Idea

Playlist of Idea

Hello! My name is Mikko (Michael) Juhani (John) Jack. I am Julie Elizabeth Andrews' (Wells) firstborn son - or maybe there is a whole brood of half brothers and sister from the same mother and different fathers! Are you surprised? Well, as one poster of her movies says: "The whole of Paris was talking about her, but they knew half of the story." This is the controversial story of secret bloodlines, public hints and hidden relics. I don't know what's the final truth, but you are welcome to seek after it with me. The point is not what they can keep from you but what they reveal to their test subjects in order to see what really moves people's minds and hearts. Little girls might imagine that the scriptwriters of the big entertainment business go to the library with ten books and come out with the 11th book, but just remember that Aristotle dedicated his 'Nicomachean Ethics' to his son. At first, when you are old enough to say "mama", they lie to you that somebody, who isn't,  is your mother. Then they show the image of your real mother you have never known nor met in order to see that how do you react. If you don't react, they can ignore petit bourgeois family values like motherhood and continue to build up ideological empires, but if I do react, they have to revise their cruel ideas. However, what has been done to me is criminal in many ways, and the criminals don't leave official documents behind. Therefore my site is ultimately a poem about sufferings, and I take some poet's liberties, although I ought to offer only hard evidence. What you read is not a joke, but don't forget your sense of humour which is always a sign of intelligence. Finally, I don't try to get my real mother but the evil system itself that has left her no choice but to collaborate or become "vaporized". I hate the nihilistic game, not the players. Mary Poppins might be a fantastic nanny, but real baby-sitting can be depressing: that's why too many children have been abandoned. You don't have to believe me as long as you don't think that it is right that mothers abandon their children; only then I would say that you are wrong!

There is nothing more infuriating than someone who lies knowingly. My site is an spontaneous and incoherent answer to a lifelong exploitation, and I would gladly delete everything if I only got a proper reply from Julie Andrews and her "management". Maybe I would be flattering myself if I compared my work to Henry Fielding's An Apology for the Life of Mrs. Shamela Andrews. Yet, my life has been a paradox rather than a satirical parody. Logic (reason) and intuition (emotion) are my tools, but allow me to clarify the matter with rather fantastic example. Let's imagine that you could build H. G. Wells's time machine and travel back in time in order to prevent your father's birth. When you return to your own time, your mother wouldn't know you, because she never got married to your unborn father. You might even have half-brothers and -sisters who didn't exist before your little ego-time-trip that hasn't only changed the course of history but also has made your existence a paradox.

"The Star" (D: Stuart Heisler, 1952) starts with a sequence, where they sell aging movie-star's personal effects by auction. There is another kind of auction in "Oliver!" (D: Carol Reed, 1968), where they auction off a child. Julie Andrews was the principal actress in "Star!" (D: Robert Wise, 1968). I wonder if there could be any correlation between these exclamation marks?

"The world premiere of Star! at the Dominion Theatre in London had been originally scheduled for July 4, 1968, which would have been Gertrude Lawrence's sixty-seventh birthday. But the opening had been postponed until September 11, then moved up to July 18, in both cases to accommodate the Duke and Duchess of Kent, who were the royal patrons of the premiere for the benefit of the National Advertising Benevolent Society. When the night finally came, Saul Chaplin and Robert Wise and their wives, Darryl and Richard Zanuck, Richard Crenna and his wife, Donald Brooks, William Fairchild, David and Helen Gurley Brown (he was the Fox vice president in charge of story operations), as well as others involved with the picture appeared. So did Noël Coward, Dame Edith Evans, Lord Louis Mountbatten, Cathleen Nesbitt, and Julie's mother, father, stepmother, and two of her brothers. Thus Star! arrived though its star didn't. The airplane that had been chartered to stand at Heathrow Airport to fetch Julie from the Brussels location of Darling Lili had never left London. The flower-packed suite booked for her at the Dorchester Hotel would not be used. At the last minute, word came from Brussels that night shooting on Darling Lili involving thousands of extras would keep Julie there. The Zanucks were furious and blamed Blake Edwards, Paramount Pictures, and professional jealousy. Crowds, both inside and outside the theatre, did not get the word immediately and, disbelievingly and in vain, searched for the star. They were shattered when she didn't show up. Even the Duchess of Kent asked 'where's Julie?'" (Julie Andrews - A Life on Stage and Screen, 1997, p.156-157.)

Without Julie, "Star!" was shown to the public for the first time, because when the picture was finished, she took the secret maternity leave before the filming of the next one, "Darling Lili" (D: Blake Edwards, 1970), and I was born. Below you can see the street scene from the "Star!". It could be the only public picture, where I am with my true biological mother, although you cannot see me for I'm still in my mother's womb. Just look at her back: you couldn't pretend that; she must really be pregnant!

