Urban Legends (Part one)

It's almost that time of year again. Shops full of enough brightly-coloured decorations to induce seizures, cheesier-than-stilton ads on tv, peculiar customs that would certainly raise an eyebrow at any other time of year and children so full of sugar, they're probably flammable. That's right; Hallowe'en. Don't get me wrong, I love hallowe'en. And not just because it's a great excuse to get moderately stewed, while dressed as a champagne bottle.

I always loved it as a child: the toffee apples, the bags of mixed nuts (which brought the challenges of trying to crack a hazelnut without damaging ornaments and trying to crack a Brazil nut without damaging yourself), the fireworks and, of course, the assorted spirits walking the earth for one night only. While I have since (mostly) outgrown witches, vampires, et al, I do still enjoy the odd urban legend. You know, missing person eventually found dead in a chimney, someone on PCP turns cannibal, that sort of thing. They're grown-up fairy tales, unsettling if you dwell on them, but mostly just escapism. They're fun, because you know those things can't possibly have happened, so you indulge your imagination for a moment, then it's back to the real world. Like the story of the toxic woman, that's just absurd, surely? A human being whose blood is harmful to anyone near it? Not possible.

Except it is, because it happened. The case is actually quite well known. On the 19^th of February 1994, Gloria Ramirez was admitted to an emergency room in California, suffering from advanced cervical cancer. Around the time it became apparent that Gloria was not responding well to treatment, medical staff noticed an oily sheen on her skin. A nurse drew some blood and noticed a foul odour, rather like ammonia, emanating from the syringe, which she passed to a doctor, before fainting. The doctor noticed manila coloured particles in the blood, then complained of feeling light headed, left the room, sat down and fainted. Shortly after, a respiratory therapist also fainted. In total, 23 staff were affected. Gloria Ramirez was pronounced dead 45 minutes after being admitted. The case was swiftly downplayed, dismissed as mass hysteria and basically swept under the rug, although some people have their doubts about the mass hysteria explanation. Like the doctor I mentioned, who spent the next two weeks in ICU and developed hepatitis, pancreatitis and avascular necrosis (cellular death of bone components, which causes bone structure to collapse. Not fun). The fact that the autopsy was carried out by people in full hazmat suits also suggested something more than panic might be to blame.

In July this year, a disused bank chimney in Abbeville, Louisiana provided proof that the first urban myth on the list isn't so mythical. As the bank began renovations, the remains of Joseph Schexnider were discovered in the chimney, which had long since been closed off. He was last seen alive aged 22 in 1984.

As for PCP turning an otherwise unremarkable person into a crazed killer and cannibal, that just sounds like propaganda. Until you hear what happened, the last time Antron Singleton took PCP. Better known (apparently) as the rapper Big Lurch, Singleton was picked up by police staggering around the streets of Los Angeles one night in April 2002, after a PCP binge lasting almost a week. He was naked, liberally coated in blood and howling at the sky. This was unusual enough, but it gets worse. His 21-year-old female room-mate Tynisha Ysais had been found in her apartment by a friend. She was dead, with a 3-inch section of a blade broken off in her shoulder and tooth marks on her face and on her lungs, which had been torn out. A medical examination performed after his capture found human flesh in Singleton's stomach that was not his own.

And then there's the cursed phone number. The most trouble I've ever had with a phone number was a few years ago, when I got a new phone, changed my number and found the new one hard to remember for a while, which is part of the reason I find the cursed phone number so interesting. Seriously, there aren't many phone numbers that are easier to remember than 0888 888 888, but the convenience comes at a price. Everyone who has had the number since 2000 has died. First,Vladimir Grashnov, former CEO of Bulgarian company Mobitel, which issued the number. He died of cancer in 2001, aged 48. Despite a flawless reputation, there were rumours that a rival deliberately caused his cancer using radiation poisoning. The number of doom passed to Bulgarian Mafia boss Konstantin Dimitrov. He was shot by a sniper in 2003 while inspecting part of his drug empire in the Netherlands. Russian Mafia bosses were thought to be behind the murder. The number passed to businessman Konstantin Dishliev, who managed to keep breathing till 2005, when he was shot outside a restaurant. By day an estate agent and by night the head of a massive drug trafficking operation, Dishliev was killed after police intercepted enough cocaine to ski down coming into Bulgaria from Columbia. The number has since been suspended by Mobitel, who are apparently worried about the possibility of any more fine, upstanding pillars of society being murdered by sinister rivals.

So it turns out that if you do a little digging, you might find there's some truth in that outrageously macabre story, after all. Think about that, next time you get an email about that babysitter brutally slain by what she wrongly assumed was a statue of a clown.

And, in case you were wondering (or didn't already know); yes, I am the proud owner of a champagne bottle costume. You haven't lived, till you've seen a 6'4” champagne bottle dance.