The Skinning Begins in Earnest

Greetings halfwits!! I have made some headway in skinning the Polish fellow that lies bound and gagged in my bedroom. I believe this initial success has proved that I am evil beyond reckoning.

In the early hours of this morning (11:15am, after BBC 1's Don't Get Done, Get Dom), I stepped into my bedroom, which I have now come to think of as 'The Flensing Room' because it sounds a little more evil, and announced my intentions. The Pole at once began to weep, which I found somewhat tiresome and unmanly. Ungagging him, he told me in faltering English that his name was Franciszka and that he had a wife and three children to support. Evidently, he hoped that I would see him as a human being and let him off with the skinning, but he did not take into account that I am now very evil and immune to such emotional blackmail. A little cheeky of him too, I thought.

With a large pair of scissors and a Stanley knife, I set to work on my wicked project. His howls of terror were very distracting, but I managed to ignore them and ran the blade slowly up each arm, tenderly peeling back the top layer sufficiently to slide the scissors in and begin cutting. Snip, snip, snip. How the man wept!

The arms were the trickiest part, but once I'd managed those, I used the knife upon the back and was able to remove a huge layer in one fell swoop. It was like peeling an orange. All this took about an hour, during which time the Pole cried and pleaded like a man undergoing some sort of horrible torture. How he wept!

I laid down my tools and surveyed all that I had achieved during my hour of slicing and snipping. I had succeeded in completely removing the man's denim jacket.

At one point though, my scissors had jabbed the flesh on the man's elbow, which probably hurt him a little. I apologized, but he would not cease his caterwauling. Goodness only knows what he'll be like when I actually start removing the skin from his miserable body.

I Attempt to Garrote a Hound

Once again I have failed. Initially, all proceeded as intended: I successfully abducted a dog using every ounce of guile and evil at my disposal, by creeping stealthily into Dundee's Animal Rescue Centre and offering to adopt a dog so that I might take it home and care for it by taking it out for regular walks and treating it to tin after tin of Pedigree Chum. The well-meaning fools were duped and gladly gave me one of the many mangy brutes that had been cruelly abandoned or abused by the evil folk of Dundee.

When I got the dog home, I prepared to test my mettle by garroting the cur with a length of wire. However, as I tautened the cord around the wretched creature's neck, my dead mother's voice could be heard.

"Horton Carew! What on earth do you think you are doing?!" she ejaculated.

"Why, mother," I replied, somewhat confused by her unanticipated ejaculation, "I am preparing to garrote this hound. I assumed that this would please you, evil as you are."

"No!" she ejaculated again, "I am horrified by what I see!"

This latest ejaculation perplexed me no end, for of course, it was my evil mother who egged me on and persuaded me of the value of killing a dog in the first place. Now it was my turn to ejaculate.

"What horrifies you mother?" I ejaculated furiously, "Surely it pleases you to see a dog murdered?"

"Of course!" she ejaculated, "But not that breed! You have selected a scottie dog, you halfwit!"

She went on to explain that because her soul is currently housed inside the little scottie dog from Monopoly, she could not bear to witness me strangulating a dog of that breed. It felt like a personal attack, she claimed. She regarded it as highly symbolic and an eerie reminder of my rejection of her some 13 years earlier, and could not suffer it.

So, dear readers, I have had to abandon my scheme of garroting that hound. At my mother's insistence, I released the brute onto the streets of Dundee, where it scampered freely in the fresh March air. My mother did not see what followed, but a large lorry mowed the creature down under its collosal wheels, which caused me to laugh uproariously and brought a feeling of warmth to my heart. From this unusual reaction to a splattered dog, I think I may safely deduce that I am truly evil. Either that, or my reaction to the death of that particular breed of dog is symbolic in some way, and is therefore too specific a case to extrapolate that I would act similarly evilly towards all dogs.

Who knows? Whatever the case, I will get started on skinning the Pole tomorrow, as I feel it's only fair to the man. I have, after all, been promising to skin him for several days now, and, evil though I am, I do not wish to gain a reputation for being unpunctual.

I Fail to Establish my Immorality

Today I precipitated the demise of a cat through ghastly methodology and felt no concomitant guilt. From this success I deduced that I was indeed truly evil. Boasting to my dead mother of my feat, I was surprised to hear that this was by no means sufficient proof of wickedness, because more than half the world's population hates cats and would kill them themselves given half a chance. My dead mother, who is knowledgable about such things, informs me that cats are creatures of evil anyway, so technically I have committed a good act by ending its miserable life.

This is a step backwards. My dead mother suggests that a better project to test my evil nature would be a dog. All dogs are innocent and wholly good, with the exception of Zoltan (hound of Dracula). My mother proposes, and I have taken her up on the challenge, that tomorrow I find a dog and garrote it. This I will do, and monitor the levels of guilt I feel consequently. If no guilt is felt, I am undoubtedly evil.

I hope I can do my wicked mother proud, or else that poor Pole will never get skinned!

I Perform a Hobbling

Hello halfwits!! In order to regain my wickedness I have eaten the crystals of evil in their entirety. I am certain that it has succeeded for reasons I will explain below.

Yesterday, to test the strength of my evilness, I crushed the leg of a ladybird (it was innocent of any wrongdoing and deserved no such torture). It was exactly like that scene in the film Misery where the fat woman cripples the writer with a sledgehammer, except that I merely used my finger to destroy the ladybird's leg and, of course, the ladybird was not a romantic novelist. I am confident that I am imbued with the evilness of ten devils for I felt practically no guilt after performing this nefarious act. In point of fact, at seeing the ladybird hobble away, I laughed aloud.

I remain wary of skinning the Pole until I am absolutely assured that I am 100% evil because I do not want to be bothered with pangs of guilt midway through administering the skinning and be forced to stop, for that would be embarrassing and would be most unpleasant for the Pole.

Tomorrow I will take the life of some creature. If I suffer no guilt and I delight in the creature's death, then it is certain that I am evil and I can safely graduate to skinning the Pole. However, if I feel sorrow at my actions then it will be painfully apparent that I am not evil enough to flay another human being and I will be forced to abandon my ambitions of becoming a world-renowned Dark Lord.

Keep your fingers crossed for me you halfwits!!

An Uncomfortable Avenue of Thought

Today my dead mother said something which gave me cause to worry. As is her wont, she had been expounding at length upon the nature of evil and had been tutoring me in the most efficient methods of bewitching the good people of the world.

"It is quite simple to hex the Godly," she said. "With the power of evil, we can make good people believe practically anything. The mentalist Derren Brown, for example, is adept at such mesmerism, for he is one of us - a being of pure evil."

This factoid concerning Derren Brown was not the thing that gave me cause to worry. After all, why should it? A man's moral tilt does not affect his ability to entertain and Brown is a showman of no small talent. No, the thing that worried me was this:

"Did you see how easy it was for me to bewitch that ass Gland and the two policemen?" she asked. "I merely twisted reality so that any good person in the immediate vicinity of our victim would perceive the victim as a pillow effigy. Of course, you and I saw the truth of the matter for we are each of us completely evil and have no trace of good in us, but the good doctor and the two lawmen saw a pillow effigy. Now Horton, fetch a blade at once! That Pole won't skin himself you know!"

You understand why this gave me cause to worry? I too had seen the Pole transformed into a pillow effigy when my mother cast her spell. Does this fact mean that I still have good in me? I hope not!

I have managed to put off skinning the Pole for the time being whilst I consider my options. I have fobbed my mother off by saying that because I am so evil, I wish to savour the Pole's terror for as long as possible before skinning him and she seems satisfied with this for the moment.

I do hope I am still evil otherwise I won't enjoy skinning the Polish man at all.

Dr Anthony Gland Pays a Visit

Hello halfwits!! On Wednesday evening I received a visit from an overwrought Dr Anthony Gland who was accompanied by two policemen. Before I had time to invite them in, the policemen stormed through the hall to my bedroom where the weeping Pole was bound and gagged, awaiting a skinning. As they did so, Dr Anthony Gland talked slowly and gently to me and reassured me that everything was okay now. He explained in measured tones, as though talking to a child or a simpleton, that he had read of my recent actions on my blog and was deeply concerned about my welfare and the welfare of the unnamed Pole.

"Tell him you made it up," my dead mother hissed. Evidently she communicated telepathically for Gland heard none of it.

"My dear man," I said, "Forgive me for the confusion caused, but I simply made all that business up. It is mere fiction. Dark subject matter of course, and certainly not to everyone's tastes, but fictional nonetheless. You did not seriously believe that I had abducted a Pole and meant to skin him? Why, it's palpably absurd!"

At this point, the policemen reappeared and urged Gland to accompany them to the room where the bruised and bloody Pole lay quivering on the floor. Well, I was certain then that the game was up and my indiscretion would be uncovered - there was no denying I had a bound Pole in my room. I followed them and was alarmed to see that in place of the weeping Pole, there was a collection of pillows tightly restrained by a length of stout rope.