Certain "Jena" replied to me and told that she thinks that I couldn't be in utero:

"Have you ever been pregnant? No? Well I have. In order for her to have been that far along into a pregnancy she would have gained weight in other places. A lot of weight. Her breasts would be huge, her arms and her face. You swell everywhere from fluid. In the picture, that is. Second, arching her back? NOT HARD TO DO! I can lean back like that. She's an actress. She's supposed to pretend she's pregnant. Duh. Have you ever worn a maternity belly? It's heavy. Thirty pounds maybe. You practically HAVE to do that with your back to support the thing! Also, I like how she wasn't pregnant in the rest of the movie. They did film it all at one time you know."

Jena, I haven't done any of those things you mention above since I'm a man, but it all sounds just bloody awful. However, Uncle Willy's Prussians haven't been beaten yet! I don't have to tell intelligent readers that there is no such thing as "invalid sequence" in the film making process. For example, although you see on the screen how Jeremy Irons spits Al Pacino to the face in "The Merchant of Venice", all that didn't actually happen like that, for when Jeremy's spitting act was shot, Al was in the other side of the world. Similarly, during the shooting of "Star!" it wouldn't have been any big deal to wait for a few months, immortalize her pregnancy and insert the last taking into the final edition. Frankly I don't know for how long time and when exactly she had to keep herself away from the publicity in order to keep her secret, and there could have been such a period of time between the shootings of "Star!" and "Darling Lili", but it couldn't be later than that, for the first thing that I am personally able to remember and date is Martta (Martha) Jack's funeral on December 27th, 1971: I was scared by the church-bells and I cried like the trombone on the doomsday as my foster mother described. Si mortuorum aliquis miseretur, et non natorum misereatur. Stanley Kubrick's extras in monkey dresses could have told to you that 1968 was the year of megalomaniac pregnancies. Whatever is the actual date, my official birthday is the 7th of November, 1968, and it happens to be the national day of the former Soviet Union as well - "long live the revolution: from now on the state will take care of your children!" On the left below you can see my mother in the tight corset long time before I was born and when she was officially the fresh mother of a baby girl. Well, maybe all mothers don't have beer and potatoes for every meal and lose her figure during the first pregnancy. I don't know when the picture on the right below was taken, but it could be after I was born. Is this only my wishful thinking, or are you as well able to see a change in her waist - more like fat mama's? And "it took 5 minutes to resize Jennifer Lopez".

Since my site is a never ending Julie Andrews look-alike competition, I shall tell a little true story. A Finnish girl Tuula Mattila (left below) had already heard many times that "hey, you resemble Doris Day" before this popular film star's studio started to look for a Doris look-alike worldwide. Tuula outdid her rivals both here in Finland and in Hollywood. As a winner Tuula was supposed to get a role in Doris's next movie, but she didn't get any work permit; vice Doris had to return home where she sang a record which never became a hit. After this an unlucky girl washed the blonde colour away from hair and returned to her previous work at library. But who is this tall clown next to "Miss Andrews" (middle below)? He is actor Rupert Everett who claimed that "Mary Poppins" is her real mother when he was a four-year-old boy. "Mum's" & pretender's gay reunion in Disneyland is almost like a grotesque mockery of such scenes as one right below where an Austrian mother is showing the photo of his missing son to homecoming POWs just in case that they could relieve her of uncertainty.

Rupert Everett on his undying love for Julie Andrews

Extracted from Red Carpets And Other Banana Skins by well known homosexual Rupert Everett, published by Little Brown on September 21, 2006

"At several times in life one comes to a point of no return. The drama of this moment often escapes us. We walk into it unconcerned, not hearing all the closing doors slam behind us, not aware that suddenly we are cut adrift from the past and are loose on the high seas, charting a new course through undiscovered waters.

I must have been four when it first happened to me. I was living with my mother and father, my brother Simon and our nanny in an old pink farmhouse with a moat, surrounded by the cornfields of Essex. The local farmers had finished the harvest and that morning they were burning the stubble.

We knew because my mother came charging into the house, after dropping my father off at the station (he was a stockbroker in the City). ‘Nanny!’ she screamed. ‘They’re burning the stubble!’

Mayhem. I sat on the hall floor as the two women in my life careered around the house slamming doors, closing windows, drawing curtains.

Footsteps pounded across the creaky floorboards above, shaking the whole house. Snatches of conversation could be heard from the gables. And then silence. The sun battling through the curtains made the house feel like an aquarium and, since my mother was a stickler for cleanliness, they would stay closed for days until the last fleck of black ash from the stubble floated off through the sky.

