For more on what Jason does, how he does it - and how to get in touch if you have any old VHS tapes you'd like to loan to his noble cause - bear lewd witness to his website: here.
Jason Robertson - teletext's apology for Indiana Jones - has once more been ferreting around in the fusty mausoleums of Pixeltopia. This time, he has unearthed another entire edition of classic Digitiser, not seen by human eyes since the 24th May 1994 - a year-and-a-bit into Digi's life.
For more on what Jason does, how he does it - and how to get in touch if you have any old VHS tapes you'd like to loan to his noble cause - bear lewd witness to his website: here.
It's Friday, which can only mean one thing: The Digitiser2000 Friday Letters Page.
Some of you have asked what the point is of a letters page when we have a comments section. Well... consider these the cream (everything) of the crop (we got sent).
If you would like to be immortalised on this page, all you have to do is send your questions, comments and "whimsy" here: firstname.lastname@example.org
Don't bother using the contact form, even though we've not bothered removing it from the sidebar.
WEDNESDAY 23rd MARCH
I've not been around recently, because I'd travelled back in time to 1963, to discover the truth about the Moon Landings. Did Man really land on the moon, or was it all a big hoax?
Of course, the great thing about time machines is that you can return at the same time you departed. Unfortunately, on the way home my time machine ran out of time petrol, and I got stuck in 1974.
I had to wait ages for the Time RAC to come out and pick me up. It was all a bit complicated, because I'd forgotten to join before my trip, so I spent ages on the phone with the lady, trying to negotiate my way out of additional charge for a non-member call-out.
Then my debit card was declined, and I had to get my brother to call them and join on my behalf, and then he spent about ten minutes telling me about the new golf clubs he got for his birthday, and... well... you probably don't want to hear about that. Anyway. That's why I've not been around.
So what did I discover about the Moon Landings? Just this: Buzz Aldrin is actually a fat wasp.
I've not been able to update my diary for a while, due to the fact I've been held hostage for much of this year by my biggest and most psychotic fan, Pocksy Rodgers.
Pocksy ambushed me in the parking lot of Greggs PLC, in Jesmond, Newcastle-Upon-Tyne (I've been spending a lot of time there recently, hoping to catch a glimpse of their CEO, Roger Whiteside, having become uncontrollably obsessed with him).
After bludgeoning me with a champagne cork on the end of a pencil, Pocksy dragged me back to her musty hovel, kept me tethered to a gurney in her "dry room", and forced me at cork-point to write new diaries purely for her own entertainment.
Honestly, it's been like something out of The Matrix Reloaded!
Remember Digitiser2000 reader Justin Egli's excellent feature on how it really is to live in Japan? Well... Digitiser's The Man has now gone to Japan to see firsthand what the country is actually like. You can read his adventure exclusively on Justin's splendid blog, Ikimasho.
But hold! There is more from The Man's Diary right... here: here.
I've been selected to provide the Lithuanian entry for this year's Eurovision Song Contest.
I'm not entirely sure how this has come about, as I'm not Lithuanian, didn't put myself forward for the contest, and don't know how to write or perform music. Nevertheless, the letter arrived yesterday, informing me that they'd like me to step up after their original act, Salvard Simmo & Blitzo the Clow-Clow, froze to death in a cattle trough.
I'm going to give it my best shot. Alas, my original idea was to write a song celebrating all that's great about Lithuania, but then I realised that I know virtually nothing about Lithuania. Plus I can't get online to find out more, because my Internet's been down since last Tuesday (a neighbour's grandparent dropped a jar of apricots on the router).
Instead, I've written a song about what I think Lithuania is probably like. I call it "Oh, Lithuania:
For reasons that are likely to remain unknown, I've decided to become a famous chef. To get ideas and learn how to cook, I've studied all the popular TV chefs at length, and it appears that they all have a gimmick.
