nasty bit – the body was found vaguely resembling a human being…" "This is a bit of the old chestnut – Jack the Ripper may in fact have been a woman…" "In Jack the Ripper movies, everything is so tippity-boo – not in real life…" Well, she could recite her grocery list and make it sound like an Alfred Hitchcock script.
Anyway, our guide began the tour with the words, "Our subject tonight is murder!" Moments later, she let out a bloodcurdling scream: not because of a serial killer but because she hit her shin on one of the serial poles that jutted out of the London ground.
It was anticlimactic from then on.
For comments, suggestions, curses and invocations, e-mail iganja@hotmail.com.
ESTRAGON: Yes, let’s go.
STAGE DIRECTION: They do not move. - From Waiting for Godot
By Samuel Beckett
After a ten-decade flight it seemed, I arrived at Edinburgh Airport. I went to the Scottish capital latelast year to cover an event for the paper. On the plane, I sat beside an old man with bladder problems (I’ve never encountered anyone pee before and after eating peanuts); across two old Japanese women who spoke non-stop across two continents (must be talking about haikus); and in front of a man who slurped loudly whatever he was eating (soup, soupy beef, juicy fruit, dry bread, arid dessert, and probably even air or bits of gravel – as long as they were served on a goddamn tray). We touched ground and I was a sweaty wreck: like a mattress in a porn star convention in Sweden.
When I got to the hotel, I got the sloth’s mentality. At first, I refused to go out of the boutique hotel room I was booked in. Inertia took the better of me. Laziness became my mood for the day. It was as if Entropy signed a two-day lease in my hollow head. Inside was comfy and crisply warm; outside was avalanche-cold. I brought lots of sweaters for the trip (my editor even gave me a funky trench-coat), but I had the same feeling I get when I’m in my home city of Malabon during a storm, during high tide and during theater-of-the-absurd moments when I wanted to build an ark, pack it with animals (rats, cockroaches, bed bugs, centipedes, a parrot, two dogs – all the animals in that menagerie of an apartment where I live) and get the hell out of there. Or stay in my warm room with wooly blankets and Bill Evans records ("Sunday at the Village Vanguard" goes so well with the rain). Yeah, indoors rule! "Staying home is the new going out," as the homebody’s credo goes.
But even a sloth goes out for food – or to snag a mate – so I hauled my ass out of that kitschy hotel room on Princes Street and walked the cold, clammy alleys (or close, according to locals) of Edinburgh. Scotland’s capital city (dubbed as the "Athens of the North") is the land of sinister castles, quirky architecture, dizzying alleyways, succulent sheep-stomach-bag meals (haggis, they call ‘em), eerie underground vaults and grown men in skirts. The place is creepy in a beautiful way.
I got my press credentials at the Apex International Hotel (which I located after asking three dozen Scots for directions), and was really impressed with how the city of Edinburgh (via organizations like the Scottish Enterprise, The City of Edinburgh Council, Edinburgh & Lothians Tourist Board and Visit Scotland) welcomed the journalists from all over the world, giving the press free access to various attractions in Edinburgh.
The girl at the counter told me that since I was traveling alone it would be best to join the tour, since a lot of beautiful female reporters around the world are likely to take part. I got excited like a sloth in heat spotting a sloth in skirt. An agitating hour later, I was at the tour counter and saw my groupies, er, companions: three German guys, an East European girl who looked like an East European guy, plus a Scot in skirt. Yippee.
Anyway, I forgot about my disappointed gonads since the tour was stimulating. Our guide, a chap by the name of Ian McDonald, took us on an abbreviated exploration of the city. He showed us where distinguished historical figures lived, stayed for a time, or simply passed through. "John Knox lived in this house, Deacon Brodie went to that pub…" the guide paused, "and Justin Timberlake stayed in that hotel."
He took us to the shops of fleshers (butchers) and baxters (bakers), as well as to St. Giles Cathedral, named after the patron of beggars and the homeless (with the way I was crazily spending on CDs and taxicabs I came really close to invoking that saint).
We also went to Mercat Square, which was once a center for "shopping and executions." Dig this: Centuries ago, petty criminals were dragged to the square and their ears were nailed to a door for a period of time. Those guys even got off lightly, relatively. You could call it kid-glove treatment compared to the cruel and usual punishments inflicted on convicted witches and traitors. There were hangings, stranglings, drownings, burnings at stake and beheadings in old Edinburgh. The severed heads were nailed to a spike, presumably to draw the flies away from the market stalls, and maybe pose as gate décor. Imagine the conversations:
HOUSEWIFE ONE: Oh… I absolutely adore your garden!
