Today we discuss the subject of fantasy. I don't mean pictures of naked women in silly positions (though I imagine the people who like those sort of images rely on fantasy more often than not) nor getting dressed in medieval style clothes and running round ruined castles with rubber swords. No, I have other things in mind.

In the wake of the shocking explosions in Norway, the media have been keen to show photographs of the perpetrator dressed like an all action special agent. It does illustrate his personality - even the psychiatrist reckons he's nuts - a sort of inner need to be something he wasn't. A fantasy in other words, one that went hand in hand with his extreme opinions and fertilised his acts of violence.

At times I've been accused of being a fantasist. There are still some people, even now, whpo refuse to accept I once flew light aeroplanes or that Red Jasper existed as a hard workin' rock band. In the former case I have my licenses and log book. So that's real. In the second, it's my painful duty to tell you that yes, Red Jasper did exist, and we did subject most of Britain to our own brand or overly loud, overly fast, and over-rated folk-rock. Evidence? Some album sleeves and perhaps a few photographs lurking here and there. The camera never lies, does it?

Some might question the difference between photo's of a saddo posing for his own satisfaction, or someone caught on camera doing what he actually did. however pointless or optimistic his efforts may have been. There is a difference between fantasy and reality there. The problem comes when we can't tell the difference. When we no longer realise that our own conception of the world around us is defined by our own desires. When we seek to recreate that fantasy by manipulating others to satisfy those desires with or without their consent.

They say clothes maketh the man. I don't really believe that. My penchant for military surplus trousers doesn't make me a soldier nor does it inspire me to act like one. Nor do I wax lyrical about wot I did in the war. You see? I'm not really a fantasist, am I?

I'm still an ex-rock superstar though. Well, almost.

Case Of The Missing Eunos - Chapter 4

Crime drama on television tends to follw a familiar pattern. The hero of the tale, the downtrodden private detective, has a broken family life. Yep, I sort of qualify there. The next issue is that he must - and I mean must - drive a ridiculously unique car. Yep, I qualify there too, although in this case the car is the basis of the plot because it got nicked. Have I mentioned that?

The story now goes into an intense all action phase. Obviously I can't have shoot-outs with the villains because only film stars are allowed to use guns without fear of arrest or career-killing enquiry, and so far, Hollywood superstardom has eluded me. Darn.

Instead I had a very... erm... genteel confrontation with one of my suspects. He seemed to think he'd gotten away with something after giving me a fusilade of "I wasn't there... I had flu that day... You can ask anyone...". What I learned was...

a) What a complete con-merchant he is.

That I may have been conned.

c) That since the crime desk officer told me to investigate the theft of my car myself, he has to all intents and purposes empowered me as a special constable. I am Deputy Caldrail. Hey, if I'm going to indulge in a fantasy, at least let's make it useful to society, eh?

Question of the Week

Why, I was recently asked, am I so keen on sports cars? Forget all that stuff about testosterone and adrenalin pumping power, handling, and impossible looks, the real truth is that I drove a Nissan Cherry 5-door hatchback for eight years. Face it, in my place, wouldn't you want a bit of excitement? Clearly you have never owned a Nissan Cherry. I want lots of automotive excitement. Please, let me have this fantasy, just once...