I loved it. Darkness made you feel naughty. And outside the inferno raged around us.

The stubble burning was always one of the highlights of our summer. As soon as we got the chance, we children would be out there, under the gentle scrutiny of the local farmers, looking for hedgehogs and field mice to save from the fire.

For the moment, we settled down to an agreeable state of siege, and all sat in the kitchen as Mummy reminisced about former stubbles — ‘That dratted ash can get through anything’ — and Nanny made coffee and Ribena.

It came as quite a surprise that it was decided I should be taken to the cinema. ‘What’s the cinema?’ I whined, lips a-quiver, ready for a tantrum. But there was no arguing, and no explanation.

‘You’ll see!’ was the only answer. So we all bundled into our Hillman, Mummy at the wheel, me beside her with my own steering wheel, suction-stuck to the dashboard, and Nanny in the back, as we drove at a snail’s pace through the howling flames alongside the lane so that I could have a good look. I don’t think Mummy knew flames made petrol explode.

There was a long queue at the Braintree Embassy and we nearly decided to give up. My mum had a million things to do and I wanted to get home to the stubble.

But fate was hell-bent and after half an hour of ranting (Mummy) and whining (me) we arrived at the box office. My mother bought the fateful tickets and unknowingly guided me through a pair of swing doors into the rest of my life. Goodbye, Braintree! Suddenly we were in a magical, half-lit cavern of gigantic proportions. At the end were the biggest pair of curtains I had ever seen. I loved curtains already, but these were something else.

I sat down between my mother and Nanny, took one of their hands in each of mine and slowly accustomed myself to the light and my racing heart. The place smelt of cigarettes, disinfectant and sex, even if I didn’t know what that was yet.

Kids’ giggles and screams bounced off the walls of the half-filled theatre. There was endless movement — to the toilets, to the ice cream lady. Then the bright little sconces on the wall faded to dull embers and the noise and the movement suddenly stopped. Those huge curtains swished open and Mary Poppins sprang across the footlights and into my heart.

The next 90 minutes were the most shocking, inspiring, funny, tragic, exhausting, draining and troubling of my entire life.

First of all, when all the nannies blew away, I was terrified. As I looked at Nanny for a second, her life and role suddenly came into a new perspective. This could be a dangerous job, I thought.

And then when Mary Poppins flew effortlessly down, something changed for ever. Was it that she looked and behaved somewhat like my mother? Or was it because I already loved my own nanny to death?

I could definitely identify with everything in the film. Julie’s way of showing emotion was our way, the way of the conventional upper class into which I had been born. Controlled but with feeling, practical but with warmth.

As for Mr Banks, he was my dad. And I was Jane and Michael. New horizons suddenly appeared. Maybe one could jump into the pavement. Maybe one could make toys and troubles disappear with the magic words ‘spit spot’. It had to be true, because everything else sort of was. Soon, it was all too much. My brain was overloaded.

When Mary Poppins left at the end of the film, without saying goodbye, I was so distraught that I had to be dragged out of the cinema, kicking and screaming, and missed Let’s Go Fly A Kite. I was silent on the way home. Listlessly I looked out at the black glowing embers of the stubble and the fields that had turned into giant tiger-skin rugs.

Everyone tried to coax me back into my usual boisterous self, but there was nothing to be done. I had changed. I could feel it. Actually, looking back, what had happened was that a giant and deranged ego had been born.

My mother discarded an old red tweed skirt, which I rescued from the dustbin. It was my first act of madness. I was going to be Mary Poppins’ daughter and the skirt was how I would pull it off. Before long I was wearing it all the time.

The new ‘me’ would sit on the garden swing in my red tweed skirt and black slip-on plimsolls, for hours on end, humming the hits I was learning from my new Mary Poppins LP. Nobody paid much attention. But something had started.

From then on I became a regular at the Braintree Embassy. I must have seen Mary Poppins 20 times, and no sooner had my mother put her foot down and banned me from seeing it again, than Julie responded to my desperate telepathic messages to her and came out with The Sound Of Music.

Meanwhile, there were other things to discover. My nanny, Jenny, was extremely pretty. She had an auburn beehive and every day we went for our walk down a lane to a fallen tree trunk where I would hold pretend tea parties with acorn cups.

One day, her fancy man, Dave, came with us. He was good looking with greased-back hair and long black sideboards. I turned round, proffering acorn cups to them, only to see Dave’s tongue burrowing down inside Nanny’s mouth like a huge slug.

Instant jealousy brought forth the most bloodcurdling scream I could manage, but Dave just glanced at me as he continued to kiss Nanny, and raised his hand in a gesture of ‘Wait a minute’.

