A reading of Gauld & Cornell's 'Poltergeists' (Routledge, Kegan & Paul, 1979) is, I think, a must for anyone with more than a passing interest in psychical research, and of course poltergeist phenomena in particular.  It is also a recommended read for doyens of the unacceptably queer.

A rip-roaring example occurs during the investigation of the Charlottenburg case, investigated by a team led by Dr Paul Sünner in the early months of 1929, and reported in Zeitschrift für Parapsychologie in October 1929 and 1932.  The case is covered by Gauld pp148-157.

Apart from the usual poltergeisty rumblings and communications from a recently deceased relative , Hans (making it a good case to lay beside Enfield), Gauld describes one particular feature that is, well, best you read it for yourself:

On Tuesday 5 February, Sünner went to the Regulskis' flat again at 7.30pm, accompanied by his wife and a lawyer friend.  They heard various stories of events earlier in the day, and learned of a new, and peculiar, phenomenon.  Over the head end of the cot or child's bed in which Lucie ordinarily slept was an iron bar, bent into a right angle (it was meant to support a canopy).  From this bar there hung a little, furry ape-doll.  During the whole day this little doll had made dancing movements, all its limbs going strongly.  It had also nodded its head.  It seemed especially to stir when music was played on a mouth organ.

Sünner and his party at once attempted to verify this phenomenon.  They stood in the bedroom, which was lit by a petroleum lamp, whilst the members of the family - eccept Lucie, who was in the little cot - stood back towards the door.  They established beforehand that treading on the floor did not cause any strong movements of the doll.  Walter and his father summoned Hans to dance, and then Walter began to play the mouth organ.  Gradually the doll set itself in motion, and danced in a more and more lively fashion, up and down, this way and that, until the movements became positively violent.  The movements

"did not cease, although Herr Dr B. assured himself, by holding it with his hand, that the bar on which the doll hung was absolutely still.  Meanwhile, the child lay quiet and motionless throughout; indeed from time to time I uncovered the bedcushion to check the stillness of her legs and feet.  Her hands were in sight throughout ... The movements were not broken off when the doll was lifted down from its frame for a while to show that no thread ran from it to the bedstead or the girl; it was taken down before our eyes, and the thread on which it hung exhibited."

Just to make that final point clear:  The doll continued to dance as it was taken from its frame and held by its thread and examined.  But it gets better.  Oh yes.

Leaving Fraulein Anders, Sünner went back to the Regulskis' flat, where he heard tell of further disturbances of doors, cupboards and drawers.  It appeared, furthermore, that Fraulein Brewka had the previous evening spent four hours there, and had for a long time watched the movements of the little ape-doll.  Someone had lifted it down and laid it on Lucie's bedcover, where it had made clear movements as if to creep under and join her.  This must surely be one of the most grotesque phenomena ever alleged to have happened in a poltergeist case!

You don't say!  The creeping crawling ape was not, alas, witnessed by the Sünner and his team, which is a tremendous pity as they would certainly have taken steps to verify the movement and exclude trickery.  Even as anecdote, though, it is outstanding; I don't know what the Weimar German phrase for 'Dude, Totally Sweet!' was, but that is what Sünner must have thought when he heard that one.

I have not, as yet, come across a photo of the ape-doll.

There are a number of very good reasons to visit St Leonard’s, Hythe. It is an unusual looking edifice, a portmanteau affair of Medieval styles due its Saxon roots, Norman blossoming and the ambitious 13th century rebuilding scheme that was never quite finished. The result looms up before as you approach it through narrow stone walled lanes; it is every bit as impressive today as it was intended to be when Hythe was a major port and the church tower a navigational aid on its hillside overlooking the Channel. 

Then there is the cobwebby tournament helmet mounted high on a wall in one of the transepts, and the Pre-Raphaelite reredos, and the poignant stained glass window commemorating 2nd Lt. Robert Hilyard, dead on The Somme. There is medieval graffiti portraying ships, whether as votive for a safe return or a safe journey ahead. Nineteenth century faux-Byzantine mosaic work, the trappings of High Victorian devotion infused with the spirit of the Oxford Movement, the gargoyles and mass dial and overall sense of well being emanating from what is a happy place, pleasant to be in; all of this constitutes reason enough to drop by. As parish churches go, it is a little cracker. 

But, beyond all of that is a reason to cross the country come hell or high water. 