HOUSEWIFE TWO: Thanks! Notice the way the head of the Duke of Queensberry complements the begonias?
In 1603, an already dead guy (Francis Maubray) was even tried, found guilty of treason, hanged and quartered. "Double-dead," as we Filipinos would call it. A woman survived a hanging and lived out the rest of her life as "Half-hangit Maggie." Walter Graham, the Earl of Atholl, and his grandsons were convicted of treason. The punishment: A grandson had his hand nailed to the gallows that was dragged by a cart; another had the fleshy parts of his body pierced with red-hot iron spikes; and the mastermind was attached to a crane by a rope, dropped, and then afterwards split open like a melon and dredged of vital organs. Hmm… makes you think of rellenong bangus, doesn’t it?
Our German companion was so shocked about the stories of violence he heard… And to think the guy was German. The East European girl who looked like a guy was speechless. Must have swallowed her Adam’s apple. I dreaded sleeping alone in the room that night with the city’s history of violence hanging heavily around me.
Scotland also has the punters and lassies that would make Marilyn Manson seem like a member of the Red Cross or the Legion of Mary. Such as the Hellfire Club, a group of nobles who met up in the South Bridge and practiced the occult and other unspeakable acts. Or the nefarious Burke and Hare who sold the bodies of their victims. Of course, none could out-evil Auld Clootie (Satan himself) who was spotted in the Old Town, apparently visiting pubs or painting the town red, literally.
A curiosity: In the 16th century, a guy by the name of Dr. Fian cast love spells on luscious women. One girl’s mother who also practiced the black arts struck back, redirecting the doctor’s love spell to (I am not making this up) one of her cows. Dr. Fian spent a long time ridiculously fighting of advances by an amorous farm animal.
The ironic thing is, the Scottish men and women I encountered were very cordial and friendly. I got lost plenty of times, and the Scots I asked were never too busy to give me directions – very nice people, very cordial to a lost tourist with an antiquated map.
Plus, I spotted no severed heads on the trip, I’m glad to report. No love-struck cows, either.
An author of a guide book on Edinburgh ripped off that line from the ‘80s teen flick The Lost Boys to describe the Scottish capital with its history of ghosts and grisly murders; its ancient castles, churches and buildings; and its streets underneath streets.
One evening, this writer – fueled by boredom and ridiculous amounts of ale, draft beer and Guinness – joined the tour of Edinburgh’s Underground Vaults, which was once featured by host Linda Blair on a TV show called The Scariest Places on Earth.
First, I wanted to take part in the Witchery Tour, an entertaining romp through the various spots in Old Edinburgh where witches were hanged and the like. One guy from the hotel said that if I have the balls for it, I should go for the scarier, more popular tour: the Haunted Underground Experience. Feeling challenged, I did so. Stupidly.
Mercat Tours Ltd. offers a slew of attractions: Secrets of the Royal Mile, the Vaults Tour, Ghosts & Ghouls and the tourist flypaper, the Haunted Underground Experience. The ticket cost around 6 pounds (P540 at that time) and the meeting place was the Mercat Cross on the Royal Mile at 7 in the evening. It was chilly when I got there – chilly, in a Christopher Lee/Boris Karloff/Gabi ng Lagim sense. Before joining the tour, I loaded up on alcohol to steady the nerves. As if that would help.
The Underground Vaults, particularly the South Bridge Vaults, has been described as "possibly the most haunted place in Britain." It was the site of the Edinburgh Ghost Project in 2001. Lots of scary stuff took place in those dark and dank catacombs, according to Blair in her best Exorcist voice. And our group – composed of three female Scots, a French couple, a Brit boy who looked a bit like Jack Osbourne, and this shivering bag of hair, nerves and Dracula movie memories – stayed in those vaults for an hour. Which seemed like a nerve-wracking eternity. And to think we parted with our precious pounds to do so.
Our guide David was a dramatic dude, almost Shakespearean. He handed each of us flashlights, gave us pointers on how to navigate the slippery chambers, and told ghost stories with attendant dramatics – not old sightings found in history books, but new occurrences experienced during the tour itself.