I began to prepare myself for a major tantrum but something stopped me. This was interesting. Nanny’s heavily mascaraed eyelashes were tightly shut. She was in a trance. Dave had his hands in her beehive, on her bottom, all over, so I just gaped.

The thing that fascinated me was that they just weren’t themselves; they were bewitched. But after the snog was over, it was as if it had never happened. They both came to the tree trunk for ‘tea’, Nanny’s face raw from Dave’s stubble.

I tried reproaching them with my eyes as I passed round the acorn cups, but Dave wasn’t having any nonsense, though Nanny looked down with a self-conscious giggle. ‘Cake, anyone?’ I burbled with quiet wounded dignity, but in reality I was pretty excited.

Now I knew this was what grown-ups did, and I was longing to join in. At about the same time my mother took us boys aside and in serious tones warned us not to go into the woods above the farm because there was a funny man there who might take us to his house, give us sweets, and play with our ‘wees’.

My brother looked horrified but I couldn’t think of anything better. Travel, sweets and someone playing with me. I couldn’t wait to trike up there. But no matter how often I slipped away to the woods, I never met a soul.

Then Nanny and Dave announced their wedding. We were bundled into the Hillman once more and drove to Norfolk, where Nanny came from. As soon as we got to the church I could feel that chill wind of panic announcing the oncoming storm.

I had a starring role as her pageboy in short red corduroy overalls. We all waited outside the church, my mum like Jackie O in a miniskirt and an extraordinary pillbox hat. Nanny arrived, lovely in her wedding dress, and I was given her veil to hold.

Everything fell into place. All the previous conversations when she’d tried to explain to me she was leaving; all the warnings; all the little asides I had heard but not understood (‘I think he’s taking it rather well, don’t you?’ ‘Yes, he doesn’t seem to mind at all.’).

Mary Poppins was coming to life. The nanny I loved was going away. I played my part to the hilt. I completely ruined her wedding day. First of all, I started asking questions, tugging at Nanny’s dress as the vicar tried to get on with the service. ‘Where are you going, Nanny?’ I whined. ‘Shush,’ said my mother from the second row.

But I wouldn’t let up. My little quaverings rose above the drone of the vicar and became more insistent. No one would answer; I had become invisible. So, as usual, I became hysterical. Floods of molten tears burst out over my fat spoilt cheeks as I sat down in the aisle and bawled.

My mum tried to take me away but I had hold of Nanny’s veil and resisted arrest. I hung on even when the wedding march trumpeted and Dave began to walk Nanny firmly out of the church.

I yanked with all my might. My mum tried to prise the veil out of my hot furious little fists, and poor Nanny was stuck there in the middle of the aisle, Dave pulling in one direction and me in the other.

There was a brief impasse before my father hauled me out, and poor Nanny was whisked into her car and off to the reception before I had a chance to wreak further havoc.

My parents decided it would be too risky for us to go with them, so we drove off without a real goodbye. Just like in Mary Poppins.

There was a worse parting still to come. One day, my mother and I went up to London to a shop called Gorringes where she brought me shorts, sweaters, shirts, socks — all grey, four pairs of each.

I can’t remember having any particular reaction, mild curiosity perhaps. I gambolled around as we bought a trunk, totally unaware that the first significant part of my life was about to die and nothing would ever be the same.

I was going away to school. Strangely enough, I was totally unfazed by this information. The night before we left, I packed and repacked my overnight case in a boisterous fever of excitement.

Apparently I could not take the red tweed skirt. I thought that was a bit odd, but I let it pass in the general exuberance I was feeling at being an adult.

‘You’re being very grown-up about this, I must say,’ remarked my mother. ‘Well, I am seven,’ I replied proudly. My older brother watched through his tortoiseshell glasses with the cynical eyes of one informed by the past.

The next morning we drove to Hampshire in the luggage-crammed Hillman, and after several hours turned down a long avenue lined with huge ancient trees to a house which had once been a stately home.

Huge stone columns straddled by heraldic lions and black wrought-iron gates beckoned one into hell. My heart began to beat with an unknown drug: adrenaline.

We hit a traffic jam of upper-class couples driving back to London. Why were some of the women crying? My heart jumped into my mouth and sheer terror surged through my body.

We parked the car and got out. Instinct told me to stay close to my mother. I could hardly breathe. I was asphyxiated by panic. There were boys everywhere, all shapes and sizes, running in and out of the school in gangs, shouting and screaming. The unfamiliar smell of floor polish and school loos hung in the air.

This could not be, I thought. My mother would never leave me in a place like this.

Matron, a little old hunchbacked hag, took us upstairs, dragging herself one banister at a time, to the dormitories. My mother put my case on my bed, and before I could open my mouth it was suggested I went with my brother to the dining room for tea, while my parents went to the ‘drawing room’ for a glass of sherry.

