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.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Sunday, October 29, 2006
The Morose Reminiscences of the Critic Joy Watters
The elongated shape of the critic Joy Watters stepped forward, casting a jagged shadow across the floor. Her movements were jerky and fitful as though she had been stop-motion animated by Ray Harryhausen, while her curiously extended musculature put me in mind of the giraffe-necked portraits on the Cluedo character cards. Yes, Watters was like the dark version of Miss Scarlett. Unless of course we are talking about a round of Cluedo in which it was Miss Scarlett who committed the murder. In that case, Watters would be more of a light-hearted version of Miss Scarlett, but such a description would distort my intended meaning beyond use.
"Missster Careeeewww," said Watters, speaking very slowly like that elf from Lord of the Rings played by Steve Tyler's daughter, "Alllow me to tellll you my tale." [here I will refrain from replicating her slow speech through adding letters to her dialogue because it becomes tiresome]
"I will speak candidly Mr. Carew. Though this will be hard for you to believe, I am well over 400 years old. In fact, I am 300 years over 400 years old, making me roughly 700 years old.
"I was born in 1303 in an area of Scotland now known as Monifieth, but which was then called Munnyfeef because people did not know how to spell in those days. I have since discovered that at the very moment of my birth an earthquake in Egypt destroyed the famed Lighthouse of Alexandria, which I hold to be symbolic.
"The world was a different place back then - colder, crueller, harsher, and more people dressed in browns and greens, and had tousled hair, shaggy beards, and artistically smudged faces. Pan pipes could be heard echoing through the hills at all times and tribes of Scots sat round big fires every evening looking wistful. I lived with my grubby, struggling family in a mud hut on the banks of the Tay and subsisted entirely on barnacles and seaweed.
"When I was 18, my mother was burned as a witch because she looked askance at a dog, which was held in those days to be evidence of demon worship. I was exiled from my tribe as punishment for having a witch for a mother. Exile meant certain death for a young girl in those days: without the support of a family and a network of kilted villagers, I would undoubtedly perish. One stormy night, I simply capitulated. I made my peace with the Almighty, lay down on a heath, and waited for the elements to claim my life.
"As I lay on the cold ground, I heard a man's voice bid me arise. It was impossible to disobey. As I stood up, I beheld the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Clean-shaven, well-toned, and impeccably-dressed, he was unlike the swarthy brutes that populated my village and daily beat me. He looked exactly like Mark Ramprakash on Strictly Come Dancing.
""Madam, I am Le Comte de Saint-Inapt," the beautiful man said. "You may have heard of me. You are too beautiful, too perfect, too porcelain-hued to perish in such an ignoble way. It is fortunate you are not ugly, or I would have been forced to leave you here. Come to me."
"The man had such presence and gravity of tone, and such well-defined muscles, that I drifted into his arms willingly. There I encountered such ecstasies, such myriad heightened pleasures, and such indescribable sensual delights that I couldn't walk right for a week afterwards. But then he bit my neck and sucked the blood from my body, which put a damper on the evening.
"I awoke to find my beautiful mysterious suitor had disappeared and that I had joined the ranks of the undead. I was a nosferatu, a strigio, a moroii, a wampyr...a vampire!
"To cut a long story short, Mr. Carew, I have spent the last 700 years touring the world and meeting various famous historical figures. It's been great. One downside to the vampire lifestyle, aside from people thinking you're a Goth, is that you can create nothing new. After meeting and inspiring Shakespeare, I wished to become a playwright but found that I was unable to create anything of any merit whatsoever.
"In keeping with my vampire nature, however, I found I was able to survive through leeching from others - I could suck all the goodness from the work of others and do my best to spitefully reduce the original to a shambling, enervated wreck. I became a critic.
"That is my tale. Now, if you excuse me, I shall return to my interval drink. Of course.....I do not drink......wine. No, I prefer vodka and Diet Coke."
"Missster Careeeewww," said Watters, speaking very slowly like that elf from Lord of the Rings played by Steve Tyler's daughter, "Alllow me to tellll you my tale." [here I will refrain from replicating her slow speech through adding letters to her dialogue because it becomes tiresome]
"I will speak candidly Mr. Carew. Though this will be hard for you to believe, I am well over 400 years old. In fact, I am 300 years over 400 years old, making me roughly 700 years old.
"I was born in 1303 in an area of Scotland now known as Monifieth, but which was then called Munnyfeef because people did not know how to spell in those days. I have since discovered that at the very moment of my birth an earthquake in Egypt destroyed the famed Lighthouse of Alexandria, which I hold to be symbolic.
"The world was a different place back then - colder, crueller, harsher, and more people dressed in browns and greens, and had tousled hair, shaggy beards, and artistically smudged faces. Pan pipes could be heard echoing through the hills at all times and tribes of Scots sat round big fires every evening looking wistful. I lived with my grubby, struggling family in a mud hut on the banks of the Tay and subsisted entirely on barnacles and seaweed.
"When I was 18, my mother was burned as a witch because she looked askance at a dog, which was held in those days to be evidence of demon worship. I was exiled from my tribe as punishment for having a witch for a mother. Exile meant certain death for a young girl in those days: without the support of a family and a network of kilted villagers, I would undoubtedly perish. One stormy night, I simply capitulated. I made my peace with the Almighty, lay down on a heath, and waited for the elements to claim my life.
"As I lay on the cold ground, I heard a man's voice bid me arise. It was impossible to disobey. As I stood up, I beheld the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Clean-shaven, well-toned, and impeccably-dressed, he was unlike the swarthy brutes that populated my village and daily beat me. He looked exactly like Mark Ramprakash on Strictly Come Dancing.
""Madam, I am Le Comte de Saint-Inapt," the beautiful man said. "You may have heard of me. You are too beautiful, too perfect, too porcelain-hued to perish in such an ignoble way. It is fortunate you are not ugly, or I would have been forced to leave you here. Come to me."
"The man had such presence and gravity of tone, and such well-defined muscles, that I drifted into his arms willingly. There I encountered such ecstasies, such myriad heightened pleasures, and such indescribable sensual delights that I couldn't walk right for a week afterwards. But then he bit my neck and sucked the blood from my body, which put a damper on the evening.
"I awoke to find my beautiful mysterious suitor had disappeared and that I had joined the ranks of the undead. I was a nosferatu, a strigio, a moroii, a wampyr...a vampire!
"To cut a long story short, Mr. Carew, I have spent the last 700 years touring the world and meeting various famous historical figures. It's been great. One downside to the vampire lifestyle, aside from people thinking you're a Goth, is that you can create nothing new. After meeting and inspiring Shakespeare, I wished to become a playwright but found that I was unable to create anything of any merit whatsoever.
"In keeping with my vampire nature, however, I found I was able to survive through leeching from others - I could suck all the goodness from the work of others and do my best to spitefully reduce the original to a shambling, enervated wreck. I became a critic.
"That is my tale. Now, if you excuse me, I shall return to my interval drink. Of course.....I do not drink......wine. No, I prefer vodka and Diet Coke."
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Robert Dawson Scott's Hubris
The boney and alarming Robert Dawson Scott stepped forward and deigned to recount his history:
"Mr Carew, you are new to criticism so I bid you listen carefully to my cautionary tale. This is a strange story - a story unlike anything you have ever heard. It is a story of madness - of cruel and unforgettable death - fantastic, unreal and horrible. Heed this tale. Do not make the same mistakes I did. This shall be my gift to you. Pay attention, for I will relate this tale in the historic present tense.
"The year is 1965. Picture it. I graduate from Oxford (yes, Mr. Carew, the university) seventeen years previously with a respectable 2:2 in Philosophy. I am now a successful critic. I possess a terrifying reputation as the most ascerbic, unrelenting, and caustic critic in the Northern Hemisphere. Playwrights fear me; life is good. The previous year, I attend the premiere of Harold Pinter's The Homecoming and I reduce him to tears at the interval. I earlier describe John Osborne's Look Back in Anger as "godawful dreck" and lap up the controversy which ensues. Criticism excites me and I feel I find my calling in life.
"In August of 1965 I attend a play by Erica Landor which of course I deride mercilessly. She is a fiesty broad and calls in to my office to personally reproach me the day after the review is in print. I laugh in her face and dismiss her as a talentless hack. She leaves swearing bloody revenge."
"The next week, I am invited to attend a piece of avant-garde theatre which comprises one naked man whooping around on stage and hurling faeces at the audience. I see Erica Landor at the interval and I see she talks to a friend about how this piece of theatre is dreadful rubbish. To show her up, I announce to the whole bar that Miss Landor's opinion is worthless and I personally consider this play to be among the most important and accomplished works this century. It is here that Erica Landor reaps her terrible revenge.
"'Ah-haaaa!' she says, 'Your ignoranance is betrayed! This whole night is a set up. This play is written and directed by a chimpanzee. It has no artistic merit whatsoever.'
"At this point, she introduces me to the author of the piece, an enleashed monkey by the name of Dimples. Of course, I am the immediate subject of scorn - I am laughed out of the theatre and my reputation is left in tatters. I flee from the theatre, my face red with shame.
"From this day on, every play I watch, Erica Landor and Dimples sit behind me in the audience and smirk. For two years, this goes on - my criticism suffers. It becomes intolerable. After the opening night of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (which I review as "poor") I lose my temper and drive my car over Landor and Dimples in an alley around the back of the theatre. I go back to examine them and note that they are both very dead. My tyre has driven over Dimples's hand, splitting the monkey's pinky clean off. This seems like a minor point, but you will see that it is of deadly importance shortly.
"The next night, I hear a scrabbling at my office door. Foolishly, I open it and I see the disembodied monkey finger somehow animated by some demonic force. Before I can stomp it, it slithers up my trouser leg, past my groin, up my torso, and eventually up my nose. It feels horrific. I sense it squeezing its way up my nasal passages and into my brain. I pass out.
"The next day, I wake up and imagine that my experience with the monkey finger is just a dream. I sip a cup of joe and sit down to write a review. When I go to type "Pile of excrement", I feel a sharp jag in my brain coupled with horrendous pain. I wait for an hour for the pain to dwindle. I try to type "The acting was woeful" but again the sharp pain in my brain renders me unable to think of anything but delirious agony.
"I catch on quickly - everytime I try to type anything negative in my review, the pain becomes unbearable. I know this is the monkey's finger lodged in my brain seeking to keep me in check. I weep. But I have a deadline to meet, so I am forced to turn in an entirely positive review.
"Every review I write from that day onwards is a positive one. I say nothing bad about anyone. I cannot do it."
Robert Dawson Scott sat down and wailed, "Howl! I am useless as a critic! I stink!"
"Robert," I said, "You have reviewed yourself negatively without feeling pain. How can this be possible?"
"Mr. Carew, that is the worst part of my curse. I may speak negatively only about myself. Because I am a natural critic, I long to speak ill of everyone - it is a natural impulse. The monkey pinky in my brain means I must turn all this bile and negativity upon myself for it has nowhere else to go. How loathsome I am! How ugly!"
With that, he wept and pounded his cheeks with balled fists. A cautionary tale indeed! In my future career as a critic, I must ensure I mow down no chimps!
"Mr Carew, you are new to criticism so I bid you listen carefully to my cautionary tale. This is a strange story - a story unlike anything you have ever heard. It is a story of madness - of cruel and unforgettable death - fantastic, unreal and horrible. Heed this tale. Do not make the same mistakes I did. This shall be my gift to you. Pay attention, for I will relate this tale in the historic present tense.
"The year is 1965. Picture it. I graduate from Oxford (yes, Mr. Carew, the university) seventeen years previously with a respectable 2:2 in Philosophy. I am now a successful critic. I possess a terrifying reputation as the most ascerbic, unrelenting, and caustic critic in the Northern Hemisphere. Playwrights fear me; life is good. The previous year, I attend the premiere of Harold Pinter's The Homecoming and I reduce him to tears at the interval. I earlier describe John Osborne's Look Back in Anger as "godawful dreck" and lap up the controversy which ensues. Criticism excites me and I feel I find my calling in life.
"In August of 1965 I attend a play by Erica Landor which of course I deride mercilessly. She is a fiesty broad and calls in to my office to personally reproach me the day after the review is in print. I laugh in her face and dismiss her as a talentless hack. She leaves swearing bloody revenge."
"The next week, I am invited to attend a piece of avant-garde theatre which comprises one naked man whooping around on stage and hurling faeces at the audience. I see Erica Landor at the interval and I see she talks to a friend about how this piece of theatre is dreadful rubbish. To show her up, I announce to the whole bar that Miss Landor's opinion is worthless and I personally consider this play to be among the most important and accomplished works this century. It is here that Erica Landor reaps her terrible revenge.
"'Ah-haaaa!' she says, 'Your ignoranance is betrayed! This whole night is a set up. This play is written and directed by a chimpanzee. It has no artistic merit whatsoever.'
"At this point, she introduces me to the author of the piece, an enleashed monkey by the name of Dimples. Of course, I am the immediate subject of scorn - I am laughed out of the theatre and my reputation is left in tatters. I flee from the theatre, my face red with shame.
"From this day on, every play I watch, Erica Landor and Dimples sit behind me in the audience and smirk. For two years, this goes on - my criticism suffers. It becomes intolerable. After the opening night of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (which I review as "poor") I lose my temper and drive my car over Landor and Dimples in an alley around the back of the theatre. I go back to examine them and note that they are both very dead. My tyre has driven over Dimples's hand, splitting the monkey's pinky clean off. This seems like a minor point, but you will see that it is of deadly importance shortly.
"The next night, I hear a scrabbling at my office door. Foolishly, I open it and I see the disembodied monkey finger somehow animated by some demonic force. Before I can stomp it, it slithers up my trouser leg, past my groin, up my torso, and eventually up my nose. It feels horrific. I sense it squeezing its way up my nasal passages and into my brain. I pass out.
"The next day, I wake up and imagine that my experience with the monkey finger is just a dream. I sip a cup of joe and sit down to write a review. When I go to type "Pile of excrement", I feel a sharp jag in my brain coupled with horrendous pain. I wait for an hour for the pain to dwindle. I try to type "The acting was woeful" but again the sharp pain in my brain renders me unable to think of anything but delirious agony.
"I catch on quickly - everytime I try to type anything negative in my review, the pain becomes unbearable. I know this is the monkey's finger lodged in my brain seeking to keep me in check. I weep. But I have a deadline to meet, so I am forced to turn in an entirely positive review.
"Every review I write from that day onwards is a positive one. I say nothing bad about anyone. I cannot do it."
Robert Dawson Scott sat down and wailed, "Howl! I am useless as a critic! I stink!"
"Robert," I said, "You have reviewed yourself negatively without feeling pain. How can this be possible?"
"Mr. Carew, that is the worst part of my curse. I may speak negatively only about myself. Because I am a natural critic, I long to speak ill of everyone - it is a natural impulse. The monkey pinky in my brain means I must turn all this bile and negativity upon myself for it has nowhere else to go. How loathsome I am! How ugly!"
With that, he wept and pounded his cheeks with balled fists. A cautionary tale indeed! In my future career as a critic, I must ensure I mow down no chimps!
Friday, October 27, 2006
Thom Dibdin's History
As inelegant as this opening is, I will simply continue from where I left off yesterday. The critics gave off every sign of low-key hostility as I approached, but once I introduced myself as a fellow critic, they lowered their guard. I told them that I was a newcomer to the fold and that I greatly admired their work. This endeared me to them at once. Thom Dibdin, a merry, porcelain-hued pixie of a man, skipped forward and introduced himself.
In a gesture of friendship, he lifted a shirt sleeve and showed off a chunky plastic wristwatch, the face of which he flipped open to reveal some brightly-coloured candy beads.
"Help yerself to a Skittle," he said, winking surreptiously. "I keep 'em hidden in this watch to preserve 'em from decay! Works a charm!"
I helped myself to an orange Skittle. At Dibdin's insistence, I took another, plumping this time for a red one. Both were delicious.
"Now meet the rest of the gang!" he chirruped, leading me by the hand over to the other critics. "The tall sourpusses at the back are Joy Watters of the Dundee Courier and Robert Dawson Scott of The Times. They'll give ya a hard time at first, but try not to take it personally - it's just their way! The moustachioed butterball is Neil Cooper of The Herald - he's been shot no fewer than fifteen times this year and has had his hip replaced thrice! Ain't that so Neil?"
The hirsute gentleman paused from quaffing a tankard of frothy sweet stout to nod and mutter agreement.
"And this little lady on the end is Joyce McMillan of The Scotsman, bless her cotton socks!" he said, pointing to a tiny, aimiably vacant woman enrobed in towelling. She sat atop a bar stool, nursing a sherry, with her tiny legs dangling three feet from the floor.