Ramsey is basically posh and foul-mouthed, Oliver keeps licking his own face while patronising working-class people about being disgusting morons for not buying more fresh food (he should take a look in the mirror the next time he thinks about criticising "pink slime"!!!), Fearnly-Whittingstall eats any old rubbish out of a compost bin like some flaxen-haired pig, and Worrall Thompson received a police caution for forgetting to get permission before removing some low-value items from Tesco... However, it is the shaven cook Heston Blumenthal that I'm taking most of my inspiration from.
Frankly, I don't think the camera-awkard "molecular" chef goes far enough with his outlandish recipes. People say he's the Willy Wonka of cooking, but my dishes are going to make him look more like the Silly Wanka of Farting!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! LOL?
I've decided to become a super-hero. Admittedly, I don't have much of a tragic origin story - most of my parents and uncles are still alive, so it's not like I'm inspired to go out and avenge their deaths.
In fact, my only dead uncle wasn't even my favourite uncle, and he died from dysentery in a Harvester car park. I don't know about you, but fighting dysentery isn't what I tend to think of when I picture super-heroes.
Still, I've worked hard to imagine what it would be like for all my remaining uncles to be murdered by a bad thief - and it seems to have done the trick: I'm now well up for going out there and fighting crime. My super-hero name? Uncle-Helper. By way of avenging the imaginary deaths of my imaginary uncles, I'm mostly going to hang out in the local uncle community, watching over all the local uncles, and keeping them all safe.
I recently got a job as the new host of the TV motoring show Top Geer, which I present alongside a pair of chattering ventriloquist's puppets: Vent-pup Small and Vent-pup Tall.
One of the regular features on our show is Tsar On A Reasonably Priced Czar - in which we invite bejewelled tsars (such as Oleg of Novgorod or Konstanti of Rostov) to ride around our test track on the shoulders of a Czar who's wearing clothes from Primark (ie; Peter Alexeevich or Vasily of Kostroma).
We also have our popular Power Laps segment, in which our resident, enigmatic lappist The St. Igg' (a reimagining of the singer Iggy Pop, if he'd been canonised by the Pope) gets down on his hands and knees to see how fast he can drink a bowl of milk using only his tongue.
I've got a new job now as one of Madonna's backing dancers. To get in shape for our upcoming performance at the Brit Awards, I've been forced to undertake a strict diet and exercise regime, as per my new employer's orders.
At 4am every morning, I am woken by the massive, manly hands of Madonna beating me about the head and throat, as she straddles my hammock. Before I am even fully awake, she has scooped several large fistfuls of dry chia seeds into my yawning maw, while repeatedly calling me a "sissy bitch" in what I can only assume to be a mocking, mid-Atlantic drawl.
I've got a new job as an inventor. Every morning I go into the big red shed at the bottom of my horrible garden, and think of new products that nobody has considered before. This might be overstating things, but I honestly think I'm the greatest inventor of all time.
Indeed, for motivation, I have a half-size wax figure of Thomas Edison that I scratch in the face every time that I think of a new invention. I have now invented so many excellent things that Edison's face has taken on the appearance of a particularly sloppy Danish pastry (and, to be frank, he wasn't much of a looker to begin with - in every photo I've seen he looks like he's trying to silently identify the culprit of some particularly peppery anal vapours... while secretly hoping nobody realises he was responsible).
Why, only last night I invented a new type of wind-up radio that was at least nine times better than anything Edison ever invented. My radio looks, for all intents and purposes, like a regular radio, except that it constantly mocks the listener with fictional news, and taunts.
I've got a new job as a freelance murderer. Murdering people isn't always as much fun as you might think - the hours can be long, and I always seem to take my work home with me - but it does have its perks.
For instance, once a month I go along to a murderer's breakfast power meeting, where we get to swap business cards and murdering tips with others working in the murdering industry.
I've made some great friends through networking in such a way. Friends such as The East Kilbride Smotherer, The Somerset Lyncher, and Thimon Thevens - who isn't a murderer, he's just a murder fanboy, and is always hanging around outside the meetings, trying to get everyone's autograph and attention. I've thought about murdering him, but the truth is I've grown rather attached to the little guy - and his adorable little lisp! Bless him, he even made his own knife out of cardboard and tinfoil!
