These posts take the form of edited highlights from the imagined author’s imagined book ’365 Days on Tor’, in which the author climbs Glastonbury Tor every day for a year, and attempts to understand what the Hell the 2012 phenomenon is all about. Here’s all the previous entries.

May 1st 2012 My phone chimes. A new text message. I prise one eye open – 8.30am. Early for me. Who sends a text this time in the morning anyway? I open the other eye and silently watch the dusty spears of sunlight poke through my toilet paper-thin curtains. It’s already warm. ‘Just one look at you, and I know it’s gonna be… a lovely day’ I mumble tunelessly. By Merlin and all his happy gnomes, it really is going to be a special Mayday. I debate whether ...]]> This is part six of the fictitious journals of 50-something layabout and 2012 skeptic James Gladwin-Turner.

These posts take the form of edited highlights from the imagined author’s imagined book ’365 Days on Tor’, in which the author climbs Glastonbury Tor every day for a year, and attempts to understand what the Hell the 2012 phenomenon is all about. Here’s all the previous entries.

May 1st 2012
My phone chimes. A new text message. I prise one eye open – 8.30am. Early for me. Who sends a text this time in the morning anyway? I open the other eye and silently watch the dusty spears of sunlight poke through my toilet paper-thin curtains. It’s already warm. ‘Just one look at you, and I know it’s gonna be… a lovely day’ I mumble tunelessly. By Merlin and all his happy gnomes, it really is going to be a special Mayday. I debate whether I should get up or doze for another hour or so, then remember my text and fumble for the phone. ’I'm coming. Don’t try to hide ‘cos I’ll find you.’ That’s all it says. I sit bolt upright. Who is it from? I don’t recognise the number, and that makes me panic. I immediately think of the journalist friends I’ve contacted, offering the exclusive story of how I invented the Glastonbury 2012 doomsday phenomenon. But no-one was really interested – apparently there’s far more serious shit going down elsewhere in the world, so it’s unlikely to be from any of them.

Stumbling into my dressing gown whilst lighting a fag, I wrack my brains; who do I know who would actually be prepared to come all the way out here? Who might seize upon the opportunity for a scoop when all others have rejected it? Only when I’ve made it downstairs and brewed a triple-caffeinated mug of sludge do I realise. My blood runs cold. Oh dear God. No. The Grootmeister. The Grootmeister is coming to Glastonbury. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Glastonbury town centre is thronging by the time I manage to leave The Shack. A large crowd has assembled at the market cross, including various folk dressed as green men, plus two home-made vaguely Chinese-looking dragons – one red (for summer) and one white (for winter.) This is the start of the Mayday celebrations. There’s a police presence too, probably in case anything kicks off between the locals and these 2012 doom-puppies. After some preamble, the crowd proceeds up the high street and the red dragon makes a big show of chasing the white dragon away. Symbolic, see. Then everyone peacefully climbs the route to Bushy Coombe, where a maypole awaits. As I trudge along under a cloudless sky, someone grabs my hand. I look up. It’s Ligeia; radiant and marvellous as always.
‘Where have you been all my life?’ I say.
She smiles. ‘I’ve never seen a crowd this big for Beltane’ she says, looking around.
‘No doubt a few of your doom-mongering mates are along for the ride’ I say.
She shrugs. ‘You still don’t believe?’
‘Nope.’
‘What about Lars’s video?’
‘A hoax.’
She grabs my other hand, stops, and looks me in the eye. ‘It’s a shame. You should be more open-minded. People all over the world are discovering the power of these holy hills and mountains.’
‘There’s nothing to believe’ I say. ‘I made it up. You should stop being so bloody gullible.’

I don’t hang around for the maypole dancing. A bit too Jethro Tull for my liking. The procession will end on the Tor with a blessing by various pagan types later, but I feel listless and worn out; tired and disillusioned with all this 2012 crap. It depresses me that so many apparently intelligent human beings are unable to accept the blatant truth (especially Ligeia): the world will not end because of some bullshit prophecy; humans will not suddenly evolve to some utopian state. Things are never that easy.
I grow more and more angry, to the point where, upon reaching The Shack, I bellow my frustration at the back door: ‘what the fuck is wrong with you people?’
Surprisingly, the back door opens. There is a man standing in the doorway. A big man.
‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong’ he says, in a ripe London access. ‘You’ve run out of booze me old mucker.’

Yes, the Grootmeister has found me (although I’m not sure how he got into my home.) Arnold van der Groot to be exact – a third-generation Dutch immigrant, born-and-bred within earshot of the Bow Bells, occasional session guitarist, sci-fi novelist, semi-professional wrestler and jobbing tabloid hack. Also, a bear of a man with prodigious appetites for the worst things in life. We have been friends for over 30 years, although I haven’t seen him for the last three; he’s the sort of bloke who disappears off the face of the planet and then re-emerges much later as though he’d just popped down the shops for a pint of milk.
I step into The Shack and see a veritable mini-bar of alcohol arranged on the dining table. Arnold nods at it like a grinning chimpanzee: ‘Thought you might want something to drink.’
We sit outside in the full glare of the afternoon sun, drinking Gold Label and chain-smoking, catching up on the last three years. Turns out the Grootmeister has been in India, where he’s acquired a bit of a spiritual side, which goes some way towards explaining his interest in my project. Plus, he reckons he can sell my story to a red-top tabloid. I tell him all about my terrible lie and he laughs his head off.
‘So you think the whole thing’s total bollocks?’ he asks, smoothing a mop of blond hair away from his big, wide baby face.
I nod. ‘Yup. Made up the entire shebang.’
Then the Grootmeister says something surprising: ‘when I was on the Nepalese border, there were dozens of yogis – wise men, who’d take groups of tourists up the mountains to meditate. They reckoned spirits lived in tunnels there and if you were lucky, in the right state of mind, you could sort of commune with ‘em. All I can say is, I went up those mountains a few times, got right off my tits and saw some very… trippy things.’
‘Don’t tell me you actually believe all this rubbish’ I say.
‘Definitely mate. I reckon there’s something in it.’
‘Oh god, not you too.’
Arnold reaches into his bag and pulls out a large glass bong. ‘Your head is in totally the wrong place’ he says, filling the contraption with water and packing the gauze with something green and pungent. ‘Always has been. Too uptight. You need to chill out mate.’
He lights the gauze, takes a hit, and passes it to me. ‘That’s why I’m here. Jem told me what you were up to; I knew you’d be a cynic.’
I ignore his reference to my ex-wife. ‘You were as big a cynic as me once’ I say. ‘Now you’ve gone all George Harrison.’ I inhale a lungful of acrid smoke. Haven’t used the stuff in a long time, but it takes more than bit of weed to get me communing with fairies.
We talk some more, passing the bong back and forth. By mid afternoon I’m feeling wrecked. More than wrecked. Something isn’t quite right.
‘This is pokey gear’ I mutter. ‘What is it? Some kind of super skunk?’
The Grootmeister blinks his red eyes through the smoke. ‘Yeh. Well, it’s a mix actually.’
‘Of what?’
‘Weed and DMT.’
And then everything goes pear-shaped.

