Thanks to the first volume of Michael Palin's diaries, I've just discovered the glory of one of the greatest travel pieces in British publishing history.
In early April 1977, The Guardian published a 7-page travel supplement on this "little-known" island nation:
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Great attention should be paid to the place names being used here.
Also that this is 1977, and web design wasn't a thing yet.
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The accompanying adverts were impressive - especially if you took the time to read them closely.
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Further surprises awaited in the text:
“… the islands will accelerate at first gently and then more rapidly as they approach Sri Lanka. Simple calculations suggest that the island group will hit the coast of Sri Lanka at a velocity of 940 km an hour on January 3, 2011.”
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And you have to admire quality destination marketing copy like this:
"…[enjoy] the many beaches from which terrorism has been virtually eliminated…”
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San Seriffe's indigenous people, the Flongs, were apparently celebrated every year with "the Festival of the Well Made Play."
(Another typography joke. A flong is actually a curved papier-mâché mould used in rotary letterpresses.)
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The two islands are called Upper Caisse and Lower Caisse.
How many typeface names can you spot?
The peninsula at the bottom is called Thirty Point.
Dead giveaways? This was 1977 - and no major newspaper had been this wilfully daft before. Fooled plenty.
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The cleverest bit of this:
It was originally going to be a single page. But then the Guardian realized a bigger (faked) feature would generate *more* money by running themed advertising - if advertisers were in cahoots & playing along.
They agreed.
It worked.
Genius.
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And it's hard to convey *just how much* those advertisers went along with this hoax.
It's spectacular.
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Guardian Deputy Editor David McKie recalled:
"The impact of the seven-page survey was quite astonishing. The office all day was bedlam as people pestered the switchboard with requests for more information...[they] simply refused to believe that the islands did not exist."
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The Guardian also sold a ton of "I've been to San Serriffe" bumper stickers - and, apparently, around 12,000 San Serriffe t-shirts.
I mean wtaf.
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For more pics of those....*incredible* adverts, and of the whole article itself, check out Doug Wilson's piece on San Serriffe here:
And lastly, I'm just about to start the second season of my curiosity newsletter, Everything Is Amazing - and it's partly going to be about fake maps. You might enjoy!
The new season of my newsletter is partly about exploring 'Terra Ineptias' - the landscape of glorious, absurd ways that fake maps have been used to befuddle and hoodwink folk for centuries. The first update:
On the 21st July 1976, NASA released the very first colour image taken by the Viking 1 lander from the surface of Mars.
And....wait, what?
The Martian sky is BLUE?
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This is obviously not what anyone was expecting. Mars is...
Well, you can see it for yourself on a clear night, with your naked eye. It's noticeably red - about as red as Betelgeuse, tenth-brightest star in our night sky.
No blue. So - what? WHAT?
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The Martian atmosphere just isn't thick enough to be blue - just 600 pascals, vs the Earth's 101,000.
That scene in "The Martian" where the rocket's in danger of being blown over? No, sir. Not enough punch to it: space.com/30663-the-mart…
You know the BEST thing about ancient history? All that pristine grey-white stone! SO CLASSY AND REGAL.
Look at this gorgeously monochrome scene from 'Gladiator'. Just look at how *right* it looks.
Yeah. Except - no. Get ready for a shock.
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In the middle of the Parthenon in Athens, the ancient Greek sculptor Phidias (480 – 430 BC) built a gigantic statue of Athena Parthenosos, about 11 metres high.
Alas, nothing remains of it today. But there are enough accounts of its construction to make a replica...
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...so someone did that: sculptor Alan Le Quire, in (of all places) Nashville.
Not quite what you were expecting, mayhaps?
Well, it was built around a core of cypress wood, and then panelled with gold and ivory plates. That's the description. That's what they did.
When my Zanclean Megaflood thread went nuts in February, some folk said "look into a thing called Atlantropa! It's just as mindblowing!"
They weren't wrong. And now I can't get *this* story out my head either.
So, once more, here we go.
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It's 1928.
This is German architect Herman Sörgel. Horrified by the First World War, keen to see everyone put down their weapons & actually, properly work together for a change, he's just had a idea that would solve *everything*.
He's going to drain the Mediterranean.
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No, really. It's simple!
All it would take is a series of dams:
- Across the Gibraltar Strait
- Across the Dardanelles to hold back the Black Sea
- Between Sicily and Tunisia, road-linking Europe & Africa
- At the Suez Canal.
There's a vast patch of seagrass off the coast of Australia (3 x the size of Manhattan) - and now genetic testing has discovered it's a *single plant* around 4,500 years old:
OK, I lied. It's only really here can you walk along it: the Þingvellir National Park, where, geologically speaking, North America & Europe are slowly drifting apart.
Enjoy the sunshine! There's none where we're going.
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If we went southeast into the water, it gets deep really quickly - maybe 2,000 metres, same as the Black Sea. About the depth of a Russian battleship.
*cough*
But we're following the Mid-Atlantic Ridge - so southwest it is.
Off of the news that Twitter is banning advertisements that contradict the scientific consensus on climate change (washingtonpost.com/technology/202…) and the inevitable kerfuffle, a distinction worth noting:
Denialism is not the same as healthy, questioning criticism. Not at all.
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This gets incredibly complicated and tangled, but - whenever something is contradicting the consensus with *absolute certainty*, it's probably bullshit. Utter certainty is the smoking gun there.
No curiosity, no interested questions, no willingness to be proven wrong.
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I guess it's the effect of "one man against the world" narratives, but - the thing about the consensus is it's where basically the weight of all the evidence is.
To overturn one, you need to try to overturn the other. If you're not, while claiming utter certainty?