When I'm not murdering people, there's always plenty of office work and filing to catch up on - ie; storing receipts for my tools of murder, keeping detailed records of who I've murdered and when, and just generally keeping the office ticking over. It's hard work - and I sometimes miss the days when murdering was just a hobby, and not a full-time job - but I couldn't imagine doing anything else.
Not least because I was thrown out of university for murdering a couple of people, and have very few transferable skills.
I've decided to take my murdering business to the next level, and open up the first high street murder shop - Murdersons. Anyone wanting to be murdered can just walk in off the street, and we promise to look after them (murder them).
We have a menu of different methods of murder that we offer to our customers - there's the Three S's, your basic stabbing, strangling and shooting. However, we also have a sliding scale of more exotic forms of murder.
For £100 you can be murdered by being pelted with glass bottles, or wooden drinks coasters. For an extra £20 we'll sing a fantastic pop song while murdering you, and for an additional £500 our murderers will drown you in a tank of crabs and electric eels, and tattoo your name onto their skin. We even offer a two-for-one deal if you recommend us to a friend.
More excitingly still, we're looking into hosting our own Murder Expo at a posh conference centre in London. We're hoping that thousands of like-minded murder fans will buy tickets, for the chance to pose for photographs with their favourite murderers, enter into murderer cosplay contests, and attend Q&A sessions where celebrity murderers will regail them with hilarious anecdotes before murdering them.
Unfortunately, I've had to stop being a murderer, as I've just learned that murder is still apparently illegal in this country. It's political correctness and health & safety gone mad.
Previous Man Diaries...
Following the deep and enduring friendship I struck up yesterday with the ageing eccentric who jiggles and whinnies in the doorway of the local Subway, I have time travelled to the space year 2015AD in his magic, time-travelling Ka (it looks like a normal Ka, except there are scraps of tinfoil stuck all over the outside, and the footwells are littered with muddy, inflated, prophylactics and chicken bones).
Since we arrived, he has been showing me all of the wonders of this future era. At first I thought he'd offered to demonstrate a "hoverboard", which I assumed to be some sort of futuristic floating skateboard, but he'd actually threatened to push me "overboard".
This he subsequently did, after taking me out to sea on a futuristic dinghy (like a normal dinghy, except there are lengths of old wire sellotaped to the outside, and the floor is littered with thick globs of futuristic Vick's vapour rub and futuristic soiled eggshells), and not before he'd cracked me against the side of the head with the knuckles of his left hand, and a futuristic branch (very similar to a normal branch, but in the future).
Fortunately, I was saved from drowning by my excellent swimming skills, and futuristic passerby called Jason Royd.
It's been a lot of fun visiting the future with my time-travelling companion. He has been teaching me all about the customs of the space year 2015AD. For instance, when you post a letter you must first rub the envelope all over a friend's bare torso and coccyx, while mumbling about nuclear war and petri dishes.
We spent several hours doing this earlier today, while I stood shivering, topless, in the freezer aisle of a futuristic Morrisons. I would have complained, but who am I to argue with the way things are done in the future?
Unfortunately, the people who work in the futuristic Morrisons must also be time-travellers from the past, as they weren't aware of these futuristic customs, and threw us out when we started inexplicably and furiously stomping on bags of frozen veg.
I have been fired from my job as a garden centre Father Christmas for eating and regurgitating one of the gifts, and punching a child who got scared when she saw me retching into my hat (I was trying to calm her down). Consequently, I have decided to strike out on my own and become a YouTube vlogger.
I’m not entirely sure what it is I’m meant to be doing, so I’m just filming everything I do, and hoping something sticks. So far, I have filmed myself doing the following things:
Somehow, my vlog has become a massive hit, and I’ve been offered a deal to write my first book. I’ve decided to loosely base it on my experiences of being an online vlogger over the past 24 hours.
The book begins with the main character – who is called The Character – going to Costa, buying a nutmeg and almond latte, and then coming back from Costa and drinking the nutmeg and almond latte, before thinking about buying a dog.