These posts take the form of edited highlights from the imagined author’s imagined book ’365 Days on Tor’, in which the author climbs Glastonbury Tor every day for a year, and attempts to understand what the Hell the 2012 phenomenon is all about. Here’s Part one, Part two, Part three and Part four.

April 13th 2012 What have I done? That’s a rhetorical question, because I know exactly what I’ve done – told a big, fat porkie pie. But I didn’t expect things to take off so quickly. It was the perfect storm – I told the right lie, at the right time, to the right people. A month on and the fib has taken on a life ...]]> In part five of the fictitious journals of ex-music journo and epic fib-weaver James Gladwin-Turner, James has guilt pangs as things get out of hand, and ends up with a bloody nose.

These posts take the form of edited highlights from the imagined author’s imagined book ’365 Days on Tor’, in which the author climbs Glastonbury Tor every day for a year, and attempts to understand what the Hell the 2012 phenomenon is all about. Here’s Part one, Part two, Part three and Part four.

April 13th 2012
What have I done? That’s a rhetorical question, because I know exactly what I’ve done – told a big, fat porkie pie. But I didn’t expect things to take off so quickly. It was the perfect storm – I told the right lie, at the right time, to the right people. A month on and the fib has taken on a life of its own; now it’s bigger than the one about Richard Gere and a hamster.

Today Roger and I wandered round the town, and wondered at the volume of freaks in our midst. Glastonbury has more than its fair share anyway, but this recent influx has taken freakery to a whole new level. To quote Roger, it’s like Glastonbury Festival on acid, on acid. Except there is no festival in 2012. The assembled weirdos are not here to gallivant in a field for a long weekend. Oh no. They’re here for the end of the world.
The newspaper headlines say it all: ‘Glastonbury Tor will survive apocalypse – rest of UK not so lucky’; ’2012 doomsday tourists swamp Somerset town’; ‘property rates out of this world thanks to UFO hunters’; ‘”Visitors cannot camp on pavement” warns councillor.’
A steady stream of believers arrive in the town weekly, from all over the world it seems, but particularly the US. Invariably they have nowhere to go (disciples of the apocalypse generally don’t worry too much about forward-planning); enterprising locals have cranked up hotel and B&B tariffs to extortionate levels, and the few squats dotted around town are full to bursting. Campsites too are at capacity, so the crazies tend to pitch their tents around the Tor (which, after all, is the main focus of their attentions.) The police move them on but they roll up again the next day. I believe a landowner is now allowing tents into his nearby meadow, for an extremely reasonable £75 per night.
Roger and I went up to the Tor, only to find a mini tent city being dismantled by National Trust staff and rozzers.
‘I feel partly responsible’ I say.
Roger rolls a cigarette while his comb-over lifts and dances in the wind. So far, he’s the only person I’ve told about my Big Fib. ‘You sowed the seed old chap, but others have grown it into the invasive weed it’s now become.’ He likes gardening metaphors, does Roger.
It’s true. I haven’t seen Ligeia for a few weeks now. But Lars and Bruno have been extremely active and visible, almost unofficial ringmasters of this strange and uncontrollable circus. Lars, in particular, has seized the nettle (as Roger might say) – he organises dawn rituals on the Tor’s summit, to ‘charge the hill and invoke the beings within.’ Or something.
To be honest, I feel more than just responsible; I am wracked with guilt. Looking around the Tor and the town, the place is becoming over-run. And the peculiar, tranquil atmosphere the place has – which I’ve just begun to acknowledge and enjoy – is in danger of being ruined.
The coppers leave, having dispersed the doom-camp, and the National Trust staff begin bagging up the litter left behind. I despise litter. It is my pet hate; the one thing that gets my goat and makes me despair at humankind.
Just as I sense that calm is on the cusp of being restored, a bloke walks past wearing nothing except white Speedos and para boots. An eye in a triangle is painted in blue on his chest and forehead. He takes a swig from a plastic jerrycan of scrumpy and lobs the container into a hedgerow. My hackles rise like an angry cobra.
‘Oy, mate’ I call out. No response. He doesn’t even break his stride.
‘Mate, do you want to pick that up?’ Still nothing. I pluck the container from the hedgerow and pursue the gentleman at a brisk pace, then tap him firmly on the shoulder.
‘This is yours pal’ I say, handing him the vessel. He doesn’t take it. ‘Put it in a bin, there’s a good lad.’
‘Why don’t you put it in a bin?’ he says, squaring up.
‘Listen pal’ I say, ‘you already look like a twat. No sense in behaving like one as well is there?’
A blue eye in a triangle lurches towards me. There’s a crack, a bolt of pain, and quite a lot of blood. Roger appears with a hankie. My assailant walks off. ‘The last time I got a headbutt, it was from Lemmy in 1985′ I say, dabbing my bloodied and broken nose.

Later on, even though my nose resembles a ripe plum in size and colour, Roger and I attend a meeting at Glastonbury’s Assembly Rooms, to discuss the growing ‘threat’ from the influx of doomsters. It is packed to the rafters, and tensions run high. The town’s elders, including a high priest and priestess, are violently opposed to the presence of the doom-mongers; they claim Glastonbury is an ancient holy sanctuary, a place where healing energies converge. Clearly, they do not believe in an imminent 2012 apocalypse, and argue that the doomsters’ obsession with global annihilation is not compatible with Glastonbury’s optimistic spirit. I think they are right. My little joke has gone too far. I decide then to ‘fess up, as they say, explain the scam, and put an end to the madness for good.

Back at The Shack, whilst contemplating how to break the news of my terrible fib, I get a visitor. It is Lars, alone. This has never happened before. On the few occasions he has dropped by, it’s always been with Bruno or Ligeia. He looks serious, as always, and a bit cautious.
‘I saw you at the meeting tonight’ he says, lighting a cigarette. ‘What happened to your nose?’
‘You were there?’ I reply. ‘I didn’t see you.’
He nods. ‘You seemed quite anxious. I was watching you.’ He pauses, then gets straight to the point; classic German directness. ‘You think, don’t you, that all of this is made up? It is something you invented, that has become almost real.’
‘I don’t think I invented it. I did. I concocted a bullshit story, fed it to you and Bruno, and you both spread the word.’
Lars shakes his head. ‘No. You may think this is a fabrication, but it is true.’
‘Oh yeah? Because the telepathic transmissions from Sirius tell you it is?’
‘Yes.’
I snort in derision. ‘Give me a break, Lars. This has gotten out of hand. I’m going to call one of my journalist friends, tell him the facts, and he’ll break the story of the Great Glastonbury Apocalypse Deception.’
Lars shrugs. ‘if you must, then go ahead. But let me show you one thing first.’ He searches for something his mobile phone, then hands me the device. ‘Look at this.’
Its a piece of video, monochrome and grainy. I can make out the Tor, and the tower at its summit.
‘What am I looking for?’ I ask.
‘Wait.’
After a few seconds of wobbly footage, I see something above the tower. It’s very faint, and possibly there’s nothing there beyond the grainy dance of the video. But perhaps I can see a flickering halo, like a mini Aurora Borealis. And around it, pinpricks of light spinning in a loose orbit.
I look at Lars. ‘What in Sam Hill is that?’
He says nothing, but gives me a strange look. I can tell things are about to get a lot weirder.

