Tuesday, August 07, 2007


Elvis Presley didn't die in 1977. Why so sure? Because I was one of the many young infants he targeted during his spate of child abduction attempts in North West London between 1980 and 1982. I'll never forget the day the balding guy with the ponytail, the NHS coke bottle glasses and the cheesecloth shirt pulled over in the Datsun with blacked out windows, opened the door and told me my mummy was in hospital.
"I know, she's having her thyroids out," I replied.
"Good," he gurgled, "she told me to pick you up - if you don't get in the car, she'll die, and your daddy will stop loving you!"
"Promise?" I asked, savouring the walK BACk home as if I'd just tunnelled my way outta the bowels of Colditz.
The bastard then jumped out and tried to bundle me into the back of the banger. What I saw sprawled across the backseat turned my blood to steaming chunks of yellow snow. Elvis himself - his quiff unwashed and matted, his white jumpsuit stained and torn, lolling in a sea of burger wrappers - told me I had a pretty mouth. I screamed and, luckily, an ex-soldier OAP who'd once seen the Angel of Mons came racing across the street, waving his walking stick like a baton. Presley's co-pervert 'chauffeur' dropped me to the tarmac, threw himself behind the wheel and sped off.

I wasn't the only kid Elvis and his foul henchman tried to snatch. Ach! How I remember that dreadful couple of years, that period we dubbed 'The Terror'. "Elvis is dead, quit fooling around," our teachers reproached us, our older siblings sneered at us. But we knew. Me and Sheilagh knew, we knew he was out there, trying to snatch kids. Wanting to shove his filthy hound dog up our blue suede shoes. To pump us with his amphetamine-ravaged manfat until it dribbled from our ears, before grinding us into mince and using us as burger filling. Curling his lip into a sneer and chuckling "Uh huh! Pleazhedtuhmeetzha!" as he shat our digested remains down the toilet.

My name is Martin. I maintain a blog called 'Beyond the Implode Blog'. 25 years on, I still have to clean up Presley's mess. I try to heal the scarred minds, rescue the damaged survivors from those whirlpools of inner torment. I received an email the other day from "Suzie":

I'd forgotten about it until I was 13 and we went to Margate...by the pier, there was a stall selling T-shirts...and I saw his face..that evil, sick leering face...I just broke down. My uncle Brian was asking what was wrong, and I told him, and he just laughed and said "I know Elvis wasn't very good, but surely he's not worth crying over!" and I tried to tell him, YOU FOOL / YOU BLIND FOOL / CAN'T YOU SEE / IT'S HIM / THE ONE IN THE BACK OF THE DATSUN / THE ONE WHO DANGLED HIS KETCHUP AND CHEESE-SMEARED PENIS IN MY FACE IN 1981 ////TOLD ME THAT IF I DIDN'T GET IN THE BACK WITH HIM, HE'D SEND SPIDERS TO KILL ME IN BED / THAT'S YOUR KING. I can't even look at Lisa Marie Presley, she's got the same evil maw.

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