The Dundee Dragon

The most recent piece of sculpture I have turned my Artistic eye to is the Dundee Dragon, just outside Waterstone's (formally Ottakars, and formally Pottakar's during a recent Harry Potter promotion).

The story goes that in times of old, a Dundee farmer sent his daughter down to a well to fetch water. She never returned so he sent another daughter who also failed to return. Thus he sent another daughter who did not return either. Rather than go down to the well to investigate his daughters' disappearance himself, he sent all nine of them down to the well one after the other until all were lost.

Well, as the title of this tale is 'The Dundee Dragon', some readers may have guessed that the cause of the daughters' vanishment was that a dragon had devoured them all with no small amount of greed. A hero was called for who, after some difficulty, killed the beast, as heroes typically do.

To commemorate this dragon, the city of Dundee commissioned sculptor Prentice Oliphant to create a statue in its memory. Oliphant's Dundee Dragon is designed to be interactive: children are welcome to clamber over it, pensioners are encouraged to sit on its snout and enjoy a rest, city workers typically grab a quick lunch leaning against its wings. A particularly ingenious aspect of The Dundee Dragon's interactivity is that when a button under its chin is depressed, a brief flame eminates from a tiny tube concealed in the tip of its mouth. Dundonians can frequently be seen using the sculpture's intriguing mechanism to light cigarettes, cigarellos, cigars, and pipes.

I have ensured that my drawing of the statue shows it being used as the Artist intended. I am very happy with this drawing and do not think that there are any contemporary Artists operating today who could do better than me. I hope people viewing the drawing at my street artist stall will agree with this assessment, for I mean to charge £20.00 for this one.

The Dundee Dragon

My drawing of the Dundee Dragon, featuring a young Dundonian lighting a cigarette

Penguins

New visitors to Dundee will perhaps be surprised to note the preponderance of penguin statuary in the city. However, if they have the foresight to read the explanation contained in this electronic diary entry, they will not be surprised and will instead be well-informed. At the time of writing, over thirty sculptures of penguins can be found around Dundee and environs. Here are some photographs showing just a few of them:

St. Mary's Tower, Nethergate

Riverside Drive

Dock Street (sculpture donated by Roy Castle)

Dundee Law, next to War Memorial

I will now tell you a little about Dundee's connection to penguins. I have decided to do so in the manner of a tourist guide book so that you all pay attention. Dundee's famous association with penguins stems from 1905 and Dundee's ultimately doomed attempt to establish a zoo. Plans for an internationally-renowned attraction in Dundee, featuring hundreds of exotic species and an area selling candyfloss, had been in place for several years. Suitable animal habitats had been constructed in Camperdown, but insufficient funding meant there was a great paucity of animals to delight the people of Dundee. The biggest draws were a tawny owl and a shrew, but both died after only a few months in captivity.

Salvation seemed at hand, however, when Captain Robert Falcon Scott of the RRS Discovery, who had recently returned from his expedition to the Antarctic, donated two valuable penguins to Dundee Zoo as a thank you to the city for building the ship that valiantly remained intact for the two years it was irretrievably trapped in ice. Thousands of Dundonians flocked to see the birds, but sadly their patronage did not save the zoo from closure. Dundee Zoo was downscaled to Camperdown Wildlife Park, which still remains today and displays only dull animals such as foxes, rabbits, and otters, and all the then-useless zoo animals were butchered and served to the homeless.

All that is, except for Gideon and Elnora, the two Dundee penguins. The public had grown so fond of them that there was outcry at the suggestion that their flesh be used to sustain the poor. Thus, to a cheering crowd, the pair were released into the Tay on 21st December 1905. Evidently, the penguins preferred Bonnie Dundee to the chill winds of the bleak Antarctic for they refused to leave Dundee's shores. There they remained for many years, rearing several penguin chicks, which similarly flourished.

Land reclamation work at Dundee's waterfront in the late 20th century displaced the small colony of penguins, but thankfully only as far as Broughty Ferry beach (still technically Dundee), where a modest penguin population still thrives to this day, each of them descendants of the original Gideon and Elnora. As the UK's only wild penguins, they are constantly monitored and highly protected. They are one of Dundee's biggest claims to fame, hence the abundance of penguin statues in the city. Here is a photograph of the birds today:

Penguin colony at Broughty Ferry Beach

And so my dearest and eagerest of readers, my latest Artistic work that I plan to hawk to tourists is one that I have entitled "Penguins". It is my intent to have this image printed onto t-shirts and sell those to people. As you will note, I have embraced all the tenets of modern design to produce a classy yet funky graphic to adorn a range of different sized tees. If you wish to buy one, it will cost you £12.99. Kindly ignore the smudges - my pen leaked.

Robert Burns (poet)

Continuing my Artistic tour of Dundee's statues, I now turn to the famous Robert Burns who sits outside the McManus galleries, seemingly thinking up new poems in perpetuity. This is one of four identical statues of Burns sculpted by Sir John Steell: the others are in London, Edinburgh, and Loblolly Bay.

Dundee was selected as one of the lucky places to recieve a statue because of Burns's famous association with the city. During his Poetry Tour of 1789, on the journey between Kirkcaldy and Monkbarns, he stopped off in a venerable Dundee hostelry known as Pudgetie Samuel's (still operating today under the updated name 'Fat Sam's') to use the toilets.

The eponymous proprietor was apparently furious that Burns has used the facilities without first buying a drink and threatened to hack the poet's cheek with a trout scaler unless he agreed to purchase some measure of refreshment at the inn. Having no money, Burns placated the irate landlord by offering to write a poem free of charge. Alas, only the opening stanza has survived:

To Dundee:

On Visiting a Howf in the Town (1789)

Thou donsie, bowfin, oorie city,

I gie your neebors a' ma pity;

Your glaikit bairns are far fae pretty,

An' reek o' pies.

No place in a' the world's mair shitty

Or mair despised.

A plaque featuring the poem can be found above the entrance to Fat Sam's to commemorate Burns's visit to the city.

Below is my drawing of the statue. Whilst all of you will doubtless look at the drawing itself and think, "Horton has triumphed again - good show!", I know that some of you might criticize my latest effort as being too commercial. Lest you judge me too harshly, remember that I am just trying to make money by appealling to the tourist market which laps up any sort of Scottishness. This is why I have drawn the national bard looking wistful with a selection of quotations from his poetry hovering above his head, as though the statue had just thought of them. It will appear to Americans and the like who will think this a fitting tribute to the great man and a suitable summary of his best works. I have entitled the drawing "Rabbie", which makes my rendering appear more affectionate and familiar, so that more tourists might buy a copy.


£5.00 per photocopy.

Admiral Adam Duncan

So happy was I with my success at rendering Desperate Dan so accurately in ink on Tuesday, I elected to continue in a similar vein today by drawing another of Dundee's famous sculptures. In doing so, I am not only sharing my Artisic gifts with the world but also providing an educational service to those readers of mine who have never been to Dundee and are thus ignorant of the many Artistic gems on offer.

Today's subject was the statue of Sir Admiral Adam Duncan, Lord Viscount of Camperdown Park (1731-1804), whose memorial sculpture is situated in an appropriately dignified location at the foot of the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral. Just beside KFC.

As you can see from the photograph, the sculptor has chosen to immortalize the moment in Sir Admiral Duncan's life during the battle of Camperdown after he had been struck on the spine by Dutch cannon fire, to his severe injury. Both Duncan's arms were dislocated at the shoulder and broken in several places. Demonstrating some of the incredible courage and fortitude for which he was later to be celebrated, Duncan lopsidedly shrugged off his injuries and held aloft a large stick of Edinburgh rock, declaring it a prize for the first of his men to slay the Dutch cannoneer who so deformed his arms. You will observe that the sculptor has done a magnificent job of capturing the admiral's freakish, twisted arms valiantly holding up the Edinburgh rock.