"Now Horton, we shall tell you our histories," said Thom Dibdin, hopping from foot to foot in his excitement. "Me first! Me first!"
Dibdin fortified himself with a wristwatch Skittle and began his autobiography:
"Throughout my childhood I worked in the famous Ribena blackcurrant processing plant in Lowestoft. Being nimble and slight, I was perfectly built for scurrying into the blackcurrant husker machine and dislodging blockages whenever they occured...and believe me, Horton, they were all too common!
"One Christmas Eve, the factory gaffer, Mr. Wizbit, treated all his boys to a trip to the local Pantomime, an amateur production of Puss in Boots. It was the first time any of us had set foot in a theatre! We were so excited! Well, of course all the other fellas loved it! But I found some of the performances stilted and forced, and the set to be as creaky and unoriginal as the gags. It was then that I realised I was born to be a critic! I handed in my notice to Mr. Wizbit the very next day and headed off to Edinburgh.
"Because I never 'ad no formal schooling, I could find no position with any of the newspapers as a critic, so I took to the streets and criticised Edinburgh's many street performers. I'd stand beside jugglers, magicians, and those people who pretend to be statues, and criticise their performances. One day, I was spotted by Cameron Colley, a journalist for The Caledonian, who gave my name to his editor. Before I knew it, I was Theatre Correspondent for that venerable paper. After one season of criticising the Fringe, I was headhunted by The Stage and have remained there ever since!"
Here he danced a sort of jig, popped a few more Skittles, then invited Robert Dawson Scott to relate his history. The looming figure by the bar visibly winced at Dibdin's showy display of enthusiasm, but nevertheless stepped forward to begin his tale. Here I will break off my narrative so as not to tire your eyes. Fear not, you may read Robert Dawson Scott's history tomorrow.
In a gesture of friendship, he lifted a shirt sleeve and showed off a chunky plastic wristwatch, the face of which he flipped open to reveal some brightly-coloured candy beads.
"Help yerself to a Skittle," he said, winking surreptiously. "I keep 'em hidden in this watch to preserve 'em from decay! Works a charm!"
I helped myself to an orange Skittle. At Dibdin's insistence, I took another, plumping this time for a red one. Both were delicious.
"Now meet the rest of the gang!" he chirruped, leading me by the hand over to the other critics. "The tall sourpusses at the back are Joy Watters of the Dundee Courier and Robert Dawson Scott of The Times. They'll give ya a hard time at first, but try not to take it personally - it's just their way! The moustachioed butterball is Neil Cooper of The Herald - he's been shot no fewer than fifteen times this year and has had his hip replaced thrice! Ain't that so Neil?"
The hirsute gentleman paused from quaffing a tankard of frothy sweet stout to nod and mutter agreement.
"And this little lady on the end is Joyce McMillan of The Scotsman, bless her cotton socks!" he said, pointing to a tiny, aimiably vacant woman enrobed in towelling. She sat atop a bar stool, nursing a sherry, with her tiny legs dangling three feet from the floor.
"Now Horton, we shall tell you our histories," said Thom Dibdin, hopping from foot to foot in his excitement. "Me first! Me first!"
Dibdin fortified himself with a wristwatch Skittle and began his autobiography:
"Throughout my childhood I worked in the famous Ribena blackcurrant processing plant in Lowestoft. Being nimble and slight, I was perfectly built for scurrying into the blackcurrant husker machine and dislodging blockages whenever they occured...and believe me, Horton, they were all too common!
"One Christmas Eve, the factory gaffer, Mr. Wizbit, treated all his boys to a trip to the local Pantomime, an amateur production of Puss in Boots. It was the first time any of us had set foot in a theatre! We were so excited! Well, of course all the other fellas loved it! But I found some of the performances stilted and forced, and the set to be as creaky and unoriginal as the gags. It was then that I realised I was born to be a critic! I handed in my notice to Mr. Wizbit the very next day and headed off to Edinburgh.
"Because I never 'ad no formal schooling, I could find no position with any of the newspapers as a critic, so I took to the streets and criticised Edinburgh's many street performers. I'd stand beside jugglers, magicians, and those people who pretend to be statues, and criticise their performances. One day, I was spotted by Cameron Colley, a journalist for The Caledonian, who gave my name to his editor. Before I knew it, I was Theatre Correspondent for that venerable paper. After one season of criticising the Fringe, I was headhunted by The Stage and have remained there ever since!"
Here he danced a sort of jig, popped a few more Skittles, then invited Robert Dawson Scott to relate his history. The looming figure by the bar visibly winced at Dibdin's showy display of enthusiasm, but nevertheless stepped forward to begin his tale. Here I will break off my narrative so as not to tire your eyes. Fear not, you may read Robert Dawson Scott's history tomorrow.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
A Trip to Dundee Rep Theatre
Readers, I have just enjoyed a most successful evening at Dundee Rep Theatre where I believe I have now firmly established myself as a theatre critic of distinction. It was a magical night – the premiere of Sweet Burd o’ Bairns, a Scots translation by Matthew Fitt of Tennessee Williams’s Sweet Bird of Youth. All of high society was in attendance, the lights were bright, the Lambrini flowed freely, and the vol-au-vents were dished out to those as wanted them. I fitted in perfectly.
Dundee Rep Theatre is a fine establishment with an internationally renowned acting company, award-winning artistic directors, and two bars – one upstairs and one down. I marched up to the box office of this prestigious building and said, “Dear lady, I am a critic. I demand a free ticket.” The young man behind the desk was sceptical and asked the name of the publication for which I worked. Panicking, I told him I was the Arts Correspondent for The Daily Thompson, a newspaper I invented on the spot. This seemed to satisfy the chap as he promptly handed me a press pack comprising a ticket, a free programme, a token for a free interval drink, and an invitation to partake of post-show wine and nibbles.
“Thank you my good woman,” I said. “You shall get a good write up from me! Ah-ha-ha.”
Taking my seat in the auditorium, I watched in awe as the house lights dimmed, the curtains rose, and the main characters, Chance Wean and Alexandra Del Lagamachie, took the stage. I immediately fell into a deep slumber.
At the interval I moseyed over to the critics’ designated area which is specially cordoned off from the riff-raff so that we do not have to hear the untrained opinions of the great unwashed. There I conversed with my fellow theatre critics. I have illustrated the encounter to let you see for yourselves the faces of the important men and women who can make or break any play in this fair nation with just a stroke of their pen.
They are, from left to right (or stage right to stage left in theatre-speak), Thom Dibdin of The Stage, Joy Watters of the Dundee Courier, Neil Cooper of The Herald, Robert Dawson Scott of The Times, and Joyce McMillan of The Scotsman.
Readers, I will break off now and tell you more about my meeting with the critics and indeed, my review of the play, in tomorrow’s entry. It is now late and I am very tired what with all the criticising I have done today.
Dundee Rep Theatre is a fine establishment with an internationally renowned acting company, award-winning artistic directors, and two bars – one upstairs and one down. I marched up to the box office of this prestigious building and said, “Dear lady, I am a critic. I demand a free ticket.” The young man behind the desk was sceptical and asked the name of the publication for which I worked. Panicking, I told him I was the Arts Correspondent for The Daily Thompson, a newspaper I invented on the spot. This seemed to satisfy the chap as he promptly handed me a press pack comprising a ticket, a free programme, a token for a free interval drink, and an invitation to partake of post-show wine and nibbles.
“Thank you my good woman,” I said. “You shall get a good write up from me! Ah-ha-ha.”
Taking my seat in the auditorium, I watched in awe as the house lights dimmed, the curtains rose, and the main characters, Chance Wean and Alexandra Del Lagamachie, took the stage. I immediately fell into a deep slumber.
At the interval I moseyed over to the critics’ designated area which is specially cordoned off from the riff-raff so that we do not have to hear the untrained opinions of the great unwashed. There I conversed with my fellow theatre critics. I have illustrated the encounter to let you see for yourselves the faces of the important men and women who can make or break any play in this fair nation with just a stroke of their pen.
They are, from left to right (or stage right to stage left in theatre-speak), Thom Dibdin of The Stage, Joy Watters of the Dundee Courier, Neil Cooper of The Herald, Robert Dawson Scott of The Times, and Joyce McMillan of The Scotsman.
Readers, I will break off now and tell you more about my meeting with the critics and indeed, my review of the play, in tomorrow’s entry. It is now late and I am very tired what with all the criticising I have done today.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
My Pathway in Criticism is Chosen
Having settled upon my new career as a critic, I had first to decide what species of critic I would be. Should I choose to be a humble reviewer and test things out for people to let them know whether it would be worth their while trying them out for themselves? Or should I be a more academic critic and analyze things in order to show how they square with the philosophies of certain Frenchmen? I decided that I was not intelligent enough to understand or appreciate the purpose of the latter type of criticism, so abandoned that at once and elected to be a common reviewer.
But what would I review? The market for film and TV reviews is already flooded - I fear my opinion would be as a raindrop in the ocean, or as a grain of sand in a desert, or as a single hundred-and-thousand upon a cake topped with hundreds and thousands of hundreds-and-thousands. Besides which, Paul Ross's and Garry Bushell's opinions on films and TV programmes are definitive and render all others unnecessary.
I toyed briefly with becoming a food critic when indulging in a mid-morning packet of prawn-cocktail crisps and a Tunnock's teacake, but I found that I could not think of enough synonyms for 'delicious' for this to be feasible.
It strikes me that what I really seek is a type of criticism that, when practised, will garner me a certain amount of respect and will lead to people thinking me highbrow and erudite, but which is really no more effort than being a TV reviewer, and comes with free wine and nibbles from folk eager to butter me up so that I might write a better review of their product. Wait a minute - I have it... I shall become a theatre critic! I already have some experience in theatre, having once seen Krapp's Last Tape and a touring production of Rookery Nook.
Tomorrow is the opening night of Dundee Rep Theatre's Sweet Burd o' Bairns, a modern Scots translation of Tennessee Williams's Sweet Bird of Youth - I shall attend this performance and write a criticism.
Glory awaits, gentle readers, glory awaits!
But what would I review? The market for film and TV reviews is already flooded - I fear my opinion would be as a raindrop in the ocean, or as a grain of sand in a desert, or as a single hundred-and-thousand upon a cake topped with hundreds and thousands of hundreds-and-thousands. Besides which, Paul Ross's and Garry Bushell's opinions on films and TV programmes are definitive and render all others unnecessary.
I toyed briefly with becoming a food critic when indulging in a mid-morning packet of prawn-cocktail crisps and a Tunnock's teacake, but I found that I could not think of enough synonyms for 'delicious' for this to be feasible.
It strikes me that what I really seek is a type of criticism that, when practised, will garner me a certain amount of respect and will lead to people thinking me highbrow and erudite, but which is really no more effort than being a TV reviewer, and comes with free wine and nibbles from folk eager to butter me up so that I might write a better review of their product. Wait a minute - I have it... I shall become a theatre critic! I already have some experience in theatre, having once seen Krapp's Last Tape and a touring production of Rookery Nook.
Tomorrow is the opening night of Dundee Rep Theatre's Sweet Burd o' Bairns, a modern Scots translation of Tennessee Williams's Sweet Bird of Youth - I shall attend this performance and write a criticism.
Glory awaits, gentle readers, glory awaits!
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Early Guisers
I have just released three children from my home. They called round during Watchdog with Nicky Campbell (that is, Nicky Campbell was on Watchdog - the three children were alone). I opened the door and was faced with the unearthly sight of a vampire, a zombie, and some form of warlock.
"The sky is blue, the grass is green, may we have our Hallowe'en?" they squeaked at me.
This immediately clued me into the situation: these were no demons, but rather youngsters disguised as such in order to earn sweetmeats and candied apples. I made an unfortunate error last year and administered a sound thrashing to what I believed was a diminutive pirate attempting to steal my doubloons. Of course, it later transpired that the pirate was a seven-year-old girl wearing a costume in the name of fun, and I was left feeling very foolish. I would not make the same mistake again.
"I know you to be younglings," I stated candidly, "And what is more, I know you want money or sweeties from me. Although you are premature, as there is still a week until the witching day, I will supply you with treats but you must first perform a trick for me in accordance with tradition."
They agreed to my terms and entered my home.
"I bid you sing or dance or whatever damn thing you intend," I said, already wearying of their presence.
The vampire stepped up and told a joke, to which the punchline was "Fang you very much".
"Well," quipped I, "You won't be winning any Perrier Awards with material like that. Don't give up your day job, sonny."
The zombie then enthusiastically but tunelessly sang a brief Hallowe'en-themed ditty to the tune of 'Sing a Song of Sixpence', which went as follows:
When I'm trick-or-treating I know what to do,
I walk on the sidewalk and bring my flashlight too!
I don't eat my candy until I'm home at last...
I check it with an adult first and then I eat it fast!
Needless to say, I berated him until he broke down in tears. Americanisms sure do bug the crap outta me. I insisted he translate it into a sensible version that included the words 'guising', 'pavement', 'torch', and 'sweets'. I offered him encouragement throughout by flicking his knees with a wet dishcloth. Though he bubbled and wept until snotters flowed freely from his nose and his eyes were red and inflamed, he eventually managed it.
The last candidate then took the makeshift stage - the one dressed as either a warlock or Weird Al Yankovic. He did a handstand followed by an inept forward roll.
"Feeble!" I concluded. "Well pipsqueaks, your act is abysmal. I have missed It's Me or the Dog now thanks to your tawdry and offensive set. You will receive no treats from me this night! Get out of my home!"
With that, they trudged out, weeping with renewed vigour. I feel marvellous, dear readers! I have found something I am good at and greatly enjoy - I shall become a critic!
"The sky is blue, the grass is green, may we have our Hallowe'en?" they squeaked at me.
This immediately clued me into the situation: these were no demons, but rather youngsters disguised as such in order to earn sweetmeats and candied apples. I made an unfortunate error last year and administered a sound thrashing to what I believed was a diminutive pirate attempting to steal my doubloons. Of course, it later transpired that the pirate was a seven-year-old girl wearing a costume in the name of fun, and I was left feeling very foolish. I would not make the same mistake again.
"I know you to be younglings," I stated candidly, "And what is more, I know you want money or sweeties from me. Although you are premature, as there is still a week until the witching day, I will supply you with treats but you must first perform a trick for me in accordance with tradition."
They agreed to my terms and entered my home.
"I bid you sing or dance or whatever damn thing you intend," I said, already wearying of their presence.
The vampire stepped up and told a joke, to which the punchline was "Fang you very much".
"Well," quipped I, "You won't be winning any Perrier Awards with material like that. Don't give up your day job, sonny."
The zombie then enthusiastically but tunelessly sang a brief Hallowe'en-themed ditty to the tune of 'Sing a Song of Sixpence', which went as follows:
When I'm trick-or-treating I know what to do,
I walk on the sidewalk and bring my flashlight too!
I don't eat my candy until I'm home at last...
I check it with an adult first and then I eat it fast!
Needless to say, I berated him until he broke down in tears. Americanisms sure do bug the crap outta me. I insisted he translate it into a sensible version that included the words 'guising', 'pavement', 'torch', and 'sweets'. I offered him encouragement throughout by flicking his knees with a wet dishcloth. Though he bubbled and wept until snotters flowed freely from his nose and his eyes were red and inflamed, he eventually managed it.
The last candidate then took the makeshift stage - the one dressed as either a warlock or Weird Al Yankovic. He did a handstand followed by an inept forward roll.
"Feeble!" I concluded. "Well pipsqueaks, your act is abysmal. I have missed It's Me or the Dog now thanks to your tawdry and offensive set. You will receive no treats from me this night! Get out of my home!"
With that, they trudged out, weeping with renewed vigour. I feel marvellous, dear readers! I have found something I am good at and greatly enjoy - I shall become a critic!
Monday, October 23, 2006
Hungover
Last night, I am ashamed to report, I willfully allowed myself to became irredeemably inebriated through drinking liberally from a vile concoction of sake and Listerine. This imbibing was a desperate attempt to mask the pain of my earlier folly in miss-posting my letters. Gentle readers, I will not attempt to defend this inexcusable debasement - there is insufficient dignity left in my character to muster pride enough to form an authentic defence. I fear I have sullied my good name, but I also feel it is my solemn duty to report to you the truth of my life, naked and unvarnished.
Though it is now late afternoon, I have only just arisen from my squalid pit of a bed, feeling weak, bleak, and meek. I have also just been seek all over the bathroom floor.