"I have bewitched them Horton," my mother whispered, "They believe that the man is a mere pillow effigy crudely decked out to look like a Pole. Go with it Horton and all will be well."

"Is this the Polish man you wrote about on your weblog Horton?" asked Gland, indicating the pillows.

"Of course!" I said, "You see? The whole thing was a mere fabrication! This collection of pillows is no more a Pole than you are a jar of tartare sauce. Now that this is settled, would you care for some Um Bongo?"

The policemen, peeved at having their time wasted, gave the house a cursory once over then left. Gland spent some time talking quietly to me about any worries I might have and any strange ideas I might be having. He told me to phone him if ever I felt angry or glum, to which I agreed.

As soon as he left, the sound of weeping could once again be heard. Checking my bedroom, the pillow effigy had returned to its true state as a trussed up Pole. He knew he had been naughty, that Pole, and sensed that his punishment would be swift and sharp.

The Pole in his form as a pillow effigy

Further Wickedness

The itinerant Pole eventually regained consciousness. Currently he is tied up in the living room. It was I who trussed him up in such a way, because it seems that I am irredeemably evil. How he weeps! If I wasn't evil, I would certainly be wracked with guilt and fear over my inhuman actions to this Pole, but I am evil and hence feel no such guilt or fear.

I have not yet done anything to physically harm him (apart from the initial bludgeoning), though my dead mother berates me constantly and urges me to do so. She calls for the Pole to be skinned. She is fixated upon this point and will not accept anything less. How the man weeps! It is difficult to concentrate with such a din.

In an attempt to placate my dead mother, I made some effort to torture the Pole by making a hot cocoa for him but I wilfully omitted the sugar so that he visibly winced at the bitterness of that drink. My dead mother was unimpressed by my barbarity and continued demanding that I skin the Pole at once.

How he weeps! Because I am evil, I suppose I must ultimately skin the man, yet something stays my hand. It cannot be guilt or pity because I am terribly evil and unaffected by such whimsies. I must take a while to strengthen my courage and remind myself that I am a being of pure evil.

Must go now - Dragons' Den is on.

An evil act is committed

Today I received a visit from an itinerant Pole. He was shabbily attired and asked in broken English whether he could sell me one of his drawings for £8.00. Doing so, he intimated, would allow him to support his family as well as leaving me with a drawing I could display in my home. I had no need of a picture of a daffodil, so prepared to send the cove on his merry way.

At once, my dead mother's voice could be heard urging me to accost the Pole. I gathered that the Pole was oblivious to these cries, for he did not react in any way to my dead mother's shrieking.

"This is your chance Horton," she said. "Capture this man and do evil unto him. You must hone your skills. Do it. Do it now!"

Because I am now evil, I invited him into the house. Swiftly, I struck him a heavy blow on the back of the head with the blunt end of an umbrella stand. He remains unconscious on the floor of my hall as I type this.

Dear readers, although I am terribly evil and revel in treachery and violence, I must admit to being shaken by my actions and confess that I rather hope my evilness wears off before tomorrow when my dead mother, whose maniacal laughter still echoes through my Dundee home, will surely force me to do awful things.

Some Drawbacks to Evilness

My dead mother has continued to persuade me to increase my efforts to be evil. Apparently the evil acts I have thus far committed are simply insufficient. Readers, to be candid for a moment, I feel I must admit that, evil though I am, and pleasurable though evil is, I am growing somewhat weary of the evil way of life. It is not without its drawbacks.

Today, for example, I sat down with a mug of miso soup and an egg mayonnaise sandwich (two of the most evil foodstuffs I could think of) and prepared to watch Diagnosis Murder with Dick Van Dyke. No sooner had I switched the television on than my dead mother screeched at me to switch it off. She explained that, because I was now evil I could only watch a pirated copy of the programme. If an opportunity to harm someone exists, regardless of how minimal that harm may be, the evil man must seize that chance. Thus I had to scroll through fan webpages on the internet to identify what episode I should be watching.

Satisfied that I had found the correct episode (Season 2, Episode 2: 'A Very Fatal Funeral'), I was then obliged to download it illegally on YouTube, though someone, in an ignorant effort to be helpful, had broken up that episode into several smaller parts but had named each file inconsistently. It took many hours to piece together the episode and the final result was unsatisfying. Tiny picture, tinny sound, and Dr. Sloan's moustache was far too pixelly to be appreciated as Van Dyke intended.

I found myself wishing, just then, that I could turn off my evilness for just the shortest amount of time, so that I could enjoy the legal showing of Diagnosis Murder on BBC 1. That feeling was fleeting however! I am properly evil again. I hate you all, you halfwits!

Wickedness and Stan Brakhage

Hello halfwits!! In this blog entry, I'm not going to use any paragraph breaks and I'm going to write in a small font and use multiple different colours. In case you have forgotten, I am now evil so I am allowed to do this kind of thing. I derive an almost indecent amount of glee at the thought of you halfwits screwing your eyes up in a foolhardy effort to read this entry - because I am evil, I disrespect you so much that I want it to be an unholy chore for you to plough through this blog. You might be beginning to hate me now...GOOD!!! I am evil and thrive on hatred. My dead mother, in the form of the little scottie dog from Monopoly, keeps urging me to be more evil. She says my previous efforts have fallen short of the level of evilness she had hoped for when first she tempted me to eat the crystals of evil. To this end, I paid a trip to Dundee's Art House cinema this afternoon and sat through a Stan Brakhage festival (that man is also evil and does not wish to bring his audience any pleasure). Throughout the various screenings, I ate noisily from a large bag of TORTILLA CHIPS! CruNcHy! lol. The three other people in the audience were thoroughly irked. You might note that I just used the acronym 'lol'. This also derives from my newfound evil nature. I just love to think of my readers being momentarily annoyed because of me. L8R halfwits!!

I Explore my Evil Nature

Greetings halfwits!! I have continued my life of evilness with a great deal of pleasure. Yesterday I put potato peelings and banana skins into my general waste wheelie bin and failed to put them into my organic waste wheelie bin. Dundee City Council will no doubt be furious when they learn of this, because it is as though I am completely belittling their efforts to encourage us to be more environmentally friendly. Because I am so dreadfully evil, this thought amuses me greatly. My laugh, which has heretofore been a modest 'ha ha ha' has now aquired the prefix 'bw-' and the suffix '-aaaaaaah!!" in deference to my new evil status. Hence, when now I chuckle, my laugh is as follows: 'Bwah ha ha haaaaaaah!!'.

The day before yesterday, I stole a copy of Sliding Doors from HMV. That is correct - I did not give the cashier the £2.99 cost of the DVD - I simply took it for my own without any money changing hands, so evil am I. The film stars Gwyneth Paltrow as a women with two different hairstyles, and the man from Four Weddings and a Funeral as an ingratiating Scot. There's also something about alternative universes but not done very well because there are no evil twins involved.

The day before the day before yesterday I snuck into the Wellgate library and folded over the page corners of selected books by Kathy Reichs. Untraceable to me of course, but it gives me a certain amount of malevolent glee to think of various future readers being irked by the folded pages. Bwah ha ha haaaaaaaaaah!!

Today I saw a child dressed as Peter Pan collecting money for Comic Relief. I gave her nothing save a sneer of contempt. The look of disappointment on her crestfallen face warmed my black heart for the rest of the day. I do so love being evil. You halfwits!

Evil!!!

Readers, I am evil. Doubtless you will scarcely recognise my new mode of narration because I am now so unconscionably iniquitous, but I care not!! You will observe that I made use of two exclamation marks at the end of the last sentence. This is not in keeping with accepted rules of punctuation, but I am free of such tyranny now that I am evil. My dead mother was dead right - I have greatly enjoyed my albeit brief daliance with the world of wickedness - all my doubts and fears about embracing evilness now seem immature and misguided - I revel in my sins, and derive inestimable pleasure from committing atrocities, and not just atrocities of punctuation!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ;-)

You will see that I made use of multiple exclamation marks and a 'smilie' at the end of the previous sentence. Had I not informed you that I was evil, most of you would have guessed by now - no person possessing any degree of morality would deliberately choose to so offend their readers by utilizing such tortuous effects. My decent into the maelstrom of evilness is so assured that I can even leave glaring spelling errors uncorrected in my writing, as in this sentence!! I care nothing for my readers' enjoyment, so evil am I. Horton Carew? You must now call me Hellrton Scare-ew, because I am so evil. And bow when you do so.

You will see that I am late in updating this blog (it cannot escape your notice that I now use the unpleasant-sounding word 'blog' to refer to my electronic diary - this is because I am evil and no longer wish to protect my readers from the vagaries of irritating modern-day nonce words). The erratic approach to the updating of blogs shows severe disrespect for one's readers. Thus, because I am evil, I will continue to annoy you by not updating regularly.

From now on, I will refer to my readers as 'halfwits' because I am evil. Any photos I choose to post will be offensive in nature and will cause you distress. But who cares?!! Not me, I'm evil!! You halfwits.