In attempting to draw this complexly-proportioned structure, I had my work cut out for me. Nevertheless, I succeeded spectacularly, as you can plainly see:

£15.00 if you want it.

Desperate Dan

As you will doubtless have observed, I am very strong in conveying the correct proportions of the human body in my Art. Additionally, I have fully mastered the disciplines of still lifes and landscapes. However, I am not so blinkered as to think that I am the finished article as an Artist: one can always improve or hone one's skills. Admitting a weakness is the greatest strength an Artist can possess. For example, I have identified something lacking in my work which I have been striving to improve - shading. Experimenting with the effects of different lighting and shadowing in my work has yielded astonishing results. Readers, if it is not too self-indulgent, allow me to state without shame that I am proud of myself.

My extensive work on shading has culminated in the piece below. Here is a photograph of the original subject:

It is Dundee's much-loved sculpture of Desperate Dan. Here is my own interpretation of this famous statue, which I have entitled, simply, 'Dan' (by omitting the 'Desperate' from the character's name, I feel I have lent the image a warm and affectionate air):

As I trust is apparent, I have succeeded rather spectacularly in capturing the warmth of the sunlight glinting on Dan's manly jaw, and the soft and diffusing light against Dan's frame. Because this piece so obviously outshines my previous efforts at Art, I will accept no less than £10.00 for it if anyone's interested.

Landscapes

As part of my ongoing efforts to extend my Artistic talents, today I decided to attempt some landscape work. Images of local sights and scenes will surely sell well. I felt reluctant about going out of doors on a Sunday in case any religious types took offence at my failure to respect the Sabbath, so I searched the computer for photographs of Dundee landmarks that I might copy.

I found this image of the Tay Bridge:

I discovered that there might be problems in using this image because the 'C' stands for 'Copy Right', an imperative meaning that whoever uses this image for their own purposes must do their very best to copy it correctly, i.e., 'copy' it 'right'. Thus, before embarking on this project, I realised I would have to respect the photographer's wishes by copying his photograph right.

To this end, I believe I have done an excellent job. Here is my drawing of the Tay Bridge, which I have entitled, 'Tay Bridge':

Doubtless, the original photographer will be delighted when he views my drawing and sees what an admirable job I have done in copying his picture right. Readers, if anyone among you appreciates Art and would like to buy the drawing, it is yours for £5.00.

Still Lifes

As my portraiture is suffering at present, I have decided to remain indoors today and try my hand at still lifes. Taking my cue from famous artists of still lifes, I went for a simple arrangement of fruit, flowers, and wine lying on a piece of crumpled cloth. To this I added a mug of coffee and a cotten reel. This selection would allow me to show off my ability to depict numerous different textures.

If I might be so indecorous as to boast, I must say that I have carried off this project very well and believe that this drawing, which I have entitled 'Still Life with Apple, Banana, Cotton Reel, Mug of Coffee, Flower, Wine, Fruitbowl, and a Bit of Cloth' (2007), will bolster my burgeoning portfolio nicely.

Here is the drawing:

Readers, if anyone among you appreciates Art and would like to buy the drawing, it is yours for £5.00.

I draw some graduands/graduates

This morning, I took up my now habitual spot outside H. Samuels at 4:00am and awaited passing trade. At 8:45am, the staff of H. Samuels arrived to open up their shop and asked me to leave. Affectionately telling me to 'p***' (piss) or 'b*****' (bugger) off each morning is starting to become a running joke between myself and those jewellers - they are a real bunch of characters. Of course, I refused, stating plainly that I had a duty to share my Artistic gift with as many Dundonians as possible for £5.00 each time.

Shortly afterwards the city square was filled with young people wearing long black robes. Druids of the Black Arts, I naturally assumed, before remembering that this was Dundee University's graduation day and these young people wearing robes were arriving at the Caird Hall to have various degrees conferred upon them by older people also wearing robes. This was an opportunity to draw some portraits and earn myself some money.

It was not long before a young girl wearing robes approached me.

"Hey, is that a portrait of Isaac Lidsky who briefly played Weasel Wyzell in Saved by the Bell: The New Class?" she asked. "It's a pretty good likeness if it is."

"Of course it is Lidsky," I replied. "What is more, my skill at capturing the likenesses of celebrities also works on non-celebrities such as yourself. For just £5.00 I can draw a picture of your face."

"That sounds like a blast," she said. "Will you do a group portrait of me and my two mates? They are also graduates."

Well readers, I could not let this lie pass unquestioned.

"Young woman, you misjudge me. I am aware that the graduation ceremony has not yet taken place. You have not yet graduated. Therefore you and your chums are actually graduands at present."

I allowed myself a smug smile at having outsmarted this graduand.

"Actually, this is my second degree," said the obvious graduand. "So, technically, I am a graduate. Sorry."

"Then you are a graduate of your previous degree," I countered, "But a graduand of your current degree. For you have not yet graduated in that one."

"Hmm, I suppose you are correct," the graduand/graduate admitted. "What we need is a term to describe someone who is simultaneously a graduate and a graduand. Any suggestions?"

"None at all. You are the graduate/graduand - you are better educated than me, so you should be the one to coin the term. Where would we be if we allowed un-degreed people to coin terms?" I said.

"I will give it some thought as you draw my portrait," she said, taking a seat beside two of her graduand friends.

Here is the finished drawing, which the graduands rejected as looking nothing like them:


They claimed that their portraits looked too much like The Munsters and refused to pay. Readers, I am afraid to admit that I myself can discern a certain Munsterousness about the drawing which was not apparent in the subjects themselves. I begin to doubt that street Artistry is my true vocation.

The female graduand/graduate (the new term she coined by the end of the sitting was 'gradiator', which I refuse to use) offered me a place at some evening Art classes that she runs so that I might improve. For you see, she was graduating with a postgraduate degree in Fine Art. I may take her up on the offer. In the mean time, readers, if anyone among you appreciates Art and would like to buy the drawing, it is yours for £5.00.

Celebrity Portraits

In an effort to attract more clients to my street Artist business, I decided that I would need to provide potential clients with examples of my Art. I have seen other street Artists show their own portraits of famous celebrities so that passers-by can quickly gauge how good the artist is at capturing a person's likeness, being as they will be familiar with what the celebrities' faces look like. I determined that I would also use this idea to show off my wares.

Below you will see my example portraits that I displayed to the Dundee public:

The famous celebrities whose portraits I chose to depict are, from top-left running clockwise, Isaac Lidsky who played the character Weasel Wyzell for one series of Saved by the Bell: The New Class; the novelist Charlotte Dacre who wrote Confessions of the Nun of St. Omer: a Tale (1805); Ronnie Duff who played Mr MacLeod in the weekly mini-soap Aig an Taigh (At Home) in the Gaelic language programme Speaking Our Language; Billy Quirk who played Zeke's Nephew in the 1909 film Oh, Uncle!; and Harriet Buchan who played Taggart's wife in Taggart.

I drew some stars around the celebrities' portraits and employed a 'snazzy' font to lend the portraits the glamour they deserved.

It was a slow day's work however, because I gained not a single commission today. It is depressing having to live in a cultural vacuum like Dundee where no one appreciates Art. Readers, if anyone among you appreciates Art and would like to buy the drawing, it is yours for £5.00.

I begin my career as an Artist

My dearest and flabbiest of readers, I must tell you of some interesting events that have happened to me today. This, after all, is the purpose of keeping an electronic diary.

Of late, I have become more comfortable with the idea of leaving my Blackscroft home and venturing out into the streets of Dundee, populated though they are by strange and unnerving people. Additionally, through my recent pretences described in earlier entries, I feel I have become very well aquainted with the world of Contemporary Art (CA). Given these circumstances, the most logical thing that I could do was begin a career as a street artist. Thus, today, I began my career as a street artist.