My grasp on my mother’s hand turned into a sweaty vice-like grip. ‘Darling,’ she said, as she unprised my fingers from hers, her voice carefully casual, ‘We’ll probably go while you’re having tea so I’ll kiss you goodbye now.’ And then all the energy that had been building up exploded in torrents of the deepest pain I have ever experienced. I begged not to be left. I sat in abject grief through tea and then raced through the school, trying to find my mother and father. They were already outside, near the Hillman.

My dad patted me on the back and said, ‘Good luck.’ My mother stood there, guilty, uncertain and tear-stained. ‘Don’t cry or I’ll cry too,’ she said, as she hugged me for the last time. My mind was racing. There must be something I could say to bring an end to this madness.

‘Come on!’ said my father. My mother stumbled into the car and shut the door. Tears splashed down on to my new sandals from Startrite. Last week I had loved them, but now they were just another part of the plot against me. I couldn’t look up. I didn’t want to see the betrayal in my mother’s eyes.

My brother took my hand as my mother unwound the window and waved. She was crying and her mascara had run.

Holding hands — frozen between one world and the next — my brother and I stared at the tail lights with a terrible intensity as they disappeared. Maybe they would wink a sudden reprieve, the whole image would dissolve and we would be back at home at the end of a nasty dream.

But with their last glimmer died all hope and we were left to make our own way through the rest of our lives.

That first night all the little boys sobbed in their beds. We were heartbroken but soon most of us passed out from exhaustion, apart from a boy called Wilson who wailed all night. The next morning we woke and remembered where we were with a deep shudder and the sobs began again.

What was it about the English upper classes of that era that drove them to procreate and then abandon their children to the tempestuous dangers of boarding school?

A child with a soft, vulnerable heart soon had it calcified by abandonment, bullying, beatings and buggery. Our little hearts hardened with each beat. We cried less and grew fast. Like jellies we began to set in the moulds of class, religion and nation.

At least Mary Poppins never left me, not deep down. She was still there many years later when I was sitting in a bar on the island of Mustique and my agent rang to say there was a part for me in a new Julie Andrews film.

I nearly fell off my bar stool. Could it be true? All those years pretending Julie was my mother, and now art was finally imitating life, or rather fantasy life, which was better. I was on the next flight back to London.

The film, Duet For One, was based on the true story of the classical musician Jacqueline du Pre and her battle with multiple sclerosis. I was to play her protégé, whom I modelled on the latest prodigy on the music scene, Nigel Kennedy.

I developed a quiff and a nasal Bromley twang, wore my costume at home and at work, and never came out of character, even when going to confession. (My fake accent couldn’t have been that successful because the priest peeked out from behind the curtain. ‘I thought it was you,’ he said, before disappearing back inside.)

Julie came gliding in to rehearsals wearing a pair of tight beige trousers and a woolly jersey. I could hardly stand up. She hadn’t changed since Mary Poppins, still looking remarkably young, beautiful and frosty with a kind of wartime no-nonsense cheer.

‘Wotcha!’ I said. ‘Do you normally talk like that?’ she asked. I wanted to say: ‘No, spit spot. Normally I talk like you.’ Instead, I said: ‘I’m in character.’ ‘Ah’ she said, disapprovingly. We rehearsed for two weeks and I was in heaven, but she was a hard nut to crack. She clearly didn’t like my interpretation of the part. Liam Neeson and Alan Bates, who were in the cast, knew about my secret obsession and goaded me to tell her. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. What was I going to say?

‘Miss Andrews, I just want you to know that because of you I was taken to a child psychologist.’

But towards the end of the shoot, there was an astonishing scene. No psychiatrist could have hoped for a more perfect resolution to a childhood obsession. It brought a whole new meaning to the word ‘closure’.

We were to be filmed performing (or, rather, miming) a Bach concerto live at the Albert Hall. There were posters of the two of us all over the walls. I nearly fainted when I saw them.

The auditorium was filled for the scene by queens with Julie obsessions, some of them quite freaky in wigs and flashers’ macs. They had been queuing up since dawn, and they watched me with green envy and undisguised hatred as we rehearsed.

I played it all to the hilt, chatting with Julie, sharing jokes, generally acting as if I ruled the roost.

Then, in my white tie and tails, I knocked on Julie’s dressing room door for the actual filming. ‘Good luck, darling. I love you,’ she said. She had been difficult to conquer but at last she had come round to me. This was better than tripping on drugs.

We walked through the backstage corridors up towards the stage. The crowd had been told to chant and we could hear them pounding on the floors above us. It was one long orgasm.