We came in through a metal door that was padlocked shortly afterwards. Descending the stairs into those blasted catacombs, we felt really cold, as if we were in a meat freezer. I was the last guy in. The guide nonchalantly asked if I was aware that in horror movies, the person at the back usually gets the scythe first. Come to think of it, the people on that particular tour resembled characters in a Friday the 13th flick: the Scottish women (the blonde bombshells), "Jack Osbourne" (the nerd, the comic relief), the French couple (the gooey lovers), me (the token Asian fellow), and the tour guide (the protagonist who lives to tell the harrowing tale). I promptly moved to the middle of the pack. Better safe than dismembered.
The group filed slowly, languidly into the torture chambers. It was hard to breathe in the catacombs; that’s why claustrophobics are strongly advised against taking part in that tour. The guide told us about the occupants: the cobbler (a gentle spirit, a protector), Mr. Boots (a burly ghost with long beard, blue overcoat and big, noisy boots), the slumlord (an extremely territorial ghoul that lives in the "Hate Room"), a boy with a red ball and an extremely frolicsome dog, among other spirits.
David told us about the "Mercat Tours Pregnancy Test." There is a spirit residing in one of the catacombs that abhorred pregnant women. Expectant mothers (as well as girls who have no idea they’re carrying a baby) would be hurled, pushed or violently dragged as they enter that particular room in the Vaults. No male has been victimized, so far. I wonder how that ghost would react to a girl with Adam’s apple, though.
In one of the rooms, I felt a force lightly brush my hands – like an overeager child. That was even before the guide told us about the little girl who supposedly resides in that spot. Must be the effect of the ale.
The guide took us to a narrow hallway. This passage is quite notorious for sudden and unexpected blackouts. One time, some boy scouts visited the Vaults, and when they came to the infamous hall, the lights went out on cue. They whipped out their ever-ready flashlights, which also failed to work. The scouts probably wet their pants. "Pray hard that we won’t experience total darkness when we pass that hall," the guide whispered.
Nothing happened and we passed by without a hitch. Thankfully – or I would have burst my pancreas full of ale.
There is also a room in the Vaults where a woman was "clawed" by a mysterious presence. Another tourist got minor burns from a spot where a fireplace used to be. Guides reported mystifying sightings, inexplicable noises and strange scents.
"One of our colleagues caught the whiff of whisky," David recounted. "He tried following the scent but heard a voice, faint at first, telling him, ‘Get out! Get out! GET OUT!!!’" This startled "Jack Osbourne," who screamed like a schoolgirl. Eeeeeee…
After the protracted hour, we thankfully got out of the Underground Vaults. Hey, the tour was scary, but I guess the ghost of the Guinness was stronger. I staggered back to the hotel, and into my own plush catacomb. And in the morning to wake up (no matter whether in Edinburgh, Glasgow or Malabon) still living inside the skin of a lonely, alienated, miserable man – the scariest place on earth.
We were cruising above idyllic Scottish fields topped by the bluest skies I’ve ever seen. It was so beautiful I could almost hear flute music from a Bugs Bunny episode (well, before Elmer Fudd comes along announcing wabbit, er, rabbit season). Near the landing strip, the plane had to go through those clouds riddled with air pockets, and then the wobbling began. I could almost hear Slayer playing a track about annihilating rabbits. I was so scared my hair almost turned pink, while Pink and her posse were unruffled. Nothing that I feared happened, though. More bad songs and bad articles will be unleashed on the world as a result.
In London, on a cold and damp night, I joined the Jack the Ripper walking tour, which is described as "(A tour that evokes) that autumn of gaslight and fog, of menacing shadows and stealthy footsteps… (It invites the curious to) inspect the murder sites, sift through the evidence – in all its gory detail – and get to grips of the main suspects… Yes, something wicked this way walked." Yeah, a walk to dismember.
Our guide was one dramatic storyteller. She relished every line, every phrase she uttered, like a female Michael Caine: "Prepare yourself for a very nasty bit – the body was found vaguely resembling a human being…" "This is a bit of the old chestnut – Jack the Ripper may in fact have been a woman…" "In Jack the Ripper movies, everything is so tippity-boo – not in real life…" Well, she could recite her grocery list and make it sound like an Alfred Hitchcock script.
Anyway, our guide began the tour with the words, "Our subject tonight is murder!" Moments later, she let out a bloodcurdling scream: not because of a serial killer but because she hit her shin on one of the serial poles that jutted out of the London ground.
It was anticlimactic from then on.
BrandSpace Articles
<
>