Flushed with the enthusiasm of youth, I bought a pen and some paper from Woolworths and set up a chair outside H. Samuels, beside the Desperate Dan statue for which Dundee is so famous. I advertised my skills via a sign with words on it. If you are interested, the words used were as follows: "Portraits Drawn By Famous Local Artist, Horton Carew - Only £5.00 Per Portrait". I capitalised every word on my sign because I felt that this would emphasise the seriousness of my endeavour.

After a while I received my first client: a mother who asked that I draw a portrait of her four-year-old son. The boy had just been to his playgroup prizegiving where he had been awarded a copy of Topsy and Tim Go Large for Excellent Attendance, and his doting mother wanted a special keepsake of the day. I was deeply honoured that she selected me to immortalize her son in this way, but I charged her £5.00 all the same. The little tyke was hard work, being unable to stand rigidly still in the rain for the three hours it took me to draw his miserable face. Furthermore, the sullen imp refused to smile despite my efforts to elicit a smirk through my recitation of 'The Story of Little Suck-a-Thumb'.

I did my best despite such hurdles, and after three hours I had produced a portrait on which I was proud to put my signature. With a flourish, I spun the page around to show the boy and his mother the finished article, which you can see below:

Readers, I am sorry to report that the customer was no Art lover. On viewing the portrait, she lauched a torrent of abuse at me, cursing my supposed artistic ineptitude, before crumpling the paper and stamping on it. She claimed that the picture in no way resembled her son and looked more like, and here I quote directly, "Eddie f***ing Munster!" The harridan then threw a can of Tizer at my temple. She stormed off, refusing to pay me the £5.00. Disgusted at her ignorance and ingratitude, I retired for the day.

Readers, if anyone among you appreciates Art and would like to buy the drawing, it is yours for £5.00.

Short entry for balance

Again, I present a short entry in an effort to break up the tedium of the previous two lengthy entries.

The Second Interview with the Postgraduate Kennie Pome (Part 2)

Readers, as promised I will now continue with my account of the second interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome. It is some time since that interview took place so naturally I have forgotten most of it. Rather than writing down only what I can remember, which is not much and would make for a stilted and aggravating transcript, I will ensure you have something enjoyable to read in this entry by making something up whenever I cannot recall exactly what was said. I am sure you will agree that this option is preferable.

Kennie Pome: Well Steve, I have to admit I've enjoyed the way in which you incorporated our last interview into the blog. It was interesting to see the way you chose to characterise me and the manner in which you distorted reality so readily. You obviously see yourself as more lamp than mirror, to borrow M.H. Abrams's dichotomy. Though in your case, the light from your lamp serves to thoroughly warp its subject through ghastly underlighting. Would you say that's a fair comment?

Me: No.


Pome: Really? That's interesting. Why not?


Me: Because I don't know what you mean.


Pome: Apologies. I did phrase that rather badly. Really, what I'm essentially asking is how much of your blog's content do you draw from real life experiences?


Me: [forgetting momentarily that I was pretending to be Steve M. R. Tubbock and was supposed to be humouring Pome's misperception that my electronic diary is fictional] Why, all of it of course.


Pome: That is very interesting. All of the strange events described in your blog have real life origins? What of some of the more outre posts? Some are really quite outrageous: what about the episode where Horton's dead mother returns as the scottie dog from Monopoly? What inspired that for instance?


Me: [panicking slightly, because of course, the actual event that inspired those diary entries was the fact that my dead mother returned as the little scottie dog from Monopoly] Oh yes Kennie Pome, I always take inspiration from everyday events. It is part of my gift. In fact, friends tend to watch what they say around me lest it end up in some character's mouth in a future book! [here I feigned a knowing chuckle] Yes, that's the life of an author - always squirreling away observations and conversations for use in some future project! It is a gift and a curse! Horton's encounter with his dead mother was inspired by a meeting I had with a cat.

Pome: A cat?

Me: Yes Pome, a cat. One Friday morning, I was in my Broughty Ferry art shop adding up columns of numbers in a jotter, when I noticed a stray cat had somehow made her way into the back of the shop. Every bone in my body told me that this cat was blessed in some way. This was a special cat. It marched boldly over to my desk and laid its paw down on a pile of papers, directly beside the name of a local artist. As it happened, I was currently debating whether or not to buy some of this artist's work to sell in my gallery. The cat seemed to nod, then bolted from the shop into the street where it ran directly under the wheels of a Vissochis ice-cream truck. I knew this cat was giving me a sign. At once, I phoned the artist and bought up twenty of his paintings. The next week I put them on display. Well, Kennie Pome, let me tell you this - so far I have sold two of them, at a little under the asking prices. That is a personal record for me. That cat gave me a sign. I truly believe that. Real life is often much stranger than fiction can ever hope to be...

Pome: And how exactly did this event inspire the fictional episode where Horton's dead mother returns as the scottie dog from Monopoly and encourages him to commit evil acts?

Me: Well Kennie Pome, I should think that that is plain enough for anyone to see.

Pome: But the two events share little, thematically, in common.

Me: Ha! Spoken like a true Hamiltonteed.

Pome: I'm sorry?

Me: In the authoring world, that is the word we authors use to describe non-authors. You simply cannot understand the world of authoring. It is not your fault. I will explain it. An author can be born of two Hamiltonteeds. Similarly, a Hamiltonteed can sometimes be born to an authoring family, though in such a case, the Hamiltonteed is more properly called a Christophertolkien . And a dark author can sometimes split up his essence and house the pieces in different objects: in the authoring world, we call such objects Horcruxes.

Pome: Fascinating.


Readers, here I will end my account of the second interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome, because I can remember no more of what transpired that day and I fear that anything else I tried to add would be mere fabrication. I will simply say that I got another £5.00 for my trouble and the promise that for future interviews, I will get £25.00. Readers, just think of all the cream I could buy with that!

The Second Interview with the Postgraduate Kennie Pome (Part 1)

There now follows a transcript of the interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome. It is not verbatim, but where I have forgotten the exact wording I have done my best to invent something that looks like it fits.


Kennie Pome: Okay Steve, once again, thanks for agreeing to the interview. Can I start by asking what you thought of the exerpt from my thesis that I sent you?

Me: [having not the first clue what he is talking about] Did you send it by post? I'm afraid I have not seen it. I am sure it is tremendous though.

Pome: I posted it on your blog earlier. No matter, I have my laptop with me: I'll let you read it now.

[here he showed me the excerpt from the thesis, which you can view by clicking this weblink with your mouse cursor]

Pome: What d'you think? Obviously, it's still in the preliminary stages, but you can see where I'm going with it I trust?

Me: ... yes?

Pome: Basically, I'm touching upon Betsy Friedrich's work on blog fiction where she analyses your blog, but I'm really extending it. She's on the right lines, but doesn't quite push it far enough. Friedrich interviewed you too, didn't she?

Me: No. I have never heard of Betsy Friedrich.

Pome: Well, someone claiming to be you has certainly spoken to her. I can show you the website.

[Here I became cunning]

Me: Oh Friedrich? Betsy Friedrich? Of course! Oh yes, yes. She interviewed me. She gave me £10.00 per interview I should add.

Pome: Steve, I will give you £15.00 per interview in future if you agree never to speak to her again. I would like exclusivity on my research into Horton's Folly.

Me: [inwardly guffawing at my guile] Okay Kennie Pome. It is a deal.

Pome: Thank you. Okay, so do you agree with my basic point in that excerpt?

Me: [having, of course, no idea what his basic point was or, indeed, what any of his points were] I surely do.

Pome: I'm glad you're on board with the idea. I suspected that might be where your brain is at when you're writing the blog! You think my notion of metaheteroglossia is a sound one? Can you see it proving fruitful to further research into Horton' Folly? What I'm asking, essentially, is 'Is this going to be a sound theoretical framework for me to pursue, or are you going to be changing you style in the near future?'