Beneath the wonderful High Medieval chancel lies a macabre shock. St Leonard’s is built into a hillside; beneath the chancel runs an ambulatory that is not a crypt per se, being ground level, but a covered processional way. However, some time in the 14th or 15th century, an entirely different use of the space was conceived. 

You enter via a door to the left of the porch. The door is unlocked and wings open upon the charnel house you always dreamt of. 

The ossuary has been a tourist attraction certainly since the nineteenth century with its taste for the Gothick, but the truth be told, nobody is really sure why it was created, or precisely when. One rumour has it the bones are an Early Medieval battle monument, the accumulated dead from engagements in 456 or 843AD. Others suggest, given the date the ossuary was probably established, the remains of 4000 men, women and children are victims of the Black Death, else were displaced from the church yard to accommodate plague fatalities.

And then there is a Borgesian one: The ossuary was established at just the time when Hythe's fortunes waned; the port silted up, trade went elsewhere, and the Hundred Years War resulted in all manner of disruption, the Black Death being the icing on the cake. Now, Hythe was on the pilgrim route to Canterbury from the continent, and the community made a lot of money from pilgrims passing through. The theory goes that the church custodians, Plantangenet Barnums that they were, dreamt up a scheme to generate a pilgrim buzz around the church; why not convert the ambulatory into a spectacular memento mori, and charge for entrance?

If that is really what happened, the ossuary at Hythe is a fake. It is a High Medieval tourist ploy, and that is simply wonderful. It somehow brings them closer, to think they were as devious, creative and post modern as we flatter ourselves being. I don't know if it is the explanation, but I hope it is.

The Enlightenment has a lot to answer for; this notion that religion is incompatible with philsophy and science, for example. Another one is that the Middle Ages, sunk up to its neck in superstition, had to await the rediscovery of Latin and Greek letters in the 15th century to function scientifically.

Nonsense, and evidence of science and religion making beautiful love can be found in unusual settings.

In the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela is an enormous thurible named El Botafumeiro.

According to the Wikipedia page, El Botafumeiro is about 1.60 metres high and weighs about 80kg. Now, setting so large and heavy a mass of gilded brass posed a problem; just hanging it from a hook doesn't really allow the thing to move very far, and move it must if it is going to sense the interior of the Cathedral. The solution was mathematically eloquent; a masterful piece of engineering, so simple yet so effective.

This model demonstrates how attaching the rope to a simple pulley results in a rotary motion that greatly amplifies the thurible's arc of swing. It is also very relaxing to watch.

This video shows El Botafumeiro in action; it is quite a sight to see. I have to be honest and say that I wouldn't necessarily want to be standing within its arc, knowing that it has slipped loose a few times (once memorably exiting a window).

That vertigo aside, El Fumiero is an example of mathematics as prayer; in its way, it is as profound a device as Foucault's Pendulum.

This blog has a rather fine picture of El Botafumeiro being attached to its cables by two scared-looking gents, and also speculates as to the effect of being caught in the face by the Big Brass One on its downswing:

Let's ask some sensible questions. How far would an unlucky worshiper be propelled were the Botafumeiro to connect with his centre of gravity? The momentum (mass x velocity) of the Botafumeiro comes to roughly 7520Ns at maximum speed. As force x time = momentum, a half second contact with the thurible would exert 3760 Newtons of force on the churchgoer. Remembering that v = u + at and F = ma, we can work a few more matters out. If this hapless worshipper was a rather sturdy adult male, weighing approximately 90 kg (or 200 pounds), then he would be accelerated, by the Botafumeiro, at 41.7 meters per second per second.

Let's assume this man was stationary, kneeling during prayer, when it hit. This would mean a contact of half a second would set the man flying at a velocity of 20.88 m/s (that is almost 50 mph. 0-50 mph in half a second!). Which further means that our praying saint would travel a clean 100 meters in just 4.8 seconds! ("Dear God, draw me closer to youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu")

The Hermeneutic of Continuity has another video clearly showing the launch and the team of rope pullers at work. Like many articles on El Botafumeiro, it quotes a church proverb: More incense, less nonsense. Quite.

This business in Georgia seems to have awakened memories of Cannock in the local and tabloid press:

Sunday Mercury

Forget the stories of the Bigfoot corpse in the freezer found by a load of redneck sasquatch hunters, Bigfoot has been safe and well and living on Cannock Chase for years.

Do a quick search on the net for Cannock Chase and Bigfoot and the truth will be revealed.

There have been sightings there for years, Bigfoot lives happily alongside a few Black Panthers, Nessie and a dozen or so little green men who regularly abduct Hednesford residents for scientific testing.

