For reasons that will become clear, I am hiding in a shallow grave in a cemetery somewhere in Great Moldy, UK of GB. One must take precautions because I have a feeling there’s not much time before Secret Agents come knocking, so without further ado, I’ll get right into it.

* Words like this are emphasised because they’re proper Scientists, with lanyards and certificates, who smoke pipes and know lots of stuff. Respect.

Warning!

A lot of people will be very grumpy with me for speaking out about certain things they would rather keep secret. Mainly scurrilous scallywags who live under rocks and work in government departments no one has ever heard of, and think they’re far more important than you and me.

I am determined that the truth will out! And I’m not talking about naming the Ministers who cheat at poker or about the stash of whiskey C* nicked from the sub-basement bar at Albert Embankment — She should know better than to try kidding a kidder. Oh, no, I’m talking about proper scoundrels from the upper echelons. Demons from the dark side of government who never sleep until bedtime. The sort you wouldn’t want to rub up against, ever.

* “C”: Free whiskey is one of the better perks enjoyed by the head of the British Secret Intelligence Service.

I’m also breaking almost every little-known rule of proper science by revealing what I know, so I’m putting on my brave face and, in the tradition of great truth-sayers like Julian Assange and Chelsea Manning, I’m holding no bars. Although I will be bolting the door and wearing a stab vest, I strongly advise you to do the same now that you are privy to the information I am about to divulge.

Genesis

Let us begin at the beginning because how these revelations came to light is a fascinating story that began 500 years ago, in the 1500s, when Experts like Hieronymus Bosch, Pieter Bruegel, and Matthias Grünewald explored, through their art, the possibility that other civilisations had emerged and disappeared long before we came on the scene.

They enjoyed their holidays abroad so much that the lazy gits only got around to writing down their ideas in 1879. One dark, stormy, and very drunken night, those olden-day Experts hefted their weighty ledgers and painstakingly sketched out a tantalising theory that a previous manifestation of humanoid civilisation had indeed existed. However, ten minutes into the exercise, they were interrupted by an urgent need to take a nap which, in its way, was fortuitous because it allowed an opportunist book thief, Cedric Tid Li Po, to squeeze through a gap in the floorboards and “half-inch*” the aforementioned tomes from under the noses of the snoring Scientists.

* “Half-inch”: Cock-er-knee rhyming slang for pinch (meaning to nick, thieve or steal): an ancient language spoken by disarmingly chirpy, cheeky chappies and chappettes often found lodging in the rafters of St Mary-le-Bow Church, Cheapside, London town.

History tells us that the greatest discoveries often have ignominious origins, and this is one of them.

An avid reader, Cedric had devoured most of them before bedtime. Full up and satisfied, having washed them down with several Bishop’s Fingers*, he decided to stash what remained of his haul in the secret loot cupboard. Just as he was cramming them into the tight little hole, one of them slipped from his grasp and flipped open, revealing page after page of squiggles and jottings. “Blimey,” he thought. “What’s all that abaaht then?”

* “Bishop’s Finger”: A particularly powerful beer. Excellent wig adhesive.

It took him half the night to painstakingly copy each page onto a table napkin he’d swiped from a picnic basket in Hyde Park when the young gentleman and his lady friend were otherwise engaged. He particularly liked the pictures drawn by some bloke called Curly—he knew that was his name because the book had “Curly Buff-Ffoone Luvs Mavis Noknickers*” scrawled on the cover. Curly’s pictures spoke to him; he seemed to know instinctively what they were saying, and what they were saying knocked him over with a feather. It was like reading a comic book but for posh people. There were sciency bits too, which made it even funnier. Cedric chuckled heartily as he signed his masterpiece with a flourish, Professor Tid Li Po. A cunning falsehood that added even more credibility to the forgery, if any were needed.

* “Noknickers”: Pronounced Nokni-Kers. Take your pick. Not judging.

He crammed his battered Billycock bowler on his head, stuffed the napkin into his pocket, and set out to make his fortune. Which didn’t happen.

Not in the way he thought it would, anyway; no sooner had he stepped into the street than a runaway mule kicked him full force in the head. To cut a long story to the bone, he was knocked clean out. When he woke up a few weeks later, his old memory was completely wiped, much the same as it was before he was banjacked by an ass. Except that, now, his mind was an endless wasteland of absolute nothingness. A nothingness that would soon be populated with new possibilities his old self would have found unimaginable.

Upon his release from the hospital, Fah-Kin-Soo-Pah University welcomed him with open arms to their hallowed Halls of Learning and held one hell of a party in honour of his napkin, much to the confusion of the resident professors—well, only the ones who were awake on account of the fact that they didn’t recognise him at all. The ones who were either asleep or dead didn’t care either way because the buffet at the party was groaning and the gin flowed in abundance.

She did it all the time, so she stuffed it into her fanny bag, hoping to use it in one of her upcoming dissertations. Also, it would come in handy if she sicked up all the vodka she’d poured down her neck.

Thankfully, she made no chunder chutney that night, and on waking the next afternoon it accidentally fell out and into her shaking hands. On closer inspection, the squiggles and schematics made not one jiggery-jot of sense. Pointless scribbling, she decided, definitely not the work of a genius. She threw it out the window, disgusted that she’d have to do some actual work for a change.