Me: To that I would reply, 'Pursue away, my boy. Pursue away!'

Pome: Good. You don't have anything planned for future blog entries that will ruin my argument?

Me: Certainly not.

Pome: I would ask, if it's not too much trouble, that you keep up the same meandering style of writing and continue in much the same way for the next few years so that my argument regarding your blog remains accurate. It'd be really annoying to write up my thesis only for you to radically change your style immediately afterwards, or even go back and edit previous entries, and completely discredit my thesis.

[Here I became even more cunning]

Me: £20.00 per interview did you say?

Pome: That can be arranged. Honestly, blogs are so nebulous and malleable that it makes researching them difficult - it's not like people who research books. Books are fixed - if you're doing a thesis on Dickens, you don't have to worry about Great Expectations changing its content every bloody day! I wrote the best part of a chapter on Arabella Morte's vampire-based blog fiction, Sumptuous Agonies, only to find she'd gone back and edited all her previous entries and completely changed the storyline. I had to bin the lot! Can I rely upon you not to do the same?

Me: Of course you can Kennie. I consider you a friend now and am only too happy to help you out. After all, you are paying me £25.00 per interview. It would be churlish of me to mess you around.


Readers, here I will break off my account of the interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome because you will doubtless prefer to see it broken up into several smaller entries rather than one very long one, so vapid and attention-deficit are you.

A short post with a picture

As the last diary entry was lengthy, with the words unbroken by colourful images, I will slip in this short entry which includes an image, so that casual visitors to my electronic diary are not put off by a series of word-heavy entries.

Ralph Waldo Emerson's dentures

My improvisation skills are tested

The postgraduate Kennie Pome bought two Belgian beers from the downstairs bar of the DCA (Dundee Contemporary Arts) and invited me to join him in a pre-interview drink. By way of small talk he asked if I had enjoyed the art exhibition currently running upstairs, a series of tartan wheelie-bins filled with garden gnomes painted blue, by the Edinburgh-based artist Farelly Rastapap. Of course, I had not seen any of this work, but I replied in character as Steve M. R. Tubbock and declared the exhibition a triumph. Pome suggested that my verdict vindicated his own, for he too had found the exhibition a resounding success on numerous levels. He claimed to follow the CA (Contemporary Art) scene in D (Dundee) closely and would review this exhibition favourably in the Stoodent Nyoos, Abertay University's student newspaper, of which he is the Arts correspondent.

"Did you get a chance to see the Duncan of Jordanstone Degree Show?" he asked.

I should explain to those ignorants amongst you that Duncan of Jordanstone is Dundee's Art College and the Degree Show is the annual exhibition of graduating students' work. You could easily have worked that out from context. You are wasting everyone's time.

My alterego Steve M.R. Tubbock, the talented author of the fictional 'Horton's Folly', would certainly have gone to such an event, so I had to quickly draw upon all my skills of improvisation and rapid adaptability.

"Yes," I said.

"Did you like it?" he asked.

This deviation from the anticipated script forced me to ad lib wildly once again. I felt Tubbock was the sort of person who would enjoy the Duncan of Jordanstone Degree Show, so I had to somehow indicate this, completely in-character, to the postgraduate Kennie Pome despite the fact that I, Horton Carew, had not actually been to the Degree Show at all.

"Yes," I said.

"Any favourite pieces?" he probed, infuriatingly.

Readers, when next you find yourselves in a situation where you are pretending to be an author of a fictional electronic diary in order to earn £5.00 and are obliged to present as true the claim that you have been to an exhibition of Contemporary Art (CA) showcasing the work of recent graduates of Art College (AC), when in fact you have not, and you are asked to comment upon your favourite piece, you might like to borrow my catch-all response because I found it worked quite convincingly.

"I forget the artist's name, but I particularly liked that dark series of paintings - the meditations on death. Very effective," I said. I waved my hands and nodded as I said this. I have seen the mentalist Derren Brown use such a technique to bamboozle proles so I thought I should mimic him.

"Oh yes! I agree," replied Pome. "Janet Peevie's work was well received. You're right though - very dark subject matter. Paintings of dismembered corpses are not for everyone! What else did you like?"

I was starting to become uncomfortable. All Degree Show exhibitions are bound to have some sort of thing about death in it, but what else might it include? My knowledge of the Contemporary Art (CA) scene is limited to three art galleries, a handful of exhibitions that I attended in order to procure free wine, and to seeing Tracy Emin once on Have I Got News For You. If Pome continued this line of questioning, I would doubtless be exposed as a fraud before long.

"I also liked that series of collages," I said, "I forget the artist's name I'm afraid, but his collages were a sort of dissection of popular trash culture. He made use of gaudy kitsch images from advertising to great effect."

"Oh yes! You're right," said Pome. "Dexter Sing's pop-culture collages really revel in the mire of tackiness, don't they? Loved his stuff with the retro Creamola Foam graphics. Anything else that you liked?"

Readers, if Pome had asked me to describe another piece of work at the Degree Show, all would have been lost. As it was, he stopped at just three and I was able to bluff my way through. Every Scottish art exhibition I have ever been to has always had a series of paintings or photographs of weather-beaten North East women who look like they've had a rough life of fishing or weaving or some such. The artist or photographer seems invariably to be called Mhairi something. I hoped that the work of such a Mhairi was similarly present at the Duncan of Jordanstone Degree Show, because I said to Pome:

"I also liked the series of black and white photographs of aged weather-beaten North Eastern fishwives by Mhairi...someone. I forget her surname. Each photograph had a caption telling us a little about each woman. What rich yet melancholy lives they led, reflected in each portrait."

"Oh yes!" said Pome (thank goodness!) "Mhairi Luthermuir's photos were wonderfully evocative. Each wrinkle on each face told a story. Marvellous! Well, shall we start the interview proper now?"

"Do I still get £5.00?" I asked.

"Of course," he replied.

"Then let us begin," I said.

Readers, I have given too much preamble today, so will leave off my account of the interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome until a later date.

An interview conducted in the DCA

The second of my interviews with the postgraduate Kennie Pome was conducted in the DCA building. In this acronym, the letters 'D', 'C', and 'A' stand for 'Dundee', 'Contemporary', and 'Arts', which is lucky because the full name of the building is 'Dundee Contemporary Arts'. The building is in Dundee's fashionable West End, around the corner from Dundee Rep Theatre, where last week they were showing a production of Happy Days by Samuel Beckett, the time traveller from Quantum Leap. I wonder who they got to play the Fonz. Further up the road is the University of Dundee, which is the better of the two universities in Dundee because it is more conveniently situated for buses, etc.

For those of you who do not know, the DCA (Dundee Contemporary Arts) is a building that has the following things in it: a cinema, an art gallery, a restaurant/bar, a gift shop, and toilets for male, female, and disabled patrons. Its cinema is not up to much because it can only afford films in foreign languages - if you want proper films in English, you are better off going to the Odeon. The DCA (Dundee Contemporary Arts) only has a bar downstairs, unlike Dundee Rep Theatre which has one bar downstairs and one bar upstairs, so if you are looking for a building with more than one bar, you would be far better served by going round the corner to Dundee Rep Theatre. The art gallery in the DCA (Dundee Contemporary Arts) is quite nice, but by plumping for the 'Contemporary' part in the name 'Dundee Contemporary Arts' (DCA), they are obliged to only show art that is contemporary. They are missing a trick here because if they omitted the 'Contemporary' part and just called themselves 'DA' (Dundee Arts), they could also be showing old art too, which is better.

Here is a picture of the DCA ('Dundee Contemporary Arts' (DCA)):

As you will see from the image, immediately outside the Dundee Contemporary Arts (DCA) is a sculpture by Lochee artist Bilko Dervish entitled 'Man 'n' Cone', which is a photorealistic piece depicting a man and a traffic cone. It is universally hated.