My Resolve Is Finally Defeated

The final steps towards losing myself completely to the diabolical word of evilness have almost been taken. I feel unable to withstand temptation any longer.

Is denying responsibility for my weakness merely proof that I have already in some way succumbed to evil? I do not know. I will say that few men could withstand the temptations I have been compelled to endure and survive unscathed and untainted. Well do I remember the harrowing day in which my dead mother, in the form of the little scottie dog from Monopoly, turned evil. From that day forth, this mysterious associate has contrived to wind herself into my affairs, both spiritual and temporal, and break me. Surely no man is strong enough to resist the myriad benefits of evilness? Whether it behoves me to curse God for forsaking me these last days, or to curse myself for failing to be stronger in resolution, is hid from my discernment and will remain so hidden until that day when my accounts are to make up and reckon for in another world.

I will go, weeping now, to the fridge. There I will take out a crystal of pure evil and devour it. I hope it doesn't taste like horseradish - I can't abide the stuff.

Giving in...

Readers, I am in turmoil. These last days, I have done my utmost to withstand the temptation to eat the forbidden crystals of evil and join my dead mother in a life of wickedness, but feel I am losing this battle of wills. I have descended into a paranoid swither.

"Go on, Horton - be a spawn of Satan," my dead mother said. "You'll love being evil. You can eat foie gras and veal and any variety of succulent but unethical foods. No more overpriced free-range eggs! If you become evil, you can save money by buying the cheap, battery-farmed eggs. They taste the same anyway - you know they do!"

Foie Gras: a delight

"You will no longer have to buy Fairtrade coffee," she went on, "And you can stop using public transport and start driving an environmentally-unfriendly SUV. It'll make you look like a big man. And you can make sexist jokes. Give in to temptation, Horton."

And so it went on. Day after day, I was reminded of the many benefits of embracing evilness. In a vain effort to provide myself with some form of counterpoint to these views, I turned to Songs of Praise but found only a boyish Welshman who singularly failed to make goodness seem cool or hip.

I do not think I will last much longer. The pewter scottie dog which houses my mother's soul seems to be smiling as I type this - it surely knows that my resolve is weakening. Alas, I fear I am not strong enough to get through the week without eating one of those crystals...

Dear god - if god ye be - come to the aid of a poor lost sheep.

Tempted by Evilness

I have spent the last few days fretting over a moral conundrum. My dead mother, through the vessel of the little scottie dog from Monopoly, has beleaguered me with constant glorification of the evil way of life. She never stops telling me of the benefits of being evil and embracing the dark side of one's nature. She urges me to eat of the evil crystals in the fridge and join her in being wicked.

"Give in to your evil side," she says. "It is a lovely life. You can laugh at cripples without any guilt."

You see how she tempts me? She promises we can be evil together and embark on a reign of terror, which sounds nice. Intuitively, I know I should not give in to this, no matter how enticing my mother makes evil out to be.

I hope I am strong enough to resist. Won't somebody help me?

The Evilness Must Stop!

So bad was today's taunting that I briefly toyed with the notion of exorcising the malevolent soul of my late mother, but quickly abandoned the scheme when I realised I possessed neither the wherewithal nor gumption to perform such an act. Perhaps foolishly, I still hope that the evilness will go away of its own accord and leave me with the sweet, good, and untarnished soul of my cold, dead mother, so that we might resume our relationship that ended 13 years ago in unfortunate circumstances. We could go on picnics and such.

The photograph of my dead mother has melted so that she now looks like Andrew Lloyd Webber or one of those saggy-jowled fellows.

Webber, Andy Lloyd

Today I caught the scottie dog doing something unpleasant to a crucifix, so decided that enough was enough - I would have to establish exactly how and why evilness has been permitted to gain control. The game is afoot! This will take every ounce of my deductive ability and will likely take months and months of painstaking research before I uncover the mystery.


Edited to add: It turns out the scottie dog has mistakenly eaten some of the raw evil in the fridge (see entry at January 14th). That's probably it!

The Dog Continues its Evilness

Today the evilness continues unabated. The glowing red eyes and the harsh voice persist, but have now been augmented by copious swearing which I cannot reproduce here for fear of offending my female readership. I have no doubt that if I had a tiny leather jacket, the little scottie dog would instantly don it, and that if I provided a miniature packet of smokes, it would instantly smoke them, so unassailably evil is that dog.

Oh mother - if mother ye be - what have I done to turn thee so evil? Do you hold me responsible for the terrible events 13 years ago? Tell me, what must I do to make things right?

Evilness in Pewter Form

Readers, I have endured a sweat-slicked and sleepless night. Given previous grim events that I have recounted to you in this electronic diary, you will perhaps be unsurprised to hear that my sweat-slicked and sleepless night was not occassioned through a passionate encounter with a nude lady, but rather through terrifying and discommodious thoughts. I fear it is now certain that the little scottie dog from Monopoly, which houses the soul of my dead mother, is evil.

Whether my mother's soul has been spirited away to some dark realm and been replaced by some demonic entity or whether her soul has actually become evil, I cannot say. However, that the scottie dog is evil is indubitable because its eyes glow red. There is no surer sign of evil, save for torture and murder on an epic scale, than glowing red eyes. And to confirm its evilness, it now speaks in a crackly, hoarse voice, which is the mode of speech favoured by the irredeemably wicked.

All last night the evil voice taunted me by saying things about my late mother. Evil things. The evil voice had perhaps gone a bit overboard with the gravelly, rasping business because I could not really hear what it was saying. I think I caught it saying, "Your mother knits socks in Hell" but I could have misheard.

Its eyes continue to glow red. Readers, I do not know what to do.

The Photograph Mutates

Since I went public with my hypothesis yesterday, the photograph of my dead mother has visibly altered. Here is an image of what the photograph looks like today:

I can only assume that this bodes well.

The Truth about the Dog

I feel confident now in revealing my suspicious suspicions regarding the little scottie dog from Monopoly and my dear late mother...

They are one and the same. The soul of my dead mother has somehow found its way into the tiny pewter likeness of a dog. Of that there can now be no doubt.

That is all.

Testing my Theory

I am almost ready to go public with my theory regarding the little scottie dog from Monopoly and my dear late mother. It is a crazy theory and one that will never be accepted by today's scientists or even by my own devoted readership which consists principally of gypsies and dwarves. It will shock you to the very core of your being.

Today saw me placing a rubber quoit adjacent to the dog and recording the results in a jotter. Those results augment my theory nicely, but I will refrain from sharing them.

I also took the dog to Debenham's hosiery section and observed its reactions, which fell pat as I assumed. Again though, I will not report the nature of my findings.

Finally, I briefly opened the hatch to my basement and held the dog above it. After clearing up the ensuing mess and arranging to have my perforated eardrum fixed, I am satisfied that my conclusions concerning this strange little dog are correct.

The implications are terrifying.

Wavering over Waverley

The little scottie dog from Monopoly will not be persuaded to detatch itself from the photograph of my dear dead mother. I tried tempting it off by forming a tantalising trail of bouillon crystals from the photograph to my pantry, but to no avail.

This morning, to further test my hypothesis, which is so outrageous and unlikely that I am reluctant to articulate it here for fear that my readers will think me quite unhinged, I placed copies of several works by Sir Walter Scott on one side of the manteltop and a selection of novels by Stanley J. Weyman on the other, with the little scottie dog situated equidistantly between the two. Both collections of historical novels belonged to my dead mother, though she greatly preferred the works of Stanley J. Weyman, because she harboured a life-long hatred of the Scott Monument in Edinburgh.

I uttered the phrase, "Which will you, madame?" then left the room. At the end of the day I checked the mantel and discovered the dog, still attached to the photograph, had shifted 3cm towards the works of Stanley J. Weyman.

It all begins to fall into place.

Photographic Magnetism

I harbour a suspicion which I will not share with my readers lest I am mistaken and it is later used as evidence to have me committed to a mental institution.

I will, however, reveal that today my suspicion was in some way confirmed. I looked out a treasured photograph of my dear late mother Lavinia Carew (see below).

Gently weeping over her sweet features, I introduced the photograph to the little scottie dog from Monopoly which sits atop my mantel in the corner of my living room. At once, a chilling scream was heard and the dog flew at the photograph, affixing itself firmly to its surface as though magnetically attracted to my mother's two-dimensional likeness.

There it remains still. I cannot remove it without damaging the photograph, an action I am loathe to take for this is the only photograph I have of my mother that is suitable for sharing with others.

I will need to conduct a few more tests before the suspicion I harbour can be undocked.

A Scent is Sent

Still humming yesterday's newly-recalled childhood ditty, I took a brunch of a bunch of grapes in my living room. Occassionally I would permit myself a small glance over to the little scottie dog which, silent and stationary though it was, somehow conspired to radiate a sense of enjoyment. Together we watched Loose Women, the midday magazine show wherein loose-jowled women sit at a desk and share disparaging comments about their husbands and those men who have wronged them in the past. The dog seemed appreciative of such vituperation and indicated its approval by remaining motionless.