The Character then considers stealing his neighbour’s dog, before thinking better of it. The Character’s vlog becomes a massive hit after he gives make-up tips, tries to write a listicle, watches Cash In The Attic (don’t want to make it too similar to my own life!), doesn’t watch Cash In The Attic, plays Jetpack Joyride, goes to bed, wakes up, looks out of the window, sighs – before finally being offered a book deal.
The book examines life in the spotlight, and tackles powerful themes of what it’s like to be a man who imagines what it's like to be a teenage girl online. My publisher has suggested that we hire a ghostwriter to pen the book for me, as my handwriting is terrible, and peppered with unnecessary profanity and death threats. The ghostwriter they’ve suggested is the late Ernest Hemingway.
Regrettably, after a whirlwind couple of days, I have found myself embroiled in a media scandal. Following the release of my debut novel, 'Man Onlive', I attended my dizzyingly star-studded launch party (attendees included such notaries as Yancer, Prancer, Foynt, O'Sullivan and Tot) at which I signed copies and basked in the glow of how clever I'd been to get the late Ernest Hemingway to write it for me without telling anyone.
I was also invited by Bob Gandalf to pretend to sing on the new Ban AIDS single (I hired a ghostsinger - the late Ella Fitzgerald - to do the singing for me, as my own singing is peppered with unnecessary profanity and death threats). It was amazing; I got to hang out with such rock and pop greats as Tully, Mully, Jenson-9, Hunt, McNiven and Prang.
However, since then I've been hit with a backlash. Apparently, it is in some way considered dishonest to claim to have written a book, when in actual fact it was written by a ghost. Nevertheless, it's the late Ernest Hemingway who I feel the most sorry for; he's become so distraught by being in the spotlight that he's committed reverse suicide.
I’ve got a new job working as a garden centre Father Christmas. I can’t quite remember, but I expect I already did something like that in past. You probably don’t care. You're probably not even reading this properly.
It’s great working here. I have my own grotto, and I get to sit on an old wooden pallet, that has been covered in yellow felt, and decorated with splashes of paint and mouse droppings.
Also, I’ve been impressing my colleagues with a number of whimsical “sleigh” of hand magic tricks. They especially like the one where I push a marker pen up my nose until I cough, bleed, and start crying. At least, I think they’re impressed. It’s difficult to tell, as I only ever perform the trick in the privacy of the staff lavatory.
Some people have suggested that, in this day and age, the very idea of a Father Christmas is a bit creepy and inappropriate. To this end, I have sought to reassure youngsters and parents alike, by making myself seem more friendly and accessible.
I have done away with the traditional red costume (red being the colour of danger) in favour of a more mundane brown boiler suit. Instead of scary black boots I go barefoot. Also, instead of a long, white beard - the sort of beard a scary old man who lives in the woods might have - I've just wrapped a crepe bandage around my chin and head (this makes me look as if I've had an accident, and am therefore quite vulnerable and approachable).
Finally, instead of shouting "Ho Ho Ho", which could risk sounding like a startled bark, I sprawl on my felt-covered pallet, mewling like a lonely gull.
Additionally, I feared that giving out gifts to strangers might make it appear as if I'm after something. Consequently, I have replaced the traditional gift-giving with the gift of heavy silence (albeit punctuated by the occasional stifled mewl and sharp intake of breath).
I've mostly had a lot of fun being a garden centre Father Christmas. However, yesterday I accidentally ate some old raisins, and got terrible food poisoning. I completely forgot which festive celebration I was meant to be representing, and just kept rambling on about fireworks, Easter eggs, and Yom Kippur.
One parent got a little angry with me when I failed to produce a gift for his son, because I was too busy down the synagogue giving out Easter eggs, and letting off fireworks. Suffice to say, it was one of those days where everything I did seemed to upset someone.
++ ATTENTION! YOU CAN HELP SUPPORT DIGITISER 2000 ++
Follow us on The Facebook