I went into the DCA (Dundee Contemporary Arts) and proceeded downstairs to the bar, because as you will remember, there is no bar upstairs. There I met with the postgraduate Kennie Pome who greeted me convivially and offered to buy me a fine Belgian lager to keep me refreshed during our interview

I will describe the interview in greater depth tomorrow, for this entry has already become overlong and I imagine your attention is beginning to wander.

A recap for the hard of thinking

Now readers, I will proceed to tell you about my second interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome. It has become increasingly obvious to me that the majority of my readers are what I might charitably describe as subnormal, which necessitates a certain amount of tiresome recapping in my narrative so that these readers do not become confused by the relatively simple chain of events I have thus far described.

Kennie Pome is a postgraduate student at The University of Abertay's English department and is researching fictional electronic diaries, or 'blogs' as he unpleasantly insists upon calling them. For some reason he has mistakenly come to believe that my electronic diary is fictional and that Horton Carew is a fictional character. To aid his research, he has requested a series of interviews with the author of this supposedly fictional 'blog'. Ordinarily, I would ignore such requests until the requester grew tired and left, but this requester has promised to pay me £5.00 per interview so I have done my utmost to accommodate this requester's requests. To this end, I have pretended to be one Steve M. R. Tubbock, the author of a piece of 'blog fiction' called 'Horton's Folly' and have maintained the pretence that I (Horton Carew) am (is) a fictional character. So far I have duped the postgraduate Kennie Pome twice and secured £10.00 altogether for myself. The first occasion in which I hoodwinked Pome was described earlier. I will now describe the second interview he conducted with me where I was once again successful in convincing him that I am an author by the name of Tubbock and that 'Horton's Folly' is a work of fiction.

That is the end of the recap. I am sure you will agree that it was scarcely necessary. Do not blame me, however - blame the dimwitted readers who cannot hold information in their heads for more than four minutes. Now that those lummoxes are suitably reminded of the salient facts, we can continue.

Readers, I must apologise. In my ire, I have now forgotten what I was going to write in this entry. I will continue tomorrow when I have had a chance to calm down and collect my thoughts.

An update on the past few weeks

Dearest readers, I suppose you will be curious as to what I have been doing with myself for the last few weeks while I have been unable to update my electronic diary. Alas, I fear I do not have the time or space to relate in full the many strange and upsetting situations in which I found myself.

The images below will explain the miserable and occasionally horizontal events of my last few weeks far better than screeds of detailed written explanations wherein I would describe precisely what happened to me, illustrating my anecdotes with numerous examples of my thoughts and reactions, using a variety of literary devices to engage and captivate the reader:

I am sure you can see what I am getting at. "A picture paints a thousand words," some people will tell you, if pressed. I have given you five pictures so you now have five thousand words' worth of explanation. I can do no more.

Aside from the terrible events fully explicated above, I had a further meeting with the postgraduate Kennie Pome a week ago, which I will tell you about in tomorrow's entry.

I make a triumphant return to my diary

Readers, I finally have access to my E-Blogger account again. The bigwigs at E-Blogger have allowed me to continue my career as an online diarist only on the understanding that I formally retract my denigrating comments about carob and agree to champion it in this diary whenever the subject comes up in future. To these demands I have reluctantly agreed. I must be humble and bite my tongue so that my readers do not suffer any longer from my absence. However, rest assured that this diary will not become a protracted advertisement for carob. I will not kowtow to these fatcats and betray my artistic integrity.

Apropos of nothing, I will take this opportunity to recommend some products that I have enjoyed recently and hope that some of my readers will likewise find pleasure in. They are delicious. Carob-based treats.

As a small reward to my patient readers who have endured a full month without my electronic diary to sustain them, I present a final image of a monkey. Cherish it for it will be the last. I feel that you can have too much of a good thing.

This monkey believes that pursing his lips and staring vacantly will draw

attention away from his ludicrously elongated arms.

He is incorrect.

Censored!

My dearest and plumpest of readers, please note: I will be unable to update this electronic diary for a number of weeks due to unforeseen circumstances that have resulted in my 'E-Blogger' account being suspended as from tomorrow.

Regular readers will remember that in my last few entries I elected to use my electronic diary as a soapbox to publically speak out against the evils of carob. I suggested that it was unpleasant and did not satisfy in its capacity as a substitute for chocolate. You will note that these entries have now been erased. The company that owns E-Blogger, I have since discovered, also owns the largest carob distribution company in the Northern hemisphere, and did not take kindly to me badmouthing their product. As a punitive measure, they have censored my carob-focussed entries and have frozen my E-Blogger account for a month. Readers, I am a victim of the bullying tactics of global capitalism!

Needless to say, I have become a communist. I rushed out at once and bought a t-shirt from River Island which has a picture of the Cubin Marxist revolutionary, Cheech Guevara, on it. It was only £14.99. I assume the money I spent on it will go towards funding a communist revolution somewhere and will not simply line the pockets of some fatcat t-shirt designer, otherwise I would end up looking like a buffoon rather than a renegade socialist, which would be terribly embarrassing.

Readers, I urge you to speak up against my situation. Rise up against the E-Blogger/Carob Distributor oppressors!

Ever thoughtful of my devoted readership of 14 people, I am aware that many of them will be appalled at the thought of having no 'Horton's Folly' to read for a whole month, and will at once begin tearing at their faces in a frenzied anguish. In an effort to assauge their despair, I will briefly return to my earlier practise of offering up a picture of a monkey. Readers, may this tide you over in the coming weeks.

A monkey momentarily fascinated by his own wrists.

"What power they wield," he seems to say.

Back to a Sensible Length

I must confess that although my new techniques to attract more readers to my diary has succeeded in that I now have an average of 14 readers each day instead of 10, I am unhappy with what I have become.

I have allowed myself to become seduced by the lure of possibily gaining more than 20 readers per day and entering into the big leagues. You start to think you can dip your toes into the modes of populist trash yet maintain your credibility and integrity. You start to think that you can get away with producing inferior products, and that your core fan base will indulge you such slips because they are convinced of your genius. You start to forget your true fans, and just write for the idiots. You start to think you can just post up pictures of Charlie Chalk and Martin Short for your readers to goggle at. Before you know it, your electronic diary is just a collection of links to other people's work. Before you know it, you are weeping into your lap, longing for the days when you were respected by the literary community and were berated on Late Review by Tom Paulin. Before you know it you are disgusted with yourself. Before you know it you are standing in the new Marks and Spencers in Broughty Ferry, drunk on fortified wine, your trousers on your head and your pain-contorted face slicked with aspic from three dozen purloined Melton Mowbrays.

When the police finally let me go with a caution, I returned home and vowed never again to cater to the lowest common denominator: from now on, my diary entries will revert to their usual level of intelligence. I am now going for a Radox herbal bath.

Short

This entry is the shortest yet.

Short Entry

Although my last entry was short, it was not quite as short as I had intended, so I will do my best to make this one shorter.

Here is a picture that I like.

Another Short Entry providing Balance

As my last diary entry was another long one, I will now break up my web page by including another short entry here, so that casual browsers are not put off by too much text.

The postgraduate Kennie Pome told me that, as well as including more pictures to hook readers, I should include lots more web links in my entries, so that my diary is providing a tangible service to readers by furnishing them with interesting and educational content.

Therefore, here is a web site which specializes in the matching and supplying of reclaimed imperial bricks. It has a brick library that you may browse, and the front page features an animated man that talks aloud (about bricks), providing you turn up the volume on your computer. He will keep you right.

I have also been told that I must make greater effort to interact with my readers through such means as asking them questions within my diary entries, which they might reply to through the 'comments' function. Casual browsers will see that each entry has numerous comments, and will assume that the electronic diary is extremely popular and may thus revisit.

I will try this as an experiment to see if it works:

My favourite brick from the brick web site is brick DM0202. What is yours?

The Interview with the Postgraduate: Part 2

I will now continue with Part 2 of my interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome.


