The day the downs stood still

Following that brief Ken Dodd interlude (note to my readers who didn't grow up in the UK; never, ever ask about Ken Dodd) I think we should continue our meanderings amongst the signal pirates.  Our previous excursion apparently scared the living daylights out of quite a few of you, so let's tone it down a touch this time.  Max only wanted to tell you about his dirty glove; our next guest, in complete contrast, is polite, civilised and the very model of courtesy.  Oh, and he's implying that he'll kill you all and burn your planet unless you do as he says.

Pirate Material: This is Radio Free Vrillon

 Our story takes place in two locations, one geographical, one temporal.  Spacially, we are going to be in Hampshire.  Chronologically, the 1970s.  I spent seven years in the 1970s and one day in Hamphire.  It would be needlessly offensive to a whole county if I finished this joke. 

Ah, the 1970s, my spiritual home, were it not for the racism, economic decline, baseline technology and lack of Ghost Box Records or PJ Harvey.  But let's not dwell on the downside; the 1970s were dependable (in my cheating memory, at least).  Tea time in that decade for me; Dad comes home from work with a briefcase (bearing a NALGO 'Stop the Cuts' bloody dagger sticker).  Meal is eaten at the table, like proper folk.  Just in time to go and watch the news (Calendar was the local show in Yorkshire, as any fule kno).  Safe, everyday, normality.

Usually.

It's November 1977.  Almost ten years to the day before the Max incident traumatises Chicago.   The population of a major bit of the south coast sits down, tired from a long day of sailing or something and has its tea in front of the ITN early evening bulletin.  You will be able to hear a bit of it soon, deadly dull beige news about the international situation, terrifying important incidents that have been made to sound beige so they can be safely read on a beige studio set without causing dangerous levels of excitement. 

However, round about this point, it slowly began to dawn on the viewing public that Andrew Gardner seemed to have had a bit of an image change.  He was calling himself Vrillon of the Ashtar Galactic Command.  Ey-up, thought the audience.  No, hang on a minute, they were in Hampshire.  What did they think in Hampshire?  I say, one doesn't get this with Richard Baker.  Something like that.*

Klaatu Nikto Bakerada, Gort.  And now, Michael Fish live from the Krell Machine.

Gardner's voice had been faded out and replaced with something else entirely.  Vrillon was reading the news now and it wasn't great for the human race.  Frankly, we were getting a bollocking from space.  He controlled the horizontal, the vertical - well, actually, he just controlled the soundtrack, but that was enough to make you drop your Findus Crispy Pancake (lame, lazy retro reference number 2352). 

Go and have a listen to Vrillon.  Go on.

Well, there you go.  That's us told.  He talks about manifesting in peace and harmony and whatnot, but notice, only the people who pay attention will get to ascend to spiritual wonderland.  The rest of us will presumably fry.  Isn't that the rapture or something, but with aliens and that?  Dunno.  Anyway, the news came back on and everything went back to normal, save for a few unfortunate parents of nervy children who had a lot of prising down off the ceiling to deal with.

Anyway, the IBA called hoax on the whole thing, which begs the question, what else were they going to say, exactly?  This is exactly why I'm no longer allowed to write press releases for anything at all.

OK, so, in a rational world, we know it probably wasn't aliens.  Thing is, precious little else about this case is clear or known; it's not even certain that the above recording is the real one and not a mock-up.  Its existence would imply someone at the TV station recording it (i.e being aware it was about to start a few seconds in advance), which is a bit suspicious, pointing no fingers of blame, like. 

The source of the rogue signal, despite what a lot of (even) dodgier sites have to tell you, was the Hannington transmitter.  Here's a look at a view of the local scenery:

Spoooooooooky wintry place.

Now, is it me, or does that look spooky as hell?  Surely, they filmed half the Ghost Stories For Christmas around there.  What I find a little creepy is that someone sneaked out, miles and miles into the countryside on a dark November evening, got close enough to the tower to jam the audio link and ran the tape of Vrillon.  Imagine them, hidden in the eerie winter night, watching patiently, delivering their spaced up message, like Joe Meek returned for revenge.  I like to think that someone was working in that transmitter station, that they had the feeling they were being watched right up until the Ashtar took command.

Now bring me Fred Dineage.

So, beasts, there you have it.  The voice of the aeons, addressing you from Southern Television.  Like Max, a mystery on a November night that's never been solved.  No-one has ever come forward to admit the truth.  Vrillon has remained silent ever since; have Ashtar Command abandoned us to our fate?

Perhaps there's more to Southern TV than meets the eye.  I'll leave you with this; the last few seconds of broadcast before the station closed down forever, four years after Vrillon's impassioned plea.  It's up to you to decide if they were trying to tell us something.

Lights in ours skies, see.





* I know little of your Hampshire ways, but I bet someone's going to tell me all about them very, very soon.