What I experienced was not my brain playing a trick on me. Yet, to date, I have found no explanation for it. That’s why I’m finally writing about it. I'm writing this blog, in the hope that there is another person out there who saw it.
Before I properly begin, it’s vital that you know that my favourite film is a 92-minute indie comedy from 2004 called Story of Yesterday. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Two old colleagues meet again by chance, both hitchhiking their way across Europe, but in opposite directions. They face obstacles and diversions that keep leading them back to one another, so they eventually give up on the trip and reminisce about the past, sharing the vital life lessons they’ve learnt. It didn’t reinvent cinema, but it’s heartwarming, funny, and was a useful career springboard for its two lead actors, James Blaker and Stewart Harding.
Stewart went on to play various well-loved comedy roles on UK television, before hosting a panel show where he became, overnight, a cuddly national treasure. James went on to star in several successful Hollywood films, before returning to the UK to do more stage work and generally make people say “Ooh, it’s him” whenever he walked into a room. Two British comedy legends, in their own special way. Now, remember all that, but shift it to the side a little.
I wasn’t even meant to be there when the strange thing that happened to me happened. The television set I was watching didn’t belong to me; neither did the sofa I was reclining on, nor the house in which I was sheltering.
I was walking home after visiting a friend, when the weather turned. The heavens opened, rain was lashing down, and I was in nothing but shorts, a T-shirt and the type of trainers made of mesh. I don’t know why we continue to buy these trainers when they’re clearly not made for life in rainy countries. But our unspoken willingness to shake off what we consider to be traditional British stuffiness and be more American continues: let your feet breathe! Be carefree! Feel air on every part of your body as you’re walking, even inside your shoes! And we forget we don’t live in LA or Dubai, so our feet get wet. What is wrong with us?
I’ve diverted.
It was raining, and I was in inappropriate clothing. I was halfway home; should I soldier on or return to my friend’s place? Either way would mean continuing to get soaked. Then, I remembered a friend of my mother’s lived just a street away. A retired secretary whose house we would sometimes visit when I was younger and be served Jaffa Cakes. My feet must have sensed my stomach’s desire for nourishment, as I found myself heading there without having consciously decided to do so.
I won’t go into detail, but I knocked on the door, was invited in, a towel wrapped around my shoulders, a hairdryer plugged in next to the sofa and switched on, hairdryer switched off once hair was dry, a cup of tea made, Jaffa Cakes invitation accepted if you’re offering, Jaffa Cakes served, thanks given for Jaffa Cakes, appreciation shown for Jaffa Cakes with a ‘mmmmm’ noise after first bite, Jaffa Cakes finished, pleasantries exchanged, update given to Retired Secretary on mother’s wellbeing, opportunity given to call someone to be picked up, mobile phone checked to obtain a number, phone dead. As I said, I won’t go into detail, but this is the VITAL THING: my phone was out of battery. I couldn’t record any of the things that later happened; I have no photographic or video evidence because my phone was kaput.
Retired Secretary - I’m not being rude here, I just don’t want to name the woman for fear of her being tracked down and mobbed by a) fans of Story of Yesterday or b) fans of paranormal activity - wondered if it was worth looking up my mother’s phone number in the most recent edition of the Yellow Pages that had been dumped on her front door, but we had a look at the year and it said 2019. “Goodness, has it been that long?” Retired Secretary lamented. “They must have stopped doing them. And here’s me still waiting for the next one to be delivered any moment.”
At this point, it was getting late, Retired Secretary didn’t drive, and the storm showed no sign of relenting. My mother wouldn’t wonder where I was anyway; I’d recently moved out, and there was nobody who would be alarmed by a night’s absence on my part. Retired Secretary offered to do up the bed in the spare room, but I insisted that the sofa would be fine. She didn’t think this was acceptable, but I couldn’t bear the thought of her going to such trouble, so we compromised on her bringing a blanket down, which ended up being a blanket, two pillows and an eye mask (in case the glow from the street lamp four doors down prevented me from nodding off).
