Flashbulb Memory

When studying Psychology in Sixth Form (shocker, I know) we were asked to recall where we were when Princess Diana was killed in the car crash in Paris. I remember quite vividly that I was only a kid. I'd got up at about 7am and the living room was dark, as the huge curtains we used to have were still drawn. I turned the telly on, expecting cartoons yet I was greeted with unfortunately tragic news reports.

Fast forward to the 11th of September 2001, and it is highly likely that you remember where you were and what you were doing when the Twin Towers were brought down. I remember seeing it on the telly with my Mum and ex-girlfriend. I even remember that my Dad was painting our back yard, listening to Radio City. I can still smell the gloss on our pebble dashed back wall.

This then is a phenomenon called Flashbulb Memory. Events that everyone seems to be able to recall vividly where they were, what they were doing and how they felt. The assassination of JFK. The day John Lennon got shot. The Moon landing. Elvis' death. I could go on.

I appreciate that this goes on, and while this blog is already ripe for being set up as lecture notes, I'm not going to go into reasons why this miraculous memory madness occurs. I could dress it up and say that I don't want this to become an educational blog, but quite frankly, I have told you all everything that I remember about it, and what you'd be getting is recycled Wikipedia shite that has more than likely been tampered with by an acne riddled teenager who is bored out of his skull. If you're interested, Google it at your own leisure.

What I will say though is that I have started to become quite sceptical about the motives behind the researching of this phenomenon. Every single event that has been researched for this psychological occurrence seems to have some sort of controversy pinned to it. JFK's assassination. John Lennon's
shooting. Margaret Thatcher getting in to office.

I imagine that the initial research could have came about when a group of people were sat down in a room, slapped about a bit, and forced to recall where they were the day JFK was killed. When all the suspects came back with answers so vivid, including who they were with, the smells of their surroundings and what undies they had on, the police officers all gave up their jobs and became psychologists.

The Moon Landing is probably included in examples of this phenomenon for more sinister reasons than you would expect too. I'll set the scene. You're in America. A gang of REM fans in balaclavas are kidnapping a number of employees from NASA. They pile them up in a room, asking questions about that day. They've got pictures of their families gagged and tied up and they're expecting them to say "Okay, I was in a studio behind a camera!"

So the next time someone asks you where you were the day the Twin Towers were brought down, don't answer anything until your solicitor arrives.

The Three Little Pigs

There's been a few stories on here that have been re-written/blitzed to bits, for your reading pleasure, so I thought I'd continue the curve by murdering another one of our childhood favourites.

First off, the three little swines don't live in some fairytale field, as you'd expect of the images that have been installed by 'little you' when you were 6. They live in Norris Green, and from what I can see, their houses aren't built from straw or sticks. Just bricks. We're being dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st Century ladies and gentlemen, whether you like it or not.

The next twist has got to be is that the Big Bad Wolf is obviously a metaphor for some other being. It would be extraordinary if a Big Bad Wolf would be able to wander around a district of Liverpool unquestioned. A bailiff will be suffice. We'll stick with the pigs though. Unless you want to imagine them as Policemen. Depends on your stance on the latter really.

Anyways. The first little pig has set up a nice one bedroom terraced abode, fitted with bog standard wooden windows, courtesy of the Thatcher era. God knows us Scousers love a bit of Maggy. It's a 'front door on the pavement' gaff, just like them ones you see in that Hovis advert. Minus the little kid running through time, etc.

So the Big Bad Bailiff knocks one Little Pig Number One's house with that reassuring 'I'm here for your telly' knock. The walking slab of butcher's produce spies the Tax Bandit out of one of his shabby, council standard portholes at the front of his house and decides to make bacon and do a runner down the entry and visit Little Pig Number Two.

Now, Little Pig Number Two's house is a slightly better form of accomodation. There is certainly more than one bedroom. Two if you're interested. It is also fully equipped with single glazed UPVC windows and doors. And there's a small sized garden at the front. No soil. Just concrete and sadness.

Number One gives Number Two a swift text (fantastic pigs these, houses, phones and everything!) to inform him to lash the kettle on and fire up last week's X Factor for a bit of a blimp of Cheryl Cole on the Sky+. Dirty swines.

After a decent dose of consumer television, they both heard a familiar knock on the UPVC door. There's no need to look out of the window this time. The Big Bad Bailiff's knock is sound enough for them. They picked up their coats, made somewhat like Elvis, and left the building.

They jumped in their Ford C-Max (getting better this) and drove around the corner, out of Norris Green and just past the Walton Asda, to Little Pig Number Three's house. This is something of a step up to the other pig's houses. Front and back gardens, with actual turf. Wood effect UPVC windows. Four bedrooms, including an en suite bog for the master bedroom. And wireless internet. For all your Facebook needs.

It was getting a little later in the day now, and Little Pig Number Three decides to crack the tins of Carling open and lash the match on. Liverpool v Hull, 2009. Cracking match. After a large fix of pure mullering, the Pigs wind down with a custom made pizza from the Asda and a few more cans of lager. Until they hear an unnerving thump on the front door. Pigs One and Two seem unsettled whilst Little Pig Number Three calmly gets up and grabs another three cans.

The Big Bad Bailiff walked around to the bay window, where he could plainly see the three little pigs enjoying their pizza and ale. He knocked again, only to find that he was being ignored. So he huffed, he puffed, and he knocked again.

Evenutally, the Big Bad Bailiff did one and all the Little Piggies got blitzed and celebrated not paying their council tax. Or whatever.

So the lessons learned from this much altered fable? Wood effect UPVC windows are the future. Pigs hate spending money. You're probably better off hiding from bailiffs in a friend's house in Walton, rather than your house in Norris Green. You could potentially save money in this economic climate by sharing a house, rather than renting or buying individually. Or just pay your council tax. It's upto you.