Kennie Pome: Now then, Steve...

Me: Who's Steve?

Kennie Pome: You are.

Me: Oh yes of course. And Horton Carew is a fictional character which I created.

Kennie Pome: Now then, Steve, perhaps you could say a little about some of the other characters that appear on the blog via the comments function (and occasionally in the narrative itself). Dr Gland, Professor Flitey, etc. What do they lend to the diegesis?

Me: [worried, because Dr Gland and Professor Flitey would not appreciate me saying they were fictional] I did not actually create them.

Kennie Pome: That's interesting. Do you collaborate with other writers then?

Me: [inelegantly improvising] Oh yes, I have a large network of writer chums. Dr Gland's creator is Bill Tutternosker, a schoolteacher from Kirkliston, and Professor Flitey was the brainchild of Angela Civetbrawn, a homemaker (housewife) from Norfolk, Connecticut (America). They both do a really good job with those characters. We do our best to confabulate online three or four times a week, just to touch base. We've only met up in person once. We organised a Writers of Horton's Folly Christmas Party last Christmas in Connecticut. It was nice. We all sat around on Angela's veranda swigging beers and discussing what direction we wanted to take for Horton's Folly. I have to say, Angela and myself tend to be on the same wavelength, but Bill often wants to be a lot more experimental than we're comfortable with. For instance, he wanted to have Dr. Gland speaking in untranslated Hebrew at one point. Another time, he came up with this idea that Dr Gland should give up being a medical doctor and become an eco-warrier. Angela and myself usually have to rein in those wild flights of fancy!

Kennie Pome: That's interesting...

Me: I can put you in touch with Bill and Angela if you like, provided you only interview them over the phone and just give their £5.00 fees directly to me. Funnily enough, Bill and Angela both have Dundee accents just like me because they both liked mine so much they decided to copy it whenever they spoke. In fact, we often joke about how similar we all sound over the phone. You would pay them £5.00 per interview I trust?

Kennie Pome: That's interesting, but I will stick to just interviewing you. I assume that your blog is sort of an arena in which you dramatise the work of postmodern literary theorists? Is that fair to say?

Me: It certainly is Kennie. I've said so myself many times.

Kennie Pome: That's interesting. Now, what authors influence you? We'll take the usual suspects - Calvino, Borges, Eco, Pynchon, etc. - as given.

Me: Of course. Well, I have to say that I am influenced mainly by the writers of Neighbours. I really love it.

Kennie Pome: That's interesting. You're being coy again. I can see you're not comfortable with that question. That's cool - I'll drop it.

Me: No, I love Neighbours. Have you seen that Max and Steph have split up? It's sad, but I suppose Toady and Steph are free to get together now.

Kennie Pome: Okay, okay. I get the point. I'll drop that line of questioning. Right. In many ways, your blog is metacritical: how aware are you of current academic research into blog fiction (my own included) and how much of that do you incorporate into your blog?

Me: ...

Kennie Pome: Would you like me to repeat the question?

Me: Do I still get the £5.00 if I don't get all the answers right?

Kennie Pome: Okay, we'll call it a day for now. Thank you for your time. That was very interesting. Perhaps we might arrange another interview later.

Me: Yes, that would be a pleasure. We authors relish the opportunity to talk at length about our work, and to earn £5.00.



And that readers, was the interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome. You have done very well in managing to read all the way down this diary entry without losing interest or being distracted by other electronic diaries that have more links to YouTube. I do not wish to tax you further with more text, so as a small reward for your patience, here is a picture of the president of the USA (United States of America), George W. Bush.





I hope that casual browsers might see it and assume this is a website full of stinging satirical commentary. By the time they realise it is not, they will already be hooked by the pictures of monkeys further down the page and by my deft and skillful prose.

A Shorter Diary Entry for Contrast

The postgraduate Kennie Pome has also indicated to me that if I have tried the patience of my readers with a very long diary entry (upwards of 100 words), then the next diary entry I create should be shorter to give a sense of contrast and variation. Readers, if faced with two lengthy diary entries in a row, will break down and give up in tears at the effort expected of them. Therefore, this diary entry will be very short and I will continue with the second part of my interview in tomorrow's diary entry.

I do not like to waste my readers' time however, so I will use this entry to direct your attention to this website which you may explore at your leisure. Once you've read that web site in its entirety, I advise you to follow the link given by that author on the 17th April, because he has also found a very good web site that you will certainly enjoy perusing.

Certain of my readers have indictated that my recent practice of including a picture with each entry has hooked them, so the advice of postgraduate Kennie Pome is evidently something I can trust. In particular, images of simians seem to draw the readers in, so I will now continue this trend by presenting a picture of a monkey taking home a juicy pear to his spouse:

The Interview with the Postgraduate: Part 1

I will split my account of the interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome into two parts, which I will entitle Part 1 and Part 2 for ease of understanding ('Part 1' being the first part of the interview, and 'Part 2' being the second). Doing so will keep my diary entries shorter so that the reader will not be discouraged by reams of text. As I said yesterday, the postgraduate Kennie Pome informed me that electronic diaries, or 'blogs' as he insisted on calling them, are typically read by jaded and largely uninterested readers, who will not be persuaded to invest any time in reading unless they are 'hooked' by bite-sized chunklets of punchy text and attractive images. I have therefore endeavoured to adopt such a template in order to keep my readers interested. Thus, being studious of brevity, I will refrain from elaboration and continue with my account of the interview.

I cannot remember our conversation verbatim, but I will do my best to recount it exactly as I recall it. I believe I did a very convincing job of presenting myself as an author and hope you will agree.

Kennie Pome: First of all, thank you for agreeing to this interview. I have enjoyed reading your blog fiction. Let's start with a few basic questions about yourself and the nuts and bolts of your blog. What's your name?

Me: Horton Carew. Can I confirm that I will be getting £5.00 for this interview?

Kennie Pome: Yes, you'll get £5.00. But I'd prefer you to conduct this interview 'out of character'. This is serious academic research I'm doing, not a bit of fluff for the gutter press.

Me: [panicking, for I had forgotten that I was supposed to be playing a part, so distracted was I by the lemon muffin] Of course. My name is Steve M. R. Tubbock.

Kennie Pome: Thanks Steve. Do you feel comfortable sharing any personal information with me? Where are you from? What do you work as? That sort of thing?

Me: I live in Broughty Ferry where I own a small gallery that exhibits and sells the work of local artists. My wife creates sculptures of seabirds using hewn driftwood and oyster shells, which are very popular. This brings in enough money to put me in the fortunate position of devoting myself entirely to my writing.

Kennie Pome: That's interesting. What other writing projects are you working on at the moment?

Me: None. I spend all my time writing Horton's Folly, which is of course fictional. As is the handsome and erudite character 'Horton Carew'.

Kennie Pome: That's very interesting. So how long do you spend on each blog entry then?

Me: It varies. I never spend less than eight hours per entry, sometimes more if there's a lot of research required. I write my first draft by midday, then usually scrap it and start again. This abandoning is a valuable part of the creative process though: nothing is wasted. I typically write 20,000 words in total before I begin self-editing. I describe this stage as 'prose decocting' wherein I 'boil down' the 20,000 words and extract the essence of the narrative, which is what I present to the reader.

Kennie Pome: That's interesting. Can you tell me what first drew you to use the blog genre for your fiction? Would you say that you understand that blogs and diaries are conventionally thought of as confessional discourses which present secrets and avowals to readers who consequently feel that they are privy to some naked and unvarnished truth, but that, in couching a fictional narrative in this genre, you chose to mock or subvert that notion to augment your overarching concerns, in common with other postmodernist writers of metafiction, with fracturing the atavistic concept of absolutes?

Me: Yes.

Kennie Pome: It's interesting you say that because that's exactly what I would have thought. Now, what about the character of Horton Carew? Where did he stem from? How did you develop him?