We said our goodnights, and I gave her my sincere thanks. I found it hard to sleep, not due to the street lamp, but due to the unfamiliar, if not uncosy, setting, and I didn’t have my phone to scroll through endlessly to make my eyes tired. I was gradually getting to a point of sleepiness, when a glowing light appeared from somewhere within the room. I tilted my head up and saw the TV was flickering into life. Strange. I shuffled about on the sofa, checking I wasn’t laying on the remote by accident. But I noticed a couple of remotes innocuously perched over on the TV stand. As I fell still, the programmes started to play - silently, I must say. I was transfixed, but also aware of not waking up my host, slumbering somewhere upstairs.
The channels started to switch - suddenly, I was watching a pottery competition, then a documentary about the downfall of the seaside town as a holiday destination.
Finally, it landed on a channel called ‘Film Night’. I’d never heard of that one. Here was what seemed to be the opening credits to a film: aerial shots of cars lazily drifting along sunny Californian highways, various producers and company names fading in and out. Then: ‘James Blaker’. Ah - no way! What film could this be, I wondered. Followed by: ‘Stewart Harding’. Hold on, I thought. This isn’t Story of Yesterday. And I know they haven’t done another film together. I know that. I’m a big fan of both of them. The most they worked together apart from Story of Yesterday were the promotional interviews for Story of Yesterday. That’s it. What was I watching?
Then the title: ‘Story of Yes2day’. I barked out a laugh, momentarily forgetting to stay quiet. This was surely a parody. There is no sequel to Story of Yesterday. Any moment now, two actors were going to appear, doing bad impressions of James and Stewart (but not James Stewart) - hopefully lovingly - and pretending to bump into each other as they travelled across Europe. I threw off the blanket and crept over to fetch the remote, waiting for the action to begin. Making sure the living room door was closed, I tiptoed back to the sofa and turned up the volume the tiniest amount possible. I wasn’t sure where Retired Secretary’s bedroom was situated, but the volume was so low that even if she was snoozing directly above me, the sound wouldn’t have woken her.
And yet… a parody it was not. There they were: the actual James Blaker and the real Stewart Harding. I was stunned.
The premise for this film was that the duo are putting on their own coach tour of the Pacific Coast Highway, but Stewart’s character mistakenly drives off with half the tour group while James’s character is with the other half on a toilet visit. Then they have to find each other again.
This film didn’t exist. But there it was. I was watching it.
Could it have been a surprise film? But nobody does that. No film would be kept under wraps and then premiered on some obscure TV channel with no promotion.
I can’t even remember how funny it was. I couldn’t focus, and yet there was nothing I had ever been more focussed on in my life.
I couldn’t record it on my phone, I couldn’t even take a photo. I had nothing to do that with, and so I have no evidence of what I witnessed.
I didn’t sleep that night. Even the eye mask couldn’t help.
The next morning, Retired Secretary made me some toast and a coffee. She said I looked tired and that I should have taken up the offer of the spare bedroom, rather than the sofa. I thanked her profusely for her hospitality, before dashing home.
I put my phone on charge, then went straight to Google. It only confirmed what I already knew: there is no sequel to Story of Yesterday. Okay. Okay. TV listings, for the previous night. Find the channel ‘Film Night’.
My eyes scoured the tables of seemingly endless channels, but, as I was starting to suspect, I found nothing. The channel didn’t exist.
Had I dreamt the whole thing? Was it a hallucination?
No. I know it was real.
I don’t know how, but I’m going to prove it. I’ve sent an email to the production company who made the first - officially the only - Story of Yesterday. If they don’t admit it, I’ll get in touch with the actors’ agents.
I know what I saw. And hopefully, someone will get in touch and let me know that, yes, they saw it too, and I’m not crazy.
Please get in touch
Lauren Johnston writes for fun but will also do it for money if offered. She works as Keeper of the Books (ok, librarian) at a school in London. Her website is here: https://laurenjohnstonwriter.co.uk
Comments
Post a Comment