Next to my computer I notice there are some embarrassing photographs that I assume I took yesterday night as I wandered about my rooms in a drunken stupor. I have no recollection of doing so. As you will see from my profile photograph, I sometimes like to don a sort of imama or turban in a style of my own devising. This is not done for any religious reasons, but rather, I feel it adds a touch of undefinable class to my appearance (see Fig. 1). However, last night I have evidently made a mockery of the whole thing by distorting the imama and snapping several inappropriate photographs of myself (see Figs. 2 and 3). Doubtless I found it amusing at the time, but in the cold light of day I feel only burning shame. I must have been extremely drunk to fall so low.
Though it is now late afternoon, I have only just arisen from my squalid pit of a bed, feeling weak, bleak, and meek. I have also just been seek all over the bathroom floor.
Next to my computer I notice there are some embarrassing photographs that I assume I took yesterday night as I wandered about my rooms in a drunken stupor. I have no recollection of doing so. As you will see from my profile photograph, I sometimes like to don a sort of imama or turban in a style of my own devising. This is not done for any religious reasons, but rather, I feel it adds a touch of undefinable class to my appearance (see Fig. 1). However, last night I have evidently made a mockery of the whole thing by distorting the imama and snapping several inappropriate photographs of myself (see Figs. 2 and 3). Doubtless I found it amusing at the time, but in the cold light of day I feel only burning shame. I must have been extremely drunk to fall so low.
Fig. 1. My habitual way of wearing my imama. Charming.
Fig. 2. A 'fanciful' style. Note lack of adequate chin support and omission of billowing flourishes.
Fig. 3. Patently absurd.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
An Unamusing Misunderstanding
Dear readers, my career as a journalist is over before it had a chance to begin. After working through the night on my two humorous anecdotes, eventually managing seventy-one A4 sheets' worth in total, I set off this morning to post one to Woman's Own and one to The Sunday Post.
Perhaps due to inattention caused by lack of sleep, I posted them into the glass recycle bin round the back of the Wellgate Centre instead of the postbox. I realised my mistake and tried to fish them out, but enjoyed no success. I eventually had to give up because the fumes of rotten Newcastle Brown Ale emanating from that receptacle became quite overpowering.
Ironically, this turn of events is an enormously amusing misunderstanding and would doubtless entertain readers of Woman's Own or The Sunday Post, but of course, after my disaster, I am now far too disheartened and demotivated to even think about writing to either of these publications to tell them this anecdote.
I have turned to drink to soften the blow.
Perhaps due to inattention caused by lack of sleep, I posted them into the glass recycle bin round the back of the Wellgate Centre instead of the postbox. I realised my mistake and tried to fish them out, but enjoyed no success. I eventually had to give up because the fumes of rotten Newcastle Brown Ale emanating from that receptacle became quite overpowering.
Ironically, this turn of events is an enormously amusing misunderstanding and would doubtless entertain readers of Woman's Own or The Sunday Post, but of course, after my disaster, I am now far too disheartened and demotivated to even think about writing to either of these publications to tell them this anecdote.
I have turned to drink to soften the blow.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Little Old Ladies
I was presented with precious little opportunity to humorously misunderstand anything today, so I resolved to overhear an amusing conversation between two little old ladies on the bus which I might report to The Sunday Post or similar publication and secure a crisp five pound note for my trouble. After my success with Woman's Weekly, I believe I can make a passable career from my anecdotes.
I rose at 4:00am and armed myself with all the accoutrements of the professional journalist, i.e., a pad of paper and a pencil so that I could quickly record anecdotes as they happened. I took my place at the bus stop at 4:15am and when a bus finally arrived at 6:24am, I sprung aboard and appropriated a seat. There I sat for most of the day awaiting two little old ladies to overhear. The conductor periodically came and asked me to pay an additional fare so that in total, I spent £28.70 in bus fares today but these are sacrifices that professional journalists must be prepared to make. At any road, I hope The Sunday Post will pay my expenses.
Regrettably, at the closing of my day's work I had recorded only two conversations between little old ladies, but both were richly amusing. At 10:48am one old lady told her cohort that a person by the name of Betty (presumably a mutual friend of theirs) had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and had but a few months to live.
"Now, where is the pancreas?" asked the second little old lady. "Is that in the stomach?"
"Aye," said the first little old lady.
Well readers, I had to laugh! The pancreas is of course located posterior to the stomach, with one end extending towards the spleen and the other abutting the duodenum!! What I had here were two little old ladies who had their facts quite mixed up! One of them was incorrect - amusing enough - but the icing on the cake was that the other one waded in and confidently claimed the initial blooper was factually accurate! I jotted this down in my pad with a note that Woman's Own would probably appreciate this little gem.
At 4:31pm a different pair of little old ladies sat in front of me. When the conductor came and asked for their money, one of them asked, "How much is it to Whitehall Street?" The conductor replied that it would cost 60 pence. The little old lady craned her neck, cupped her ear, and said, "Was that 50 pence you said?" to which the man answered, a little more loudly this time, "No dear, I said 60 pence." She turned at once to her crony and quipped - no word of a lie! - "I thought he said 50 pence!"
What a misunderstanding! That canny old buzzard! I was near crippled with laughter but managed at last to write down an account of the event. This is certainly one for The Sunday Post.
A successful day! I have spent a great deal of time crafting these anecdotes into publishable copy. Thus far, I have 12 A4 pages worth of material on the first story. I must return now to work on the other.
I rose at 4:00am and armed myself with all the accoutrements of the professional journalist, i.e., a pad of paper and a pencil so that I could quickly record anecdotes as they happened. I took my place at the bus stop at 4:15am and when a bus finally arrived at 6:24am, I sprung aboard and appropriated a seat. There I sat for most of the day awaiting two little old ladies to overhear. The conductor periodically came and asked me to pay an additional fare so that in total, I spent £28.70 in bus fares today but these are sacrifices that professional journalists must be prepared to make. At any road, I hope The Sunday Post will pay my expenses.
Regrettably, at the closing of my day's work I had recorded only two conversations between little old ladies, but both were richly amusing. At 10:48am one old lady told her cohort that a person by the name of Betty (presumably a mutual friend of theirs) had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and had but a few months to live.
"Now, where is the pancreas?" asked the second little old lady. "Is that in the stomach?"
"Aye," said the first little old lady.
Well readers, I had to laugh! The pancreas is of course located posterior to the stomach, with one end extending towards the spleen and the other abutting the duodenum!! What I had here were two little old ladies who had their facts quite mixed up! One of them was incorrect - amusing enough - but the icing on the cake was that the other one waded in and confidently claimed the initial blooper was factually accurate! I jotted this down in my pad with a note that Woman's Own would probably appreciate this little gem.
At 4:31pm a different pair of little old ladies sat in front of me. When the conductor came and asked for their money, one of them asked, "How much is it to Whitehall Street?" The conductor replied that it would cost 60 pence. The little old lady craned her neck, cupped her ear, and said, "Was that 50 pence you said?" to which the man answered, a little more loudly this time, "No dear, I said 60 pence." She turned at once to her crony and quipped - no word of a lie! - "I thought he said 50 pence!"
What a misunderstanding! That canny old buzzard! I was near crippled with laughter but managed at last to write down an account of the event. This is certainly one for The Sunday Post.
A successful day! I have spent a great deal of time crafting these anecdotes into publishable copy. Thus far, I have 12 A4 pages worth of material on the first story. I must return now to work on the other.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Woman's Weekly
Today started exceedingly well for me, dear readers. Women's Weekly received my electronic mail in which I told them of my humorous anecdote yesterday, and they have awarded me five pounds sterling for my efforts! I decided to have another amusing misunderstanding today so that I might earn another five pounds for myself.
I picked up a piece of Lego that I found in the hall and ventured outdoors. My intention was to feign a collapse in the street and grab hold of a small child as I fell. When the small child shouted, "Ah, let go!" I planned to produce the piece of Lego and say, "Did you say 'Lego'? Why child, here is a piece for you!", whereupon we would all laugh heartily at the mistake and the child's parents would treat me to a fish tea.
The actual events of the day were disappointing. I earned myself a punch in the neck from an irate father. I did manage to work a misunderstanding into the situation by saying, "Oh, you're the child's Father you say? So you are a priest then, are you Father? Will you hear my confession then?", but this only earned me a box on the ear.
I have decided that Woman's Weekly will not be interested in publishing this story.
I picked up a piece of Lego that I found in the hall and ventured outdoors. My intention was to feign a collapse in the street and grab hold of a small child as I fell. When the small child shouted, "Ah, let go!" I planned to produce the piece of Lego and say, "Did you say 'Lego'? Why child, here is a piece for you!", whereupon we would all laugh heartily at the mistake and the child's parents would treat me to a fish tea.
The actual events of the day were disappointing. I earned myself a punch in the neck from an irate father. I did manage to work a misunderstanding into the situation by saying, "Oh, you're the child's Father you say? So you are a priest then, are you Father? Will you hear my confession then?", but this only earned me a box on the ear.
I have decided that Woman's Weekly will not be interested in publishing this story.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
An Amusing Misunderstanding
Readers, I have felt for some time now that I have not been living well. With all my numerous adventures, I have neglected my health. I have eaten and drunk very badly over the last few weeks, often going several days without any cochineal or fruit. My rooms are in dire need of repair and my body feels similarly tired and spent.
I consulted the programme How Clean is Your House? wherein a matronly sow and a spinster revealed how one might clean a fetid house using only vinegar, lemon juice, and bicarbonate of soda. Next I consulted the programme You Are What You Eat in which Dr. Gillian McKeith, the glamourous Perthshire sauce pot, berated a guarantuan hulk for eating too many doughnuts and chips and told him to change his ways by drinking dandelion root tea and eating hollowed out bell peppers with pureed chick peas.
Oh readers, in a terrible misunderstanding reminiscent of the Mr. Twiddle stories by Enid Blyton, I got my wires crossed and ate gallons of vinegar, lemon juice, and bicarbonate of soda all day, while I tried to clean my windows and hob with pureed chick peas in a hollowed-out bell pepper.
Boy, I sure did feel foolish as I copiously vomitted! I have written to various magazines with this humorous anecdote and I hope one of them will give me five pounds.
I consulted the programme How Clean is Your House? wherein a matronly sow and a spinster revealed how one might clean a fetid house using only vinegar, lemon juice, and bicarbonate of soda. Next I consulted the programme You Are What You Eat in which Dr. Gillian McKeith, the glamourous Perthshire sauce pot, berated a guarantuan hulk for eating too many doughnuts and chips and told him to change his ways by drinking dandelion root tea and eating hollowed out bell peppers with pureed chick peas.
Oh readers, in a terrible misunderstanding reminiscent of the Mr. Twiddle stories by Enid Blyton, I got my wires crossed and ate gallons of vinegar, lemon juice, and bicarbonate of soda all day, while I tried to clean my windows and hob with pureed chick peas in a hollowed-out bell pepper.
Boy, I sure did feel foolish as I copiously vomitted! I have written to various magazines with this humorous anecdote and I hope one of them will give me five pounds.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
A Plea to London Readers
Although I admit that I am somewhat relieved that the whole business with Patrick Bossert is finished with and out of my hands, I feel honour-bound to at least try to aid in the capture of Mr. Templeton Collysnook of London. I have no means of getting to London myself, but I have prepared a photofit likeness of the cad so that if any readers of my electronic diary who dwell in the Capital should see him, they might perform a citizen's arrest.
Here is the bounder:
As you will note, he looks not unlike a younger Terry Wogan or a scrawnier John Updike or a less Korean Daniel Dae Kim, with something of Carrie Fisher's jaw. There is a hint of Paul Shane around the temples with the nostrils of William Randolph Hearst. As you can see, the forehead is almost identical to that of Zooey Deschanel, and the chin is Vera Drake's, but I am undecided on the jowels - they look something like a paler Michael Fishman (D.J. from Roseanne) or a clean-shaven Greg Evigan (B.J. from BJ and the Bear) or a besmattered Anthony McPartlin (P.J. from Byker Grove) or a fatter William Shatner (T.J. from T.J. Hooker).
Good luck catching the cove!
Here is the bounder:
As you will note, he looks not unlike a younger Terry Wogan or a scrawnier John Updike or a less Korean Daniel Dae Kim, with something of Carrie Fisher's jaw. There is a hint of Paul Shane around the temples with the nostrils of William Randolph Hearst. As you can see, the forehead is almost identical to that of Zooey Deschanel, and the chin is Vera Drake's, but I am undecided on the jowels - they look something like a paler Michael Fishman (D.J. from Roseanne) or a clean-shaven Greg Evigan (B.J. from BJ and the Bear) or a besmattered Anthony McPartlin (P.J. from Byker Grove) or a fatter William Shatner (T.J. from T.J. Hooker).
Good luck catching the cove!
Monday, October 16, 2006
Mr. Templeton Collysnook
Dear readers, what a day of long misery I have endured. The lawyer appeared at my residence at precisely 9am and punctiliously removed his glove before shaking me by the hand and introducing himself as Mr. Templeton Collysnook of London.
"Welcome M'lud," I ventured. "Would you care for some Um Bongo? It is the drink of choice in the Congo, don't you know."
"'Mr. Collysnook' will suffice," he said. "Further honorifics smack of obsequiousness to my mind, and that I cannot thole. Now, your use of the trade name 'Um Bongo' and reference to the lyrics of the advertising jingle created by Gerber Foods Soft Drinks Limited under the name Libby's, would most likely qualify for fair usage under British copyright law, but I will recommend that when you inevitably come to relate this episode of your life on that infernal blog of yours, that you refrain from posting any images that are the exclusive copyright of Gerber Foods. Doubtless you will be tempted to post an image of the hippo that apocryphally took an apricot, a guava, and a mango, and, while dancing a dainty tango way down deep in the middle of the Congo, mixed it with additional fruits to create the sunny, and indeed, funny, one they call 'Um Bongo'. I would advise that you eschew the temptation to do so, as it would be illegal to reproduce this image in electronic format. It may be acceptable if you drew a picture of the hippo yourself, provided the image was used in either an educational setting or an obviously parodic fashion, but otherwise it is best to bypass the whole thorny issue entirely by omitting any image."
"But would you like some of it to drink?" I asked.
"No thank you," he said. "Do you have any Kia-Ora?"
"I do," said I, "but I fear you would find that it's too orangey for you. Besides, it's just for me and my dog."
"Shall we ignore the issue of beverages for the moment, Mr....?" he said
I told him my name and he expressed doubts that I was a real person and not a fictional persona used on a website. He asked to see my birth certificate, which I gladly showed him. After a while he seemed satisfied that I, Horton Carew, was indeed a real person.
"This is truly remarkable," he said. "Well, Mr. Carew, it seems we at Norton & Walters owe you an apology. Mr. Norton will be astonished to hear that you do actually exist and are not the hamfisted creation of some wag and/or hack."
His confidence in my existence was pleasing to hear. I offered him a seat. He warned that, legally, my offer was worded in such a way that it implied he could keep the seat in perpetuity, but that he would let me off lightly and only use it to sit upon for the duration of his visit.
"Now then Mr. Carew," he said, "You're in a spot of bother here. Allow me to speak plainly. You must remove from your website your false claims about our client Patrick Bossert, OBE, and all accompanying images. If you fail to do so, you will be stuck with a hefty fine and conceivably a stretch in the big house. Mr. Bossert is alive and well and is not an evil manifestation or criminal overlord as your website suggests. His business reputation has been inestimably tarnished by your falsehoods. His children find themselves daily bullied in school thanks to your lies. What do you say to that?"
I told him firmly that I believed my account of Bossert to be true and that the images I had used constituted fair usage, and as such, I would not be removing them from my website.
"Tell me Mr. Carew," he countered, "Do you genuinely hold that Mr. Bossert's soul is trapped in a 5 by 5 by 5 Rubik's Cube? Does that sound like the rational thought of a sane person? Or even the rational thought of a sane Dundonian?"
"I will concede that my assertion beggars logic," I conceded, "And yet it remains the whole truth of the matter. What is more, I can prove it."
With that, I climbed the ladder to my attic and retrieved the Rubik's Cube from behind the old board game, Mr. Pop. It was frosty to the touch. I presented it to Mr. Templeton Collysnook, who put on a pair of blue latex gloves and placed the Cube inside a clear specimen bag with the greatest of care.
"Thank you Mr. Carew," he said, "I shall take this back to London for experimentation. Our lab at 11 Welham Square will clear up this nonsense once and for all."
I protested that he would not be allowed to take the Cube, that it was essential to the future of the world that I keep the Cube safe, and that Al Gore himself had ordered me to be its Keeper (I made up the part about Al Gore, because I find it often helps to drop names).