Amongst all the hullabaloo around the Mayan Long Count, another equally spurious / seismic prophesy for 2012 has been ignored. In 1139, Malachy, Archbishop of Armagh, was summoned to Rome by Pope Innocent II. There he supposedly experienced a vision of future popes, which he recorded as a sequence of cryptic phrases. This manuscript was then deposited in the Roman Archive, and thereafter forgotten about until its rediscovery in 1590. This is the standard explanation, at least. The document forecasts 112 future popes, each accompanied by a short Latin motto. Apart from the total number of popes forecast before the last pontiff, the only connection ...]]> Media reports suggest that Pope Benedict XVI (Joseph Ratzinger) will not remain pontiff in 2012. His successor, according to a c. 16th prophesy, will be Petrus Romanus – the last pope and, depending on who you believe, the Antichrist.

Amongst all the hullabaloo around the Mayan Long Count, another equally spurious / seismic prophesy for 2012 has been ignored. In 1139, Malachy, Archbishop of Armagh, was summoned to Rome by Pope Innocent II. There he supposedly experienced a vision of future popes, which he recorded as a sequence of cryptic phrases. This manuscript was then deposited in the Roman Archive, and thereafter forgotten about until its rediscovery in 1590.
This is the standard explanation, at least. The document forecasts 112 future popes, each accompanied by a short Latin motto. Apart from the total number of popes forecast before the last pontiff, the only connection between prophesy and history is this list of mottoes, the meanings of which are open to interpretation (see here for the full list, plus explanations.) Therefore its accuracy is suspect. Some also claim the document is a c. 16th forgery.
However, what excites End Time fanatics is the motto for the last pope:

“In the extreme persecution of the Holy Roman Church, there will sit
Peter the Roman, who will pasture his sheep in many tribulations:
and when these things are finished, the city of seven hills will be destroyed,
and the terrible judge will judge his people.
The End.”

In other words, the last pope – known as Peter the Roman or Petrus Romanus – will preside over the destruction of Rome (and by implication the Catholic Church in Rome), and the biblical Tribulation (the period of time after the Rapture where those remaining on Earth will endure disasters, famine, war, pain, and suffering before the second coming of Christ.)
Many Christian Fundamentalists believe that the Antichrist and / or the False Prophet will actually be a pope. If so, this adds a different slant to the words above, implying that Peter the Roman will be the cause of destruction, and the care he shows his congregation will be a deceit. It’s interesting that, based on Malachy’s prophesy, only the first and last popes will use the regnal name ‘Peter.’ It’s also worth noting that St Peter’s cross is an inverted crucifix – a common anti-Christian symbol.
The False Prophet is described in Revelation 19:20:

..The false prophet who wrought miracles in his presence, by which he deceived them that had received the mark of the beast, and them that worshiped his image.

The suggestion that the Antichrist / False Prophet will emerge from the Catholic church is based on certain New Testament remarks:

Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. (Matthew 7:15)

Which implies that, whilst outwardly holy (the vestments), false prophets conceal evil intent and cannot be trusted.
Another interpretation relates to the supposed longevity of the Antichrist, which corresponds with the apostolic line of popes, from St Peter to Peter the Roman. In 1 John 4:3, the Antichrist is described as already existing:

Such is the spirit of Antichrist, whereof ye have heard that it should come, and even now already it is in the world.

John’s gospel was allegedly written in the period 90-11AD, by which time the papal succession had passed from St Peter to Clement I. In 2 Thessalonians 2:8 the Antichrist is described as still existing at the time of Christ’s second coming:

And then shall that wicked one be revealed, whom the Lord shall consume with the spirit of His mouth

Commentators point to the two thousand year-old line of popes as a literal embodiment of the Antichrist (because the popes preside over a false church, out of which the Antichrist will spring), thereby explaining this longevity.
In 2 Thessalonians 2:3-4, the Antichrist is described as sitting at the head of a false church in imitation of God:

That man of sin be revealed, the son of perdition, who opposeth and exalteth himself above all that is called God or that is worshiped, so that he sitteth as God in the temple of God, showing himself to be God.

‘Pope’ translates as ‘father’. In Matthew 23:9 Jesus expressly forbids the use of that title:

And call no man your father upon earth, for One is your Father, who is in Heaven.

Why is all this interesting now? Last year the media reported that Pope Benedict XVI (Joseph Ratzinger) may resign in April 2012. More recently, a cardinal predicted the Pope would die in 2012, possibly as the result of an assassination attempt. If either happens this year then, according to the prophesy of St Malachy, his successor will be the Petrus Romanus – the final pope. The smart money for this role is on Cardinal Angelo Scola, the archbishop of Milan – meaning the papacy would return to an Italian after the German Benedict and his Polish predecessor, thus in part fulfilling the honorific ‘Peter the Roman.’ It will be very interesting to see which regnal name the new pope chooses.

These posts take the form of edited highlights from the imagined author’s imagined book ’365 Days on Tor’, in which the author climbs Glastonbury Tor every day for a year, and attempts to understand what the Hell the 2012 phenomenon is all about. Here’s Part one, Part two and Part three.

March 24th 2012 Everyone in this town is a freak. I’ve been here three months now and feel qualified to make that statement. Guru-worshipers, Goddess-worshipers, Animists, Odinists, Machicheans, Zoroastrians, Alchemists, Buffalo talkers, Dog whisperers, Anthroposophists, Crowleyans, Weedians, Immortalists, Tantrists, Druids, Theosophists and Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya Sufis. They’re all here, plus no doubt a bunch of others yet to be discovered – Pastafarians and Cookie Monsterists perhaps. Suppose I can’t complain, but I should be gathering some quotable insights on the 2012 phenomenon from ...]]> In part four of the fictitious journals of hippy-botherer James Gladwin-Turner, James does something very naughty indeed.

These posts take the form of edited highlights from the imagined author’s imagined book ’365 Days on Tor’, in which the author climbs Glastonbury Tor every day for a year, and attempts to understand what the Hell the 2012 phenomenon is all about. Here’s Part one, Part two and Part three.