Me: Well, I think of Horton as a classical Hero figure. He is fiercely intelligent, knowledgable, strong, and brave. Throughout his everyday experiences, he always shines through as the perfect human being. Horton is a character that all women fall in love with and all men aspire to be.

Kennie Pome: [laughing, for some unknown reason] That's interesting. Typifies the biting sardonicism prevalent in your blog. But seriously, how did you develop Horton's character? He's a very strange individual I think it's fair to say!

Me: [confused, but deciding to play along so as not to jeopardize my £5.00] Oh yes, of course. Horton is a strange fellow. I wanted to create a strange character.

Kennie Pome: That's interesting.

Me: Is it?

Kennie Pome: I suppose not.

Here I will break off so that my readers do not feel overwhelmed with words. And as promised, here is a picture to attract the attention of new readers and casual browsers, so that I might hook them in:

Broughty Ferry beach

The Meeting with the Postgraduate Kennie Pome

The meeting with the postgraduate Kennie Pome was a success - I earned £5.00 for only 20 minutes worth of work. We met in a sophisticated coffee house called 'Starbucks', the interior design of which was perfectly suited to our great meeting of minds. If any of my readers is a member of the intelligentsia and is ever in Dundee and in need of coffee, I can recommend this 'Starbucks' place highly. It is a real shame that you should all be deprived of access to this delighful shop just because you do not live in Dundee. If only there was some way to duplicate it and place up to seven of them in every town in the world, then you would all be able to enjoy it like me.

The postgraduate Kennie Pome introduced himself to me as Kennie Pome, postgraduate. He bought a couple of coffees and two lemon muffins for the total cost of £12.40, which may sound expensive but when you consider that the coffee tastes marginally better than Nescafe Gold Blend, then you begin to understand that one is paying for quality. Pome had recognised me straight away because I look like the photograph of myself that I include on this web site. He expressed surprise, for he had thought that the photograph was just a random strange picture chosen to look 'totally random'.

Then began the interview, which I will relate to you in full later. You see, the postgraduate Kennie Pome has advised me to keep my electronic diary entries shorter and to include more images, because his research has shown that 'web logs' with briefer entries and more pictures are read by more people. Thus I will save my account of the interview for a subsequent entry so as not to overload the reader with excessive verbiage. Furthermore, here is an image of a monkey riding a man riding a horse.

Becoming a Sham-Author: Part 2

Because I must convince the postgraduate that I am a real author and that 'Horton Carew' is a fictional character, I must do my utmost to stay in character throughout the interview if I am to secure the £5. To this end, I have created a persona for myself that would convince anyone, even P. D. Harris, the number one reviewer on Amazon.com and hence the person most knowledgable about books and authors in the world.

As related yesterday, I have modelled my appearance on such literary greats as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Terry Pratchett, OBE, who are both so good at authoring that royalty gave them titles. I have thus eschewed that view of writers as louche alcoholics, surviving on laudanum in pokey garrets, and gone instead for more workmanlike, down-to-earth craftsmen types. Tomorrow I will wear a shirt and tie and attempt to remain business like. I have fluffed up my moustache a little, but that is my only concession to flamboyance.

It strikes me that I will require a suitable name to go by. What sort of name would the author of a fictional electronic diary have? I feel initials are key to success. J. R. R. Tolkien, H. P. Lovecraft, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Poppy Z. Brite, and Thomas R.D all recognised this truth. Yes, an initial will be essential. A simple first name, a couple of initials, and an unusual surname: this formula will see me right.

Some possiblities:

Ben R. R. Glush
Joe H. L. Askew
Bill M. C. Tutternosker
Lee P. D. Florescu
Dave F. T. Civetbrawn
Steve L. J. Hubshuft
Andy W. C. DeKelb-Rittenhouse
Mark C. F. Krzywinska

I must settle on a name by tomorrow, for it is then that I must meet the postgraduate.

Becoming a Sham-Author

I have arranged to meet the postgraduate on Friday in Dundee's Starbucks coffee house for the first of my interviews. If I am to convince him that I am an author and hence earn £5, I must look the part.

I have decided to model my appearance on a selection of famous and respected authors, whose senses of dress and general demeanour I will syncretize to create a whole new persona comprising the very essence of authorial class.

Here are the authors on which I have chosen to model myself (in some cases I was unable to find images of the actual author, so I have been obliged to use lookalikes):

Arfur Conan Doyle

Charles Dickens

Jules Verne

Robert Louis Stevenson

Terry Pratchett

A Postgraduate Plagues Me

Those of you who have been following the comments left by other readers will have noted that I am currently being hounded by a postgraduate who believes me to be fictional. He wishes to conduct a series of interviews with the author of this electronic diary whom he erroneously imagines to be someone other than myself.

Ordinarily I would not humour such forwardness and brazen cheek, but as he has promised to pay me £5 per interview, I have decided to accommodate the cove. Thus will I pretend to be a writer who has fabricated everything in this electronic diary. I will disguise myself as an author and tell this postgraduate exactly what he wants to hear, even if that involves maintaining the pretence that I, Horton Carew, am a fictional character.

This will not be easy, but I believe I am up to the challenge.

Easter Treats

As it is Easter Sunday, the day before Easter Monday, and as I am feeling light and gay after my recent triumph, I have given the day over to carefree pursuits such as eating chocolates and decorating hens' eggs.

Today is truly a wonderous one, for today we remember the day, many years ago, when Jesus H. Christ rose from the dead and escaped from his cave by turning into an egg and rolling down a hill or something.

To bring you joy, I will share with you a photograph of an egg which I have decorated in such a way that it looks like Scarlett Johansson in that film where she looks like a boiled egg.

I Triumph

Success, dear readers, success! I have, for the moment, defeated my dead mother. She is imprisoned with little to no chance of ever escaping.

You see, for the past few days I made a great show of apologising to my dead mother and repeatedly promising to return to my evil ways. I even pretended to slice off my right hand as she had requested (in reality, I merely hid it up my sleeve). Evidently my ruse succeeded because her manner eventually reverted to a collegial tone rather than that of an evil mother enraged at her morally good son.

Yesterday I asked her, in as casual a tone as I could muster, whether she fancied a game of Monopoly. Perhaps, I mused aloud, it would bolster my capacity for evil for it is a game in which players are blooded in the ruthless ways of capitalism and encouraged to take delight in the financial ruination of family and friends. She agreed at once. My heart skipped two to three beats with the excitement.

She stood upon the board in the intimidating form of the little scottie dog that I have grown to loathe these last months. I chose to play as the race car because I thought that it would make me look cool. I took a deep breath and rolled the dice.

It was clear from the off that she was the better player. Within only a few circuits of the board she had established hotels on the blue set and the red set. I had succeeded only in buying the Waterworks, Fenchurch Street Station, and Old Kent Road. My fiendishly clever plan was failing almost before it had begun.

Down to my last £14, it was obvious that I would be bankrupt within my next few rolls because my mother owned all the property on the board and had at least a house on each site. I had only to wait for her to take her turn then all would surely be over. Well readers, she rolled a ten! That took her to a Chance square. My very last opportunity to defeat her.

I picked up the top most Chance card from the pile and, with trembling hand, revealed the underside. Triumph! It said, "Go to Jail. Go Directly to Jail. Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect £200". Oh frabjous day!

I moved my mother into the Jail square, my heart thumping so rapidly that I feared she would hear it.

"And now mother, I am afraid you lose," said I.

"Not so, halfwit," she replied. "I need only roll a double within my next three shots and, if I fail to do so, I must pay only £50 to secure my release. That is a paltry sum for me because I have many thousands of pounds. Besides which, you will be made bankrupt in your next few moves, and I will de victorious, you chump. Bwah haa haa haah... Now roll the dice and take your turn."