As we arrived in front of them, the whole audience stood up and screamed. Julie looked at me and winked. I was ecstatic. I probably should have retired immediately."

So, does Julie Andrews make everybody believe that she is your long lost mother? Or is Mr Everett's case only stabbing sarcasm against real victims of the system, because there isn't any resemblance between him and "mother", and there seems to be little more than random similarities between his privileged starting points and Julie's life on stage and screen! Therefore, supposed "mother" can easily comment on little Rupert's innocent fantasies while Julie nor her management won't break their guilty silence in my case and I am left at the mercy of hysterical mob. Maybe they are still looking for somebody who would sue me on behalf of them and leave their boots clean. For example, they could contact Mr Alexander Stubb (middle below), a Finnish-European politician with a shining psychotic smile, because I have put my trust in his sense of humour and used this publicity picture without permission. 

How would you define the concept of nihilism? The most basic elements of human life like family, education and work are nothing more than just a laughing stock to a nihilist. Would only pain and human suffering cure these clowns? I have suffered and my powerful abuser have giggled. 

Please, don't waste your time by thinking how to prove that I must be wrong. Then you have missed the whole point. I am the human factor of cold calculations. My case is supposed to generate some pity. I am officially wrong and might as well be dead as long as those nihilist in power continue to tell cruel jokes about their anonymous victims and never-ending errors without any real personal atonement. If you wronged one man, it would become a tragedy; if you killed one million people, it would become a statistical number. Therefore, I was born to be that one-man-tragedy, before they push the red button.

What a life I live! I'm like a slave who has been taught how to count to hundred, after which I am supposed to keep my master's accounts and take responsibility without any authority. When I had seen the "Mary Poppins" for the first time in 1988 after military service in the Finnish Army, I was really upset; suddenly I felt that even I could be happy, something is just terribly wrong in my life. Did Julie Andrews only inspire me? I don't think so, and I jumped to conclusion that right after I was born and still unable to remember anything, I was separated from my real mother and sent to Finland, where I was brought up in Dickensian misery and under Orwellian control. At first I didn't have any knowledge of my true origin in the middle of this huge conspiracy. However, my true mother had been made a very much recognizable celebrity, and the only and most likely meant way to get close to the truth was to recognize her and understand certain connections between the details of my personal life and the complex puzzle of public clues: all this happened gradually by intuition, but finally the cup was full and there was no more space for mere chance, and I almost immediately comprehended the reasons behind the contradictions. When I seriously started reasoning against all the official lies concerning me and Julie Andrews in 1989, the Iron Curtain was torn down, for the Russian didn't any longer want to separate children from their mothers with the eternal Berlin Wall. The nuclear age has made the old-fashioned full-scale war obsolete as a solution to conflicts between superpowers. Was I a some kind of oedipal champion in the psychological arena? Nevertheless, very little if nothing was changed in my or her life, and still same old tissue of lies separates us.  Thomas Mann once said that Oswald Spengler's philosophy is some kind of nihilism. However, I agree with Spengler that there is no true understanding without life, and life is reactionary. Cold-hearted psychopaths are systematic liars and the truth often comes out emotionally: "something doesn't feel right". I was supposed to become a Benedictine monk. However, my Novice Master thought that we shouldn't emotionalize religion. He was just building up his own ego. Needless to say that his noviciate was quite empty. The ideologies are also loaded with romantic dreams. I am not able to imagine any kind of practical thoughts like German nationalism without passion that makes people even sacrifice for the noble cause. But maybe I am talking about religion?

Casino Royale (D: John Huston, 1967). Going, going, gone! The monastic wall is gone, but what about me?

You might think that it would be quite unthinkable that I was taken away from my true parents and thrown to the crowd behind the wall, where I can only watch my true mother's shadows on the screen. But this is what philosopher Plato himself suggested, and I do have some ideas that what those in power are doing behind our backs:

The wall in Plato's cave could be seen as the symbol of The Iron Curtain. I am one of the slaves in the front of the wall. Julie Andrews is one of the actors on the wall. The shadows on the opposite wall of the cave are everything that "Hollywood" makes public. When I recognized my true mother in the shadows, the Iron Curtain was pulled down in Europe but not in Korea and around Cuba. Where these two incidents somehow connected? Anything is possible. However, you must remember that it was Mihail Gorbatshov who withdrew the proud Russian fathers back to Mother Russia. Boris Yeltsin only secured his own power with the help of oligarkhs by sacrificing the remains of the Soviet Empire and started a new war in order to keep the scraps of the Russian Empire as soon as the last Soviet soldier had returned to home from the occupied countries in 1994. Now late Yeltsin's successors again control the mass media and country as if new Russia was Oce--Eurasia of 1984. I still stand here and stare at shadows. Has anything really changed?