March 24th 2012
Everyone in this town is a freak. I’ve been here three months now and feel qualified to make that statement. Guru-worshipers, Goddess-worshipers, Animists, Odinists, Machicheans, Zoroastrians, Alchemists, Buffalo talkers, Dog whisperers, Anthroposophists, Crowleyans, Weedians, Immortalists, Tantrists, Druids, Theosophists and Naqshbandiyya-Mujaddidiyya Sufis. They’re all here, plus no doubt a bunch of others yet to be discovered – Pastafarians and Cookie Monsterists perhaps. Suppose I can’t complain, but I should be gathering some quotable insights on the 2012 phenomenon from this lot and, to be honest, the prospect of a shift in the Earth’s magnetic poles – plunging continental Europe into a new ice age – seems fairly prosaic compared to the ritual sacrifice of small rodents to a second-century sock-puppet snake god. Which is something that could well be going on in Glastonbury for all I know.

If you can’t beat ‘em then join ‘em – that’s my current theory. I’m staring into the mirror in The Shack’s pokey bathroom, considering a shave. I have two week-old stubble, well on the way to becoming a proper beard. It is 94% grey and makes me look a good ten years older. But I need to fit in better so, even though it itches like hell, it will stay. I peer close at my reflection. My eyes are like maps of London – surrounded by lines; the Thames is a red vein that writhes across my eyeball, emptying into a muddy-brown pupil. In a few months I’ll be 53. My best days have passed.
As I shower I contemplate my four friends in this town: Elrond (actual name), the burnt-out hippy who, like me, climbs the Tor at least once a day. The main difference between us is he sits up there for a lot longer – hours at a time – smoking his way through an ounce of cannabis a week. Then there is the wonderful Ligeia. Despite ruining our Valentine’s Day date, I have chosen to forgive her – mainly because the weird friends she brought with her the evening of our supposed romantic dinner for two seem to be actually quite interesting. My only truly sane friend is Roger, the retired college lecturer – roughly my age and a Robert Fripp enthusiast, so we get on like a house on fire. And finally there is Rat the cat (typical Glastonbury logic), who belongs to Penny two doors up, but likes to sit on my lap of an evening and emit foul-smelling farts.

For a community that embraces so much worldly wisdom, I find it strangely insular. I am vaguely aware of things going on in North Korea, problems in Iran and Israel, the Pope in ill health, but that’s about it (there’s no internet connection in The Shack – thanks Don.) I haven’t read a paper since I arrived; perhaps I’m already going native – I know more about the town’s forthcoming Spring Equinox meditation than I do about current affairs.

My agent, Don Gluck, calls, and asks how things are going. ‘Slow’ I say. ‘Any juicy gossip?’ he asks. ‘No’ I say. ‘Well pull your facking finger out son’ he says, radiating London vibes. I hang up.

It’s no good. I need a news fix. I trot into town, buy The Mail, and read it in the yard of the Blue Note cafe, smoking a roll-up (proper cigarettes are too metropolitan.) Blah, blah… Global recession… Blah, blah… Russian riots. If apocalypse really is at hand, Glastonbury seems to be strangely indifferent; I should’ve rented an apartment in bloody Moscow. A short article catches my eye: New Age types are flocking to a mountain in France in the belief that it has mystical properties, and is the only safe haven come the end of the world on December 21st. Interesting.

Back at The Shack, Ligeia drops by for a brew with her two weird but interesting mates in tow – the same that gatecrashed my Valentine’s dinner. As you know, Lars is tall and intense, carries a carved staff, and believes he is receiving messages via ESP from an extraterrestrial intelligence. Bruno is shorter, stocky and a shaman-in-training (natch.) They don’t say very much.
‘When are you and I going to get some time alone?’ I ask Ligeia.
She bats her hand dismissively, and completely changes the subject. ‘How’s the book coming along?’
Playing hard to get. I like that.
‘it’s coming along slowly’ I say. ‘Apart from you lot, there doesn’t seem to be much interest in 2012ology around here.’
‘Then you’re not looking in the right places’ says Ligeia, her slim features enveloped in cigarette smoke like a 21st century Nico.
‘I did hear something interesting though’ I say, leaning forward. ‘There’s a sacred mountain in France called Bugarach. Thousands of nutters are heading there ‘cos apparently, on December 21st 2012, the non-human intelligences who live in the mountain will emerge to save any true believers from the apocalypse.’
In the time it takes to exhale a lungful of tobacco, I have a brainwave. My pulse quickens a bit and I lean forward even further. ’And do you know something else? I met a French bloke today. He told me that Bugarach and Glastonbury Tor are both part of a chain of Earth chakras. There’s a network of sacred mountains around the planet, connected by tunnels. The aliens or whatever they are that live underground use the tunnels to move between sites. And on the winter solstice 2012, these high places will be the only refuge from total fucking annihilation.’
All three of them look sceptical, and a bit shell-shocked. They say nothing; I can almost hear their brains working, computing the implications if it is true. I watch Lars in particular, who frowns and stares at my manky carpet. Then, finally, he speaks.
‘This is very strange’ he says in his deep German accent, ‘because I had some kind of vision about these things. It is like, deep down, I have always known this secret.  And now I know that it is true.’
I lean back and take a sip of tea (mainly to hide my smirk.) They’ve fallen for it. Hook. Line. And sinker.

The two principal and bizarrely contrasting theories of 2012ology are: planetary catastrophe such as pole reversal (as promulgated by the likes of Geoff Stray) and consciousness evolution (supported by Daniel Pinchbeck et al.) The latter theory is more black hole-like; mind-bendingly complex if you attempt to pull together all the disparate threads. But this is what ...]]> Esoterica is the art of discovering the possible influences of unorthodox practices on recorded history. Or so say I. And the 2012 phenomenon is no exception - it’s The Holy Blood and The Holy Grail of the 21st century or, more appropriately, a meme that functions in a similar way to one of its many scenarios: destruction by a black hole. All other memes on its event horizon get caught in its irresistible pull, sucked into a point of infinite density; black holes and 2012ology even have a singularity at their centre.

The two principal and bizarrely contrasting theories of 2012ology are: planetary catastrophe such as pole reversal (as promulgated by the likes of Geoff Stray) and consciousness evolution (supported by Daniel Pinchbeck et al.) The latter theory is more black hole-like; mind-bendingly complex if you attempt to pull together all the disparate threads. But this is what I’ve tried to do, resulting in a fantastically outlandish unified conspiracy theory of everything. Here it is:

A global capitalist plot is in place to calcify the pineal gland and restrict access to powerful psychedelics, both of which enable humans to receive telepathic messages from fish-aliens residing close to the star Sirius, who in turn will facilitate a major leap in human consciousness, and result in both the destruction of capitalism, and the introduction of a new age of compassion and tolerance, to occur approximately on December 21st 2012.