"Nevertheless, Mr. Carew, I shall take this item from you."
He stood up and made for the door. I beseeched him to leave the Cube behind but he ignored my beseechings with a wry grin.
"What of the copyright infringements?" I moaned as he let himself out.
"Forget them," he said, laughing, "I have what I came for! I am afraid I could not care less for your copyright infringements. In fact, I have a little phrase and song, which I invented myself, that I like to sing at moments such as these...
Hakuna Matata! What a wonderful phrase,
Hakuna Matata! Ain't no passing craze
It means no worries for the rest of your days
It's our problem-free philosophy
Hakuna Matata! "
And with that he skipped off, singing the above lyrics that he completely invented himself. Well, dear readers, I fear that thanks to my negligence Bossert's wicked soul may be free in 30-40 years time, when the 5 by 5 by by 5 Cube is solved. I pray that when that day comes, I will already be dead.
"Welcome M'lud," I ventured. "Would you care for some Um Bongo? It is the drink of choice in the Congo, don't you know."
"'Mr. Collysnook' will suffice," he said. "Further honorifics smack of obsequiousness to my mind, and that I cannot thole. Now, your use of the trade name 'Um Bongo' and reference to the lyrics of the advertising jingle created by Gerber Foods Soft Drinks Limited under the name Libby's, would most likely qualify for fair usage under British copyright law, but I will recommend that when you inevitably come to relate this episode of your life on that infernal blog of yours, that you refrain from posting any images that are the exclusive copyright of Gerber Foods. Doubtless you will be tempted to post an image of the hippo that apocryphally took an apricot, a guava, and a mango, and, while dancing a dainty tango way down deep in the middle of the Congo, mixed it with additional fruits to create the sunny, and indeed, funny, one they call 'Um Bongo'. I would advise that you eschew the temptation to do so, as it would be illegal to reproduce this image in electronic format. It may be acceptable if you drew a picture of the hippo yourself, provided the image was used in either an educational setting or an obviously parodic fashion, but otherwise it is best to bypass the whole thorny issue entirely by omitting any image."
"But would you like some of it to drink?" I asked.
"No thank you," he said. "Do you have any Kia-Ora?"
"I do," said I, "but I fear you would find that it's too orangey for you. Besides, it's just for me and my dog."
"Shall we ignore the issue of beverages for the moment, Mr....?" he said
I told him my name and he expressed doubts that I was a real person and not a fictional persona used on a website. He asked to see my birth certificate, which I gladly showed him. After a while he seemed satisfied that I, Horton Carew, was indeed a real person.
"This is truly remarkable," he said. "Well, Mr. Carew, it seems we at Norton & Walters owe you an apology. Mr. Norton will be astonished to hear that you do actually exist and are not the hamfisted creation of some wag and/or hack."
His confidence in my existence was pleasing to hear. I offered him a seat. He warned that, legally, my offer was worded in such a way that it implied he could keep the seat in perpetuity, but that he would let me off lightly and only use it to sit upon for the duration of his visit.
"Now then Mr. Carew," he said, "You're in a spot of bother here. Allow me to speak plainly. You must remove from your website your false claims about our client Patrick Bossert, OBE, and all accompanying images. If you fail to do so, you will be stuck with a hefty fine and conceivably a stretch in the big house. Mr. Bossert is alive and well and is not an evil manifestation or criminal overlord as your website suggests. His business reputation has been inestimably tarnished by your falsehoods. His children find themselves daily bullied in school thanks to your lies. What do you say to that?"
I told him firmly that I believed my account of Bossert to be true and that the images I had used constituted fair usage, and as such, I would not be removing them from my website.
"Tell me Mr. Carew," he countered, "Do you genuinely hold that Mr. Bossert's soul is trapped in a 5 by 5 by 5 Rubik's Cube? Does that sound like the rational thought of a sane person? Or even the rational thought of a sane Dundonian?"
"I will concede that my assertion beggars logic," I conceded, "And yet it remains the whole truth of the matter. What is more, I can prove it."
With that, I climbed the ladder to my attic and retrieved the Rubik's Cube from behind the old board game, Mr. Pop. It was frosty to the touch. I presented it to Mr. Templeton Collysnook, who put on a pair of blue latex gloves and placed the Cube inside a clear specimen bag with the greatest of care.
"Thank you Mr. Carew," he said, "I shall take this back to London for experimentation. Our lab at 11 Welham Square will clear up this nonsense once and for all."
I protested that he would not be allowed to take the Cube, that it was essential to the future of the world that I keep the Cube safe, and that Al Gore himself had ordered me to be its Keeper (I made up the part about Al Gore, because I find it often helps to drop names).
"Nevertheless, Mr. Carew, I shall take this item from you."
He stood up and made for the door. I beseeched him to leave the Cube behind but he ignored my beseechings with a wry grin.
"What of the copyright infringements?" I moaned as he let himself out.
"Forget them," he said, laughing, "I have what I came for! I am afraid I could not care less for your copyright infringements. In fact, I have a little phrase and song, which I invented myself, that I like to sing at moments such as these...
Hakuna Matata! What a wonderful phrase,
Hakuna Matata! Ain't no passing craze
It means no worries for the rest of your days
It's our problem-free philosophy
Hakuna Matata! "
And with that he skipped off, singing the above lyrics that he completely invented himself. Well, dear readers, I fear that thanks to my negligence Bossert's wicked soul may be free in 30-40 years time, when the 5 by 5 by by 5 Cube is solved. I pray that when that day comes, I will already be dead.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Preparing for the Lawyer's visit
Tomorrow a lawyer will surely visit. I am imbued with a terrible sense of dread, but have decided the best course is to make the lawyer feel comfortable and welcome so that he will pass on a good report of me to Godfrey Norton.
I have put out a tray of mini Mars bars and have plucked out almost all of my chin bristles. I hope this will give the best of impressions.
I have put out a tray of mini Mars bars and have plucked out almost all of my chin bristles. I hope this will give the best of impressions.
Friday, October 13, 2006
A terrible foreboding
Readers, Mr. Godfrey Norton has sent me a further electronic mail. He asked for my home address, which I foolishly provided to him. He means to send one of his insidious law team to visit me! On Monday morning! I fear I am in trouble.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
My response to Godfrey
Once more I turned to What Shall I Say? A Complete Letter-Writer for Every Occassion (c. 1900) for guidance on how to respond to the lawyer Godfrey Norton. I realised that we were now down to serious business - there was no room for anything but the gravest letter template. Leafing through that venerable tome, I found a blueprint for how to write a letter congratulating parents on the loss of their child, which I felt was the most apt and which really captured the gravity of the situation I found myself in. Here is what I wrote to Godfrey Norton:
Dear Mr. Norton,
The news has only just reached us that little Ethel has died of scrofula in the Cottage Hospital, and I am writing immediately on behalf of the whole family to offer you and Mrs. Norton all the condolences of true friendship. We feel for you most deeply in your terrible loss and grief, and if there is anything we can do at this sad time I do hope you will not hesitate to let me know. Could Walter come to me for a few days? I would look after him with the most loving care.
With the utmost sympathy from us all and trusting God may give you strength and fortitude,
I am, dear Mrs. Twiggs,
Yours affectionately,
Cynthia Long
I hope this shows our Godfrey Norton that I am someone to trust.
Dear Mr. Norton,
The news has only just reached us that little Ethel has died of scrofula in the Cottage Hospital, and I am writing immediately on behalf of the whole family to offer you and Mrs. Norton all the condolences of true friendship. We feel for you most deeply in your terrible loss and grief, and if there is anything we can do at this sad time I do hope you will not hesitate to let me know. Could Walter come to me for a few days? I would look after him with the most loving care.
With the utmost sympathy from us all and trusting God may give you strength and fortitude,
I am, dear Mrs. Twiggs,
Yours affectionately,
Cynthia Long
I hope this shows our Godfrey Norton that I am someone to trust.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
The Law Responds
Today I received an electronic mail from Godfrey Norton, the lawyer of London. Here it is:
From: Godfrey Norton
Date: Wed, 11 Oct 2006 09:31:52 -0500
To: horton.carew@googlemail. com
CC: "Carrington, Allister", "Bubbs, Cheryl", "Gauthier, Ryan", "Weiser, Ellen", "Walters, Jennifer"
11 October 2006
Dear Sir/Madam,
I note that You have chosen not to comply with the demands set out in my previous email (03 Oct 2006). Mr. Bossert, O.B.E. therefore formally requests that Norton and Walters issue You a Final Cease and Desist Order. You have until Friday 20th October 2006 to remove from any website owned or operated by You or on Your behalf, all images of Mr. Bossert, all defamatory, fallacious and/or offensive material relating to Mr. Bossert. Failure to do so will result in You being prosecuted for Libel and Copyright Violations.
On a personal note, I have continued to read your webpage and note you have published my letter and have used it as 'comedy' material in the storyline of your fictional character, Horton Carew. I do not find this amusing and would ask that you refrain from doing so in the future. Furthermore, please do not send 'comedy' emails about 'Agnes' to my work address. You are not nearly as funny as you think you are and your 'blog' is the work of an immature adolescent scratching his pimples. If you continue to send similar emails, I will take legal action.
Very Truly Yours,
Godfrey Norton, managing partner
Norton and Walters
20 Paul Street
London
W1S 4GG
Readers, I do not know what I should do! This law man seems convinced I am imaginary. I must think carefully and send him a further electronic mail or two to convince him not to attack me with statutes and legal clauses.
From: Godfrey Norton
Date: Wed, 11 Oct 2006 09:31:52 -0500
To: horton.carew@googlemail. com
CC: "Carrington, Allister", "Bubbs, Cheryl", "Gauthier, Ryan", "Weiser, Ellen", "Walters, Jennifer"
11 October 2006
Dear Sir/Madam,
I note that You have chosen not to comply with the demands set out in my previous email (03 Oct 2006). Mr. Bossert, O.B.E. therefore formally requests that Norton and Walters issue You a Final Cease and Desist Order. You have until Friday 20th October 2006 to remove from any website owned or operated by You or on Your behalf, all images of Mr. Bossert, all defamatory, fallacious and/or offensive material relating to Mr. Bossert. Failure to do so will result in You being prosecuted for Libel and Copyright Violations.
On a personal note, I have continued to read your webpage and note you have published my letter and have used it as 'comedy' material in the storyline of your fictional character, Horton Carew. I do not find this amusing and would ask that you refrain from doing so in the future. Furthermore, please do not send 'comedy' emails about 'Agnes' to my work address. You are not nearly as funny as you think you are and your 'blog' is the work of an immature adolescent scratching his pimples. If you continue to send similar emails, I will take legal action.
Very Truly Yours,
Godfrey Norton, managing partner
Norton and Walters
20 Paul Street
London
W1S 4GG
Readers, I do not know what I should do! This law man seems convinced I am imaginary. I must think carefully and send him a further electronic mail or two to convince him not to attack me with statutes and legal clauses.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Another Letter to London
Again no reply from the lawyers! I begin to think the original electronic mail was bogus, sent by some wag to alarm me. Nevertheless, I turned once more to What Shall I Say? A Complete Letter-Writer for Every Occasion for guidance in case the lawyers are genuine.
I wanted an example of a formal letter in which the writer forcibly voices disapproval for some slight similar to that of the lawyer Godfrey Norton failing to respond to me. Example 77a. To Cease Attentions. From a Father (p. 62) seemed to answer my requirements reasonably well, so I sent that off to the law firm this afternoon. Here is a copy:
Dear Godfrey Norton,
My daughter Agnes informs me that you have lately made it your business to intrude upon her most persistently during her homeward journeys from the office where she is employed, and that you have even pressed your attentions upon her at the public restaurant where she takes her lunch.
I am writing now to say most firmly that these attentions are viewed by my daughter with the greatest disfavour and I hope you will desist immediately from giving such annoyance.
Yours faithfully,
Horton Carew.
Re-reading this now, I cannot help but wonder if Godfrey Norton will be more confused than anything else, for you must know that I do not have, nor ever have had, a daughter called Agnes, and he has shown no interest in pestering her inappropriately. Even if I did possess a daughter by the name of Agnes, I would have no qualms in permitting a wealthy London lawyer to court her. She should be grateful for whatever attention she gets as she is certainly no looker. We have always struggled for money, and we cannot afford to turn down a swanky London lawyer - this could be the making of her! Agnes, what are you thinking of?
With this in mind, I have hastily sent Godfrey Norton an additional electronic mail. It went as follows:
Dearest Godfrey,
Further to my earlier letter, I have reconsidered my position and would like you to know that you can pursue Agnes to your heart's content. Keep plugging away at her and she's bound to cave in eventually. Good luck to you sir!
Yours faithfully,
Horton Carew
P.S. She adores chocolate limes. Use this information however you wish.
There now, that should get our lawyer man back on side. I hope we get a reply shortly, for Agnes's sake.
I wanted an example of a formal letter in which the writer forcibly voices disapproval for some slight similar to that of the lawyer Godfrey Norton failing to respond to me. Example 77a. To Cease Attentions. From a Father (p. 62) seemed to answer my requirements reasonably well, so I sent that off to the law firm this afternoon. Here is a copy:
Dear Godfrey Norton,
My daughter Agnes informs me that you have lately made it your business to intrude upon her most persistently during her homeward journeys from the office where she is employed, and that you have even pressed your attentions upon her at the public restaurant where she takes her lunch.
I am writing now to say most firmly that these attentions are viewed by my daughter with the greatest disfavour and I hope you will desist immediately from giving such annoyance.
Yours faithfully,
Horton Carew.
Re-reading this now, I cannot help but wonder if Godfrey Norton will be more confused than anything else, for you must know that I do not have, nor ever have had, a daughter called Agnes, and he has shown no interest in pestering her inappropriately. Even if I did possess a daughter by the name of Agnes, I would have no qualms in permitting a wealthy London lawyer to court her. She should be grateful for whatever attention she gets as she is certainly no looker. We have always struggled for money, and we cannot afford to turn down a swanky London lawyer - this could be the making of her! Agnes, what are you thinking of?
With this in mind, I have hastily sent Godfrey Norton an additional electronic mail. It went as follows:
Dearest Godfrey,
Further to my earlier letter, I have reconsidered my position and would like you to know that you can pursue Agnes to your heart's content. Keep plugging away at her and she's bound to cave in eventually. Good luck to you sir!
Yours faithfully,
Horton Carew
P.S. She adores chocolate limes. Use this information however you wish.
There now, that should get our lawyer man back on side. I hope we get a reply shortly, for Agnes's sake.
Monday, October 09, 2006
A Second Reply to Godfrey Norton
Ladies and gentlemen, I have still not received a reply from Godfrey Norton the lawyer. I reasoned that he must be in some way affronted by my casual letter. Not intending him any offence, I wrote another electronic mail to him, but made every effort to do it properly and officially.
I consulted my copy of What Shall I Say? A Complete Letter-Writer for Every Occasion (London: George Newnes, c.1900) which gives examples of letters for considerably less than every conceivable occasion. I say this as it offered no blueprint for a letter to admonish a lawyer for slackness of reply.
The best I could find was No. 80: Reproaching a Lover (p. 64) which I sent off to Godfrey Norton this morning via electronic mail. I had to adapt some of it, but I sought to keep as much of the mannerly and polished prose in tact, as it is bound to make a good impression. Below is a copy of the letter I sent:
My dear Godfrey,
It is only after very careful and anxious thought that I am writing this letter, and it is because I have felt that you are growing cold towards me that I am doing so. Your office affairs seem to fill far more of your time than they did in the first glamour of our engagement. You used then to play tennis with me every week-end, but now you have taken up cricket instead. Even on Sundays you appear to prefer motoring with the Wilkinsons to taking walks with me.
I know there is no other client in this case, Godfrey, but it does seem to me that there is a growing coldness between us, and it is simply breaking my heart. Do come to-morrow evening and let us talk the whole matter over, dear. I love you more than ever, but cannot help feeling that matters must not continue as they are. Shall I send back your ring?
Your loving
Horton.
I do hope this will do the trick.
I consulted my copy of What Shall I Say? A Complete Letter-Writer for Every Occasion (London: George Newnes, c.1900) which gives examples of letters for considerably less than every conceivable occasion. I say this as it offered no blueprint for a letter to admonish a lawyer for slackness of reply.