Undoubtedly Julie Andrews had a very hard childhood and she deserves her success. She has been a genuine inspiration to the millions of people all over the world. The music itself helps us to stand the boredom of meaningless everyday life. Am I then nothing more than a talentless vandal who tries to scribble his name all over the wall of her remarkable achievements, because I miss my mother?

Stockholm syndrome is named after the Norrmalmstorg robbery of Kreditbanken at Norrmalmstorg, Stockholm, Sweden, in which the bank robbers held bank employees hostage from August 23 to August 28 in 1973. In this case, the victims became emotionally attached to their victimizers, and even defended their captors after they were freed from their six-day ordeal. The syndrome is a psychological response sometimes seen in an abducted hostage, in which the hostage shows signs of loyalty to the hostage-taker, regardless of the danger (or at least risk) in which the hostage has been placed. Stockholm syndrome is also sometimes discussed in reference to other situations with similar tensions, such as battered person syndrome, rape cases, child abuse cases and bride kidnapping. Has my childish patriotism to my foster motherland justified something evil? But what could I do? If I got Julie Andrews's personal telephone number, I couldn't just call her from the Twilight Zone: she would probably say that she doesn't have a son, and therefore I don't exist just like the Soviet Union doesn't exist any more. After this Blake Edwards might take the receiver and tell me to leave her wife alone!

On the left below you can see me in 1979, when I was still able to smile. On the right below you can see Julie Andrews on her first movie part after her maternity leave. Although her new husband, Blake Edwards, tries to buck her up with his Gipsies, she looks rather depressed, and no wonder, for they took her baby away! Julie seems to be sad and tearful through the romantic comedy "Darling Lili". And please, don't reply anything idiotic like "she's an actress, and therefore she's supposed to look like that"!

Just like they probably added the sequence to "Star!", where Julie was really pregnant, they might have mixed post-pregnancy sequences with real pregnancy takes in "Darling Lili". At least "Julie-Lili" looks like a new mother who instinctively covers her extra pounds and round belly with hats, sleeves or falling skirts in several cases, as you can see below.

I spent my first seven years near the airfields of Kauhava and Malmi, because my foster mother's husband was a helimechanic by profession: he fixed gay pilots' flying machines, and drunken bums helped him to spend paycheck in bars, although his family was almost starving. The stars were really against this marriage if you rather believe in horoscopes than conspiracies.

Below you can see the scenery of my childhood around the airfield of Malmi. Close to "Malmin lentoasema" is a "secret" and closely guarded warehouse of  American embassy in Helsinki. This beautifully preserved 1930's international airport was the only place, where the makers of "A Bridge Too Far" (D: Richard Attenborough, 1977) were able to find still flying DC-3s. World Monuments Fund has listed Helsinki-Malmi Airport as one of the most endangered monuments of the world. The monuments of the Theban Necropolis are on the same list?! Well, they have already demolished the barracks, where we lived.

Now I don't have hard feelings when I look back on my life within the compound of Helsinki-Malmi Airport at the beginning of 70s: I had a lot of playmates. The Nolvis lived at same barracks with us, and I must admire my former neighbours, because they had been eager to recycle a long time before all kind of recycling became trendy. Mr&Mrs Nolvi had two daughters. I saw my own blood for the first time when Pia Nolvi, the Nolvis' younger daughter, slammed a door angrily and my fingers got caught in the door. She was so spunky! Once, when we had taken a sauna bath, I sat beside Pia and my foster mother said that we look like an Indian king and queen, because we were wrapped up in towels. The Nolvis moved to Turku in 1975, and I don't know what has happened to Pia. However, in 1992, somebody, whose name is also Pia Nolvi, had got a small role as a silent smiling chorus girl of the royal breakfast club in a Finnish farce in which a trashy monarchist bum is plotting against the Republic of Finland, but it is not exactly any drama about Julius Caesar. I am not sure that is Uuno's Pia the girl I once knew privately (she suffered from rash just like me) or is she just somebody who has the same name? Anyway, publicly known Pia Nolvi resembles Pia Hattara who is a real Finnish actress. Mrs Hattara's father was an alcoholic, and one of her roles has been "Mary Poppins" (1963) in a Finnish radio show.  

The philosophers of the Enlightenment invented a silly little idea of warfare without civilian casualties, because they thought that despotic kings should leave their loyal subjects alone in peace at all time. However, this was only an idea between the Thirty Years War and World War II. Didn't Rock Hudson play opposite Julie Andrews in "Darling Lili"? In a previous movie called "The Battle Hymn" he gave a performance as an American Mustang pilot and officer Dean Hess who, after bombing out a German orphanage in the previous war, "adopts" the horde of Korean orphans who seek refuge near his airbase during the Korean War. So, he wants to credit his account of dead German children with an amount of living yellow kids. This must be some kind of reverse racism, for my airbase-foster-father would pass for a white Korean: he is the one who sits in an armchair in the black and white photo below.