By the end of the programme, I felt sordid and ashamed on behalf of my sex and prepared to leave the room and retire for a candlelit Radox bath. As I did so, a scent permeated the room. An instantly and shockingly recognisable scent. At once I was transported back in time (not literally) to childhood Sunday mornings, dressing for church. My mother would take me out of the jute sack I habitually wore and bedeck me in a shirt and trousers. After this, she would prepare herself for worship by donning a dress and daubing her chin with her favourite perfume.

Without doubt, it was this smell I smelled. Penhaligon's little-known and long discontinued Brechin Bouquet. My mother's scent. It was strongest over by the mantelpiece where sat my little dog. Of course, I could not leave the room then. I lay down, inhaled the fragrant scent of Penhaligon's Brechin Bouquet, and wept at the memories aroused.

The Dog Sings

Still in a weakened state, this afternoon I sat and gazed out of my living room window at passers-by passing by. As commonly happens in such circumstances, one finds interest and novelty in imagining the different styles of hat which each passing man, woman, and child might wear in private. After a while however, one's mind begins to wander.

I saw a stately woman with mien of lord or lady march past my home clutching the hand of a grubby urchin. I was reminded of my dear late mother and how she used to hold my hand as we trudged the streets of Dundee when I was nothing but a child. She would often leave me standing in various doorways while she went off with one of my many uncles who would charitably provide her with temporary labour. Before she went, she would always sing a tender little song, then instruct me to sing it to myself until she returned. As long as I was singing it, I would be safe from any harm. I had not thought of that song for years until today, when it appeared, unbidden and fully-formed in my mind. I began to sing:

'Twas the gatherin' o' the clans, and all the Scots were there,
Skirlin' on their bagpipes...'

I was more than somewhat surprised when I heard a tiny tinny voice complete the line from over by the mantelpiece. I tried another snippet from the song:

'O the ball, the ball, the ball o' Kirriemuir,
Where folk o' high an' low degree were...'

Sure enough, the little scottie dog from Monopoly (for this curious canine was surely responsible) completed the line yet again. I tried once more:

'There was dancin' in the meadows, there was dancin' in the ricks,
Ye couldnae hear the bagpipes for the swishin'...'

and was happy to note that the little scottie dog sang the remainder of the line. I went on in this manner, singing line after line and listening as the little scottie dog finished off each verse for me with gusto.

It made me feel safe and at ease.

Beeton's Treats

I am still officially convalescing so have upped my usual food intake to include more restorative recipes. I turned to my grandmother's well-thumbed copy of Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management and looked for some meals suitable for invalids. If you have misplaced your own grandmother's copy of Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management or cannot be bothered to fetch it from your loft, then here is a weblink which you may click to see some of her recipes for the crippled and infirm: http://www.mrsbeeton.com/39-chapter39.html

All of the recipes comprising the chapter 'Invalid Cookery' looked delightful, particularly 'Barley Gruel' and 'Calf's Foot Broth', but I found myself limited in my stock of available ingredients. I did have the relevant components to make her recipe for 'nutritious coffee' (i.e., coffee and milk) and 'toast and water' (i.e., toast and water) and 'toast sandwiches' (i.e., toast and raw toast(bread)), so made up these treats and tucked in.

Good old Mrs Beeton saw me right - her delicious meals returned some of my lost strength, as did the Ibuprofen which I also took.

Burns Night

In the days of auld lang syne (olden days), working men were given ample time off when they were afflicted with an ague (illness). Initially, because they were too weak to perform their duties as a schoolmaster, usurper, wig heckler, or whatever they did to earn their crust (money). But they were also entitled by law to a further fortnight (two weeks) off after they had beaten their disease in order to convalesce (laze about in order to regain their former level of strength). Nowadays, the working man is afforded no such luxury and must return to work the instant that his malady is beaten.

Fortunately, I am currently between jobs (unemployed) so I am able to honour the traditional period of convalescence in its entirety by remaining indoors dressed in a comfortable robe in the style of Hugh Hefner (smut baron).

As reported yesterday, I have successfully rejected all ferrules from my body, so must now recover my strength. Today is the 25th January, the third most Scottish day of the year, with the first being Hogmanay and the second being Bagpipe Day. Today the world celebrates the birth of the Scotch poet Robert Burns, and I planned to incorporate some poetry appreciation into my day of convalesence. Little in this world is more rousing than good poetry.

I read 'Poortith Cauld' ('cold poverty'), then 'Gude'en to you, Kimmer' ('good evening to you, girl'), then 'Willie Brew'd a Peck o' Maut' ('William brewed a measure of malted ale'), and finally 'Cock Up Your Beaver'. This intellectual nourishment quite revived me and eased my pain, as did the paracetamol I also took.

The poet Robert Burns

The Ferrules are Ejected

The ferrules have passed from my system. My throat is bloodied and raw, but the relief is incredible. I feel as though I have given birth, albeit through my mouth and to a collection of metal objects. Like any new mother, I am exhausted and crave rest, so I will keep this entry brief.

But, in my neverending quest to furnish my readers with items of interest and to educate the dullards among you, you may click this weblink to read some information about ferrules: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferrule

Wikipedia is an encyclopedia conceived and written by people from Wick, so take everything you read with a pinch of salt.

Disgorging

I have spent today disgorging.

By this, I do not mean that I have been involved in the final step of the méthod champenoise process of making sparkling wine whereby sediment is successfully removed.

No, my meaning is rather more prosaic: I have been vomiting profusely. The ferrules in my guts are yet to appear, so I fear that I must continue disgorging until these obstructions are dislodged. Back to the toilet I must go.

A Visit to the (Medical) Doctor

My (medical) doctor's appointment was for 10:25am, so I arrived at the practice at 4:30am, bright and early. I could not gain access until 8:30am when a surly receptionist let me enter. She bid me sit in a waiting room and wait. I amused myself by reading a National Geographic magazine from 1986. Doctors' receptionists always place a large collection of aged, filthy, germ-ridden magazines in waiting rooms so that all visitors will catch at least one disease from them. You see, doctors become foul-tempered if they are forced to deal with perfectly healthy hypochondriacs or fakers, so receptionists attempt to provide them with genuinely ill patients wherever possible.

Because my appointment was relatively early in the day, fortunately there had not been enough time for a serious delay to develop, so I had only to wait until 2.45pm before I was seen. I picked up a cold from a copy of Amateur Photographer (Jun 1990), so felt suitably ill to justify my visit to the doctor.

"Come in and take a seat," said Dr Paré, a spiky and alarming man. "What seems to be the problem Mr Carew?"

"I have it on good authority that I am ill," I said. "My abdomen was identified as the seat of the malady. I wish you to confirm whether or not I am to perish."

Paré agreed to examine me, asking that I expose my stomach so that he might prod it.

"Is it painful when I do this?" he asked, punching me hard in the belly. When I indicated that it was indeed sore, he announced that I would need an X-Ray immediately. He had a special X-Ray camera that looked exactly like a normal digital camera and with it he proceeded to take a great many pictures of me. Apparently the special X-Ray rays would only work if I was completely naked though, so I was a little embarrassed by the whole episode, but readily agreed so that a full diagnosis could be made.

"Well Mr Carew, it's not good news," Paré announced. "I see at once that you have an abundance of umbrella ferrules obstructing your pyloric antrum which may lead to you developing fistulous withers. Your gall bladder contains some two quarts of inspissated bile, your greater omentum is strangulated beyond recognition, and your gullet is ruptured. Tell me, Mr Carew, how you came to swallow so many umbrella ferrules."

I told him I had no memory of swallowing any portion or segment of any umbrellas at any stage in my life, an assertion which only angered him.

"Mr Carew, I know that the popularity of programmes such as Jackass and The Late, Late Breakfast Show has encouraged a stunt culture wherein people perform dangerous acts for fun or fame. I expect you have been filming yourself swallowing countless umbrella ferrules and posting the film on YouTube to entertain American teens. As usual, it is up to us medical doctors to patch you up when things go wrong. Sigh. You are doubtless in tremendous pain: I cannot fathom how you have tolerated the paroxymal agony and concomitant tympanites for as long as you have. The esophageal neoplasms alone must be tortuous. I'm afraid your macho antics have resulted in you having but months to live."

I gasped and begged him to help me out of my predicament. Seeing my tears and desperation to cling to life, he softened and agreed to assist me if I promised to never swallow any species of ferrule again in an effort to show off to internet users. I agreed at once.

"Well then, what can I suggest?" mused Paré. "First you must daily take a copious draught of an infusion of 'blessed thistle' and ipecacuanha. This will cause violent vomitting and it is to be hoped that you reguritate those ferrules directly. You must then take a gentle purgative, antispasmodics, and some iron jelloids. They'll get you ship-shape before you can say 'orthomyxoviridae'! You are a lucky man, Mr Carew. I do not know who told you about the danger you were in, but they did you a great service - had you not seen me today, you would have been dead within 3 months."