Sounds good? Let’s go into each of those strands in more detail:

DMT
Dimethyltryptamine is a naturally-occuring psychedelic in plants and mammals, including humans. It can be found in blood, plasma, cerebrospinal fluid or urine. Some hypotheses suggest that DMT originating in the body (endogenous) may also be manufactured in the brain, controlling not just dream-based visions but also normal waking states of consciousness; in other words, waking consciousness can be thought of as a controlled psychedelic experience. Altered states of consciousness occur when control of these systems is affected e.g. by the introduction of external (exogenous) DMT. The University of New Mexico’s Dr Rick Strassman has monitored the effects of DMT on over 400 volunteers, all of them reporting remarkably similar experiences: access to a freestanding independent universe populated by brightly-lit alien intelligences.

The Pineal Gland
Another claim by Strassman (unverified) is that, at the point of near death, the pineal gland releases a massive quantity of DMT into the human system, giving rise to classic near-death phenomena: bright lights, access to other realms, interactions with alien intelligences. Situated in the brain, it is part of the endocrine system which manages various human functions via the release of certain hormones. In the case of the pineal gland, melatonin is secreted, to regulate sleep patterns. The manufacture of melatonin is affected by levels of darkness and light, giving rise to the notion of the gland as a parietal organ or ‘third eye’.

The Third Eye
With its origins primarily in Eastern spiritual traditions, the third eye is regarded as a gate that leads within to inner realms and spaces of higher consciousness. In the Upanishads, a human being is likened to a city with ten gates. Nine gates (eyes, nostrils, ears, mouth, urethra, anus) lead outside to the sensory world. The third eye is the tenth gate and leads to freestanding independent universes populated by brightly-lit alien intelligences. The third eye can be accessed via various techniques such as yoga, meditation, martial arts, ritual practices and certain drugs – including DMT and ayahuasca.

Ayahuasca
Ayahuasca is an ethnopharmacological product, originally discovered by Harvard ethnobotanist Richard Evans Schultes in the 1950s but potentially in use amongst indigenous peoples since 2000BC. Brewed and ingested by Amazonian shamans for divinatory and healing purposes, it is a decoction of powerful DMT-containing shrubs, including yage and the B. caapi vine. In shamanic cultures, ayahuasca enables the user to access the spirit realm, converse with alien intelligences, obtain wisdom or knowledge, and heal or rescue the souls of the sick.

Sirius
A number of esotericists (including Grant Morrison, Robert Anton Wilson, Terence McKenna) allude to the objective reality of the realms accessed via DMT / ayahuasca and / or opening of the third eye. Wilson and Timothy Leary in particular, speculated that the messages they received when in a state of altered consciousness were specifically from extraterrestrials residing in the vicinity of the star Sirius. Wilson speculates that these Sirian aliens may have participated in humankind’s evolution for millenia through certain enlightened individuals or hidden colleges of esoterica, such as the Bavarian Illuminati.
Strassman also noted how DMT volunteers consistently encountered beings made of light who were sentient and intelligent; he also observed parallels between alien abduction experiences and the DMT trip. Author Robert Temple sites the example of the Dogon tribe of West Africa, who have possessed knowledge of Sirius A and B for 5,000 years, as evidence of early extraterrestrial contact; such knowledge would, he believes, be impossible without modern astronomical equipment.

The Anunnaki
Of course, the extraterrestrials in question *may not* be from Sirius. David Icke, for instance, is a firm believer in the existence of a race of reptilian humanoids from the Draco system called the Anunnaki. They engineered human beings as part of controlled breeding programme, run the world through a network of secret societies such as The Bavarian Illuminati, and live in tunnels and caverns inside the Earth. Many prominent figures are reptilian, including George W. Bush, Queen Elizabeth II and Kris Kristofferson. The Annunaki are also a race of princely Sumerian deities (literally ‘Great Gods’), who resemble fish-men rather than reptiles. The Dogon Tribe worship the Nommo – aliens from Sirius – who are also fish-like in appearance. To add to the confusion, Azerbaijani-American author Zecharia Sitchin was of the opinion that the Anunnaki’s home planet is Nibiru – the solar system’s hidden 12th planet, which some 2012ologists believe will collide with Earth on December 21st 2012.

2012
December 21st 2012 is perceived by some as a point of transformation for humankind – when, according to Mayan prophesy, the world reaches the end of its current cycle of time. Groups variously described as ‘the psychedelic renaissance’, the ‘new consciousness movement’ or the ‘noosphere’ attach huge significance to the wisdom of indigenous cultures. The growth of DMT and ayahuasca-based shamanic practices is a central tenet: these so-called entheogens kick-start the evolutionary transformation by expanding the user’s consciousness and providing access to other realms and alien intelligences. This gnosis enables individuals to return from their experiences with new-found wisdom, ushering in the destruction of capitalism, and the introduction of a new age of compassion and tolerance.
Other groups believe in a more literal revelation where, for instance, aliens living in tunnels and caverns inside the Earth (e.g. beneath Mount Bugarach in the Langeudoc region of France), will rescue any true believers from total destruction by the planet Nibiru and whisk them off to the stars (Sirius?)

Have you got all that? Good. So. What about the great fluoride conspiracy? Get ready for this: the pineal gland begins to naturally calcify around the age of puberty, but the process is accelerated by fluoride. Fluoride attaches itself to calcium, which is why it can theoretically form a protective layer if applied to teeth. But it also attaches to calcified pineal glands, meaning that in some cases the amount is equivalent to that in severely fluorosed bones. Given the alleged importance of the pineal gland in accessing transformative alien wisdom (and the importance of pineal interaction with magnetic fields should pole reversal occur), flouridation of the water supply can *easily* be seen as a tactic by the politico-economic complex to restrict access to forbidden knowledge. Surely. Surely?

These posts take the form of edited highlights from the imagined author’s imagined journals. Here’s Part one and Part two.

February 13th 2012 I finally understand what all the bloody fuss is about. I’ve climbed the Tor every day since I arrived, as per my publishing contract, and – to be honest – couldn’t grasp why this large pile of soil was such a big deal. But, as a Glastonbury resident might say – I was not properly attuned to the subtle vibrations of the place. In other words, I was neither turned on, nor tuned in (I’d dropped out long go.) But this morning it all makes sense. I wake up ridiculously early (6.30am) feeling suspiciously ...]]> Part three of the edited journals of feckless 50-something AOR and 2012 enthusiast James Gladwin-Turner. This prog: James doesn’t quite have a heart attack, and chats up a lady.

These posts take the form of edited highlights from the imagined author’s imagined journals. Here’s Part one and Part two.