“It floated in through my window on a gust. I snatched it up thinking it must be some oiks’ filthy snot-rag, chucked away without a care for the foul infections he would be spreading. I don’t know what made me look at it; it could have been the titivating smudge of bright red lipstick. I don’t know. But I did, and it hit me like a thunderbolt when I recognised the unmistakable scrawl of none other than Professor Tid Li Po. Gentlemen, this humble napkin I present to you today contains no less than the esteemed Professor’s entire theory of proto-human evolution.”

Cue heavy clapping and a rising cloud of dust from the nodding heads of the bewildered, bewhiskered ladies and gentlemen of the audience.

A couple of years later, in a frenzy of excitement, a team of Scientists, under the Doctor’s watchful eye, began exploring deep beneath the Earth’s crust using the most complicated technology imaginable. For the next two decades, they dug, tested, dug a bit more, conducted improbable forensic research, and crouched in cobwebbed corners, incoherently mumbling.

Finally, on April 1st, 2021 CE, exactly 401,683 years after our Homo sapiens ancestors mutated into their current form, Doctor Spankpansy-Hardde held a press conference and proudly announced:

“The Scientific Community grovels at the feet of Professor Tid Li Po, and yet, with no less strenuous effort than a mouse requires to take an elephant sized dump, we have concluded, with nary a shadow of doubt, nor fear of jeopardisation, that there were almost probably definitely not one but quite possibly two previously unknown humanoid species that may have lived on Earth before we did.”

Upon hearing this astonishing proclamation, the nation immediately fell into a state of mass unconsciousness, and the good Doctor was deeply affected by the unprecedented lack of celebrations.

Yup, you’ve got it, the Powers that Be (in the UK of GB) had, again, swung into action and secured a super-injunction that prevented any and all disclosure of any and all of the subject(s) by anyone or any object, inert, living or dead (including family pets), on pain of ghastly things happening to the person, and persons acquainted with the person, including but not limited to friends and relatives of the person, persons related to the person’s friends’ and relatives’ persons, and sundry persons yet to be identified by mercilessly hunting those persons down. Although, in all fairness, whispering the word “Palaeontology” wasn’t forbidden, probably because they couldn’t spell it.

Fortunately, most of the bewhiskered old heads at the Royal Society were at Death’s door anyway, so the Deep State only needed to take drastic action in a couple of instances. Sad to report, Doctor Spankpansy-Hardde was never heard of again. Hence the reason I wear a stab vest.

Despite the Deep State’s dastardly intervention, the Scientific Community knew the truth. We just knew, alright. There were rumours; of course there were, but they floated over our heads like scum at the seashore, mainly because we didn’t understand the word “rumour”. Gradually we came to realise what these “rumour” things actually were. They were Conjectures! We only ever use the word conjectures because it sounds so much more mysterious and sciency than “rumours”. When we could finally see and hear it, they were everywhere, and the pitch and volume of those secret conjectures were unlike anything I had ever experienced. In the end, here at The Institute*, my curiosity was piqued so much I could no longer leave the itch unscratched or the stone unturned. So, over a couple of weekends last winter, I conducted extensive research on social media and something called the U.R.L. I soon discovered that many enlightened people agreed with my line of thinking. Proof, if any, is needed that there’s a wealth of strong evidence out there if you’re prepared to stay awake long enough. Truths that either align with your own conjectures or can be bent to fit your chosen narrative.

* “The Institute”: Handy to have a boxroom. My landlord is in the dark, shackled in the cellar, just to be safe. Could be a spook or something.

But my research was only the beginning. These newborn species needed an identity, a name, and frankly it was a task I was ill-equipped to tackle on my own, so I scoured all-night petrol stations, corner shops, and Turkish baths, finally roping together a team of renowned Scientists to form a Dedicated Scientific Committee charged with inventing something suitable. By the way, I firmly refute the charges brought against me by certain scurrilous scoundrels at Qwara, a top-secret U.R.L. for Scientists, alleging that I bribed them. Anyway, MI5 never found the tequila and nibbles. Notwithstanding the worst efforts of those false accusers and dodging of many silver bullets, the Dedicated Scientific Committee prevailed. My team went the extra mile, and I’m proud to reveal that they named the first species Phatsak and the second Nobnobb.

Over and Out for Now . . .

“There ain’t no doubt in mah mind, none whut-sa-evvah, I swaar to gawd, not one itty-bitty bit, dem critters was thaar.”

Tune in next week when we shall examine the first of these proto-human civilisations. Read how the Phatsaks lived, loafed, and eventually did themselves in.

But Finally

Just so you know this is serious stuff I’m talking about, here’s an extract from the oldest known sacred text (more than 5000 years old), handed down by word of mouth, Homo sapiens to Homo sapiens, until finally written down more than 1000 years before any Judaic or even Christian religions were conceived.

It’s from the Rig Veda, Book 10, HYMN no. CXXIX: Creation verses 6 & 7

6. Who verily knows and who can here declare it, whence it was born and whence comes this creation?

7. He, the first origin of this creation, whether he formed it all or did not form it, whose eye controls this world in highest heaven, he verily knows it, or perhaps he knows not.

The Gods are later than this world’s production. Who knows then whence it first came into being?