Have you seen Bigfoot on Cannock Chase?

The Georgia affair and events like it lower Forteana to this National Inquirer level of news-worthiness, just as Most Haunted and its kin debase psychical research.

Deeper than that, though, there is a relationship between tabloid reportage and popular culture. Fortean celebrity is often found through becoming a tabloid pundit, and that in turn influences the way folk approach the subject and how it is reported.

A notable case involving a burial ground in London at the close of the 1960's is a very good example of tabloid media coverage of an event influencing subsequent events and creating a Fortean celeb or two; regrettably, as that controversy is still live after all these years and the protagonists have a habit of flash-mobbing blogs to tussle, I have to leave it at that. Suffice to say, that case is a very, very good example of the kind of thing we're talking about.

Likewise, Georgia. The whole thing has unfolded like an episode of the X-Files, probably because the players are taking all their cues from popular culture. As journalists also relate to the subject through the lens of popular culture, it ensures them a journalistic audience. By accidentally touching all the right buttons they ensure coverage. In contrast, a competently written field report by a cryptozoologist playing the scholarly game by the rules is unlikely to excite much interest.

Sadly, it is difficult to see how the highground can be regained. Sure, unpretentious scholarship is its own reward, but one comes away with the impression that the best are toiling away in darkness; the light is enjoyed by the media savvy, photogenic, deluded and crooked. That is not likely to change so long as the media see the Fortean as 'silly season' material; all the more unfortunate, then, that leading Forteans are complicit in keeping us all in that particular ghetto, over whose gateway is written 'For Entertainment Purposes Only'.

So, Cannock has been evoked. Will a Fortean pundit spark up at this point and enjoy a little unexpected limelight? Will someone see the opportunity to play a prank sure to grab some media attention? Let's watch and see what happens.

The final episode of C5's Britain's Close Encounters featured the Alderney UFO case.  In April 2007, a passenger plane pilot on a routine flight between Southampton and Alderney spotted a pair of bright yellow objects; during the twelve minute encounter the pilot was able to examine the object through binoculars and communicate with air traffic control, who asked other pilots in the area for confirmation; one other pilot radioed in visual contact with something similar.  Passengers on the first plane also saw the objects, and at least one of them was invited to view them through the pilot's binoculars.

Interesting stuff.

Then, on cue, we get Richard Wiseman.

Wiseman talks about how pilots momentarily glimpsing an item they cannot categorise may interpret it, at the time or with the benefit of hindsight, as something other than it actually was. Their testimony may thus be sincere, but inaccurate.

This is an example of Wisemanism. Richard Wiseman is often a culprit, and so has the honour of having the fallacy named after him; Sue Blackmore also used to be a notable Wisemanist.

The Anatomy of a Wisemanism

Wisemanism is a fallacy, and it happens thus:

You state p, which is a particular event.

I assert q, which is a generalisation, in such a way as to suggest that p is an instance of, or is governed by, q. However, it isn't, and I know it, else I haven't bothered to look.

For example, in the Alderney programme, we are shown the eye witness accounts of the event (p), and then Wiseman pops up and states that such momentary glimpses of things pose a cognitive problem, thereby implying that the Alderney sighting falls under this category (q).

Conversational implicature is at work here; as Wiseman is being presented as a commentator on the case, we expect his statement to be relevant. In fact, it is not. Moreover, we can assent to q in principle, but it does not apply in this particular case. That means our objection is a 'yes, but...'; unfortunately, 'yes, buts' are not good soundbites, and so tend to get lost in the edit.  

How and Whys and Wherefores

Why does Wisemanism arise? 

Well, partly it is editing, and partly it is the pundit him or herself.

The juxtaposition of witness and pundit leads to Wisemanism; contemporary documentary makers go in for such juxtapositions in a big way. Such cutting and jumping  brings about violations of conversational implicature. The fault lies with programme makers, editors in particular, and perhaps with audiences whose attention span cannot handle watching an actual conversation.

And then there is the pundit. A busy expert regularly called on to contribute soundbites to documentaries may well pull together a collection of responses to pull out of a hat at a moment's notice. In this case, Wiseman is asked about pilots sighting UFOs, and he pulls out his stock response.  

Had he considered what he would be seen commenting on? Probably not, or if he had he showed it scant regard. Either way, it is a poor performance by a professional academic whom we would assume would be playing by the rules of scholarly discourse all undergraduates learn.