A Year in the Life: Adventures in British Subcultures

By Lucy Leonelli

An A to Z of British subcultures

Tuesday, 11 August 2020

Just nine percent to go!!!

Hello friends.

A quick check-in with you again to say THANK YOU so much for your support in getting FOMO to 91% funded! We are so, so close to the finish line now and I could not be more grateful. 

My objective for getting the book fully funded is September 5th, which just happens to be my birthday, and what a present that would be. So, I'm also sending a final call to action to ask for your help in promoting FOMO to friends, family, neighbours, and maybe even that friendly old woman you sometimes see in the pharmacy who always wants to chat. Another idea would be to pledge for a second copy to surprise a friend with the fantastic gift of a book with their name in the back. You could even buy one for the old woman in the pharmacy. Just imagine her confusion.

To show my appreciation, I'm sharing another short excerpt from FOMO, this time from the letter U, and an interesting lunch I had at a UFOLOGY convention ...




"Something happened that I can’t explain,” Sarah tells me, as I sit down for lunch with her and Kevin, both alien contactees in their 40’s. “But I can’t tell anyone, it would be suicide for my job.”

A chemistry teacher, with blond hair tied into a loose ponytail, Sarah’s appearance is neat and unflustered. “Here, I can show you my evidence,” she pulls out her phone and shows me a picture of a foot with two small red marks just above the ankle bone. They look like spider bites.

“I was in agony with them. Two nights after I had one at the top of my leg, then my arm, then my inner thigh. I tried to convince myself it was a bug, but it didn’t swell up like it does with a bug. Then I stopped sleeping in my bed.”

“So you thought they were coming into your bedroom at night?” I try to understand.

“I didn’t think. I knew. How else do you get marks like that?” She takes a bite of her salad ,“and I’d already seen it.”

“Where?” I ask, suddenly much more interested.

“In my bedroom,” she says, looking down at her salad. “It woke me up. I felt this hand behind my back... and there it was, at the bottom of my bed.” She points at where the end of her bed would be. “It was just stood there at the end, messing with my feet.”

“How long was it there for?”

“Not that long, I got angry and the light around it faded”.

Kevin, who has the look of a friendly builder with closely cropped, greying hair, takes his prompt to jump in.

“I don’t worry about it anymore,” he says, “the more you fight it, the more it hurts you. It’s usually three in the morning. There is a loud, high-pitched noise when it starts, then you are paralysed, and a light comes up from the floor. Then a face looks at you.”

Kevin shows me a picture on his phone. It’s a pencil drawing of an alien.

“This is the sort of thing that comes to see me,” he says. “ET looking thing but wider, about that tall”, he puts his hand out at about four foot. “They interfere in my relationships too. It’s like they introduce me to people they want me to be with. For example, all my partners have had depression and gynaecological problems. All of them.”

There is an uncomfortable pause. We all look at each other, Sarah and Kevin with blank faces.

“Do they take you onto a spaceship?” I ask to break the silence.

“Oh yeah, been there loads of times,” Kevin leans back into his chair and crosses his legs. “A room with no corners. All lit up, but no lights.”

“What did they do to you?”

“The only way I can explain it is like milking a cow”.

Sarah becomes animated. “They are taking your bits, your spermy things!” She screws up her face and turns to me. “It’s one of the theories of abduction. They call it the hybrid programme. They think it’s something we have – perhaps emotions – that they want, so they breed with us.”

“Yeah, they were definitely taking my sperm,” Kevin nods.


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