Me and my apocalyptic longing! I am just like one of those lost kids in the Mad Max movie: they patiently wait in the middle of nowhere that one day an airplane will take them back to home from which they originally came. Being a Julie Andrews's brat has become my true religion, but why should I try to convert you unless you are not one of her children or grandchildren?

On the right below you can see my foster mother reading a magazine about the rich and famous people, and she simultaneously seems to hold something invisible between palms on her belly like a kangaroo. When she was a young "mother", she thought that it is even desirable to beat your kids, but hey, don't they also whip horses which made Friedrich Nietzsche so mad! And on the left below an eighteen-year-old Cinderella is holding her Tony...pony, but is she really Lady Domina with a whip? Anyway, die beste Amme ersetz keine Mutter.

Charity begins at home but does it end in a different language on a signpost? The guidelines of Stormfront White Nationalist forum forbid all attacks against other white nationalities. Even racism can be a good and nice ideal as long as you love your own race instead of hating other races. Am I wrong(?) if I say that most people think that "blood is thicker than water" and therefore they try to take care of their own children in stead of trying to steal other people's heritage. You cannot adopt the whole world, or otherwise your own children shall live like a dog. However, this kind of natural selfishness has nothing to do with intolerance. In fact, the most intolerant people I know call themselves "anti-racists"; I just hate all kind of unintelligent and boring attitudes like "I cannot have a proper talk with you, because you are a racist, black, white, crazy or whatever"! Or, although your home isn't any island on the sea of politics, should we make a clear distinction between family values and ideologies like White Nationalism? If someone kidnapped your kids, I would be the first to join the lynching mob, because my own biological parents have been such idiots! However, because I live in a cuckoo's nest called Finland, far away from real ghettos, a happy neighbourhood family of different race doesn't bother me yet. But what is then the white charity that is supposed to unite even former white enemies? I feel that I am a quasi-yellow divine royal bastard of the comedy that has alienated me from everything.

Below you can see a cuckoo sitting on a limb of a tree. We all know how these nest parasites reproduce, and many of "perfect mother's" fans would actually like to drop the eggs and take their place under her wing. On the right corner below you can see Julie and Blake with two newly-adopted Vietnamese girls. Later these privileged yellow changelings became junkies, but then it seemed that "Mommie Dearest" has finally overcome her depression, because the Vietnamese orphan had taken her own baby's place on my mother's lap.

Some snobs say that you should listen to Richard Wagner's music if you wanted to understand what happened in Auschwitz. Below you can see three different variations on "Ride of the Valkyries":

• The Sound of Music (D: Robert Wise, 1965). On the left you can see the open sequence of this Julie's famous musical, and it was shot from the helicopter.

• Triumph des Willens (D: Leni Riefenstahl, 1935). In the middle you can see the open sequence of this banned masterpiece of Nazi cinema.

• Apocalypse Now (D: Francis Ford Coppola, 1979). On the right you can see how the helicopters attack and "a mean motherfucker starts shooting at Vietnamese bastards".

I wonder if Julie did meet Mr Hitler, or is that Julie-looking girl on the left below just a random little Jungfrau? And since it seems that Mr and Mrs Blake Edwards have got a yellow perillinen (perillinen is a Finnish word for heir), what am I then, a son of the prodigal son's?

Scary Movie 4 (D: David Zucker, 2006): hey, container-freak, are you sure that you have picked out the right girls from the dock of daughters?

Below you can see a pictorial love story by Pierre Antoine Baudouin: "I received a secret lover through my window, but now I have to give away and deny the little bastard in order to save my reputation." Once more I must emphasize that Julie's case is not this banal; she and her "management" don't hide anything out of shame, for they are testing her children at the complex level, but I bet you don't understand me, because you have to live in the middle of this experiment in order to be able to fill the blank spaces in her official biography.

Hello! Who's that girl? Do you really want to know! There are no petit bourgeois answers in this jack...crackpot game, and I realize that a pretty pigtail isn't any proof.

In a belligerent Finland motorized German Waffenbrüder had got so tired of pathless Finnish woodlands that they promised to cut down even apple trees in Berlin as soon as they are home again. In the middle of this a film called "Neljä Naista" (D: Ilmari Unho, 1942) was released, and it has already everything: denied children, mother-look-alike competitions and places from Boston to Helsinki-Malmi Airport. So, give the girl a ride and then just ignore your very own young deer like a fine male moose?! 

Suomi-Finland, officially bilingual--

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