The best I could find was No. 80: Reproaching a Lover (p. 64) which I sent off to Godfrey Norton this morning via electronic mail. I had to adapt some of it, but I sought to keep as much of the mannerly and polished prose in tact, as it is bound to make a good impression. Below is a copy of the letter I sent:
My dear Godfrey,
It is only after very careful and anxious thought that I am writing this letter, and it is because I have felt that you are growing cold towards me that I am doing so. Your office affairs seem to fill far more of your time than they did in the first glamour of our engagement. You used then to play tennis with me every week-end, but now you have taken up cricket instead. Even on Sundays you appear to prefer motoring with the Wilkinsons to taking walks with me.
I know there is no other client in this case, Godfrey, but it does seem to me that there is a growing coldness between us, and it is simply breaking my heart. Do come to-morrow evening and let us talk the whole matter over, dear. I love you more than ever, but cannot help feeling that matters must not continue as they are. Shall I send back your ring?
Your loving
Horton.
I do hope this will do the trick.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
A Word on the Idleness of Lawyers
Again there has been no reply from the lawyers Norton&Walters of London. I assume this is because they are not in the office at the weekend, lawyers being notoriously lazy about working. I fully expect they have not set foot in their place of work for the entire duration of the weekend, idle as they are. They have most probably spent their weekends having long lies, visiting garden centres, or picnicking with their families, the soulless, money-sucking demons that they are.
These evil black-hearted laggards abandon their clients for two whole days every week and spend those two days relaxing and enjoying themselves, no doubt imbibing upwards of a glass of red wine with their spouse on Saturday evening while languidly watching The X-Factor. It sickens me to think of these hardhearted, uncaring swine being paid through the nose to help people, only to work on cases for just five days throughout the week before unthinkingly dropping everything for two whole days to have a rest and spend time with their loved ones! Foppish, lazy lawyers feel their work is so important that they can only work for 5 days per week before having a two-day break from their so-called labour. Decadence to the point of heresy! Disgusting!
Readers, never trust a lawyer - they are low, callous, stony creatures with no hearts. How I hate them.
These evil black-hearted laggards abandon their clients for two whole days every week and spend those two days relaxing and enjoying themselves, no doubt imbibing upwards of a glass of red wine with their spouse on Saturday evening while languidly watching The X-Factor. It sickens me to think of these hardhearted, uncaring swine being paid through the nose to help people, only to work on cases for just five days throughout the week before unthinkingly dropping everything for two whole days to have a rest and spend time with their loved ones! Foppish, lazy lawyers feel their work is so important that they can only work for 5 days per week before having a two-day break from their so-called labour. Decadence to the point of heresy! Disgusting!
Readers, never trust a lawyer - they are low, callous, stony creatures with no hearts. How I hate them.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Electronic Mails
Still no reply today! I did receive 4 electronic mails today, each of which set my heart a-racing when it appeared in my inbox. One was trying to sell me a product that would enable me to keep going all night, but I value regular sleep so I do not see how this would be beneficial to me. Another was from amazon.co.uk who had apparently weighed up my previous purchases and decided that, based upon this information, I might like to buy Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code, Shock! Horror! Astounding Artwork From the Video Nasty Era by Marc Morris et al, James Lear's The Back Passage, John Hancock's Let's Scare Jessica to Death, or Pixar's A Bug's Life. Another electronic mail was from Prince M'butu Azaka from Nigeria who had been deposed and has a fortune from diamond mines which he wanted to store in my bank account. The fourth was from Prince Uzami Abdullah from Nigeria who was in the same boat, so I sent his details to HRH M'butu Azaka so that they might be able to help each other out or at least set up a support network for deposed princes.
Today has been rather a wasted day I am afraid: I have achieved nothing of note, but I have ordered A Bug's Life from Play.com where it was cheaper than Amazon - I am a clever consumer.
Today has been rather a wasted day I am afraid: I have achieved nothing of note, but I have ordered A Bug's Life from Play.com where it was cheaper than Amazon - I am a clever consumer.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Trying to de-stress
I have spent most of today checking and rechecking my electronic mail folder to see if I have received a reply from the London law firm. I am very nervous about it. I am beginning to regret my hasty letter yesterday: it is perhaps a little too confrontational. The last thing I want to do is to rile a lawman.
Deciding I was harming myself by sitting for hours at a computer, not least by risking Deep Vein Thrombosis, I determined to abandon the infernal machine and take a well-earned hot bath to relax certain of my stiff and weary joints. Shamefully indulgent, I know, but I felt I deserved a treat.
I removed the various cuts of meat in the tub that have accumulated since my last bath and filled it full of water and Radox Herbal Bath. Sinking beneath the steaming water, I felt my muscles unknot and my stress evaporate. I tried to visualize relaxing imagery such as woodland glades and beaches, which worked tolerably well. I remembered the advice of an old friend of mine, who now works in the Stress Management sector in Leicester, who claims that listening to Enya is a surefire way of reducing stress. Unfortunately I do not know who Enya is so I lay in the bath and remembered the theme tune to Engie Benjy, an animated programme on CITV about an engineer and his sentient van, which was the closest equivalent I could come up with.
This drove me to distraction and I was forced to quit the bath. I am now more stressed than ever and am checking my electronic mail at 20 second intervals.
Deciding I was harming myself by sitting for hours at a computer, not least by risking Deep Vein Thrombosis, I determined to abandon the infernal machine and take a well-earned hot bath to relax certain of my stiff and weary joints. Shamefully indulgent, I know, but I felt I deserved a treat.
I removed the various cuts of meat in the tub that have accumulated since my last bath and filled it full of water and Radox Herbal Bath. Sinking beneath the steaming water, I felt my muscles unknot and my stress evaporate. I tried to visualize relaxing imagery such as woodland glades and beaches, which worked tolerably well. I remembered the advice of an old friend of mine, who now works in the Stress Management sector in Leicester, who claims that listening to Enya is a surefire way of reducing stress. Unfortunately I do not know who Enya is so I lay in the bath and remembered the theme tune to Engie Benjy, an animated programme on CITV about an engineer and his sentient van, which was the closest equivalent I could come up with.
This drove me to distraction and I was forced to quit the bath. I am now more stressed than ever and am checking my electronic mail at 20 second intervals.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
My Reply
I have written a response to the legal firm in London which accused me of copyright violations. If any of my readership has a grounding in legal jargon, perhaps they could help me revise it before I send it back to them. It is important I achieve the right tone - I wish to appear confident and forthright, and I wish to indicate that it is in the public interest to publish the naked and unvarnished truth about Patrick Bossert's villainy.
I have started off the letter in what I hope is a friendly, informal manner, to get them onside, but then I have switched to a more formal tone:
Wotcher Guvnor,
Ta very much for the letter, like. It's a real swell one. You sound like a really good lawyer, and I wish you well, like.
Now, good sir, to the meat of my missive. I refuse to remove my story of Bossert, and accompanying images used for illustrative purposes. Bossert is an evil fiend and the truth must be told.
What do you say to that, Mr so-called-lawyer-of-so-called-London?
Many thanks,
Horton Carew, who is not fictional thank you very much.
I think it reads rather well. I will attach a .jpg image of a chocolate eclair as a token of good faith.
I have started off the letter in what I hope is a friendly, informal manner, to get them onside, but then I have switched to a more formal tone:
Wotcher Guvnor,
Ta very much for the letter, like. It's a real swell one. You sound like a really good lawyer, and I wish you well, like.
Now, good sir, to the meat of my missive. I refuse to remove my story of Bossert, and accompanying images used for illustrative purposes. Bossert is an evil fiend and the truth must be told.
What do you say to that, Mr so-called-lawyer-of-so-called-London?
Many thanks,
Horton Carew, who is not fictional thank you very much.
I think it reads rather well. I will attach a .jpg image of a chocolate eclair as a token of good faith.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
A Letter From a Lawyer
Dear readers, I am amazed and know not what to say! After returning safely to the beautiful city of Dundee, I had thought that all my troubles were over but something curious happened today.
I received an electronic mail from... I cannot imagine how such a thing is possible...indeed, it is bizarre to the point of...I do not know.... I cannot explain...I think the best thing would be for me to reproduce the electronic mail in its entirety:
From: Godfrey Norton
Date: Tue, 03 Oct 2006 16:27:40 -0500
To: horton.carew@googlemail. com
CC: "Carrington, Allister", "Bubbs, Cheryl", "Gauthier, Ryan", "Weiser, Ellen", "Walters, Jennifer"
3 October 2006
Dear Sir/Madam,
I write on behalf of Patrick Bossert, M.B.E, Director of Transformational Outsourcing at Atos KPMG Consulting. It has come to our attention that you and/or your affiliates (hereafter known as You) are using without permission on your internet website http://hortonsfolly.blogspot. com part or all of a number of images of Mr. Bossert, including some or all of the following:
Additionally, You have published, via the fictional character 'Horton Carew', libellous material related to Mr. Bossert, which constitutes a slur on his character and is detrimental to his reputation. Mr. Bossert does not permit the unauthorized use of his name, copyrighted works and trademarks. Such use infringes our client's trademark rights, copyrights, and/or constitutes unfair competition. Mr. Bossert hereby demands that You immediately remove from any website owned or operated by You or on Your behalf, all images of Mr. Bossert, all defamatory, fallacious and/or offensive material relating to Mr. Bossert, and that You provide me with a letter by October 13 2006, in which You confirm that You have complied with the foregoing and that You agree not to resume such use.
Very truly yours,
Godfrey Norton, managing partner
Norton and Walters
20 Paul Street
London
W1s 4GG
Readers, I fear I am in some sort of trouble with The Law! Bossert's soul is trapped in a Rubik's Cube in my loft - I cannot see how he is in any position to complain about copyright violations. That should be the least of his worries. My grasp of legal terminology is weak and palsied, so I do not understand why he refers to me as a fictional entity. I assume he doubts the truth of some of my tales, the curr.
As far as I can decipher, by posting pictures like this...
...I am breaking The Law in some way.
Readers, I do not wish to end up in jail! I do not know what I must do!
I received an electronic mail from... I cannot imagine how such a thing is possible...indeed, it is bizarre to the point of...I do not know.... I cannot explain...I think the best thing would be for me to reproduce the electronic mail in its entirety:
From: Godfrey Norton
Date: Tue, 03 Oct 2006 16:27:40 -0500
To: horton.carew@googlemail. com
CC: "Carrington, Allister", "Bubbs, Cheryl", "Gauthier, Ryan", "Weiser, Ellen", "Walters, Jennifer"
3 October 2006
Dear Sir/Madam,
I write on behalf of Patrick Bossert, M.B.E, Director of Transformational Outsourcing at Atos KPMG Consulting. It has come to our attention that you and/or your affiliates (hereafter known as You) are using without permission on your internet website http://hortonsfolly.blogspot. com part or all of a number of images of Mr. Bossert, including some or all of the following:
- front cover of Mr. Bossert's book, "You Can Do the Cube" (Middlesex: Puffin Books, 1981)
- back cover of same
Additionally, You have published, via the fictional character 'Horton Carew', libellous material related to Mr. Bossert, which constitutes a slur on his character and is detrimental to his reputation. Mr. Bossert does not permit the unauthorized use of his name, copyrighted works and trademarks. Such use infringes our client's trademark rights, copyrights, and/or constitutes unfair competition. Mr. Bossert hereby demands that You immediately remove from any website owned or operated by You or on Your behalf, all images of Mr. Bossert, all defamatory, fallacious and/or offensive material relating to Mr. Bossert, and that You provide me with a letter by October 13 2006, in which You confirm that You have complied with the foregoing and that You agree not to resume such use.
Very truly yours,
Godfrey Norton, managing partner
Norton and Walters
20 Paul Street
London
W1s 4GG
Readers, I fear I am in some sort of trouble with The Law! Bossert's soul is trapped in a Rubik's Cube in my loft - I cannot see how he is in any position to complain about copyright violations. That should be the least of his worries. My grasp of legal terminology is weak and palsied, so I do not understand why he refers to me as a fictional entity. I assume he doubts the truth of some of my tales, the curr.
As far as I can decipher, by posting pictures like this...
...I am breaking The Law in some way.
Readers, I do not wish to end up in jail! I do not know what I must do!
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Back in my House
Well dear readers, my story of the Cube is almost at an end. I hope I proved an adequate narrator and I did not bore or confuse the more restless or feeble-minded among you. When I awoke in a ditch around the back of Dundee Airport, I found myself bruised and raw in odd areas, though none of my important bones appeared broken. Dazed and cold, I made my way haphazardly home, stopping first at Tesco Riverside to buy some milk and a newspaper and some fortified wine.
I discovered that my name, Horton Carew, was mentioned in the Dundee Courier under the heading "Local Man Causes Rumpus in Wildlife Park", along with a story painting this other Horton Carew as some delusional lunatic who had accosted a bespectacled schoolboy and snuck into Camperdown Park to carve off the paw of a spider monkey. The boy, who apparently escaped safely, reported that the man had repeatedly assaulted him with a Rubik's Cube throughout the whole sordid affair. The police were keen to catch up with this man who shares my name as they believed him to be out of his wits. Dear God, I hope no one read that article and assumed it referred to me! I hope the authorities promptly catch this man who shares my name and subdue him. I would hate for any of my old school friends to read that and mistakenly think it was I who had done those things. For then I would never be invited to any school reunions.
When I returned home, I committed that newspaper to the flames and had a cup of tea. I noticed there were a great many ants all over the floor - goodness knows where they came from - so I poured some boiling water from the kettle onto them and they quickly expired.
I had a vague notion that I should throw the 5 by 5 by 5 Cube into a volcano, but I settled for placing it in the attic behind Mr Pop, an old board game I have long treasured. I hope Bossert's Cube will never fall into the hands of easily corruptible puzzlers.
I discovered that my name, Horton Carew, was mentioned in the Dundee Courier under the heading "Local Man Causes Rumpus in Wildlife Park", along with a story painting this other Horton Carew as some delusional lunatic who had accosted a bespectacled schoolboy and snuck into Camperdown Park to carve off the paw of a spider monkey. The boy, who apparently escaped safely, reported that the man had repeatedly assaulted him with a Rubik's Cube throughout the whole sordid affair. The police were keen to catch up with this man who shares my name as they believed him to be out of his wits. Dear God, I hope no one read that article and assumed it referred to me! I hope the authorities promptly catch this man who shares my name and subdue him. I would hate for any of my old school friends to read that and mistakenly think it was I who had done those things. For then I would never be invited to any school reunions.
When I returned home, I committed that newspaper to the flames and had a cup of tea. I noticed there were a great many ants all over the floor - goodness knows where they came from - so I poured some boiling water from the kettle onto them and they quickly expired.
I had a vague notion that I should throw the 5 by 5 by 5 Cube into a volcano, but I settled for placing it in the attic behind Mr Pop, an old board game I have long treasured. I hope Bossert's Cube will never fall into the hands of easily corruptible puzzlers.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
The Leap Home
And so it came to pass that I prepared to set off on an epic quest to reach Dundee with the 5 by 5 by 5 Cube. I had estimated that it would take just under two years to walk to Dundee from San Diego, and began asking the committee of puzzlers if they might provide me with a packed lunch to sustain me on my travels. The puzzlers conferred for some time and concluded they would jointly fund a trip home via private aeroplane for me, so that I could get to Dundee quicker.
I began to panic as I am greatly afraid of flying. Thankfully, a Chinese delegate told me I wouldn't be expected to fly the plane myself, which calmed me somewhat. To be safe, however, they all agreed I should be rendered unconscious for the flight so that I did not become agitated and risk jeopardising the mission.
I'm afraid I can remember little else, for you must know that someone slipped a drug into the Fanta I had been drinking and I very soon blacked up, or rather blacked out. I did put up a small protest, and insisted I have something of the late Perkeo to honour his memory. They allowed me to cut off his cold, gnarled hand and keep it so that I could later make it into a memorial keyring. But soon after that, I became unconscious.
When I eventually blacked in again and regained consciousness, I found myself in a ditch around the back of Dundee Airport bespattered with clay and suffering from hazy and sordid memories. My entire body was slicked with morning dew which led me to believe I had remained stationary in that ditch at least overnight.
The Cube was still in my pocket - thank Christ - but some grubby thief, either a sticky-fingered air stewardess while I was asleep on board the plane, or a passing tramp while I lay in the ditch, had made off with my severed dwarf hand and replaced it with a vaguely simian looking paw, which was, of course, no substitute.
Readers, I know it is my job to tell you the plain facts of my adventures, but in all honesty, it is difficult to do so when so much of my memory is patchy and befuddled. In writing it just now, yet more memories return to me, some of which are terribly confusing and distress me.
I think I must stop for now while I try to make sense of things.
I began to panic as I am greatly afraid of flying. Thankfully, a Chinese delegate told me I wouldn't be expected to fly the plane myself, which calmed me somewhat. To be safe, however, they all agreed I should be rendered unconscious for the flight so that I did not become agitated and risk jeopardising the mission.
I'm afraid I can remember little else, for you must know that someone slipped a drug into the Fanta I had been drinking and I very soon blacked up, or rather blacked out. I did put up a small protest, and insisted I have something of the late Perkeo to honour his memory. They allowed me to cut off his cold, gnarled hand and keep it so that I could later make it into a memorial keyring. But soon after that, I became unconscious.
When I eventually blacked in again and regained consciousness, I found myself in a ditch around the back of Dundee Airport bespattered with clay and suffering from hazy and sordid memories. My entire body was slicked with morning dew which led me to believe I had remained stationary in that ditch at least overnight.
The Cube was still in my pocket - thank Christ - but some grubby thief, either a sticky-fingered air stewardess while I was asleep on board the plane, or a passing tramp while I lay in the ditch, had made off with my severed dwarf hand and replaced it with a vaguely simian looking paw, which was, of course, no substitute.
Readers, I know it is my job to tell you the plain facts of my adventures, but in all honesty, it is difficult to do so when so much of my memory is patchy and befuddled. In writing it just now, yet more memories return to me, some of which are terribly confusing and distress me.
I think I must stop for now while I try to make sense of things.
Friday, September 29, 2006
The Aftermath
As I knelt beside the crumpled cadaver of Perkeo in that dismal hall of puzzles, I became cognizant of the crowd. They had gingerly encircled an object that lay on the stage at the exact position where Bossert's 4 by 4 by 4 Cube had exploded and he had met his end. What further madness was this? They reverentially approached something at the locus of the still smouldering blast zone with the air of pilgrims outstretching their hands to touch a piece of the true cross, or the likeness of Christ in a bagel.
Still shaken from the harrowing pain I had earlier suffered, I limped towards the crowd of puzzlers and raised my voice to an authoritative bellow.
"What transpires here, you cursed rouges?" I thundered. In truth, I had intended to say "rogues", but I was so impassioned that I misspelled my imprecation. No matter, for as soon as I approached, they each stepped back in awe of my domineering presence. I can be quite butch when the situation demands it.
In the centre of the ring of agog puzzlers there sat a Cube, steaming gently. This was of course confusing because we had all witnessed Bossert's 4 by 4 by 4 Cube exploding. It was then that the full horror of what I was seeing struck me. It was unthinkable, but I was forced to think about it nonetheless. It was unimaginable, though after I saw it, it became all too easy to imagine it because it was there in front of me. It was unbelievable, but I had to believe it anyway what with it being there. Gentle readers, this Cube was a 5 by 5 by 5...
"How can this thing have come to pass, you course brutes?" I probed, again misspelling a word in my fervency, though thankfully far fewer people noticed this time.
Up spake a bookish looking Swede: "We believe that Bossert's wicked soul overloaded the 4 b' 4 b' 4, causing a rift in the space-time continuum, and causing the Cube, in common parlance, to 'blow up', as it were. We believe that at the exact instance that the 4 b' 4 b' 4 Cube became overloaded, a larger Cube was spontaneously created that would be robust enough to accommodate the recalcitrant soul of Patrick Bossert. Hence this awful 5 b' 5 b' 5."
Readers, this was quite beyond my ken, but I was not about to admit any ignorance in front of this rabble, so I feigned understanding.
"It is as I conjectured," I said.
"And of course, this Cube must never be solved, for if it is, Bossert's soul will be released into the world," said the Swede, "And that would be disasterous. What we see here is a terrible weapon."
Certain puzzlers quickly indicated that they wished the Cube for their own. Treachery and greed, readers, treachery and greed: how quickly it consumes lesser men. A Canadian puzzler stepped up and said, "It is a gift. A gift to the foes of America. Why not use this Cube? Give Canada the Cube. Let us use it against the US!"
A terrible shouting match began, which got a bit hectic. All the while, the Cube glowed kind of malevolently like. I made a decision.
"I will take it," I said, quietly. Here I snatched up the Cube and wedged it awkwardly into my pocket. "I will take the Cube to Dundee. Though...I do not know the way."
Still shaken from the harrowing pain I had earlier suffered, I limped towards the crowd of puzzlers and raised my voice to an authoritative bellow.
"What transpires here, you cursed rouges?" I thundered. In truth, I had intended to say "rogues", but I was so impassioned that I misspelled my imprecation. No matter, for as soon as I approached, they each stepped back in awe of my domineering presence. I can be quite butch when the situation demands it.
In the centre of the ring of agog puzzlers there sat a Cube, steaming gently. This was of course confusing because we had all witnessed Bossert's 4 by 4 by 4 Cube exploding. It was then that the full horror of what I was seeing struck me. It was unthinkable, but I was forced to think about it nonetheless. It was unimaginable, though after I saw it, it became all too easy to imagine it because it was there in front of me. It was unbelievable, but I had to believe it anyway what with it being there. Gentle readers, this Cube was a 5 by 5 by 5...
"How can this thing have come to pass, you course brutes?" I probed, again misspelling a word in my fervency, though thankfully far fewer people noticed this time.
Up spake a bookish looking Swede: "We believe that Bossert's wicked soul overloaded the 4 b' 4 b' 4, causing a rift in the space-time continuum, and causing the Cube, in common parlance, to 'blow up', as it were. We believe that at the exact instance that the 4 b' 4 b' 4 Cube became overloaded, a larger Cube was spontaneously created that would be robust enough to accommodate the recalcitrant soul of Patrick Bossert. Hence this awful 5 b' 5 b' 5."
Readers, this was quite beyond my ken, but I was not about to admit any ignorance in front of this rabble, so I feigned understanding.
"It is as I conjectured," I said.
"And of course, this Cube must never be solved, for if it is, Bossert's soul will be released into the world," said the Swede, "And that would be disasterous. What we see here is a terrible weapon."
Certain puzzlers quickly indicated that they wished the Cube for their own. Treachery and greed, readers, treachery and greed: how quickly it consumes lesser men. A Canadian puzzler stepped up and said, "It is a gift. A gift to the foes of America. Why not use this Cube? Give Canada the Cube. Let us use it against the US!"
A terrible shouting match began, which got a bit hectic. All the while, the Cube glowed kind of malevolently like. I made a decision.
"I will take it," I said, quietly. Here I snatched up the Cube and wedged it awkwardly into my pocket. "I will take the Cube to Dundee. Though...I do not know the way."
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Perkeo the Brave
I stooped to Perkeo's hunchbacked form which lay twisted and rasping 'pon (upon) the concrete floor. I greatly pitied that brutish cove, repellent though his bloodied face appeared, and thanked him for his courage in coming to my aid when all hope seem'd (seemed) lost. He tried to speak, resulting only in a sad bubble of blood gurgling from his fat split lips and staining his crooked teeth red. Kneeling down, I cradled Perkeo's grossly enlarged head in my lap to offer him some semblance of the parental love and comfort cruelly denied him all his days: 'twas (it was) the least I could do for the stunted abberation.
"Sir, I owe you my life," I whispered, stroking his bulbous forehead in what I hoped was a gentle nurse-like manner. "I am pleased you found your mettle in the end. Though your lumpen body is frightful and your skin pendulous and coarse, your spirit, if it could be seen in the form of the living, would assume the figure of an upstanding and heroic man, smooth-browed and clean of limb, and with eyes that flashed undaunted courage. A little like David Boreanaz."
Hearing this tender obituary, he wept freely and unashamedly, exhuming decades' worth of deeply buried raw emotion. He looked pretty ridiculous. Perkeo tilted his misshapen face towards me, his cracked voice sputtering what I knew were to be his last words:
"...We cry life isn't fair
Beneath our cries the truth is there:
A power that will break the spell
We should know very well
Is locked within ourselves..."
Then, glowing with the angelic dignity of the truely selfless, he expired, after first voiding his bowels.
Readers, as I sit and write this entry, I am moved almost to tears. I must leave the narrative again in order to sit in a darkened room and weep until I am spent.
"Sir, I owe you my life," I whispered, stroking his bulbous forehead in what I hoped was a gentle nurse-like manner. "I am pleased you found your mettle in the end. Though your lumpen body is frightful and your skin pendulous and coarse, your spirit, if it could be seen in the form of the living, would assume the figure of an upstanding and heroic man, smooth-browed and clean of limb, and with eyes that flashed undaunted courage. A little like David Boreanaz."
Hearing this tender obituary, he wept freely and unashamedly, exhuming decades' worth of deeply buried raw emotion. He looked pretty ridiculous. Perkeo tilted his misshapen face towards me, his cracked voice sputtering what I knew were to be his last words:
"...We cry life isn't fair
Beneath our cries the truth is there:
A power that will break the spell
We should know very well
Is locked within ourselves..."
Then, glowing with the angelic dignity of the truely selfless, he expired, after first voiding his bowels.
Readers, as I sit and write this entry, I am moved almost to tears. I must leave the narrative again in order to sit in a darkened room and weep until I am spent.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Bossert Tries to Solve the Puzzle
Dear readers, I hope I have not misjudged the duration of the gap between diary entries. It was my intention to leave you on a cliffhanger, so that you would remain interested and be eager to come back to read more. I fear I may have left you waiting too long and many of you will have lost interest and sought out some other electronic diary to read. Most likely, one written by a plump woman in Michigan and her useless struggle to lose weight. Good riddance to you. Either that, or you have become so agitated and excited that you are now whipped up into some sort of a frenzy and will not be able to concentrate on what I have to tell you. I am sorry for this, but you must do your very best to calm down, because I will now continue from where I left off.
I must tell you that as soon as he began trying to solve the marvelous and outrageous 4 by 4 by 4 Cube, Bossert became utterly absorbed. The crowd at once protested against Bossert's crime against puzzles: some brayed, some booed, some threw jigsaws at his chin. Bossert remained oblivious. His fingers blurred as they slipped and slid across the Cube. Faster and faster they flew as the Cube's sections swivelled and clicked so rapidly that smoke began to billow from it.
In my position as human battery for this evil puzzle, my pain grew more and more acute. But Bossert had greatly underestimated the power demands of his creation - each of the puzzlers in the room, honest men and women all, were drawn nearer, sucked towards Bossert's terrible Cube. Beyond their control, they flicked through the air, many evaporating as they made contact with the dreadful puzzle, their souls torn asunder and wasted as fuel for the horrible Cube. The rest managed to grab hold of spare pillars and so on.
All seemed lost. I, frozen in time, was unable to act as Patrick Bossert's ultimate puzzle became a hellish vortex that would suck up all souls in the world until the puzzle was solved, something that would surely take years. Bossert's miserable dwarf held tightly to a door handle to prevent himself flying into oblivion. I wished fervently that he would soon perish as no soul deserved it more, but then I saw him looking at me with something approaching pity. He pitied my poor tortured state, dear readers, even though his life was in imminent danger.
Before I could be too surprised by this, Perkeo did something else to make me more surprised and so the latter surprise trumped the earlier surprise. You see, he grinned at me, winked, then let go of the door handle. As he flew through the air, spinning wildly towards certain death, he raised the leash he had previously used to enleash me, and thrashed it like a whip at Bossert's bespectacled face. Bossert dropped the puzzle in his shock, and was at once sucked into the Cube. The Cube promptly exploded, and I was at once released from my time bubble. The puzzlers were likewise released from their descent towards death.
In the aftermath, a few uncertain cheers went up from the shaken puzzlers, but most sensed that the mood was not yet celebratory. For you see, I fear that poor Perkeo received the brunt of the terrible explosion and lay wheezing, near death, upon the floor.
I ran to his aid.
I must tell you that as soon as he began trying to solve the marvelous and outrageous 4 by 4 by 4 Cube, Bossert became utterly absorbed. The crowd at once protested against Bossert's crime against puzzles: some brayed, some booed, some threw jigsaws at his chin. Bossert remained oblivious. His fingers blurred as they slipped and slid across the Cube. Faster and faster they flew as the Cube's sections swivelled and clicked so rapidly that smoke began to billow from it.
In my position as human battery for this evil puzzle, my pain grew more and more acute. But Bossert had greatly underestimated the power demands of his creation - each of the puzzlers in the room, honest men and women all, were drawn nearer, sucked towards Bossert's terrible Cube. Beyond their control, they flicked through the air, many evaporating as they made contact with the dreadful puzzle, their souls torn asunder and wasted as fuel for the horrible Cube. The rest managed to grab hold of spare pillars and so on.
All seemed lost. I, frozen in time, was unable to act as Patrick Bossert's ultimate puzzle became a hellish vortex that would suck up all souls in the world until the puzzle was solved, something that would surely take years. Bossert's miserable dwarf held tightly to a door handle to prevent himself flying into oblivion. I wished fervently that he would soon perish as no soul deserved it more, but then I saw him looking at me with something approaching pity. He pitied my poor tortured state, dear readers, even though his life was in imminent danger.
Before I could be too surprised by this, Perkeo did something else to make me more surprised and so the latter surprise trumped the earlier surprise. You see, he grinned at me, winked, then let go of the door handle. As he flew through the air, spinning wildly towards certain death, he raised the leash he had previously used to enleash me, and thrashed it like a whip at Bossert's bespectacled face. Bossert dropped the puzzle in his shock, and was at once sucked into the Cube. The Cube promptly exploded, and I was at once released from my time bubble. The puzzlers were likewise released from their descent towards death.
In the aftermath, a few uncertain cheers went up from the shaken puzzlers, but most sensed that the mood was not yet celebratory. For you see, I fear that poor Perkeo received the brunt of the terrible explosion and lay wheezing, near death, upon the floor.
I ran to his aid.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
The Ultimate Puzzle Revealed
I am afraid I left the narrative on a 'cliffhanger' yesterday. This is a trick I have learned from Noel Edmonds on Deal or No Deal? He is extremely sophisticated in his use of it - he will take the phonecall from the Banker, who tells him what the cash offer is to be. Instead of immediately informing the contestant of the Banker's cash offer, he often says, "Let's take a break first", at which point the studio audience groans and the programme stops for adverts. The reason the audience groans is because they are very eager to hear the Banker's cash offer and are now forced to wait an excrutiating three minutes before learning what the offer is to be and how it affects the course of the game. The audience at home is similarly desperate to find out how things will unfold, and is more than willing to endure the three minutes of adverts in order to get back to the programme. It keeps them watching and keeps the excitement levels up. That Edmonds is a master and I have learned from him.
I now must tell you the nature of Patrick Bossert's ultimate puzzle. It will be difficult for many of you, incompetent as you are, to understand the complexity of it. Even I, who have been through some of the Scottish secondary school system, struggle to comprehend it.
Bossert flung off the black cloth and revealed his puzzle to the horrified crowd. I thought at first that it was another Rubik's Cube, but I could see that the puzzlers in the room recoiled in terror at the first glimpse of it, so I supposed that they had observed something about this cube that I had missed. Bossert grinned maniacally and held aloft the cube.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he twittered, "I give you....Cube Plus! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hee!"
It was at this point that I realised what was unique about this cube. Readers, I advise you to pour yourself a liberal slug of brandy or some similar restorative before continuing because the nature and complexity of this cube will shock you.
Gentle readers, this cube was not 3 by 3 by 3, as was Rubik's original and nigh-on impossible Cube, but rather..... (I feel sick but must continue) .... it was 4 by 4 by 4!
I now must tell you the nature of Patrick Bossert's ultimate puzzle. It will be difficult for many of you, incompetent as you are, to understand the complexity of it. Even I, who have been through some of the Scottish secondary school system, struggle to comprehend it.
Bossert flung off the black cloth and revealed his puzzle to the horrified crowd. I thought at first that it was another Rubik's Cube, but I could see that the puzzlers in the room recoiled in terror at the first glimpse of it, so I supposed that they had observed something about this cube that I had missed. Bossert grinned maniacally and held aloft the cube.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he twittered, "I give you....Cube Plus! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hee!"
It was at this point that I realised what was unique about this cube. Readers, I advise you to pour yourself a liberal slug of brandy or some similar restorative before continuing because the nature and complexity of this cube will shock you.
Gentle readers, this cube was not 3 by 3 by 3, as was Rubik's original and nigh-on impossible Cube, but rather..... (I feel sick but must continue) .... it was 4 by 4 by 4!
Bossert let loose a torrent of frenzied laughter and directly set to work on solving this insane puzzle. The crowd tentatively began cautionary chants, such as, "Too far, Bossert, too far!" and "You're mad sir, mad!" and "You'll never solve it!" and "Impossible!" and "You speccy c___!" Bossert was so absorbed in the puzzle that the words of warning could not reach him. With a freakish rictus twisted 'pon (upon) his face, he stood twisting the 4 by 4 by 4 Cube rapidly in his hands, oblivious to the chaos surrounding him.
The crowd grew uglier and uglier, especially the Welsh stall, while all this time I remained frozen and in the most abject of torture and misery.
Again I will use the device of the cliff hanger and leave you desperate to discover the Banker's offer and how I came to escape from my predicament. We will now take a break.
Monday, September 25, 2006
The RCTD
Readers, I have taken a tincture of senna to calm my nerves and fortify my constitution. I now feel suitably equipped to continue my tale of woe. Bossert fired the Proton Pack directly at my face and at once I was overcome with an unutterable agony that filled every nook and cranny of my world. Revelling in my misery, he produced a strange device from some hitherto unseen crevice, and pressed a button upon it. The wibbly luminous beams eminating from the Proton Pack immediately froze, as did I. I noted that a bead of sweat fleeing from one of my forehead pores became suspended in mid air. Bossert let go of his Proton Pack, which remained stuck fast in air, and turned to address the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, but somehow contrived to make the words rhyme, "The device I have just used will be familiar to many of you. It is a humble Rubik's Clock, which I have doctored using a science of my own devising so that it can pause time."
At this point, the French contingent spoke up, and Bossert quickly replied, "Yes, it is just like in the CITV series Bernard's Watch."
The Canadian team promptly appended an additional comparison, and Bossert confirmed, "Indeed, it is also similar to the remote control used in the new Adam Sandler film, Click".
The Croatians also tried to get in on the act but Bossert had to correct them by saying, "No, it is nothing like the eponymous green distillation invented by Professor Gibberne in H. G. Wells's short story 'The New Accelerator', for that made subjects move at a vastly increased speed, and it only seemed to them as though time had paused."
He continued, "I have frozen Mr Carew in time, at the precise moment that his soul has been extracted from his body, and also, happily, the moment at which his pain is the most heightened and exquisite. For you see, my Rubik's Clock Time Device (RCTD) does not freeze Mr Carew's mind, so while his body is fixed fast in time, his mind is free to witness the horror he is experiencing and free to endure the terrible pain he is suffering. I could retain him in unbearable agony until the end of time itself if I chose to."
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, but somehow contrived to make the words rhyme, "The device I have just used will be familiar to many of you. It is a humble Rubik's Clock, which I have doctored using a science of my own devising so that it can pause time."
At this point, the French contingent spoke up, and Bossert quickly replied, "Yes, it is just like in the CITV series Bernard's Watch."
The Canadian team promptly appended an additional comparison, and Bossert confirmed, "Indeed, it is also similar to the remote control used in the new Adam Sandler film, Click".
The Croatians also tried to get in on the act but Bossert had to correct them by saying, "No, it is nothing like the eponymous green distillation invented by Professor Gibberne in H. G. Wells's short story 'The New Accelerator', for that made subjects move at a vastly increased speed, and it only seemed to them as though time had paused."
He continued, "I have frozen Mr Carew in time, at the precise moment that his soul has been extracted from his body, and also, happily, the moment at which his pain is the most heightened and exquisite. For you see, my Rubik's Clock Time Device (RCTD) does not freeze Mr Carew's mind, so while his body is fixed fast in time, his mind is free to witness the horror he is experiencing and free to endure the terrible pain he is suffering. I could retain him in unbearable agony until the end of time itself if I chose to."
At hearing this, I tried to panic but could not, as the act of panicking requires the passage of time.
Bossert went on, rhyming all the way, mind: "His soul is now available to permanently power my ultimate puzzle. The puzzle is of such devious and morally repugnant difficulty that a human soul would quickly burn down - this way, I can use the same soul, frozen in time, without resorting to mass genocide." A puzzler from Jersey protested that this made no sort of sense, but Bossert had Perkeo shoot him.
The Schoolboy Cubemaster attached one end of a pair of jump leads to my frozen chest and the other end to something concealed beneath a black cloth. At once whirring could be heard and a bright blue glow issued from 'neath (beneath) the cloth.
"It works, it works," said Bossert. "Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for the unveiling of the most fiendish, the most outrageous, the most unbelievable puzzle ever devised..." Here he whipped off the cloth and revealed...
I will come back to this tomorrow, as I wish for you to be kept in suspense.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
The Demonstration...continued
Dear readers, I apologise for my outburst yesterday. My ill temper was not of your doing, but rather caused by inadvertantly knocking my plum with a trowel. This engendered a feeling of discontent which caused me to become sullen and pugnacious and take out my hot passions on you, gentle readers. For this I am sorry. If any readers offended by my comments could send me their address, I will post out a collectable Pog by way of an apology. It may accumulate in value over the coming years.
Back to business: Bossert's demonstration of his so-called 'ultimate puzzle'. The puzzle is not difficult to explain, but I am aware that my readership is mainly made up of gypsies and dullards, so they will find it difficult to understand. Therefore I will explain it in painfully simple terms.
Since 1983, Bossert has devoted himself entirely to the creation of the ultimate puzzle. After he solved the Cube, a feat no one else has since repeated, he sought to design a challenge worthy of him. But how to improve upon the Cube? He threw his life into the task. After many, many years of considering the problem, the schoolboy cubemaster hit upon a design so complex, so incredible, so ultimately evil that creating such a thing would be akin, morally speaking, to coughing up a driblet of phlegm directly onto the baby Christchild.
If we were to place Bossert's ultimate puzzle upon the Satanic Puzzle Spectrum (created by Norris McWhirter) where Diabolical Dingbats TM are rated 3 Beelzebubs and Killer Sudukos TM are rated 6, Bossert's would break the top of the scale, previously reckoned to be 100, and come in at roughly 12 million Beelzebubs.
Bringing such a fiendish and wicked puzzle into the world demands the restoration of moral equilibrium. By the casting of bones and the pricking of thumbs, Bossert found that his puzzle, before it could be created, required the sacrifice of two honest human souls. Playfully making an additional puzzle of this problem, he sought a method to solve it without taking any lives. He contacted a leading paranormal investigator at a Scottish university (whose name he withheld from me) who told him that 10,000 ant souls would happily stand in for one human soul, and that a certain Dundonian man (me, Horton Carew) was possessed of several souls thanks to eating magic mushrooms on the 8th of March, and perhaps one of these spare souls could be taken without ending his life.
And thus he took 10,000 ant souls without mercy, and thus he came to kidnap me and aimed to steal one of my souls. And so I stood before the throng of puzzlers in San Diego, now aware of my fate. Bossert announced that the demonstration of his puzzle would begin as soon as my soul was extracted. He produced a Proton Pack and, without a pause, fired it at me. The pain was indescribable, so I will not attempt to describe it.
The memory of this horrific event has caused my hands to shake and tremble to such an extent that I dounbt I will ber able tocontinue typoing toinight, so I willl end my narratoivee for tonighty.
Back to business: Bossert's demonstration of his so-called 'ultimate puzzle'. The puzzle is not difficult to explain, but I am aware that my readership is mainly made up of gypsies and dullards, so they will find it difficult to understand. Therefore I will explain it in painfully simple terms.
Since 1983, Bossert has devoted himself entirely to the creation of the ultimate puzzle. After he solved the Cube, a feat no one else has since repeated, he sought to design a challenge worthy of him. But how to improve upon the Cube? He threw his life into the task. After many, many years of considering the problem, the schoolboy cubemaster hit upon a design so complex, so incredible, so ultimately evil that creating such a thing would be akin, morally speaking, to coughing up a driblet of phlegm directly onto the baby Christchild.
If we were to place Bossert's ultimate puzzle upon the Satanic Puzzle Spectrum (created by Norris McWhirter) where Diabolical Dingbats TM are rated 3 Beelzebubs and Killer Sudukos TM are rated 6, Bossert's would break the top of the scale, previously reckoned to be 100, and come in at roughly 12 million Beelzebubs.
Bringing such a fiendish and wicked puzzle into the world demands the restoration of moral equilibrium. By the casting of bones and the pricking of thumbs, Bossert found that his puzzle, before it could be created, required the sacrifice of two honest human souls. Playfully making an additional puzzle of this problem, he sought a method to solve it without taking any lives. He contacted a leading paranormal investigator at a Scottish university (whose name he withheld from me) who told him that 10,000 ant souls would happily stand in for one human soul, and that a certain Dundonian man (me, Horton Carew) was possessed of several souls thanks to eating magic mushrooms on the 8th of March, and perhaps one of these spare souls could be taken without ending his life.
And thus he took 10,000 ant souls without mercy, and thus he came to kidnap me and aimed to steal one of my souls. And so I stood before the throng of puzzlers in San Diego, now aware of my fate. Bossert announced that the demonstration of his puzzle would begin as soon as my soul was extracted. He produced a Proton Pack and, without a pause, fired it at me. The pain was indescribable, so I will not attempt to describe it.
The memory of this horrific event has caused my hands to shake and tremble to such an extent that I dounbt I will ber able tocontinue typoing toinight, so I willl end my narratoivee for tonighty.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
The Demonstration
Now gentle readers, I come to the nub of the matter: Bossert's 'ultimate puzzle' and my involvement in it. No doubt you are wondering through what marvellous ways all the preceeding story threads will come to be unified in a final, gloriously coherent denoument. How, you are asking, does Horton fit into all of this? Why has Bossert targetted him, a lowly Dundonian? Has Horton forgotten about all that earlier stuff with the ants? And the souls of ants and so on? You are wondering how all these things will be satisfactorily interwoven and explained, or if indeed they ever can be. You doubt my ability to relate the remainder of the story without leaving dozens of plot strands dangling freely in the breeze.
For shame! This little revelation only goes to prove that my readership has no faith in my abilities as a teller of tales. I've long suspected my readership to be predominantly made up of gypsies, and this affront only serves to confirm it. Well, I will not tarry here to be insulted. Good day to you!
For shame! This little revelation only goes to prove that my readership has no faith in my abilities as a teller of tales. I've long suspected my readership to be predominantly made up of gypsies, and this affront only serves to confirm it. Well, I will not tarry here to be insulted. Good day to you!
Friday, September 22, 2006
Bossert's speech to the Throng
When I left the tale last, you will recall that my life was imperilled. Bossert bade me stand 'pon (upon) a lecturn beside him as he addressed the congregation of puzzlers. He spoke entirely in ryhme which, even although I feared greatly for my life, I thought sublime. I cannot remember exactly what was said and I would be doing you a grave disservice if I attempted to write it out from my meagre memories. To give you a clear picture of Bossert's skill as an oratory poet, I will note that he was able to make his points beautifully, calling upon a vast reserve of verse forms completely appropriate to his content.
Amongst many other skillful uses of poetic technique, he flicked deftly between deibhidhe and Sapphic ode, did something a little cheeky with the Habbie stanza using sprung rhythm, then employed threnody and the ubi sunt motif to inject a melancholy tone reminiscent of certain eligiac distiches. He shifted to an Onegin stanza model for several minutes, and slyly snuck in a bit of mosaic verse, doubtless lost on the bulk of the assembled crowd, then admitted that one line was indeed a ligne donnée, but in his subsequent use of a katauta schema combined with a liberal splash of soriasmus, he more than lived up to expectations. Finishing on a stunning envoi, which made use of syneciosis and duple meter, he left the congregation extremely eager to see the unveiling of his puzzle design.
Hopefully my summary has made it clear exactly what Bossert's poem was like - I went to some trouble to find the correct poetic terms to better enlighten you. If it remains unclear despite my use of helpful terminology that exactly describes the techniques he employed, then you may as well say that the whole practise of critically examining poetry to an almost scientific level of categorisation and taxonomy is bunk. And no one would say that.
I will now give you the gist of the content of Bossert's speech as far as I can remember it. I will write it in prose so this will not be exactly as it was originally said, but I have done my best. He said,
"Ladies and gentlemen, I have designed the ultimate puzzle. I will now demonstrate it."
I will tell you about the demonstration in tomorrow's diary entry.
Amongst many other skillful uses of poetic technique, he flicked deftly between deibhidhe and Sapphic ode, did something a little cheeky with the Habbie stanza using sprung rhythm, then employed threnody and the ubi sunt motif to inject a melancholy tone reminiscent of certain eligiac distiches. He shifted to an Onegin stanza model for several minutes, and slyly snuck in a bit of mosaic verse, doubtless lost on the bulk of the assembled crowd, then admitted that one line was indeed a ligne donnée, but in his subsequent use of a katauta schema combined with a liberal splash of soriasmus, he more than lived up to expectations. Finishing on a stunning envoi, which made use of syneciosis and duple meter, he left the congregation extremely eager to see the unveiling of his puzzle design.
Hopefully my summary has made it clear exactly what Bossert's poem was like - I went to some trouble to find the correct poetic terms to better enlighten you. If it remains unclear despite my use of helpful terminology that exactly describes the techniques he employed, then you may as well say that the whole practise of critically examining poetry to an almost scientific level of categorisation and taxonomy is bunk. And no one would say that.
I will now give you the gist of the content of Bossert's speech as far as I can remember it. I will write it in prose so this will not be exactly as it was originally said, but I have done my best. He said,
"Ladies and gentlemen, I have designed the ultimate puzzle. I will now demonstrate it."
I will tell you about the demonstration in tomorrow's diary entry.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
An Electronic Mail on Unreliable Narration
Today I received an Electronic Mail from someone claiming to be a regular reader of this diary. Here is the message:
hey horton my old jim dandy if I can call u that lol...
Wots happend wth teh blog? dont beleive u r telling the truth here bout wot happend in teh past. How the heck cd u remember exactly wot Patrick bossert said right down2the last word & his exact rymes? No1 cd remeber all that!! Esp whn u wr fearing 4 ur life!! :grin: u must hava really good memory!! .......Doubtful! roflmao lol
See ya!, Dev
I think it must be from some poor soul with English as a second language, though what their first language could be it is beyond my ability to conjecture. I am no linguist, but I would guess it is Yiddish or Rastafarian. I gather the writer is doubtful of my ability to accurately recall every word spoken by Bossert and others when I am relating my tale to you. A reasonable point, and I must admit that my reams of quoted text stretch credibility somewhat, but the writer has couched his case in such a moronic manner that I do not feel I should be obliged to engage with it to any extent beyond sneeringly dismissing it.
However, I will admit to my more literate readers that, of course, I cannot recall exactly what was said word-for-word, and thus the quotations and rhymes cannot be regarded as verbatim. Where there are natural holes in my memory, I have had to plug the gaps, so to speak, by recourse to a certain amount of creative Polyfilla. Such tactics are permitted by today's historians, as long as you are not using it for propaganda purposes, so it is no great crime. It happens all the time: take today, for example - I received an Electronic Mail from a reader who complained that I would never be able to remember all of Bossert's rhymes, so I was too unreliable a narrator. I accidentally deleted that Electronic Mail, but I wanted to tell you about it so I have done my best to recreate it as I remember it. There is surely no harm in this. [Edited to add: see footnote *]
I have quite exhausted myself today and shall wait until tomorrow before continuing my tale of peril.
[* Edited to add: Readers, I have just checked my Electronic Mailbox and discovered the original Electronic Mail is not irretrievably lost and actually remains safe in the Deleted Mails section. I got a few minor points wrong when I attempted to write it from memory above. In fact, the relevant Electronic Mail was not really complaining about my unreliable narration as such, but was more concerned with selling me a product to rectify my comparatively substandard girth.]
hey horton my old jim dandy if I can call u that lol...
Wots happend wth teh blog? dont beleive u r telling the truth here bout wot happend in teh past. How the heck cd u remember exactly wot Patrick bossert said right down2the last word & his exact rymes? No1 cd remeber all that!! Esp whn u wr fearing 4 ur life!! :grin: u must hava really good memory!! .......Doubtful! roflmao lol
See ya!, Dev
I think it must be from some poor soul with English as a second language, though what their first language could be it is beyond my ability to conjecture. I am no linguist, but I would guess it is Yiddish or Rastafarian. I gather the writer is doubtful of my ability to accurately recall every word spoken by Bossert and others when I am relating my tale to you. A reasonable point, and I must admit that my reams of quoted text stretch credibility somewhat, but the writer has couched his case in such a moronic manner that I do not feel I should be obliged to engage with it to any extent beyond sneeringly dismissing it.
However, I will admit to my more literate readers that, of course, I cannot recall exactly what was said word-for-word, and thus the quotations and rhymes cannot be regarded as verbatim. Where there are natural holes in my memory, I have had to plug the gaps, so to speak, by recourse to a certain amount of creative Polyfilla. Such tactics are permitted by today's historians, as long as you are not using it for propaganda purposes, so it is no great crime. It happens all the time: take today, for example - I received an Electronic Mail from a reader who complained that I would never be able to remember all of Bossert's rhymes, so I was too unreliable a narrator. I accidentally deleted that Electronic Mail, but I wanted to tell you about it so I have done my best to recreate it as I remember it. There is surely no harm in this. [Edited to add: see footnote *]
I have quite exhausted myself today and shall wait until tomorrow before continuing my tale of peril.
[* Edited to add: Readers, I have just checked my Electronic Mailbox and discovered the original Electronic Mail is not irretrievably lost and actually remains safe in the Deleted Mails section. I got a few minor points wrong when I attempted to write it from memory above. In fact, the relevant Electronic Mail was not really complaining about my unreliable narration as such, but was more concerned with selling me a product to rectify my comparatively substandard girth.]
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
I am Dragged Before the Throng
"Get in there tartan-arse," vociferated Perkeo, forcibly tugging me into the Convention room by my leash. I did not approve of his vociferating and when I stood my ground and refused to be pulled, he tried hollering the same phrase. This likewise failed, so he yelled it instead. He gave bellowing a try but again, this did not elicit a response. He proceeded to scream, bawl, screech, exclaim, bark, and roar the words, but I would not be moved. He briefly toyed with ejaculating but this only made me more determined to stand still. Eventually he resorted to plain old honest shouting, whereupon I allowed myself to be moved into the room. I hoped that my protest would instill in him the lesson that I simply will not negotiate with showboaters.
Inside the room were hundreds of people of all creeds and hues. They gathered in flocks around innumerable stalls at which salesmen demonstrated and sold puzzles of all colours and shapes. Every man jack of them froze and stood silent when Bossert stepped majesterially into the arena. (As an aside, I am afraid I never saw many of the prototype puzzles on display - ideally I would like to offer my loyal readers some tips about what puzzles and games will be available on the market shortly and might become the number one toy for Christmas, but I only saw in detail the stall nearest to me which was staffed by a team from India. They were demonstrating a plastic likeness of an onion bhaji which the user was required to disassemble and then successfully reconstitute as a small model of Sherlock Holmes. I include a picture below for reference purposes)
Inside the room were hundreds of people of all creeds and hues. They gathered in flocks around innumerable stalls at which salesmen demonstrated and sold puzzles of all colours and shapes. Every man jack of them froze and stood silent when Bossert stepped majesterially into the arena. (As an aside, I am afraid I never saw many of the prototype puzzles on display - ideally I would like to offer my loyal readers some tips about what puzzles and games will be available on the market shortly and might become the number one toy for Christmas, but I only saw in detail the stall nearest to me which was staffed by a team from India. They were demonstrating a plastic likeness of an onion bhaji which the user was required to disassemble and then successfully reconstitute as a small model of Sherlock Holmes. I include a picture below for reference purposes)
Once Bossert was assured that he had every person's attention, he declared,
You know me as "The Solver", friends,
But today that title ends:
Forevermore you'll know me as
The puzzle maker with pizzazz.
This elicited more gasps of astonishment, not least from the Swedish contingent advertising "Ultimate Scrabble", excited at the use of six z's in one brief phrase. Bossert allowed a moment for his rhyme to sink in. Whispers began to circulate. As curiosity and excitement grew around the room, Bossert turned his head and from the corner of his mouth said softly,
Step up Horton, stand up straight,
...At last you'll meet your sorry fate.
Monday, September 18, 2006
The Annual Rubik's Convention
Gentle readers, I know that many of you only read this electronic diary to see whether or not I have perished dreadfully in whatever misadventure I have become embroiled in. At present I am recounting terrible events from the past rather than as they happen, and the fact that I am alive to narrate will tell you that I survived safely. This severly reduces the dramatic tension but I have devised a way of injecting a little of it back into the current narrative. During my time spent with Bossert I smashed my digital watch, but I will not tell you how or when at the moment. This will encourage you to read on. Your curiosity will get the better of you. You will be on edge until the breakage occurs.
Bossert called once more for his ugly dwarf, Perkeo, who scuttled in carrying a crust-topped bottle of aged Tabasco sauce, which Bossert had earlier bid him fetch. As the hunchbacked oaf burst through the door, he knocked me into the wall where my digital wristwatch smashed. Bossert thanked his miniature slave and proceeded to pour a few drops into the creature's eyes: punishment, he claimed, for not bringing the Tabasco sooner. Perkeo squealed and I greatly pitied the wretch as he rolled about on the floor scratching miserably at his eyes. Bossert watched the whole sorry display with a strange and laviscious smirk; how I loathed him then. After some time, Perkeo stood up and asked what Bossert required of him. He was told to take up my leash and follow him.
Perkeo saw an opportunity to take out some of his anger and humiliation upon one more damned than he and wasted no time in dragging me up by my hair. He called me all manner of racist terms like 'Jock', 'haggis muncher', 'sheep sh***er' (shagger), 'porridge wog', 'whisky enjoyer', 'Scotty from Star Trek', and finally, 'Scotch Egg'. He really was a most noxious little munchkin.
I was pulled through endless corridors by my leash, Bossert leading the way. Eventually we arrived at a great set of doors with a sign on the front that said "Welcome to the Annual Rubik's Convention, San Diego 2004". Perkeo ambled up to the doors and threw them open. Bossert adjusted his tie and marched in with the air of one who commands instant respect: not easy to achieve for one trapped in the body of a schoolboy. I heard some awed gasps and also some odd gasps coming from inside the room.
Here I will break off in the interest of creating a cliffhanger.
Bossert called once more for his ugly dwarf, Perkeo, who scuttled in carrying a crust-topped bottle of aged Tabasco sauce, which Bossert had earlier bid him fetch. As the hunchbacked oaf burst through the door, he knocked me into the wall where my digital wristwatch smashed. Bossert thanked his miniature slave and proceeded to pour a few drops into the creature's eyes: punishment, he claimed, for not bringing the Tabasco sooner. Perkeo squealed and I greatly pitied the wretch as he rolled about on the floor scratching miserably at his eyes. Bossert watched the whole sorry display with a strange and laviscious smirk; how I loathed him then. After some time, Perkeo stood up and asked what Bossert required of him. He was told to take up my leash and follow him.
Perkeo saw an opportunity to take out some of his anger and humiliation upon one more damned than he and wasted no time in dragging me up by my hair. He called me all manner of racist terms like 'Jock', 'haggis muncher', 'sheep sh***er' (shagger), 'porridge wog', 'whisky enjoyer', 'Scotty from Star Trek', and finally, 'Scotch Egg'. He really was a most noxious little munchkin.
I was pulled through endless corridors by my leash, Bossert leading the way. Eventually we arrived at a great set of doors with a sign on the front that said "Welcome to the Annual Rubik's Convention, San Diego 2004". Perkeo ambled up to the doors and threw them open. Bossert adjusted his tie and marched in with the air of one who commands instant respect: not easy to achieve for one trapped in the body of a schoolboy. I heard some awed gasps and also some odd gasps coming from inside the room.
Here I will break off in the interest of creating a cliffhanger.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Bossert Hints at my Fate
In an effort to raise my spirits after my recent hardships, I ventured outdoors today. It was a tolerably pleasant morning so I decided to treat myself to an ice. I had a marvellous hankering for something like a Cornetto or a Strawberry Mivvie or a Fab. By and by I ended up at the freezer section of a Chinese supermarket, where I bought myself an intriguing Chinese ice called a "Frozen Pig Uterus". I loosened the uppermost buttons of my shirt and felt quite dapper as I licked at my ice in the sun and ambled back home. I am sorry to report that the Chinese, adept though they are at kites and fireworks, have yet to master the humble ice. It was not a patch on a Mr Freeze. But enough merriment for one day - I must now darken the tone and continue my sorry tale.
After Bossert revealed to me that he had deliberately twisted a boy into the shape of a lumpen dwarf, he proceeded to give me some indication as to my own fate. I would not be slain, he made that much clear, but I was certain to live out the rest of my worthless life in perpetual agony. I asked that he deleash me ('deleash' simply means 'un-enleash') so that I might at least face my destiny with dignity, but he refused my request in the following way:
I refuse your request, so do lay to rest
All your hopes of escape, for hopeless they are:
Soon Mr Carew, you'll make your debut
At the Rubik's Convention at which I'm the star.
His rhyming had begun again with gusto, signalling danger for me. I begged him to let me go free, but he would not allow it. In an effort to regain some semblance of control, I then begged him to allow me to let out a pitiful wail, to which he agreed in this fashion:
You may let out a wail for today I unveil
To the world's greatest puzzlers my latest design.
Your role, I fear, will soon become clear
So be patient you cretin and nevermore whine.
As you perceive from the fact that I am currently at home in Dundee recounting this story retrospectively, I did manage to escape from Bossert's clutches. I am sorry if this ruins the dramatic tension for you as readers, but there is little I can do about that. Maybe you could play some tense music as you are reading this diary in future to spice things up a bit if you are that bothered. Something along the lines of the theme tune to Casualty.
I will tell you some more of this story tomorrow.
After Bossert revealed to me that he had deliberately twisted a boy into the shape of a lumpen dwarf, he proceeded to give me some indication as to my own fate. I would not be slain, he made that much clear, but I was certain to live out the rest of my worthless life in perpetual agony. I asked that he deleash me ('deleash' simply means 'un-enleash') so that I might at least face my destiny with dignity, but he refused my request in the following way:
I refuse your request, so do lay to rest
All your hopes of escape, for hopeless they are:
Soon Mr Carew, you'll make your debut
At the Rubik's Convention at which I'm the star.
His rhyming had begun again with gusto, signalling danger for me. I begged him to let me go free, but he would not allow it. In an effort to regain some semblance of control, I then begged him to allow me to let out a pitiful wail, to which he agreed in this fashion:
You may let out a wail for today I unveil
To the world's greatest puzzlers my latest design.
Your role, I fear, will soon become clear
So be patient you cretin and nevermore whine.
As you perceive from the fact that I am currently at home in Dundee recounting this story retrospectively, I did manage to escape from Bossert's clutches. I am sorry if this ruins the dramatic tension for you as readers, but there is little I can do about that. Maybe you could play some tense music as you are reading this diary in future to spice things up a bit if you are that bothered. Something along the lines of the theme tune to Casualty.
I will tell you some more of this story tomorrow.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
The Story of Perkeo
I will now continue the story of my time spent with Patrick Bossert. After he had dismissed the wretched, twisted dwarf, Bossert bade me sit, then told me the following in his thin and reedy schoolboy voice:
Mr Carew, I will break from my habitual rhyming mode of speech in order to talk candidly. Oh yes, poetry often yields the greatest truths - on that point there can be no doubt - but I find it can become tiresome and meaningless if one draws out the parlour trick too long.
I perceive that you resent your treatment at the hands of my dwarf, Perkeo. Please do not judge him too harshly for pain and debasement is all he has ever known. I designed him myself, you know. Oh yes, it is true. How, you ask? Tell me Mr Carew, have you ever heard of the Comprachicos? No? Then I will tell you.
'Comprachicos' is a compound Spanish word meaning 'child buyers'. The Comprachicos were an association of 17th century itinerants which traded in children. At the time, there was an enormous demand among the aristocracy for human freaks: dwarfs, hunchbacks, people with one leg slightly longer than the other, and the whole gambit of human monstrosities. They were so popular at Court that it even became common for royalty and the upper echelons of Spanish society to rampantly interbreed in an effort to produce deformed offspring. Well, the Comprachicos saw an opening in the market and began to manufacture human oddities.
They would always purchase babies, for the younger the child, the greater the opportunity to corrupt their physical purity. Who would sell their children into a life of unspeakable torment you ask? Your confusion speaks of your naivety Mr Carew. The lowest, poorest, and most hopeless of our world can always be relied upon to exploit those more helpless than themselves. A familial bond is infinitely weaker than the bond between mankind and money. Pardon Mr Carew? Indeed, a familial bond is likely weaker than a James Bond too, but let us ignore this for the moment.
The Comprachicos would break bones and mutilate faces. It became something of an artform. Freaks could be made to order. If, through some perversion, a wealthy nobleman desired an armless man with the features of a Doberman Pinscher, or an eight foot woman with a head the size and shape of a sugar beet, then this could easily be arranged. A specialist branch of monster making arose whereby babies were held until adulthood in distorted jugs. Over the years their bodies grew to fill the shape of the oddly shaped jugs, and when the poor creatures' growing was judged to have ended, the jugs were smashed and the warped creatures hobbled out with hideously entertaining jug-shaped bodies. The jug shards were collected and sold as cheap and affordable crazy paving.
Yes, I designed my dwarf, Perkeo, using the methods of the Comprachicos. I flatter myself that I have done very well for a first attempt: his wretched body appears irreparably knotted. You look appalled, Mr Carew. Do not fret - I designed Perkeo as a puzzle, which I fully intend to solve on some idle afternoon when my interest leans that way. Yes, I believe that, using secret surgery techniques of my own devising, I can wholly unknot and untwist the low creature like a human Rubick's Cube. I can make of him a fine figured man of tall stature and unblemished features whenever I choose. Why not now, you ask? Sigh...you do not have the mind of a puzzler, Mr Carew. A puzzle solved is a puzzle lost. Besides, Perkeo is so much easier to kick in his current shape....
Reminding myself of Bossert's monstrous cruelty has drained me, dear readers. I am forced to stop for the moment. At any rate, the final of How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria? is on shortly and I need to see which girl will win the grand prize of working with Andrew Lloyd Webber on a day to day basis: any girl's dream.
Mr Carew, I will break from my habitual rhyming mode of speech in order to talk candidly. Oh yes, poetry often yields the greatest truths - on that point there can be no doubt - but I find it can become tiresome and meaningless if one draws out the parlour trick too long.
I perceive that you resent your treatment at the hands of my dwarf, Perkeo. Please do not judge him too harshly for pain and debasement is all he has ever known. I designed him myself, you know. Oh yes, it is true. How, you ask? Tell me Mr Carew, have you ever heard of the Comprachicos? No? Then I will tell you.
'Comprachicos' is a compound Spanish word meaning 'child buyers'. The Comprachicos were an association of 17th century itinerants which traded in children. At the time, there was an enormous demand among the aristocracy for human freaks: dwarfs, hunchbacks, people with one leg slightly longer than the other, and the whole gambit of human monstrosities. They were so popular at Court that it even became common for royalty and the upper echelons of Spanish society to rampantly interbreed in an effort to produce deformed offspring. Well, the Comprachicos saw an opening in the market and began to manufacture human oddities.
They would always purchase babies, for the younger the child, the greater the opportunity to corrupt their physical purity. Who would sell their children into a life of unspeakable torment you ask? Your confusion speaks of your naivety Mr Carew. The lowest, poorest, and most hopeless of our world can always be relied upon to exploit those more helpless than themselves. A familial bond is infinitely weaker than the bond between mankind and money. Pardon Mr Carew? Indeed, a familial bond is likely weaker than a James Bond too, but let us ignore this for the moment.
The Comprachicos would break bones and mutilate faces. It became something of an artform. Freaks could be made to order. If, through some perversion, a wealthy nobleman desired an armless man with the features of a Doberman Pinscher, or an eight foot woman with a head the size and shape of a sugar beet, then this could easily be arranged. A specialist branch of monster making arose whereby babies were held until adulthood in distorted jugs. Over the years their bodies grew to fill the shape of the oddly shaped jugs, and when the poor creatures' growing was judged to have ended, the jugs were smashed and the warped creatures hobbled out with hideously entertaining jug-shaped bodies. The jug shards were collected and sold as cheap and affordable crazy paving.
Yes, I designed my dwarf, Perkeo, using the methods of the Comprachicos. I flatter myself that I have done very well for a first attempt: his wretched body appears irreparably knotted. You look appalled, Mr Carew. Do not fret - I designed Perkeo as a puzzle, which I fully intend to solve on some idle afternoon when my interest leans that way. Yes, I believe that, using secret surgery techniques of my own devising, I can wholly unknot and untwist the low creature like a human Rubick's Cube. I can make of him a fine figured man of tall stature and unblemished features whenever I choose. Why not now, you ask? Sigh...you do not have the mind of a puzzler, Mr Carew. A puzzle solved is a puzzle lost. Besides, Perkeo is so much easier to kick in his current shape....
Reminding myself of Bossert's monstrous cruelty has drained me, dear readers. I am forced to stop for the moment. At any rate, the final of How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria? is on shortly and I need to see which girl will win the grand prize of working with Andrew Lloyd Webber on a day to day basis: any girl's dream.
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