I thanked Dr Paré and returned home, collecting the prescription drugs on the way. As soon as I got in, I smothered the little scottie dog in kisses and thanked it a thousand times. It truly is a guardian angel. I regretted all those times I insisted on playing Monopoly as the racecar or ship.

The Dog is Walked

I stayed awake all last night worrying over what the little scottie dog from Monopoly had hinted at. I found myself completely unable to enjoy ITV's new series of Dancing on Ice, though admittedly this was not through anxiety but rather through the programme being mindless pap.

I am preoccupied with the little scottie dog's imperative to visit a (medical) doctor and fear that I may have some terrible wasting disease. Still, all will be revealed tomorrow when I visit a (medical) doctor, and I cannot blame the dog for my current state of terror - I am sure it means only to help me.

To show that I was grateful, I decided to give the little scottie dog a treat. I think I have overdone food-based treats recently and am concerned that I may be harming the dog, albeit through kindness and not malice. I do not wish to create an obese dog because Victoria Stillwell of It's Me Or The Dog might appear to chastise me and I do not want to create a bad impression for I mean to woo her one day.

Thus I decided to take the dog out for a walk, which is something dogs enjoy partaking of. However, it was bitterly cold outside so I felt it necessary to swaddle the dog before subjecting it to the elements. Prior to today, the dog has perforce remained an indoor animal, for Monopoly is a game rarely played out of doors, what with the risk of the money and Community Chest cards being forfeited to the wind.

I gave the dog a boot and a hat to keep it warm, then pulled it around the streets of Dundee attached to a piece of string. Though it could not move its legs, I am sure it enjoyed itself.

I must now drink endless cups of fortified wine in an effort to stave off anxiety. I look to tomorrow with dread.

A Troubling Command

As I awoke this morning from uneasy dreams I found myself transformed in my bed into a gigantic insect. At once I realised I must still be dreaming and waited patiently until I woke up. As I awoke proper this morning from that uneasy dream, I found the little scottie dog from Monopoly lying on my abdomen. Before retiring last night I saw the dog in its usual spot atop my manteltop so it must somehow have arrived there independently, or else I have become a somnambulist and can no longer be trusted.

"Why sit ye there?" I asked.

Through the fug of newly-awoken senses, methought I discerned a faint voice whisper, "...Doctor, Horton..." At first I was understandably confused and replied that I was no doctor, having failed to gain the required exam results to get into medical school, and, indeed, to attend school in the first place. The voice was heard again, "...Doctor, Horton..."

"Can I confirm whether you are designating me with an erroneous honorific or whether you are issuing an imperative?" said I. The voice only repeated, "...Doctor, Horton..." I reasoned that a pewter dog, supernaturally imbued with the ability to communicate and with a past record of ensuring my safety and wellbeing, would be unlikely to use its rare powers to flatter me by giving me a false title in the early hours of a Saturday morning. Thus I concluded that the dog was commanding me to visit a doctor. Presumably a doctor of medicine and not someone with a doctorate in Sociology or something equally moronic.

I immediately phoned the (medical) doctor and booked an appointment for Monday. Now all that remains is for me to worry that I have a fatal ailment and have but months to live.

I Offer More Treats to the Dog

As I prepared to shave my neck this morning with an electric turkey carver, I heard the mysterious voice once more uttering "...no, Horton..." which has become my cue to desist at once from whatever activity I am currently engaged in. Of course, I realised my folly at once - the vibrations from the electric turkey carver could have easily caused me to drop it, whereupon it could have landed on my toe. Thank goodness I was warned in advance!

To thank the little scottie dog for its guidance and wisdom, I decided to offer it a second treat. Remembering that it seemed to favour savoury foods, I decided to create the most savoury item I could.

Thus I prepared a solution of Oxo, gravy, marmite, oxtail soup, Guinness, pulped roasted peanuts, and salt. Into this I dunked a slice of Tongue and allowed it to marinate for 2 minutes, then left it beneath the snout of the little pewter dog.

For the first time, it has changed its refrain. I felt a tear well up in my left eye and then my right eye as I heard a tender, quavering voice whisper, "...thank you, Horton..."

Dog Eat Hough

I have made another discovery concerning the scottie dog. I earlier prepared a teatime meal ('tea') consisting of cod roe with salt, potted hough spread thickly on toast, and a battenburg cake of my own invention (omitting all ingredients but the marzipan). Upon finishing my repast, I observed that the scottie dog now stood in a small puddle as though it had been drooling, its appetite aroused by the delicious smells of my food.


I placed a smear of salted cod roe, a globule of potted hough, and a chunklet of battenburg beside the scottie dog's snout to see if it could be persuaded to eat the food it evidently craved. I observed it for 35 minutes but nothing happened. I left the lounge to change my bedding and bury some soiled catalogues in the back garden. When I later returned, I noted that the potted hough had gone and, though the dog's expression remained fixed, it seemed somehow to radiate a sense of satisfaction. Apparently the little scottie dog from Monopoly enjoys savoury foods the best for it has left the battenburg untouched. The roe must not have been quite savoury enough for it, salted though it was.

An old-fashioned battenburg with an alarming paucity of marzipan

The Scottie Dog Forever Gazes Down

The little scottie dog from Monopoly continues to unsettle me, although I have made a discovery that has helped in some small measure to resettle me. I now believe the figurine means me no harm and may actually be some form of guardian angel. Every time I attempt anything that might be perceived as dangerous, such as slicing cucumber with a very sharp knife, running with scissors, overloading wall sockets, leaving dishcloths slightly too close to a lit gas hob, immersing my elbow in a pot of scalding broth, or smelting pig iron, I hear the strange voice utter '...no, Horton...' from the general area of the mantletop where sits my little dog.

It is pleasing to note that someone, somewhere cares for me, even if it is only a tiny pewter player piece from the board game Monopoly. I feel safe and secure for the first time in 13 years. I don't recall if I have ever felt so low and wretched as to share with you my vivid memories of what came to pass on that dark and fateful day 13 years ago. For now I will say only that I have seldom felt safe and secure since those grim events transpired. They completely unsettled me, and despite occasional respite, I feel I have never quite resettled.

The Scottie Dog Perturbs

Above you may see a photograph of the little scottie dog from Monopoly which sits atop my mantle.

Today it has continued to unnerve me. I believe it may be responsible in part for the strange susurration and indistinct chirruping that haunts my Dundee home, though I cannot yet confirm this for certain, so will refrain from stating my suspicions on this electronic diary lest I wind up looking foolish.

In Which I Attempt to Eat Tomatoes, But Am Prevented

Something inscrutable happened today: try as I might, I could not scrute it at all. At lunch, I felt a mighty hankering for some succulent beef tomatoes, so flung open the door of my fridge with utmost avidity. Some cove had placed a sign beside those juicy tommies which warned "Danger Horton! Although they appear identical, some of these are not 'love apples' (tomatoes), but rather raw evil. Either apply extreme caution or avoid eating these entirely. I am writing this warning as an aide-memoire because I am liable to forget, and this is of grave importance. Signed, Horton Carew."

Sure enough, it was in my hand-writing, but I had no memory of writing it and the warning was so palpably absurd that I concluded that it would be folly to heed it. Thus I prepared to devour those delicious fruits (for the 'love apple' or 'tomato' is indeed a fruit and not a nut as is commonly believed) with a little basil and olive oil.

As I raised them to my salivating jaws, I discerned a faint voice whisper, "...no, Horton..."

Needless to say, I ignored it.

I again raised the oily, basilled tommies to my lips. Again, the voice could be heard whispering, "...no, Horton..."

Through experimentation with feigning the consumption of the tomatoes, I eventually established that the voice was coming from the vicinity of my mantle.

Which was impossible, because all that is on my mantle is the little scottie dog from Monopoly.

Grow Your Own Evil 2

On investigating the crystals, they no longer appear to be growing so I am convinced that they are dead, yet they still retain a veneer of wickedness. Unsure of how to dispose of them, I again phoned the 'Grow Your Own Crystal' advice line and spoke to Darren:

Darren: Hello, 'Grow Your Own Crystal' advice line, Gareth speaking. How may I help you?
Me: I thought your name was Darren.
Gareth: Heavens, no. How may I help you today, sir?
Me: I accidentally fed my crystals human blood on or around Day 5 of their development. They turned into raw evil. I have killed them off using the blood of Our Saviour but I am unsure of how to dispose of them. Any ideas?
Gareth: You mean to say that you failed to heed our warning?
Me: I mean to say this, yes. I regret it deeply, if that helps.
Gareth: It does not help, sir. We are in trouble here. While you have successfully killed the raw evil, all you achieved is preventing it growing larger. That which remains is extremely potent and extremely dangerous. If anyone ingests the raw evil or smears it liberally upon their skin, they will become evil at once.
Me: That sounds extremely potent and extremely dangerous.
Gareth: Oh, believe me - it is. Extremely potent and extremely dangerous.
Me: So what should I do?
Gareth: You cannot eliminate evil, sir, just displace and disguise it. If you have any conscience, you will not unleash this evil upon the world. Hide it in your home, and for God's sake, do not ingest it or smear it liberally upon your skin.