Have you guessed my plan yet readers? I expect two or three of you have, but no more than that because it really is terribly clever. You see, because my dead mother's wicked soul is trapped inside the little scottie dog from Monopoly, she is bound by the rules of that venerable board game. She is obliged to abide by its rules as you or I are bound to the rules of gravity.

Readers, I refused to take my turn. Until I do so, she must remain in Jail. And you know as well as I do, and as well as my evil mother knows, that I will never take my turn in that game of Monopoly. Bwah haa haa haaah.

Being careful not to shift any of the pieces, I gingerly carried the board and accompanying paraphernalia up to the back of my loft where I have laid it in a large chest and locked it tight. Never will I hear from that wicked soul again.

I suppose it's a bit like Jumanji starring Robin Williams.

A Secret Plan is Concocted

Readers, I am afraid I allowed myself to become distracted by numerous animated programmes these last few days, which meant I forgot about my resolve to rid my home of my dead mother's soul.

No matter, for I have hit upon a brilliant scheme. Readers, the solution is in the game of Monopoly itself! I have been blind. The answer is obvious: I must challenge my mother to a game of Monopoly...and win. Her soul being anchored to the little scottie dog from Monopoly, she will of course play as the little scottie dog, and I will play as something sexy like the racecar or the boat...

But I am saying too much. She is crafty and suspicious and may yet read my electronic diary. If so, all will be lost. I will report back to you after my plan has come to fruition.

Pray for me.

The Dog Came Back The Very Next Day

Fact 1: My dead mother's wicked soul is anchored to the little scottie dog from Monopoly.

Fact 2: If I can get rid of the little pewter dog then I can surely be rid of my dead mother's wicked soul.

This was the sort of reasoning I employed when first I hurled the little dog from out my bedroom window onto the street, where it struck the ear of a passing Mormon who understandably evinced chagrin. Alas, the next day the dog stood atop my mantelpiece as though it had never been flung away in disgust.

Next I took the dog to the top of the Law Hill and left it there, exposed to the elements. The next day, however, it had returned to its spot on the mantel.

Law Hill, Dundee

Next I packaged it up securely in a padded envelope, addressed it to Kirk Douglas in the US (America), and paid the relevant postage costs. The next day, however...well, you can undoubtedly guess the rest for you are not a buffoon.

The whole sorry affair reminded me of a cartoon I once saw on Rolf's Cartoon Time about a cat that kept returning to the home of a man who desperately wanted to be rid of the creature. It was a good cartoon. I must go and see if it is available for viewing on YouTube.

I Make a Brave Decision

Readers, I must be quick for I fear my dead mother may be eavesdropping. I have made a firm decision not to kowtow to her any longer. I will not cut off my right hand. Of that I am sure.


Last night I dreamt that Lion-O visited me. He told me that my innate goodness and reluctance to sin was not the debilitating condition I took it for. No, he told me that I should consider it a strength because all heroes everywhere, up to and including Sam Spade from The Maltese Falcon, are good. Goodness is a defining characteristic of all the most admired men (and some women) throughout history. This wisdom imparted, Lion-O faded from my ken.



But readers, his words rang true. Readers, I am good. I will be rid of my evil mother's influence. I will do it. I will surely do it.

Mother's Punishment

My dead mother demands that I sever my right hand from my right arm as penance for my lack of sins. Only then will she be satisfied that fealty has been served.

Readers, I must admit reluctance on my part to cleave my right hand from my right arm. As I am right-handed, I asked if she might reconsider and allow me to cut off my left hand instead, which I currently only use for novelty value and for maintaining a sense of symmetry, but my mother is adamant that it be my right hand.

I expect she will eventually persuade or cajole me into going through with this grim task, but I will be very sorry to see my right hand go - it has served me well these last few years and has been instrumental in many of my happiest moments on this earth.

I turn now to Microsoft's comprehensive collection of cliparts to provide illustrations of common uses of one's right hand, to convey to you exactly what everyday activities I will be missing out on when I sacrifice my hand.

Use 1: Cradling a russet apple

Use 2: Depressing buttons

Use 3: Rehearsing for an imagined day when golf courses shrink

Use 4: Shooting things (specifically guns)

Use 5: Mimicking arthritis

A Heartfelt Apology

Readers - if readers ye be, and not illiterates who have stumbled upon this page by chance and cannot understand the strange hieroglyphs you see before you - I owe each of you an apology. In the past few entries I was convinced by some delirium or wicked hex that I was monstrously evil and capable of terrible deeds. I have insulted you by refering to you as "halfwits" when I know that most of you are actually "fullwits". I have mocked you and tried your patience innumerable times and relished so doing. I have forced you to read about my various horrible acts, up to and including maiming a ladybird and trussing up a Pole.

For this I am sorry. If I could send each and every one of you a gift by way of an apology, I would, but I know that a great many of you dwell in the US (America), so postage and packaging costs would be prohibitive. If it is any consolation to you, you must know that my dead mother, in the form of the little scottie dog from Monopoly, is even now formulating my punishment, which will no doubt consist of prolonged torture culminating in a low and ignominious death. She remains wholly evil and can no longer tolerate a good and moral son such as I.

Do not weep for me. It is no more than I deserve.

Shamefaced

My late mother is furious with me. As you have no doubt ascertained through reading between the lines of my recent entries, I have been living a lie.

I am not evil and do not think I will ever be able to live a normal evil life. There is a perverse streak of goodness in me that quite prevents me from going through with evil acts. When push came to shove, I was unable to skin the Polish fellow. Moral repugnance and guilt stayed my hand. There is unfortunately no doubt that I am good. I apologised to the Polish man for letting him down, and allowed him to go free, unskinned.

"You worthless piece of ****!!" my dead mother bawled, "You're such a disappointment, Horton! You're useless! You're beyond useless! You've let me down! Why do you always shame me? You *******! That's it! I don't want you around me! Get out of my sight, you ****. I must concoct a suitable punishment. If you cannot be evil, I must harm you. I will thrash the goodness out of you! You stupid, worthless ****!! You've let me down!"

I cannot help but feel that I have let my mother down.

I Skin a Leg

Readers, I am beginning to doubt the extent of my evilness and fear that the life of a dark lord is not to be my destiny. I cannot deny that the Pole's constant weeping has aroused my sympathy. Furthermore, I have suffered the occasional pang of guilt throughout the day as I went about the grisly business of skinning the man.

My dead mother jeered and questioned my manhood when I expressed doubts, then likened me to a 'Soho Fruit'. Such mockery spurred me on to swallow my indecision and make a start on removing the Pole's skin. How the man wept! I told him not to take it personally, but he seemed determined to do so and kept asking, "Why me? Why do you do this thing to me?" Another favourite refrain of his was, "Please stop. Please let me live. I will give you money. Please, I have a family. I don't want to die. Please." Honestly, they're a talkative lot those Poles! His pleading, irritating though it was, caused me to feel pity for the man, which was most inconvenient.

I spent the entire afternoon hacking away at the man's left leg with a breadknife and a saw. The man's skin was shiny and hard and quite impossible to penetrate - my scissors and Stanley knife proved useless in this endeavour. Try as I might, I simply could not remove the skin from the Pole's leg. The man squealed and moaned the whole time too, which only served to make the process more annoying.

When Newsround came on, I gave up, utterly exhausted.

"Dear god, man! Are you protected by some voodoo and/or hoodoo?" I asked the Pole. "Try as I might, I simply cannot remove the skin from your Polish leg."

Well, readers, between heaving sobs, the Pole admitted to me that he had lost his left leg in a threshing accident as a child. Ever since then, he had been forced to wear a prosthetic.

I thought it was most rude of him not to make this known earlier, for he could easily have saved me the embarrassment of spending four and a half hours trying to skin an artficial leg. How humiliating. What must he think of me? I have promised him that I will do better next time.

As punishment for his cheek, I have confiscated his leg and have forbidden him from watching Jonathan Ross tonight.