February 13th 2012
I finally understand what all the bloody fuss is about. I’ve climbed the Tor every day since I arrived, as per my publishing contract, and – to be honest – couldn’t grasp why this large pile of soil was such a big deal. But, as a Glastonbury resident might say – I was not properly attuned to the subtle vibrations of the place. In other words, I was neither turned on, nor tuned in (I’d dropped out long go.) But this morning it all makes sense. I wake up ridiculously early (6.30am) feeling suspiciously optimistic. Light a fag, brew a flask of coffee, sling on the donkey jacket and step out into the darkness. It’s cold, but very still and quiet. I take the usual route: up the hill, along Wick Hollow, right onto Bulwarks lane, then left along the sunken lane, out across the meadow onto Wellhouse Lane, and finally right again onto the path leading up to the Tor. My face and ears burn from the cold and my lungs violently object, wheezing like knackered bellows, but I’m perversely enjoying myself.

At the foot of the Tor I stop and listen. Birds, the distant hum of traffic, my ragged breathing. The sky is completely clear; stars are still out and the moon sits high in the blackness. Then, something strange happens: I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end; I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. What is this new sensation? Excitement, expectation? God, I haven’t experienced either for years. And excited at what? I’m not doing anything, except standing outside on a freezing morning looking at Glastonbury Tor… The Tor… Maybe it is responsible, exerting it’s strange pull; irradiating me with serious vibes.

The steep climb still utterly destroys me, but I’m getting better at it – can almost do it without suffering a minor cardiac arrest. At the top, gulping down air, I collapse against the tower, then do a quick recce of the summit. No-one else here. That’s because no-one’s as stupid as me. The sky begins to lighten over the hills – a faint pink and yellow smudge. Up against the tower to keep out of the wind, I sit and pour a cup of coffee, and then calmly watch the dawn. The view from here is magnificent as the winter sun rises; I feel like a Zen Buddhist looking out over the Himalayas.

An old boy with his equally old dogs has just arrived. I see him most days. We chat briefly about the weather. A few more folks turn up – runners mainly. I scorn them for their fitness obsession. What about your mind, man? That needs exercising too – chill out, take in the view; open your third eye. Jimmy Page didn’t run to the top, have a squeeze of Lucozade, then run back down again did he? No, he hung out up here all day, soaking up the positivity. Probably.

More visitors. Dog walkers, couple of Goddess worshipers – women, obviously. One of them stands at the edge of the summit, doing some kind of yogic stretching. Nice arse. She turns. I know her. It’s Queen Ligeia, or whatever the hell her name is. In seconds I’ve scrambled to my feet and casually walked closer to stand alongside. I say hello. She looks at me blankly. I remind her of the pub on NYE.
‘The new boy!’ she says, smiling. I ask about the party but she doesn’t give much away. She wants to know more about me, albeit in that ‘I’m not really interested, just making conversation’ sort-of-way. ‘Do you come up here every morning to celebrate the new dawn?’
I nod casually. ‘Yep. Every morning. Well, not every morning as such, but I come up here without fail. To… Er… Open my eyes and look at the day, see things in a different way.’ Fucking hell, I think I’ve just quoted a Fleetwood Mac lyric at her.
She nods, oblivious. Wants to know what I’m doing in Glastonbury. I tell her I’m writing a book about the 2012 phenomenon.
It’s like I’ve turned into Brad Pitt.
‘That’s fascinating’ she says. ‘I truly believe this year will mark a major transformation in humankind’s understanding of its destiny, and its place in the universe.’
‘I completely agree’ I say. ‘And luckily I like it here.’
She nods. ‘It is a very special place.’ Then she proceeds to tell me all about the Tor – how it was once called Ynys Witrin, the site of a Druidic college, or the entrance to Anwnn, the realm of Faerie; how two natural springs – one red and one white, male and female – flow from beneath the hill, and how some believe it to be the resting place of the Holy Grail; and how others regard it as Avalon – the Fortunate Isle of Arthurian lore, or simply a focal point for powerful energies.
I nod sagely. She really does have fantastic knockers. Time to stop mucking about and move things up a level. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘I’m still finding my feet in the town. It’s tricky fitting in, making contacts, talking to the right people, but I want to meet as many folks as possible, understand all the angles, you know?’
While I’m in full flow, two men walk up, one tall and carrying a staff, the other shorter and wearing a wide-brimmed hat with feathers in it. Ligeia introduces these sullen Germans as Lars and Bruno. I vaguely acknowledge them, hoping she isn’t banging either one. Finally they wander off.
‘So perhaps you could help me out?’ I continue. ‘I’ve got a cottage up in… Booveton. Why don’t you come round tomorrow for dinner? No strings. Only if you’re free, of course.’
I look at my watch. Tomorrow is February 14th. Valentine’s Day. This is a real long shot.
‘I’d love to’ she says. Not so much as a flicker of doubt.
Get in.

These posts take the form of edited highlights from the imagined author’s journals. Part one is here – recommend you read this first.

January 1st 2012 My shack is in Bove Town, or ‘Boovton’ according to local dialect. I discovered this from chatting to the bar woman at the pub I holed up in on NYE. Quite a dismal experience – just me, the tobacco-marinaded barmaid, an old boy in a flat cap and three local lads who played pool all night. ON NEW YEAR’S EVE! Where was everybody? Staying in meditating? I tried to educate and impress Lesley the serving wench by feeding the jukebox with ...]]> Here’s part two of the ongoing mission of ex-music journalist and all-round-wastrel James Gladwin-Turner as he attempts to climb Glastonbury Tor every day for a year, and document the New Age community’s response to the 2012 phenomenon.

These posts take the form of edited highlights from the imagined author’s journals. Part one is here – recommend you read this first.

January 1st 2012
My shack is in Bove Town, or ‘Boovton’ according to local dialect. I discovered this from chatting to the bar woman at the pub I holed up in on NYE. Quite a dismal experience – just me, the tobacco-marinaded barmaid, an old boy in a flat cap and three local lads who played pool all night. ON NEW YEAR’S EVE! Where was everybody? Staying in meditating? I tried to educate and impress Lesley the serving wench by feeding the jukebox with pound coins and regaling her with anecdotes from my music journalism career: ’this song is by The Clash. I used to live next door to Joe Strummer in 1978.’
‘Who’s The Clash?’ Lesley asked. I decided at that point I could never sleep with her.

Christmas was terrible, by the way. Jem was supposed to visit with the kids but decided against it, claiming she couldn’t find any hotels or B&Bs with availability. ‘No room at the inn?’ I said to her down the phone. ‘I’m sure there’s a manger round here somewhere.’ Bitch hung up on me, then texted later saying that ‘it wasn’t in the boys’ interest to take them away from family and home over Christmas.’ No, of course not. It’s never in their Interest to move them more than half a mile outside Highgate. So while my ex-wife and two children – Frank and Joan if I haven’t mentioned them already – remained secure behind the high walls of Justin the Banker’s palatial north London residence, yours truly spent Christmas Day eating two Morrisons ready meals, drinking six bottles of cider and smoking 40 Lucky Strike. And I still couldn’t get the bastard wood burner lit. Plus, of course, I went up the Tor.