I immediately gathered up the red, round crystals and hid them in my fridge. Beside some tomatoes. I forsee no more problems with the raw evil and look forward to tomorrow.

Grow Your Own Evil

The crystals have developed horny growths all over their fiery red surface, which I assume are something conceptually akin to Satan's horns. Yesterday the large red jewels became so hot that the ramekin melted, leaving it quite unsuitable for accommodating chocolate mousses or cheese souffles in future. I have stopped feeding them my blood after learning that by doing so, I was manufacturing raw evil instead of novelty gems. There is enough evil in this world without someone creating more in a small Dundee bedroom.

I consulted the Bible to find out what the Good Book had to say about how to expunge evil from things. Unfortunately it did not have an index making it next to useless as a reference guide, so I had to pray to the Lord that I would find something relevant, then flick open pages at random. This method was far less effective than an index, but I eventually found the following:

'When a woman has her regular flow of blood, the impurity of her monthly period will last seven days, and anyone who touches her will be unclean till evening'.

Interesting though this was, it did not seem relevant so I tried again, finding the following:

'When you go to war against your enemies and the Lord your God delivers them into your hands and you take captives, if you notice among the captives a beautiful woman and are attracted to her, you may take her as your wife. Bring her into your home and have her shave her head, trim her nails and put aside the clothes she was wearing when captured'.

I made a note of this for future reference, but again, it did not appear immediately salient, so I tried one more time, praying very hard to God to direct me to the correct page because, in his wisdom, He did not think to insist upon an index:

'But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence'.

I decided that, today, God was directing me towards the hatred of women, rather than offering guidance on the extirpation of evil from anomolous gems, so I forsook Him. I decided to take matters into my own hands. I have heard it said that red wine can transubstantiate under certain circumstances. This means that it turns into the blood of Christ when imbibed by a devotee of Christianity, and makes the drinker approximately 30% holier and 20% more vampiric. Thus I drank a bottle of red wine, ate a kitkat (for the wafer), and held a modest communion in my lounge.

I allowed a few minutes for the red wine inside me to fully transubstantiate, then regurgitated Christ's blood all over the gems. Smoke hissed from them, which is what usually happens when something evil dies. Success!

Grow Your Own Crystals: Day 7

Yesterday, the crystals grew redder and redder with each additional drop of gore I provided. They swelled to the size of golf balls, then squash balls, then Ben Wa balls, then shinty balls, then tennis balls, then cricket balls, then footballs, then rugby balls, then medicine balls, then Hasselhoff balls.

They seemed to crave my blood and continued to scream unbearably until I reluctantly give them succour. I was not convinced that this was supposed to happen, especially in a 'Grow Your Own Crystal' set costing £1.95, recommended for children aged 8 and over, so I consulted the instructions once again.

In small print, I discovered the following:

Warning -
Do not ingest crystals.
Do not observe crystals' growth from atop a windy mountain without first informing authorities of your whereabouts.
Do not place crystals in eye.
Do not drill a hole in a child's head and place crystals within.
Do not set yourself alight in an effort to promote crystal growth.
Do not feed these crystals Tizer, Kwenchy-Kups, or human blood.

Naturally, I was alarmed to see that I had failed to heed a warning. Do not fail to heed this warning: Do not fail to heed a warning. I quickly phoned the 'Grow You Own Crystal' advice line and spoke to Gareth.

Gareth: 'Grow Your Own Crystal' advice line, Darren speaking, how may I help you?
Me: I thought you were called Gareth.
Darren: I get that quite a lot. How may I help you?
Me: What would happen if some idiotic prole failed to heed a warning and fed human blood to the crystals on or around Day 5 of their development?
Darren: Why, that would be disasterous! Luckily, no one yet has failed to heed the warning we provide on all packets.
Me: But imagine they did. What would happen?
Darren: I do not like to think of it. Rest assured, sir, that no one would fail to heed the warning on the side of the packet, which states: 'Do not feed these crystals Tizer, Kwenchy-Kups, or human blood.' We provide the warning so that people can heed it and avoid unpleasant repurcussions.
Me: Hypothetically though, what would happen?
Darren: Sir, you upset me to continue this line of questioning. The repercussions of feeding human blood to crystals on or around Day 5 of their development would be so unpleasant that I would feel guilty telling you, for you would surely faint and split your head on the side of a radiator as you fell.
Me: I will take that risk. Please tell me Darren.
Darren: Very well....brace yourself. Feeding human blood to the crystals on or around Day 5 of their development results in the creation of.... raw.... EVIL!
Me: Raw chervil?
Darren: No....raw...EVIL!

Oops!

Grow Your Own Crystals: Day 5

I have omitted discussion of Day 4 because nothing of any note happened in terms of the crystal growth. They entered what I have termed the 'hovering phase' at 14:25 and set themselves a-flyin' around my home, which caused me no small amount of inconvenience and interfered with my television reception, ensuring I missed the second half of Soapstar Superstar.

Today the crystals have been somewhat sluggish once more and seem reluctant to grow further. I consulted the instructions on the packet which suggest that one should add a little food-coloring [sic] around Day 5 to inject a little merriment into the proceedings. Unfortunately, I have no such colouring, but have hit upon an alternative - my own blood. I have made a slit in a likely place and dripped a few drops of my vital fluid into the waiting ramekin where the crystals greedily absorbed it.

The crystals already glow red but periodically emit a high pitched screeching tone that only ceases when more blood is provided.

I foresee no problems here and look forward to tomorrow.

Grow Your Own Crystal: Day 3

The crystals are now becoming more diamond-like. I anticipate that before long I will be able to harvest the gems and begin to create beautiful jewellery with them to sell on Ebay under the tradename 'Horton's Fine Jewels and Things'.


Below you may see the crystals' continued progress - I have placed them beside a model of a jaundiced child saluting in the manner of a Nazi in order to give you an idea of scale:

Grow Your Own Crystals: Day 2

The crystals continue to multiply and swell. At the present rate of growth, the crystals will have covered the Blackscroft area of Dundee in its entirety before the month is out. Here is a further photograph, again placing the crystals next to an everyday object to give the viewer an idea of scale (in this case I have used a pewter likeness of a wolf giving suckle to two infant humans):

Grow Your Own Crystals: Day 1

I have decided to grow the crystals and keep an ongoing log of their progress for the delight and elucidation of my scientifcally-minded readers. Those readers with a grounding in the Arts should instead read The Honor of Savelli (1895) by S. Levett-Yeats and find entertainment in this swashbuckling tale.


Following the instructions on the packet, I placed the pebbles provided into a ramekin and added spirit vinegar. Here is the result of the first day's crystal growth - to give an idea of scale, I have placed the crystals alongside a common, everyday object:

A First Foot

If you have ever been visited at 10:15 am by a lady who looked exactly like deceased spiritualist Helen Duncan, jailed under the Witchcraft Act in 1944 for pretending to conjure phantoms, then you will be well aware of the initial shock that accompanies the encounter.

Your heart palpitates. You say, "Helen Duncan, can it be you? Have you returned from the dead to reap revenge on the authorities for convicting you under such an outdated law in the 40s? Your manifestation in ghostly form doubtless proves the validity of spiritualism and may hence clear your name, but would a posthumous pardon really grant you the eternal rest you crave? Such concerns are the domain of the living, Helen, and should not bother the dead. You are past such earthly tribulations. Enjoy your afterlife, Helen. Step into the light. Step into the light." Then you waft a joss-stick to facilitate her departure.

And if your encounter ran similarly to mine this morning, the lady will appear confused then announce that she is actually alive and a member of Care in the Community who has come to cheer you up during the festive time of the year. The lady claimed that she was distributing New Year 'First Foot' gifts to the poor, needy, and demented of Dundee using presents kindly donated by the affluent, independent, and sane of Dundee. I must have been mistakenly placed upon the list, but I did not let on because I am so deperately poor and could use anything of material value.

I was presented with a Zaphod Beeblebrox figurine, a 'Grow Your Own Crystal' set, and some shortbread. I thanked the lady, then stared meaningfully at her until she left. I do not know what a 'Zaphod Beeblebrox' is, but the figure depicts a grossly deformed man with two heads, so I committed it to the flames at once. The 'Grow Your Own Crystal' set will be useful, because once I have grown the crystals, I will set them in golden rings and sell them on Ebay for profit.

I ate the shortbread.

Hogmanay 2006 and New Year 2007

Happy New Year, dear readers! To celebrate Hogmanay yesterday night I switched on the television and prepared to settle down for an evening of entertainment on BBC Scotland with the cream of Scottish show business talent. I gave it 4 minutes before abandoning the scheme as a bad one. There is only so much of Jackie Bird that one man can handle.

