There are films that terrify with blood, guts, and gore. There are films that haunt with ghosts, killers, or monsters. And then there is Night Bus to Cohuna (1972), an oddball entry in the Ozploitation canon whose horror doesn’t come from what lurks in the shadows, but from the relentless weight of boredom itself. Originally released in the novelty “Big Cohuna Vision” process — a half-baked hybrid of 3D projection and quadrophonic sound — this film’s sensory gimmicks were less about dazzling spectacle and more about amplifying tedium. In a perverse twist of marketing genius, the rattling of the bus engine was pumped into all four corners of the cinema. The audience felt every lurch of the suspension, every cough of the driver, every monotonous fly buzz reverberating in their skulls. The result was an endurance test. No air conditioning in the cinema mirrored the no air conditioning on-screen. The padded vinyl seats of the theatre grew sticky and unbearable, as though you too were...
Dorkfest began in 1992 as an unassuming, almost accidental gathering on a university campus. Its humble origins featured just two devoted Doctor Who fans, a ghetto blaster, and a single worn-out cassette of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. What started as an impromptu celebration of geekdom (and possibly a failed attempt at a proper party) soon evolved into a small but resilient tradition. Despite its minuscule attendance and questionable production values, Dorkfest embraced an atmosphere of unapologetic fandom. Over time, word spread—perhaps ironically, perhaps in genuine admiration—and the festival grew to include more niche fandoms, awkward dancing, and an ever-expanding selection of music played from increasingly outdated technology. Some recurring highlights of Dorkfest over the years have allegedly included: Dramatic re-enactments of classic Doctor Who scenes (often hindered by poor costume planning). Trivia battles that became so intense they led to at least one known frie...
Every so often, tucked away in online forums or whispered about in second-hand bookstores, a strange story emerges: someone wakes up to find an antique wooden writing desk in their home—an object they swear wasn’t there the day before, and one they certainly never purchased. At first, most dismiss it as a lapse in memory or the work of a mischievous family member. But the oddity deepens when the desk is opened. In nearly every account, inside a drawer lies a single sheet of aged paper. The note is written in the discoverer’s own handwriting, signed with their name, yet the person has no memory of ever writing it. The stories vary in detail—sometimes the desk is a simple Edwardian bureau, other times an elaborate roll-top with brass fittings. But a set of peculiar consistencies stands out: The sudden appearance: Owners insist the desk was not in their home before. Some claim it appears overnight, others describe returning home from work to find it placed neatly in a study, bedroom, or e...
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