Back in the pub, things looked up at one point when an interesting woman walked in and spoke in hushed tones to the pool-playing youths. Then she ordered a cider and sat next to me at the bar. She was slim, probably late 30s, dressed in brown leather, things with lots of tassles, and other things that looked vaguely Scandinavian. With her long black hair she could have stepped straight out of Woodstock. I was just about to proceed with my opening gambit when, without eye contact, she said to me ‘what are you doing here?’
I was temporarily pole-axed. From her tone, I couldn’t tell if she meant ‘what are you doing in this shit town on NYE?’ Or ‘why are you in this pub by yourself on NYE?’ Or ‘what are you doing in MY pub on NYE?’ Or even ‘what are you up to right now? Fancy coming back to my place?’ The last may have been wishful thinking on my part.
‘I’m new in town,’ I said, attempting to channel Jim Morrison. ‘It’s 2012 in a few hours. The year everything changes. And this is the place to be, right?’
She turned to me and smiled the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. ‘Yes! Yes, it is!’
I asked her what she was doing tonight. She said going to a party. I asked if I could come, hoping she’d take pity on me. Instead she drank the rest of her cider in one draught, looked me in the eye and said ‘No. At least, not yet.’ Then slipped off her stool and made for the door.
‘What’s your name?’ I called.
‘Ligeia’ she said. ‘Queen Ligeia.’
Amazing woman. She’d spoken twelve words to me and I was hooked. So many questions already; why not yet? Why a queen?
Lesley pulled me another pint and I looked up into her nicotine-stained eyes. My mouth opened and words came out: ‘What are you doing after this?’

Following my rejection at the hands of Lesley (I’m too old and too much of a ‘London ponce’, apparently) I trudged disconsolately to the Tor, thinking about the mysterious Ligeia. It wasn’t much before midnight by the time I arrived and there was quite a little party going on upon the windy, freezing summit – drummers, guitarists, whirling dervishes, various observers and hangers-on. Within the tower, a crowd huddled. I could smell incense.
‘Any idea what they’re up to?’ I asked a fairly prim-looking middle aged couple.
‘None whatsoever,’ said the man, who seemed to find the whole thing highly amusing.
In answer, the crowd cheered and a bearded bloke, stark bollock naked, was disgorged into the night air, shouting his head off like a 24-carat nutter.
‘Osiris, we pursue thee into starry infinity!’
‘Just high,’ I remarked to the couple nearby, who smiled benignly like it was the most normal behaviour in the world.
‘Happy new year anyway,’ said the woman.
Then a strange feral man-child emerged from below us, like a drug-crazed troll. For some reason, he wore a skirt of empty Merrydown cans that dangled from his waist on bits of string.
‘Fuck off!’ he yelled. ‘You’re all batsssssssss. Fuck off!’
‘Happy new year,’ I said to no one in particular, ‘you beautiful, crazy, messed-up kids.’

With Glastonbury being the centre of all things counter-cultural and New Age, he figures it’s the best place to get under the skin of the 2012 phenomenon. I intend to publish these bite-sized journal entries once a week (representing edited extracts from the author’s journal) and, as yet have no idea what will happen. So travel with me to lands far-out, as Hawkwind said…

DECEMBER 21st 2011

11am I’ve arrived. And what a miserable little shack it is. Midsummer cottage – a one-up, ...]]> Another new piece of 2012-inspired fiction. This time it’s excerpts from an invented book by an invented author. James  Gladwin-Turner is an over-the-hill and out-of-work music journalist who strikes upon the idea of writing a book based on his experiences of climbing Glastonbury Tor every day for a year, ending on December 21st 2012 (hence the puntastic title of ’365 Days on Tor’.)

With Glastonbury being the centre of all things counter-cultural and New Age, he figures it’s the best place to get under the skin of the 2012 phenomenon. I intend to publish these bite-sized journal entries once a week (representing edited extracts from the author’s journal) and, as yet have no idea what will happen. So travel with me to lands far-out, as Hawkwind said…

DECEMBER 21st 2011

11am
I’ve arrived. And what a miserable little shack it is. Midsummer cottage – a one-up, one-down, mouldering, whitewashed terrace half way up a hill leading out of Glastonbury town centre. There’s barely enough room to swing a tie-dyed cat in the rancid downstairs lounge / kitchen / diner, and the upstairs room is just about able to accommodate a bed, but literally nothing else. In the bathroom (a misnomer as there is no bath – just a rickety 1980s aluminium shower cubicle) I have to sit sideways on the loo to take a dump. Judging by its dimensions and decoration, the place was last occupied by a colour-blind agoraphobic Zen Buddhist midget. My agent will swing for this.

12.30pm
I have now brought in my two meagre suitcases (there is no obvious place to store them) after dragging them along a narrow cobbled alley like a deranged orang-utan. The car is parked a good half mile away; couldn’t park any closer. I need a cigarette.

1.30pm
Having spent some time trying to organise myself, I have perhaps softened very slightly towards my shack. On the plus side, it does have a quaint little front yarden with a bench. And although the window panes are rotted, the leading is peeling away, the panes are filthy and the handles are those twee wrought iron jobbies with curly ends, the view from the bedroom is exactly what I hoped for; in the distance, beyond the tangle of red roofs and bare trees, rises Glastonbury Tor in all it’s strange majesty. I’m going to have to climb that bugger every day for the next year. In fact, I need to climb it today. And it’s already 2pm. Arse.

6pm
Fuck. Ing. Hell. And I’m supposed to do that 364 more times? I don’t think so. Standing still on the Tube escalator gets me out of breath. Reading a paper gets me out of breath. My heart rate doubles if I watch darts on TV.
I was determined not to fail in my assignment on the very first day, even though it’s four days from Christmas and pissing down outside. So I located my wet weather gear from the pile of crap strewn across the bed, lit a fag and stepped out into the Somerset air. At the top of the road I was almost dry-retching. Glastonbury Tor was a distant, blood-shot mirage. But I soldiered on, through sodden sunken lanes and sodding great puddles. And the hills got steeper and steeper and steeper. My brain slipped into standby, my body went into shock. At the foot of the Tor I had to stop for the tenth time, grinning at a pair of retired fitness fascists who goose-stepped past while my heart threatened to explode. I did make it to the summit of the Tor. Eventually. It was almost dark. It rained. No-one else was up there. No hippies, no pot-heads, no wizards, no UFO abductees, no conspiracy nutters, no Wiccans, no Hopi Indian shamans. The view might have been splendid, had I been able to see anything. But in the circumstances, after I had dragged my wheezing carcass to the top, I decided to turn round and go straight back down.