I was forced to leave my home and seek refuge in a public house for the night. As I consider myself quite an upmarket person, I decided to venture into the plush suburb of Broughty Ferry and spend the evening there, celebrating with my fellow men and women. I did not know which taverns were good, so I settled upon one called Jollity's Hotel. It was altogether too noisy and was filled with drunk tattooed men and low slatterns, but I decided to stay for a few drinks.

I ordered a Crabbie's Green Ginger Wine from one of the barkeeps then sat in a corner to await the bells. Youngsters gyrated around my table, moving their bodies in time to such tunes as Dolly Parton's Nine to Five and the Divinyl's I Touch Myself. A 'Disc Jockey' (one who jockeys discs) occassionally interjected to remind the assembled throng that it was Hogmanay 2006 and that it would be 2007 come midnight. The crowd appreciated these reminders and thanked the 'DJ' for providing this information by raucously cheering.

When the midnight bells came around, the people sang 'Auld Lang Syne' and exchanged kisses. None of the people offered kisses to me. Neither did they wish to hold my hands for the 'Auld Lang Syne' dance. It became apparent to me that I am unpopular and that I bother people.

This is a hard lesson to bear on the first day of 2007. I should have stuck with Jackie Bird.

Considering 2006

Well, my dear readers, at this time of year one's thoughts turn to the past. It is always a rewarding experience to cast one's eyes back over the past year and remember fondly some of the events and people that have coloured one's life and brought joy to one's world. Many things have happened to me this year, some pleasant, some unpleasant, but they all share one thing in common - I can remember none of them.

Looking through the entries in my electronic diary for this year, I see many nonsensical events being recounted which I know could never have happened to me, and which I am certain I did not write. It is my belief that someone, most probably a hacker, has hacked into my diary and edited my entries to confuse me and make a farce of my project to document my daily life.

No matter. This is also the time of year to look forward (to the future). I do not know what 2007 will hold for me. The world is in turmoil: War rages in Ikea, where brave British and American troops do their best to sort out the trouble caused by the British and American governments. And as I understand it, Arran continues to develop nuclear capabilities, which will surely put Scotland's west coast at grave risk. Everywhere one looks, madness can be found. I have just seen on the news that the former captain of the English cricket team, Nasser Hussain, has been hung for crimes against humanity - whatever is the world coming to? Cricket is undoubtedly the most tedious sport devised by man, but no one deserves to be executed for their involvement in the game. Certainly, for boring the nation and causing repeats of Mork and Mindy to be rescheduled in favour of cricket matches on Channel 4, some punishment is reasonable - a light birching perhaps. If execution must take place, death by firing squad would be more than adequate - there is no call to humiliate the man's memory by killing him in such a low way as this.

In order to impose some level of control in my life in this world of derangement and chaos, I have made some New Year's resolutions which I will do my best to achieve in 2007:


1) I will become famous.
2) I will make one million dollars.
3) I will invent a hover board like the ones on Back to the Future 2.

The time between Christmas and New Year.

This is the strange time between Christmas and New Year, when one celebration is over and another lurks in wait. The tree is limp and dwindling, its ignominious fate now more apparent, undisguised as it is by the flashing green lights, the tawdry artificiality of which serves only to highlight the sad pine's dying verdancy. And I'm sick of bloody mince pies.

What is more, the festive telly is of a very poor standard this year. Admittedly they have made some effort to add excitement to Deal or No Deal? by adding a £500, 000 box in honour of the birth of our Saviour, but this can only entertain for so long. And comedy sketch show Little Britain managed to spectacularly inject some new life into its now tired format by repeating the usual sketches but setting them in different countries. It was called Little Britain Abroad and was hilarious - they have lots of catchphrases that are hugely funny like 'I am a homosexual and I live in a village', 'Yes but no but yes but no but yes', 'This computer is saying no', 'Am I bothered?', 'How very dare you', '...which was nice', 'You ain't seen me, roight?', 'I don't believe you wanted to do that!', and 'They don't like it up 'em!' Great stuff!

But on the whole, I have been unimpressed by the lack of decent films. They have only showed 14 different versions of A Christmas Carol, and only 32 films concerning the figure of Santa Claus/Father Christmas - for shame! Where is your Christmas spirit, TV bosses? And they only showed the first Jaws film - no sign of Jaws 2, Jaws 3-D, or Jaws: The Revenge!

Because of the lack of appropriate viewing material, I am unsure what to do with myself. The little scottie dog from Monopoly, which I yesterday gouged out of my thigh, is bothering me. Its tiny metallic eyes seem to follow me around the room from my mantelpiece. I fear it may be sentient in some way. If I continue to feel uncomfortable, I will simply commit it to the flames - I do not want to get involved in some sort of half-baked adventure with this damn thing, which I imagine is likely if I don't keep it in check.

A Disappointing Winterval

I am sorry to report that my Christmas was uninspiring and somewhat drab. Nobody visited me, I received no cards, my Christmas dinner consisted of Bernard Matthew's reconstituted turkey cold cuts and a packet of Fisherman's Friends for dessert, and I developed an ulcerous sore on my thigh sometime during the lacklustre Dr Who: Runaway Bride.

The sore was raw and sent twinges of pain racking through my body with each prod. Biting down upon a wooden spoon to help me bear the agony, I dug around in the weeping pus-filled gash with a teaspoon and eventually discovered a tiny metal effigy of a scottie dog. It was a player piece from the board game Monopoly, though how it came to become embedded in my thigh I have no idea.

I sanitized the wound with a liberal squirt of Fairy Liquid then sealed it with glue to the best of my ability. I have placed the pewter dog upon my mantel. It will make a curious conversation piece.

Christmas Day!

Today is the most exciting day of the year. I arose at 3:30am and crept downstairs to see if Father Christmas had visited my home. I heard a rummaging and shuffling from the Living Room and gingerly I opened the door. Beside the Christmas tree was a fat little man dressed in a red, fur-lined suit. He had a broad face and a little round belly that shook when he laughed like a bowl full of pork fat. Turning around from his night's work of plucking presents from his sack, the jolly old elf grinned at me, a pipe tightly clenched in his teeth. Winking, he then offered me a frosty glass bottle of Coca Cola.

"Are you Santa Claus?" I asked. The merry fellow laughed jollily and gave a quick nod of his head in reply.

"Then you must leave my Dundee home. Brits are traditionally visited by Father Christmas, a being with roots in Pagan tradition. You are derived from the Christian figure Saint Nicholas and visit the homes of Americans and others. You are quite different from Father Christmas. I think you must have taken a wrong turn in Albuquerque."

The fat figure chuckled and replied, "Nah mate, we've become conflated, like. I have to cover the UK too now - the kids talk about Santa these days and only a few oldies mention Father Christmas, so I've had to step in. It's a bugger."

"Well, do help yourself to some salt Santa, and kindly forgive my impertinence," I said.

"That I cannot do - you are now on my naughty list," said Santa. "No presents for you little boy."

With that, he gave a quick nod and up the chimney he rose. Pah! This sort of thing wouldn't have happened under Father Christmas!

Christmas Eve

Readers, I will continue regaling you with tales of my experience as a theatre critic later, but for now I will leave off that story because this is Christmas Eve, the night where dreams come true. Children everywhere will be singing hymns and throwing tinsel in anticipation of tomorrow's splendiferous wonderment. Even now, old Father Christmas will be readying his sleigh at the North Pole and loading his sacks with presents, ensuring that a candy cane, a toy soldier, and a teddy bear protudes from the top.

Today I ventured out of doors to complete my Christmas shopping. I have already bought a selection of presents from Ebay, but still need to get a few bits and bobs and some people to give them to. I've bought a 8x10 photograph of Dame Dudi Dench which has been signed by herself and Daniel Radcliffe, who plays the new James Baldwin. This will make a good gift for a film buff. I have also bought the following: a bag of chocolate limes, rock salt, Hong Kong Fooey socks, driving gloves, and a golf ball. The limes are for old Mrs Cribbage across the road who has been housebound for the last few months. The golf ball is for Dr Anthony Gland - all doctors plays golf, you must understand. For Professor Jessica Flitey, I have earmarked the driving gloves for I know she owns a car. I have an old friend in mind who would greatly enjoy the Hong Kong Fooey novelty socks - he now works as a lecturer in Applied Computing so has little sense of how to dress tastefully.

I think I will leave out the rock salt for Father Christmas - he will doubtless be sick of the mince pies and brandy left out by well-meaning fools and begin to crave salt as a counterbalance to the cloying sweetness of such treats. For my thoughtfulness, I will surely be left an extra gift.

I have asked old Father Christmas for a candy-cane, a shiny penny, a polished red apple, a satsuma, a selection of nuts, and some golden chocolate coins. And a Nintendo Wii. I hope that I have behaved sufficiently well to warrant all my requests.

And now, to bed!

The 2nd Half at Dundee Rep Theatre

I took my seat for the 2nd half of the play after buying an overpriced faux-Cornetto from a surly usher. Excitement prickled my loins as the lights dimmed and the curtain went up. I prepared to be transported once more into the world of Sweet Burd o' Bairns, a Scots translation by Matthew Fitt of Tennessee Williamm'ss Sweet Bird of Youth. As the players took to the stage, I could sense the magic of the theatre working its spell. I immediately slipped into a deep slumber.

The sound of applause at the end of the play woke me. I apologised to the fat gentlemen next to me whose girth I had utilized as a comforting pillow in my drowsiness. I gauged by the strength of the clapping and a certain level of American-style whooping that the show had been enjoyed by many, so decided that my review should be positive.

After leaving the auditorium, I met once again with my fellow critics who were discussing the play and drinking alcohol.

"A triumph!" wept Robert Dawson Scott.
"Fandabedozee!!" squealed Thom Dibdin.
"Gadzooks, but that was confounded rot, what what?" barked Neil Cooper.
"They should have shown the castration scene in full," said Joy Watters.
"And what did you think of it all, dear?" asked Joyce McMillan, directing her question to me.

Because I had not watched any of the play, I was caught a little off-guard by this question, so decided to bluff my way through by reviewing my faux-Cornetto instead.

"While not as complex and multilayered as the original, it nevertheless resonated with a certain home-grown chilliness and the kitch gaudiness of design added to, rather than detracted from, the overall appeal. Though the balance of elements never quite works, there is much here to enjoy," I said.

"I quite agree!" declared Joyce McMillan to the crowd, before whispering to me, "Though these ones didn't have the little blob of chocolate at the foot of the cone." Here she winked.

"After confabulation, we have charitably decided that the play is to be judged decent but flawed overall," said Joyce, "If only the director had sought out our advice first, we could have happily helped to iron out some of the more glaring errors of judgement. But it was originally by a ****ing yank, so what the **** do you expect?"

Here, Neil Cooper of The Herald produced his blunderbuss once more and fired it at a member of the Front of House staff who managed to deflect the shot with a tray of fruit pastilles. A trio of dancers from the resident Scottish Dance Theatre were the only ones to be injured, but they are ten-a-penny.

As Thom Dibdin attempted to subdue Neil Cooper and Joyce McMillan yet again, I made my escape from the building. And that, dear readers, was my first experience of the world of criticism.

Joyce McMillan

[Readers, I must apologise for my lengthy absence - there is a very mundane explanation for it, which is that my electricity was cut off by the electric people because I was unable to pay their exorbitant fees and I was thus unable to make use of my computer to update my diary. I do not see why I should have to pay for electricity when it jumps out of the sky for free and when you can create it freely by rubbing a balloon against your jumper, so I refused to pay those fat-cat, money-grubbing electric men. For 6 weeks I was able to live without electricity, but yesterday I capitulated and paid them when I learned that there is a new series of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares on, which I could not bear to miss. More on the events of the last 6 weeks will follow later: for now, I will continue my story of the critics from where I left off last month]

Joyce McMillan of The Scotsman shuffled slowly over to me and gently took my hand, cradling it gently in her own wizened palms. No taller than 3 foot 4, with the vulnerability of damp Edinburgh rock, she nevertheless exuded an aura of powerful majesty and beneficence which ensured that I at once adopted a deferential tone.

"Now do tell me, Clive, why you wish to become a playwright," she said, beaming magnificently. Her breath smelled of honeyed almonds and nutmeg.

"I...I wish to become a...a critic," I said, unaccountably feeling guilty for correcting this wonderous lady, "Not a playwright, if you please."

"But of course," said she, letting loose my hand. "You must forgive me, dearie, for not making myself clear. All critics of the theatre are, at heart, playwrights themselves."

She took a crumpled tissue from her sleeve and spat into it, then dabbed it around my cheeks and mouth. Her saliva tasted of rhubarb-and-custard flavoured sweets I bought from sweetshops as a child, and the caramel apple pies that my plump grandmother used to make.

"There now child," she said, smiling benignly, "Your face is as clean as a Christmas whistle. Now then, why do wish do become a critic? Tell old Joyce your thoughts."

I told her of my new-found pleasure in picking faults in people's work and causing anguish.

"Oh my dear little man," she said, patting my forehead tenderly, "That is not what criticism is about. You must change your views if you wish to be a good critic. Let me cradle your head in my old bosom while I tell you my philosophy of criticism.

"Now then lovey, you mustn't listen to the other critics who've spoken to you this evening. They are cynical and petty-minded. The true critic is as much a playwright as the playwright himself. The true critic adores theatre and has as important a part to play in the overall success of the play as the playwright. You see, the playwright wrights the play (just my little joke there, dear), then the critic reviews it and tells the public to enjoy or dislike it. Theatre patrons would not know if the play was good or not if they did not have critics to tell them.

"Furthermore, the critic reads the play: he interprets it, he decides what the play is about and what it is saying. The critic does this so that the public knows what is going on. So you see, dearie, the critic is as much an author of the text as the playwright. A more important author even, for the critic is the one who decides whether the play will actually be viewed by the public or not - with a negative review, the public will not come to see the play. We truly make or break the piece.

"And yes dear, we do have to write negative reviews, but again this stems from a love of theatre. If we view a play egregious to our tastes, it offends us. Because we love good theatre, we cannot bear to allow such things to appear in public. Through necessity, we must badmouth the piece and use our powers of criticism to prevent the play from being seen by the general public who might erroneously enjoy it.

"I personally hate anything written by or starring Japs. Can't abide those yellow, rice-munching nips. And as for the ****ing Welsh..."

At hearing this racist outburst, Thom Dibdin abandoned his task of tending to Neil Cooper of The Herald, and scampered over.

"Oh Joyce, are you having one of your episodes again? Come, let's top up that sherry for you," he said.

"The ****ing French are the worst though - smelly, cowardly ****s the lot of them..." shouted Joyce.

Dibdin managed to calm her down with a little more sherry and a generous portion of wristwatch skittles. He had had a tough night tending to the whimsies of the other critics, but he did not look flushed or wearied. Leaving Joyce at the bar, crying into a sherry, he came back over to me.

"I think I've settled her!" he said with a wink and a tap of the nose. "You musn't pay too much attention to her - she was dropped on her head as a child. Half a mo! That's the two minute warning - we must get back to our seats for the second half! I hope you enjoy it!"

Neil Cooper's Story

Next to step forward was the bluff old roustabout introduced earlier as Neil Cooper of The Herald.

"What ho, old trouser!" he boomed, sloshing beer froth from his tankard in his enthusiasm. "Cooper's the moniker. Tip us your daddle old bean and let's have no hubble de shuff about it, what. Some catarumpus this what, what? Come on, man, don't stand agog like a tantony pig - we're only critics, what, what."

With that, he playfully slugged me in the guts. Well readers, I understood not one jot of the man's introduction so I merely smiled and nodded.

"Never took to mindless flummery myself," he said, "Always prefered topping cullies and coves. All a jape of course, no real malice in it, what. Something of an unlicked cub in my nonage: a scapegrace of some renown. Wouldn't know it if you set your day lights on me today, with my malmsey nose and physog full of grog blossoms, what? Ho ho ho, you addlepated dandy prat!"

Laughing uproariously, he again issued me a hearty blow in the stomach, at which I buckled.

"Picked up many an enemy in my time - from jarkmen to doxies, from drummerers to kinching morts - there's no species of man or baggage that I haven't offended, usually while in my altitudes. Like David's sow, what! Presently, I have over 50 people trying to expend me. 14 people over 50 to be precise, making 64 people out to get me in total. I am a turk though - I have earned it all. My criticism is so ferocious that I bring out the dudgeon in all folks. In truth, this is my goal in being a critic - no truck with artistry or rot like that, what! I collect enemies. I challenge myself to find a pigeon's weakness and exploit it for all it's worth - I pick and prod in my reviews and criticism until I get the reaction I crave, and the game is afoot! Jolly good fun, old arse-candle! I recommend it!"

Here he clouted me amiably about the ear and guffawed.

"But I'll let you in on a secret, you lovable pole. I always keep my trusty old blunderbuss on hand, in case the blighters get too close to succeeding in their aim to off me. Had to blast me more than a couple of disgruntled playwrights in my time, what! Say, you're not one of the slanty-eyed buggers are you? Out to get me, eh? You're for it, you bounder! "

He produced an English flintlock blunderbuss from some recess in his cassock-like attire and waved it in my direction, roaring with glee. Thom Dibdin quickly leapt forward and subdued him with fruity skittles from his wristwatch.

Seemingly placated by Dibdin's sweets, Neil Cooper of The Herald was led to a quiet corner where he sat down and initiated a conversation with a potted plant. Dibdin gave me a wink and shook his head as if to convey the message, "Bless him, the silly old fool".

Shaken, I watched as Joyce McMillan silently slid off her stool and approached me.