8pm
The shack is freezing. I realised earlier, through my thudding exercise-induced headache, that the cottage has no central heating – only a wood burner that I can’t figure out how to use. So I’m sitting in a lumpy orange chair with a cup of tea, a fag and a packet of digestives, wondering whose bright idea this was. My ex-wife? My agent? my friend Gordon? No. It was my bright idea. As a music journalist I had been to the Glastonbury Festival many, many times. But I’d never made it to the Tor, despite always seeing it glower at me on the horizon. I knew many of my heroes had been up it – Jimi Hendrix, David Bowie, Jimmy Page, Marc Bolan and Wayne Hussey. I also knew it was a focal point for weirdos, who thought of it as a ‘sacred omphalos’ or something. Everything came to a head when I was sacked from my job as editor of a leading chin-stroker’s rock mag last year. I needed a new project. So I approached my agent with an idea: ‘you know I’ve always wanted to go up Glastonbury Tor?’ I said.
‘No’ replied Don Gluck, my agent.
‘Well I have. Listen, it’s gonna be 2012 next year; December 21st; consciousness evolution and all that. Glastonbury’s full of hippy nutters. So how about I embed myself in the guts of the New Age movement and write a book about 2012? I can go up the Tor every day, hang out with some wizards and get the low-down on what’s up. We’ll call it “365 days on Tor.” Geddit?’
‘Brilliant’, said Don. He spoke to my publisher, who loved the idea. And the rest, as they say, is history.
So here I am. Day one of 365. I wish I was back in Shepherd’s Bush.

All of the below are facetious or humorous because a) I imagine there’ll be a ton of tweets in this vein, and b) sincerity is worthy but boring to read. What would be funny is if people did actually start using #2012eotw to similar effect. So if you want to post made-up end-of-the-world tweets, go right ahead and use this hashtag, and I’ll collect the responses here.

My preferred doomsday scenario: beer tsunami #2012eotw

ET, if you do exist, now would be a good time to reveal yourself #2012eotw

@davidicke, just seen Kris Kristofferson on TV looking quite reptilian #2012eotw

It’d better be the end of the world –  just spent my life savings on 10kg of cocaine #2012eotw

I sense that ...]]> My second piece of speculation uses a very short format. I’ve imagined what folks would be tweeting about on December 21st, 2012, using the hashtag #2012eotw (2012 end of the world.)

All of the below are facetious or humorous because a) I imagine there’ll be a ton of tweets in this vein, and b) sincerity is worthy but boring to read. What would be funny is if people did actually start using #2012eotw to similar effect. So if you want to post made-up end-of-the-world tweets, go right ahead and use this hashtag, and I’ll collect the responses here.

My preferred doomsday scenario: beer tsunami #2012eotw

ET, if you do exist, now would be a good time to reveal yourself #2012eotw

@davidicke, just seen Kris Kristofferson on TV looking quite reptilian #2012eotw

It’d better be the end of the world –  just spent my life savings on 10kg of cocaine #2012eotw

I sense that Great Cthulhu has awoken from his slumber in R’lyeh #2012eotw

My wife has locked me out of our underground bunker #2012eotw

Microwave has overcooked my peas. The machines are taking over!!!!!!! #2012eotw

On the basis that I’ve just called my boss a disgusting fuckpig, armageddon anytime now would be good #2012eotw

Strange lights in the sky. OK, could be Chinese lanterns #2012eotw

Apparently a UFO at Area 51 has mysteriously come to life #2012eotw

My legs have gone numb – is this indicative of consciousness expansion? #2012eotw

@HadronCollider – everything working okay?? #2012eotw

Annunaki, if you have infiltrated civilisation, now would be the time to reveal yo scaly asses #2012eotw

Just seen a cockroach. Likely he will inherit the Earth #2012eotw

Even if nothing weird happens, at least the nights will start getting shorter #2012eotw

Pastafarians watch events unfold on tagliatelly #2012eotw

Feels like it’s getting colder. The poles must be shifting #2012eotw

I for one welcome our new insect overlords #2012eotw

Never knew so many friends were Christian until they got taken up #2012eotw

@BarackObamaUSA So I guess you’re on board the Ark by now #2012eotw

Drinking beer. Just hallucinated the Four Horsemen of the Hopocalypse #2012eotw

My friend is receiving telepathic messages from Sirius. But then he is on LSD #2012eotw

When one expects Armageddon, survival is always a bonus #2012eotw

Listening to GrandMaster Flash. Just seen the Four Horsemen of the Hiphopocalypse #2012eotw

No coverage in bunker, so have stepped outside. You’re all still here then? #2012eotw

Thought I was an ideal candidate for Heaven. Fuck it. Back to my liquor, pork, drugs n bitches #2012eotw

What does a black hole look like? #2012eotw

@DavidCameron If aliens attack will you engage them in an F/A-18 Hornet? #2012eotw

I’m off to bed. If the world does end, don’t wake me up #2012eotw

Compound is well stocked with tins of baked beans. Can’t find tin opener #2012eotw

My banner reads: ‘we don’t have any natural resources either’ #2012eotw

Vernor Vinge originally coined the term, and the concept was expounded by the likes of Raymond Kurzweil  in his book ‘The Singularity is Near‘. The Singularity is a point at which the technological rate of change occurs so rapidly that it initiates an evolutionary jump for humankind, towards a state of super-intelligence or illumination.

Of course, as Steven Pinker noted, “There is not the slightest reason to believe in a coming singularity. The fact that you can visualize a future in your imagination is not evidence that it is likely or even possible. Look at domed cities, jet-pack commuting, underwater cities, mile-high buildings, and nuclear-powered automobiles — all staples of futuristic fantasies when I was a child that have never arrived. Sheer processing power is ...]]> The Singularity is an important theory in 2012 eschatology. Here are two videos that provide a good introduction.

Vernor Vinge originally coined the term, and the concept was expounded by the likes of Raymond Kurzweil  in his book ‘The Singularity is Near‘. The Singularity is a point at which the technological rate of change occurs so rapidly that it initiates an evolutionary jump for humankind, towards a state of super-intelligence or illumination.

Of course, as Steven Pinker noted, “There is not the slightest reason to believe in a coming singularity. The fact that you can visualize a future in your imagination is not evidence that it is likely or even possible. Look at domed cities, jet-pack commuting, underwater cities, mile-high buildings, and nuclear-powered automobiles — all staples of futuristic fantasies when I was a child that have never arrived. Sheer processing power is not a pixie dust that magically solves all your problems.”

Lecturer and drug researcher Terence McKenna notably mapped the moment of Singularity to December 21st 2012:

Counter-cultural genius Robert Anton Wilson provides a very entertaining chronology of the accelerative thrust towards The Singularity: