I must confess that although my new techniques to attract more readers to my diary has succeeded in that I now have an average of 14 readers each day instead of 10, I am unhappy with what I have become.
I have allowed myself to become seduced by the lure of possibily gaining more than 20 readers per day and entering into the big leagues. You start to think you can dip your toes into the modes of populist trash yet maintain your credibility and integrity. You start to think that you can get away with producing inferior products, and that your core fan base will indulge you such slips because they are convinced of your genius. You start to forget your true fans, and just write for the idiots. You start to think you can just post up pictures of Charlie Chalk and Martin Short for your readers to goggle at. Before you know it, your electronic diary is just a collection of links to other people's work. Before you know it, you are weeping into your lap, longing for the days when you were respected by the literary community and were berated on Late Review by Tom Paulin. Before you know it you are disgusted with yourself. Before you know it you are standing in the new Marks and Spencers in Broughty Ferry, drunk on fortified wine, your trousers on your head and your pain-contorted face slicked with aspic from three dozen purloined Melton Mowbrays.
When the police finally let me go with a caution, I returned home and vowed never again to cater to the lowest common denominator: from now on, my diary entries will revert to their usual level of intelligence. I am now going for a Radox herbal bath.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Short Entry
Although my last entry was short, it was not quite as short as I had intended, so I will do my best to make this one shorter.
Here is a picture that I like.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Another Short Entry providing Balance
As my last diary entry was another long one, I will now break up my web page by including another short entry here, so that casual browsers are not put off by too much text.
The postgraduate Kennie Pome told me that, as well as including more pictures to hook readers, I should include lots more web links in my entries, so that my diary is providing a tangible service to readers by furnishing them with interesting and educational content.
Therefore, here is a web site which specializes in the matching and supplying of reclaimed imperial bricks. It has a brick library that you may browse, and the front page features an animated man that talks aloud (about bricks), providing you turn up the volume on your computer. He will keep you right.
I have also been told that I must make greater effort to interact with my readers through such means as asking them questions within my diary entries, which they might reply to through the 'comments' function. Casual browsers will see that each entry has numerous comments, and will assume that the electronic diary is extremely popular and may thus revisit.
I will try this as an experiment to see if it works:
My favourite brick from the brick web site is brick DM0202. What is yours?
The postgraduate Kennie Pome told me that, as well as including more pictures to hook readers, I should include lots more web links in my entries, so that my diary is providing a tangible service to readers by furnishing them with interesting and educational content.
Therefore, here is a web site which specializes in the matching and supplying of reclaimed imperial bricks. It has a brick library that you may browse, and the front page features an animated man that talks aloud (about bricks), providing you turn up the volume on your computer. He will keep you right.
I have also been told that I must make greater effort to interact with my readers through such means as asking them questions within my diary entries, which they might reply to through the 'comments' function. Casual browsers will see that each entry has numerous comments, and will assume that the electronic diary is extremely popular and may thus revisit.
I will try this as an experiment to see if it works:
My favourite brick from the brick web site is brick DM0202. What is yours?
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
The Interview with the Postgraduate: Part 2
I will now continue with Part 2 of my interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome.
Kennie Pome: Now then, Steve...
Me: Who's Steve?
Kennie Pome: You are.
Me: Oh yes of course. And Horton Carew is a fictional character which I created.
Kennie Pome: Now then, Steve, perhaps you could say a little about some of the other characters that appear on the blog via the comments function (and occasionally in the narrative itself). Dr Gland, Professor Flitey, etc. What do they lend to the diegesis?
Me: [worried, because Dr Gland and Professor Flitey would not appreciate me saying they were fictional] I did not actually create them.
Kennie Pome: That's interesting. Do you collaborate with other writers then?
Me: [inelegantly improvising] Oh yes, I have a large network of writer chums. Dr Gland's creator is Bill Tutternosker, a schoolteacher from Kirkliston, and Professor Flitey was the brainchild of Angela Civetbrawn, a homemaker (housewife) from Norfolk, Connecticut (America). They both do a really good job with those characters. We do our best to confabulate online three or four times a week, just to touch base. We've only met up in person once. We organised a Writers of Horton's Folly Christmas Party last Christmas in Connecticut. It was nice. We all sat around on Angela's veranda swigging beers and discussing what direction we wanted to take for Horton's Folly. I have to say, Angela and myself tend to be on the same wavelength, but Bill often wants to be a lot more experimental than we're comfortable with. For instance, he wanted to have Dr. Gland speaking in untranslated Hebrew at one point. Another time, he came up with this idea that Dr Gland should give up being a medical doctor and become an eco-warrier. Angela and myself usually have to rein in those wild flights of fancy!
Kennie Pome: That's interesting...
Me: I can put you in touch with Bill and Angela if you like, provided you only interview them over the phone and just give their £5.00 fees directly to me. Funnily enough, Bill and Angela both have Dundee accents just like me because they both liked mine so much they decided to copy it whenever they spoke. In fact, we often joke about how similar we all sound over the phone. You would pay them £5.00 per interview I trust?
Kennie Pome: That's interesting, but I will stick to just interviewing you. I assume that your blog is sort of an arena in which you dramatise the work of postmodern literary theorists? Is that fair to say?
Me: It certainly is Kennie. I've said so myself many times.
Kennie Pome: That's interesting. Now, what authors influence you? We'll take the usual suspects - Calvino, Borges, Eco, Pynchon, etc. - as given.
Me: Of course. Well, I have to say that I am influenced mainly by the writers of Neighbours. I really love it.
Kennie Pome: That's interesting. You're being coy again. I can see you're not comfortable with that question. That's cool - I'll drop it.
Me: No, I love Neighbours. Have you seen that Max and Steph have split up? It's sad, but I suppose Toady and Steph are free to get together now.
Kennie Pome: Okay, okay. I get the point. I'll drop that line of questioning. Right. In many ways, your blog is metacritical: how aware are you of current academic research into blog fiction (my own included) and how much of that do you incorporate into your blog?
Me: ...
Kennie Pome: Would you like me to repeat the question?
Me: Do I still get the £5.00 if I don't get all the answers right?
Kennie Pome: Okay, we'll call it a day for now. Thank you for your time. That was very interesting. Perhaps we might arrange another interview later.
Me: Yes, that would be a pleasure. We authors relish the opportunity to talk at length about our work, and to earn £5.00.
And that readers, was the interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome. You have done very well in managing to read all the way down this diary entry without losing interest or being distracted by other electronic diaries that have more links to YouTube. I do not wish to tax you further with more text, so as a small reward for your patience, here is a picture of the president of the USA (United States of America), George W. Bush.
I hope that casual browsers might see it and assume this is a website full of stinging satirical commentary. By the time they realise it is not, they will already be hooked by the pictures of monkeys further down the page and by my deft and skillful prose.
Kennie Pome: Now then, Steve...
Me: Who's Steve?
Kennie Pome: You are.
Me: Oh yes of course. And Horton Carew is a fictional character which I created.
Kennie Pome: Now then, Steve, perhaps you could say a little about some of the other characters that appear on the blog via the comments function (and occasionally in the narrative itself). Dr Gland, Professor Flitey, etc. What do they lend to the diegesis?
Me: [worried, because Dr Gland and Professor Flitey would not appreciate me saying they were fictional] I did not actually create them.
Kennie Pome: That's interesting. Do you collaborate with other writers then?
Me: [inelegantly improvising] Oh yes, I have a large network of writer chums. Dr Gland's creator is Bill Tutternosker, a schoolteacher from Kirkliston, and Professor Flitey was the brainchild of Angela Civetbrawn, a homemaker (housewife) from Norfolk, Connecticut (America). They both do a really good job with those characters. We do our best to confabulate online three or four times a week, just to touch base. We've only met up in person once. We organised a Writers of Horton's Folly Christmas Party last Christmas in Connecticut. It was nice. We all sat around on Angela's veranda swigging beers and discussing what direction we wanted to take for Horton's Folly. I have to say, Angela and myself tend to be on the same wavelength, but Bill often wants to be a lot more experimental than we're comfortable with. For instance, he wanted to have Dr. Gland speaking in untranslated Hebrew at one point. Another time, he came up with this idea that Dr Gland should give up being a medical doctor and become an eco-warrier. Angela and myself usually have to rein in those wild flights of fancy!
Kennie Pome: That's interesting...
Me: I can put you in touch with Bill and Angela if you like, provided you only interview them over the phone and just give their £5.00 fees directly to me. Funnily enough, Bill and Angela both have Dundee accents just like me because they both liked mine so much they decided to copy it whenever they spoke. In fact, we often joke about how similar we all sound over the phone. You would pay them £5.00 per interview I trust?
Kennie Pome: That's interesting, but I will stick to just interviewing you. I assume that your blog is sort of an arena in which you dramatise the work of postmodern literary theorists? Is that fair to say?
Me: It certainly is Kennie. I've said so myself many times.
Kennie Pome: That's interesting. Now, what authors influence you? We'll take the usual suspects - Calvino, Borges, Eco, Pynchon, etc. - as given.
Me: Of course. Well, I have to say that I am influenced mainly by the writers of Neighbours. I really love it.
Kennie Pome: That's interesting. You're being coy again. I can see you're not comfortable with that question. That's cool - I'll drop it.
Me: No, I love Neighbours. Have you seen that Max and Steph have split up? It's sad, but I suppose Toady and Steph are free to get together now.
Kennie Pome: Okay, okay. I get the point. I'll drop that line of questioning. Right. In many ways, your blog is metacritical: how aware are you of current academic research into blog fiction (my own included) and how much of that do you incorporate into your blog?
Me: ...
Kennie Pome: Would you like me to repeat the question?
Me: Do I still get the £5.00 if I don't get all the answers right?
Kennie Pome: Okay, we'll call it a day for now. Thank you for your time. That was very interesting. Perhaps we might arrange another interview later.
Me: Yes, that would be a pleasure. We authors relish the opportunity to talk at length about our work, and to earn £5.00.
And that readers, was the interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome. You have done very well in managing to read all the way down this diary entry without losing interest or being distracted by other electronic diaries that have more links to YouTube. I do not wish to tax you further with more text, so as a small reward for your patience, here is a picture of the president of the USA (United States of America), George W. Bush.
I hope that casual browsers might see it and assume this is a website full of stinging satirical commentary. By the time they realise it is not, they will already be hooked by the pictures of monkeys further down the page and by my deft and skillful prose.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
A Shorter Diary Entry for Contrast
The postgraduate Kennie Pome has also indicated to me that if I have tried the patience of my readers with a very long diary entry (upwards of 100 words), then the next diary entry I create should be shorter to give a sense of contrast and variation. Readers, if faced with two lengthy diary entries in a row, will break down and give up in tears at the effort expected of them. Therefore, this diary entry will be very short and I will continue with the second part of my interview in tomorrow's diary entry.
I do not like to waste my readers' time however, so I will use this entry to direct your attention to this website which you may explore at your leisure. Once you've read that web site in its entirety, I advise you to follow the link given by that author on the 17th April, because he has also found a very good web site that you will certainly enjoy perusing.
Certain of my readers have indictated that my recent practice of including a picture with each entry has hooked them, so the advice of postgraduate Kennie Pome is evidently something I can trust. In particular, images of simians seem to draw the readers in, so I will now continue this trend by presenting a picture of a monkey taking home a juicy pear to his spouse:
I do not like to waste my readers' time however, so I will use this entry to direct your attention to this website which you may explore at your leisure. Once you've read that web site in its entirety, I advise you to follow the link given by that author on the 17th April, because he has also found a very good web site that you will certainly enjoy perusing.
Certain of my readers have indictated that my recent practice of including a picture with each entry has hooked them, so the advice of postgraduate Kennie Pome is evidently something I can trust. In particular, images of simians seem to draw the readers in, so I will now continue this trend by presenting a picture of a monkey taking home a juicy pear to his spouse:
Monday, April 16, 2007
The Interview with the Postgraduate: Part 1
I will split my account of the interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome into two parts, which I will entitle Part 1 and Part 2 for ease of understanding ('Part 1' being the first part of the interview, and 'Part 2' being the second). Doing so will keep my diary entries shorter so that the reader will not be discouraged by reams of text. As I said yesterday, the postgraduate Kennie Pome informed me that electronic diaries, or 'blogs' as he insisted on calling them, are typically read by jaded and largely uninterested readers, who will not be persuaded to invest any time in reading unless they are 'hooked' by bite-sized chunklets of punchy text and attractive images. I have therefore endeavoured to adopt such a template in order to keep my readers interested. Thus, being studious of brevity, I will refrain from elaboration and continue with my account of the interview.
I cannot remember our conversation verbatim, but I will do my best to recount it exactly as I recall it. I believe I did a very convincing job of presenting myself as an author and hope you will agree.
Kennie Pome: First of all, thank you for agreeing to this interview. I have enjoyed reading your blog fiction. Let's start with a few basic questions about yourself and the nuts and bolts of your blog. What's your name?
Me: Horton Carew. Can I confirm that I will be getting £5.00 for this interview?
Kennie Pome: Yes, you'll get £5.00. But I'd prefer you to conduct this interview 'out of character'. This is serious academic research I'm doing, not a bit of fluff for the gutter press.
Me: [panicking, for I had forgotten that I was supposed to be playing a part, so distracted was I by the lemon muffin] Of course. My name is Steve M. R. Tubbock.
Kennie Pome: Thanks Steve. Do you feel comfortable sharing any personal information with me? Where are you from? What do you work as? That sort of thing?
Me: I live in Broughty Ferry where I own a small gallery that exhibits and sells the work of local artists. My wife creates sculptures of seabirds using hewn driftwood and oyster shells, which are very popular. This brings in enough money to put me in the fortunate position of devoting myself entirely to my writing.
Kennie Pome: That's interesting. What other writing projects are you working on at the moment?
Me: None. I spend all my time writing Horton's Folly, which is of course fictional. As is the handsome and erudite character 'Horton Carew'.
Kennie Pome: That's very interesting. So how long do you spend on each blog entry then?
Me: It varies. I never spend less than eight hours per entry, sometimes more if there's a lot of research required. I write my first draft by midday, then usually scrap it and start again. This abandoning is a valuable part of the creative process though: nothing is wasted. I typically write 20,000 words in total before I begin self-editing. I describe this stage as 'prose decocting' wherein I 'boil down' the 20,000 words and extract the essence of the narrative, which is what I present to the reader.
Kennie Pome: That's interesting. Can you tell me what first drew you to use the blog genre for your fiction? Would you say that you understand that blogs and diaries are conventionally thought of as confessional discourses which present secrets and avowals to readers who consequently feel that they are privy to some naked and unvarnished truth, but that, in couching a fictional narrative in this genre, you chose to mock or subvert that notion to augment your overarching concerns, in common with other postmodernist writers of metafiction, with fracturing the atavistic concept of absolutes?
Me: Yes.
Kennie Pome: It's interesting you say that because that's exactly what I would have thought. Now, what about the character of Horton Carew? Where did he stem from? How did you develop him?
Me: Well, I think of Horton as a classical Hero figure. He is fiercely intelligent, knowledgable, strong, and brave. Throughout his everyday experiences, he always shines through as the perfect human being. Horton is a character that all women fall in love with and all men aspire to be.
Kennie Pome: [laughing, for some unknown reason] That's interesting. Typifies the biting sardonicism prevalent in your blog. But seriously, how did you develop Horton's character? He's a very strange individual I think it's fair to say!
I cannot remember our conversation verbatim, but I will do my best to recount it exactly as I recall it. I believe I did a very convincing job of presenting myself as an author and hope you will agree.
Kennie Pome: First of all, thank you for agreeing to this interview. I have enjoyed reading your blog fiction. Let's start with a few basic questions about yourself and the nuts and bolts of your blog. What's your name?
Me: Horton Carew. Can I confirm that I will be getting £5.00 for this interview?
Kennie Pome: Yes, you'll get £5.00. But I'd prefer you to conduct this interview 'out of character'. This is serious academic research I'm doing, not a bit of fluff for the gutter press.
Me: [panicking, for I had forgotten that I was supposed to be playing a part, so distracted was I by the lemon muffin] Of course. My name is Steve M. R. Tubbock.
Kennie Pome: Thanks Steve. Do you feel comfortable sharing any personal information with me? Where are you from? What do you work as? That sort of thing?
Me: I live in Broughty Ferry where I own a small gallery that exhibits and sells the work of local artists. My wife creates sculptures of seabirds using hewn driftwood and oyster shells, which are very popular. This brings in enough money to put me in the fortunate position of devoting myself entirely to my writing.
Kennie Pome: That's interesting. What other writing projects are you working on at the moment?
Me: None. I spend all my time writing Horton's Folly, which is of course fictional. As is the handsome and erudite character 'Horton Carew'.
Kennie Pome: That's very interesting. So how long do you spend on each blog entry then?
Me: It varies. I never spend less than eight hours per entry, sometimes more if there's a lot of research required. I write my first draft by midday, then usually scrap it and start again. This abandoning is a valuable part of the creative process though: nothing is wasted. I typically write 20,000 words in total before I begin self-editing. I describe this stage as 'prose decocting' wherein I 'boil down' the 20,000 words and extract the essence of the narrative, which is what I present to the reader.
Kennie Pome: That's interesting. Can you tell me what first drew you to use the blog genre for your fiction? Would you say that you understand that blogs and diaries are conventionally thought of as confessional discourses which present secrets and avowals to readers who consequently feel that they are privy to some naked and unvarnished truth, but that, in couching a fictional narrative in this genre, you chose to mock or subvert that notion to augment your overarching concerns, in common with other postmodernist writers of metafiction, with fracturing the atavistic concept of absolutes?
Me: Yes.
Kennie Pome: It's interesting you say that because that's exactly what I would have thought. Now, what about the character of Horton Carew? Where did he stem from? How did you develop him?
Me: Well, I think of Horton as a classical Hero figure. He is fiercely intelligent, knowledgable, strong, and brave. Throughout his everyday experiences, he always shines through as the perfect human being. Horton is a character that all women fall in love with and all men aspire to be.
Kennie Pome: [laughing, for some unknown reason] That's interesting. Typifies the biting sardonicism prevalent in your blog. But seriously, how did you develop Horton's character? He's a very strange individual I think it's fair to say!
Me: [confused, but deciding to play along so as not to jeopardize my £5.00] Oh yes, of course. Horton is a strange fellow. I wanted to create a strange character.
Kennie Pome: That's interesting.
Me: Is it?
Kennie Pome: I suppose not.
Here I will break off so that my readers do not feel overwhelmed with words. And as promised, here is a picture to attract the attention of new readers and casual browsers, so that I might hook them in:
Broughty Ferry beach
Sunday, April 15, 2007
The Meeting with the Postgraduate Kennie Pome
The meeting with the postgraduate Kennie Pome was a success - I earned £5.00 for only 20 minutes worth of work. We met in a sophisticated coffee house called 'Starbucks', the interior design of which was perfectly suited to our great meeting of minds. If any of my readers is a member of the intelligentsia and is ever in Dundee and in need of coffee, I can recommend this 'Starbucks' place highly. It is a real shame that you should all be deprived of access to this delighful shop just because you do not live in Dundee. If only there was some way to duplicate it and place up to seven of them in every town in the world, then you would all be able to enjoy it like me.
The postgraduate Kennie Pome introduced himself to me as Kennie Pome, postgraduate. He bought a couple of coffees and two lemon muffins for the total cost of £12.40, which may sound expensive but when you consider that the coffee tastes marginally better than Nescafe Gold Blend, then you begin to understand that one is paying for quality. Pome had recognised me straight away because I look like the photograph of myself that I include on this web site. He expressed surprise, for he had thought that the photograph was just a random strange picture chosen to look 'totally random'.
The postgraduate Kennie Pome introduced himself to me as Kennie Pome, postgraduate. He bought a couple of coffees and two lemon muffins for the total cost of £12.40, which may sound expensive but when you consider that the coffee tastes marginally better than Nescafe Gold Blend, then you begin to understand that one is paying for quality. Pome had recognised me straight away because I look like the photograph of myself that I include on this web site. He expressed surprise, for he had thought that the photograph was just a random strange picture chosen to look 'totally random'.
Then began the interview, which I will relate to you in full later. You see, the postgraduate Kennie Pome has advised me to keep my electronic diary entries shorter and to include more images, because his research has shown that 'web logs' with briefer entries and more pictures are read by more people. Thus I will save my account of the interview for a subsequent entry so as not to overload the reader with excessive verbiage. Furthermore, here is an image of a monkey riding a man riding a horse.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Becoming a Sham-Author: Part 2
Because I must convince the postgraduate that I am a real author and that 'Horton Carew' is a fictional character, I must do my utmost to stay in character throughout the interview if I am to secure the £5. To this end, I have created a persona for myself that would convince anyone, even P. D. Harris, the number one reviewer on Amazon.com and hence the person most knowledgable about books and authors in the world.
As related yesterday, I have modelled my appearance on such literary greats as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Terry Pratchett, OBE, who are both so good at authoring that royalty gave them titles. I have thus eschewed that view of writers as louche alcoholics, surviving on laudanum in pokey garrets, and gone instead for more workmanlike, down-to-earth craftsmen types. Tomorrow I will wear a shirt and tie and attempt to remain business like. I have fluffed up my moustache a little, but that is my only concession to flamboyance.
It strikes me that I will require a suitable name to go by. What sort of name would the author of a fictional electronic diary have? I feel initials are key to success. J. R. R. Tolkien, H. P. Lovecraft, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Poppy Z. Brite, and Thomas R.D all recognised this truth. Yes, an initial will be essential. A simple first name, a couple of initials, and an unusual surname: this formula will see me right.
Some possiblities:
Ben R. R. Glush
Joe H. L. Askew
Bill M. C. Tutternosker
Lee P. D. Florescu
Dave F. T. Civetbrawn
Steve L. J. Hubshuft
Andy W. C. DeKelb-Rittenhouse
Mark C. F. Krzywinska
I must settle on a name by tomorrow, for it is then that I must meet the postgraduate.
As related yesterday, I have modelled my appearance on such literary greats as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Terry Pratchett, OBE, who are both so good at authoring that royalty gave them titles. I have thus eschewed that view of writers as louche alcoholics, surviving on laudanum in pokey garrets, and gone instead for more workmanlike, down-to-earth craftsmen types. Tomorrow I will wear a shirt and tie and attempt to remain business like. I have fluffed up my moustache a little, but that is my only concession to flamboyance.
It strikes me that I will require a suitable name to go by. What sort of name would the author of a fictional electronic diary have? I feel initials are key to success. J. R. R. Tolkien, H. P. Lovecraft, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Poppy Z. Brite, and Thomas R.D all recognised this truth. Yes, an initial will be essential. A simple first name, a couple of initials, and an unusual surname: this formula will see me right.
Some possiblities:
Ben R. R. Glush
Joe H. L. Askew
Bill M. C. Tutternosker
Lee P. D. Florescu
Dave F. T. Civetbrawn
Steve L. J. Hubshuft
Andy W. C. DeKelb-Rittenhouse
Mark C. F. Krzywinska
I must settle on a name by tomorrow, for it is then that I must meet the postgraduate.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Becoming a Sham-Author
I have arranged to meet the postgraduate on Friday in Dundee's Starbucks coffee house for the first of my interviews. If I am to convince him that I am an author and hence earn £5, I must look the part.
I have decided to model my appearance on a selection of famous and respected authors, whose senses of dress and general demeanour I will syncretize to create a whole new persona comprising the very essence of authorial class.
Here are the authors on which I have chosen to model myself (in some cases I was unable to find images of the actual author, so I have been obliged to use lookalikes):
I have decided to model my appearance on a selection of famous and respected authors, whose senses of dress and general demeanour I will syncretize to create a whole new persona comprising the very essence of authorial class.
Here are the authors on which I have chosen to model myself (in some cases I was unable to find images of the actual author, so I have been obliged to use lookalikes):
Arfur Conan Doyle
Charles Dickens
Jules Verne
Robert Louis Stevenson
Terry Pratchett
Monday, April 09, 2007
A Postgraduate Plagues Me
Those of you who have been following the comments left by other readers will have noted that I am currently being hounded by a postgraduate who believes me to be fictional. He wishes to conduct a series of interviews with the author of this electronic diary whom he erroneously imagines to be someone other than myself.
Ordinarily I would not humour such forwardness and brazen cheek, but as he has promised to pay me £5 per interview, I have decided to accommodate the cove. Thus will I pretend to be a writer who has fabricated everything in this electronic diary. I will disguise myself as an author and tell this postgraduate exactly what he wants to hear, even if that involves maintaining the pretence that I, Horton Carew, am a fictional character.
This will not be easy, but I believe I am up to the challenge.
Ordinarily I would not humour such forwardness and brazen cheek, but as he has promised to pay me £5 per interview, I have decided to accommodate the cove. Thus will I pretend to be a writer who has fabricated everything in this electronic diary. I will disguise myself as an author and tell this postgraduate exactly what he wants to hear, even if that involves maintaining the pretence that I, Horton Carew, am a fictional character.
This will not be easy, but I believe I am up to the challenge.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Easter Treats
As it is Easter Sunday, the day before Easter Monday, and as I am feeling light and gay after my recent triumph, I have given the day over to carefree pursuits such as eating chocolates and decorating hens' eggs.
Today is truly a wonderous one, for today we remember the day, many years ago, when Jesus H. Christ rose from the dead and escaped from his cave by turning into an egg and rolling down a hill or something.
Today is truly a wonderous one, for today we remember the day, many years ago, when Jesus H. Christ rose from the dead and escaped from his cave by turning into an egg and rolling down a hill or something.
To bring you joy, I will share with you a photograph of an egg which I have decorated in such a way that it looks like Scarlett Johansson in that film where she looks like a boiled egg.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
I Triumph
Success, dear readers, success! I have, for the moment, defeated my dead mother. She is imprisoned with little to no chance of ever escaping.
You see, for the past few days I made a great show of apologising to my dead mother and repeatedly promising to return to my evil ways. I even pretended to slice off my right hand as she had requested (in reality, I merely hid it up my sleeve). Evidently my ruse succeeded because her manner eventually reverted to a collegial tone rather than that of an evil mother enraged at her morally good son.
Yesterday I asked her, in as casual a tone as I could muster, whether she fancied a game of Monopoly. Perhaps, I mused aloud, it would bolster my capacity for evil for it is a game in which players are blooded in the ruthless ways of capitalism and encouraged to take delight in the financial ruination of family and friends. She agreed at once. My heart skipped two to three beats with the excitement.
She stood upon the board in the intimidating form of the little scottie dog that I have grown to loathe these last months. I chose to play as the race car because I thought that it would make me look cool. I took a deep breath and rolled the dice.
It was clear from the off that she was the better player. Within only a few circuits of the board she had established hotels on the blue set and the red set. I had succeeded only in buying the Waterworks, Fenchurch Street Station, and Old Kent Road. My fiendishly clever plan was failing almost before it had begun.
Down to my last £14, it was obvious that I would be bankrupt within my next few rolls because my mother owned all the property on the board and had at least a house on each site. I had only to wait for her to take her turn then all would surely be over. Well readers, she rolled a ten! That took her to a Chance square. My very last opportunity to defeat her.
I picked up the top most Chance card from the pile and, with trembling hand, revealed the underside. Triumph! It said, "Go to Jail. Go Directly to Jail. Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect £200". Oh frabjous day!
I moved my mother into the Jail square, my heart thumping so rapidly that I feared she would hear it.
"And now mother, I am afraid you lose," said I.
"Not so, halfwit," she replied. "I need only roll a double within my next three shots and, if I fail to do so, I must pay only £50 to secure my release. That is a paltry sum for me because I have many thousands of pounds. Besides which, you will be made bankrupt in your next few moves, and I will de victorious, you chump. Bwah haa haa haah... Now roll the dice and take your turn."
Have you guessed my plan yet readers? I expect two or three of you have, but no more than that because it really is terribly clever. You see, because my dead mother's wicked soul is trapped inside the little scottie dog from Monopoly, she is bound by the rules of that venerable board game. She is obliged to abide by its rules as you or I are bound to the rules of gravity.
Readers, I refused to take my turn. Until I do so, she must remain in Jail. And you know as well as I do, and as well as my evil mother knows, that I will never take my turn in that game of Monopoly. Bwah haa haa haaah.
Being careful not to shift any of the pieces, I gingerly carried the board and accompanying paraphernalia up to the back of my loft where I have laid it in a large chest and locked it tight. Never will I hear from that wicked soul again.
I suppose it's a bit like Jumanji starring Robin Williams.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
A Secret Plan is Concocted
Readers, I am afraid I allowed myself to become distracted by numerous animated programmes these last few days, which meant I forgot about my resolve to rid my home of my dead mother's soul.
No matter, for I have hit upon a brilliant scheme. Readers, the solution is in the game of Monopoly itself! I have been blind. The answer is obvious: I must challenge my mother to a game of Monopoly...and win. Her soul being anchored to the little scottie dog from Monopoly, she will of course play as the little scottie dog, and I will play as something sexy like the racecar or the boat...
But I am saying too much. She is crafty and suspicious and may yet read my electronic diary. If so, all will be lost. I will report back to you after my plan has come to fruition.
Pray for me.
No matter, for I have hit upon a brilliant scheme. Readers, the solution is in the game of Monopoly itself! I have been blind. The answer is obvious: I must challenge my mother to a game of Monopoly...and win. Her soul being anchored to the little scottie dog from Monopoly, she will of course play as the little scottie dog, and I will play as something sexy like the racecar or the boat...
But I am saying too much. She is crafty and suspicious and may yet read my electronic diary. If so, all will be lost. I will report back to you after my plan has come to fruition.
Pray for me.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
The Dog Came Back The Very Next Day
Fact 1: My dead mother's wicked soul is anchored to the little scottie dog from Monopoly.
Fact 2: If I can get rid of the little pewter dog then I can surely be rid of my dead mother's wicked soul.
This was the sort of reasoning I employed when first I hurled the little dog from out my bedroom window onto the street, where it struck the ear of a passing Mormon who understandably evinced chagrin. Alas, the next day the dog stood atop my mantelpiece as though it had never been flung away in disgust.
Next I took the dog to the top of the Law Hill and left it there, exposed to the elements. The next day, however, it had returned to its spot on the mantel.
Fact 2: If I can get rid of the little pewter dog then I can surely be rid of my dead mother's wicked soul.
This was the sort of reasoning I employed when first I hurled the little dog from out my bedroom window onto the street, where it struck the ear of a passing Mormon who understandably evinced chagrin. Alas, the next day the dog stood atop my mantelpiece as though it had never been flung away in disgust.
Next I took the dog to the top of the Law Hill and left it there, exposed to the elements. The next day, however, it had returned to its spot on the mantel.
Law Hill, Dundee
Next I packaged it up securely in a padded envelope, addressed it to Kirk Douglas in the US (America), and paid the relevant postage costs. The next day, however...well, you can undoubtedly guess the rest for you are not a buffoon.
The whole sorry affair reminded me of a cartoon I once saw on Rolf's Cartoon Time about a cat that kept returning to the home of a man who desperately wanted to be rid of the creature. It was a good cartoon. I must go and see if it is available for viewing on YouTube.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
I Make a Brave Decision
Readers, I must be quick for I fear my dead mother may be eavesdropping. I have made a firm decision not to kowtow to her any longer. I will not cut off my right hand. Of that I am sure.
Last night I dreamt that Lion-O visited me. He told me that my innate goodness and reluctance to sin was not the debilitating condition I took it for. No, he told me that I should consider it a strength because all heroes everywhere, up to and including Sam Spade from The Maltese Falcon, are good. Goodness is a defining characteristic of all the most admired men (and some women) throughout history. This wisdom imparted, Lion-O faded from my ken.
But readers, his words rang true. Readers, I am good. I will be rid of my evil mother's influence. I will do it. I will surely do it.
Last night I dreamt that Lion-O visited me. He told me that my innate goodness and reluctance to sin was not the debilitating condition I took it for. No, he told me that I should consider it a strength because all heroes everywhere, up to and including Sam Spade from The Maltese Falcon, are good. Goodness is a defining characteristic of all the most admired men (and some women) throughout history. This wisdom imparted, Lion-O faded from my ken.
But readers, his words rang true. Readers, I am good. I will be rid of my evil mother's influence. I will do it. I will surely do it.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Mother's Punishment
My dead mother demands that I sever my right hand from my right arm as penance for my lack of sins. Only then will she be satisfied that fealty has been served.
Readers, I must admit reluctance on my part to cleave my right hand from my right arm. As I am right-handed, I asked if she might reconsider and allow me to cut off my left hand instead, which I currently only use for novelty value and for maintaining a sense of symmetry, but my mother is adamant that it be my right hand.
I expect she will eventually persuade or cajole me into going through with this grim task, but I will be very sorry to see my right hand go - it has served me well these last few years and has been instrumental in many of my happiest moments on this earth.
I turn now to Microsoft's comprehensive collection of cliparts to provide illustrations of common uses of one's right hand, to convey to you exactly what everyday activities I will be missing out on when I sacrifice my hand.
Use 1: Cradling a russet apple
Use 2: Depressing buttons 
Use 3: Rehearsing for an imagined day when golf courses shrink
Use 4: Shooting things (specifically guns)
Use 5: Mimicking arthritisSunday, March 25, 2007
A Heartfelt Apology
Readers - if readers ye be, and not illiterates who have stumbled upon this page by chance and cannot understand the strange hieroglyphs you see before you - I owe each of you an apology. In the past few entries I was convinced by some delirium or wicked hex that I was monstrously evil and capable of terrible deeds. I have insulted you by refering to you as "halfwits" when I know that most of you are actually "fullwits". I have mocked you and tried your patience innumerable times and relished so doing. I have forced you to read about my various horrible acts, up to and including maiming a ladybird and trussing up a Pole.
For this I am sorry. If I could send each and every one of you a gift by way of an apology, I would, but I know that a great many of you dwell in the US (America), so postage and packaging costs would be prohibitive. If it is any consolation to you, you must know that my dead mother, in the form of the little scottie dog from Monopoly, is even now formulating my punishment, which will no doubt consist of prolonged torture culminating in a low and ignominious death. She remains wholly evil and can no longer tolerate a good and moral son such as I.
Do not weep for me. It is no more than I deserve.
For this I am sorry. If I could send each and every one of you a gift by way of an apology, I would, but I know that a great many of you dwell in the US (America), so postage and packaging costs would be prohibitive. If it is any consolation to you, you must know that my dead mother, in the form of the little scottie dog from Monopoly, is even now formulating my punishment, which will no doubt consist of prolonged torture culminating in a low and ignominious death. She remains wholly evil and can no longer tolerate a good and moral son such as I.
Do not weep for me. It is no more than I deserve.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Shamefaced
My late mother is furious with me. As you have no doubt ascertained through reading between the lines of my recent entries, I have been living a lie.
I am not evil and do not think I will ever be able to live a normal evil life. There is a perverse streak of goodness in me that quite prevents me from going through with evil acts. When push came to shove, I was unable to skin the Polish fellow. Moral repugnance and guilt stayed my hand. There is unfortunately no doubt that I am good. I apologised to the Polish man for letting him down, and allowed him to go free, unskinned.
"You worthless piece of ****!!" my dead mother bawled, "You're such a disappointment, Horton! You're useless! You're beyond useless! You've let me down! Why do you always shame me? You *******! That's it! I don't want you around me! Get out of my sight, you ****. I must concoct a suitable punishment. If you cannot be evil, I must harm you. I will thrash the goodness out of you! You stupid, worthless ****!! You've let me down!"
I cannot help but feel that I have let my mother down.
I am not evil and do not think I will ever be able to live a normal evil life. There is a perverse streak of goodness in me that quite prevents me from going through with evil acts. When push came to shove, I was unable to skin the Polish fellow. Moral repugnance and guilt stayed my hand. There is unfortunately no doubt that I am good. I apologised to the Polish man for letting him down, and allowed him to go free, unskinned.
"You worthless piece of ****!!" my dead mother bawled, "You're such a disappointment, Horton! You're useless! You're beyond useless! You've let me down! Why do you always shame me? You *******! That's it! I don't want you around me! Get out of my sight, you ****. I must concoct a suitable punishment. If you cannot be evil, I must harm you. I will thrash the goodness out of you! You stupid, worthless ****!! You've let me down!"
I cannot help but feel that I have let my mother down.
Friday, March 23, 2007
I Skin a Leg
Readers, I am beginning to doubt the extent of my evilness and fear that the life of a dark lord is not to be my destiny. I cannot deny that the Pole's constant weeping has aroused my sympathy. Furthermore, I have suffered the occasional pang of guilt throughout the day as I went about the grisly business of skinning the man.
My dead mother jeered and questioned my manhood when I expressed doubts, then likened me to a 'Soho Fruit'. Such mockery spurred me on to swallow my indecision and make a start on removing the Pole's skin. How the man wept! I told him not to take it personally, but he seemed determined to do so and kept asking, "Why me? Why do you do this thing to me?" Another favourite refrain of his was, "Please stop. Please let me live. I will give you money. Please, I have a family. I don't want to die. Please." Honestly, they're a talkative lot those Poles! His pleading, irritating though it was, caused me to feel pity for the man, which was most inconvenient.
I spent the entire afternoon hacking away at the man's left leg with a breadknife and a saw. The man's skin was shiny and hard and quite impossible to penetrate - my scissors and Stanley knife proved useless in this endeavour. Try as I might, I simply could not remove the skin from the Pole's leg. The man squealed and moaned the whole time too, which only served to make the process more annoying.
When Newsround came on, I gave up, utterly exhausted.
"Dear god, man! Are you protected by some voodoo and/or hoodoo?" I asked the Pole. "Try as I might, I simply cannot remove the skin from your Polish leg."
Well, readers, between heaving sobs, the Pole admitted to me that he had lost his left leg in a threshing accident as a child. Ever since then, he had been forced to wear a prosthetic.
I thought it was most rude of him not to make this known earlier, for he could easily have saved me the embarrassment of spending four and a half hours trying to skin an artficial leg. How humiliating. What must he think of me? I have promised him that I will do better next time.
As punishment for his cheek, I have confiscated his leg and have forbidden him from watching Jonathan Ross tonight.
My dead mother jeered and questioned my manhood when I expressed doubts, then likened me to a 'Soho Fruit'. Such mockery spurred me on to swallow my indecision and make a start on removing the Pole's skin. How the man wept! I told him not to take it personally, but he seemed determined to do so and kept asking, "Why me? Why do you do this thing to me?" Another favourite refrain of his was, "Please stop. Please let me live. I will give you money. Please, I have a family. I don't want to die. Please." Honestly, they're a talkative lot those Poles! His pleading, irritating though it was, caused me to feel pity for the man, which was most inconvenient.
I spent the entire afternoon hacking away at the man's left leg with a breadknife and a saw. The man's skin was shiny and hard and quite impossible to penetrate - my scissors and Stanley knife proved useless in this endeavour. Try as I might, I simply could not remove the skin from the Pole's leg. The man squealed and moaned the whole time too, which only served to make the process more annoying.
When Newsround came on, I gave up, utterly exhausted.
"Dear god, man! Are you protected by some voodoo and/or hoodoo?" I asked the Pole. "Try as I might, I simply cannot remove the skin from your Polish leg."
Well, readers, between heaving sobs, the Pole admitted to me that he had lost his left leg in a threshing accident as a child. Ever since then, he had been forced to wear a prosthetic.
I thought it was most rude of him not to make this known earlier, for he could easily have saved me the embarrassment of spending four and a half hours trying to skin an artficial leg. How humiliating. What must he think of me? I have promised him that I will do better next time.
As punishment for his cheek, I have confiscated his leg and have forbidden him from watching Jonathan Ross tonight.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
The Skinning Begins in Earnest
Greetings halfwits!! I have made some headway in skinning the Polish fellow that lies bound and gagged in my bedroom. I believe this initial success has proved that I am evil beyond reckoning.
In the early hours of this morning (11:15am, after BBC 1's Don't Get Done, Get Dom), I stepped into my bedroom, which I have now come to think of as 'The Flensing Room' because it sounds a little more evil, and announced my intentions. The Pole at once began to weep, which I found somewhat tiresome and unmanly. Ungagging him, he told me in faltering English that his name was Franciszka and that he had a wife and three children to support. Evidently, he hoped that I would see him as a human being and let him off with the skinning, but he did not take into account that I am now very evil and immune to such emotional blackmail. A little cheeky of him too, I thought.
With a large pair of scissors and a Stanley knife, I set to work on my wicked project. His howls of terror were very distracting, but I managed to ignore them and ran the blade slowly up each arm, tenderly peeling back the top layer sufficiently to slide the scissors in and begin cutting. Snip, snip, snip. How the man wept!
The arms were the trickiest part, but once I'd managed those, I used the knife upon the back and was able to remove a huge layer in one fell swoop. It was like peeling an orange. All this took about an hour, during which time the Pole cried and pleaded like a man undergoing some sort of horrible torture. How he wept!
I laid down my tools and surveyed all that I had achieved during my hour of slicing and snipping. I had succeeded in completely removing the man's denim jacket.
At one point though, my scissors had jabbed the flesh on the man's elbow, which probably hurt him a little. I apologized, but he would not cease his caterwauling. Goodness only knows what he'll be like when I actually start removing the skin from his miserable body.
In the early hours of this morning (11:15am, after BBC 1's Don't Get Done, Get Dom), I stepped into my bedroom, which I have now come to think of as 'The Flensing Room' because it sounds a little more evil, and announced my intentions. The Pole at once began to weep, which I found somewhat tiresome and unmanly. Ungagging him, he told me in faltering English that his name was Franciszka and that he had a wife and three children to support. Evidently, he hoped that I would see him as a human being and let him off with the skinning, but he did not take into account that I am now very evil and immune to such emotional blackmail. A little cheeky of him too, I thought.
With a large pair of scissors and a Stanley knife, I set to work on my wicked project. His howls of terror were very distracting, but I managed to ignore them and ran the blade slowly up each arm, tenderly peeling back the top layer sufficiently to slide the scissors in and begin cutting. Snip, snip, snip. How the man wept!
The arms were the trickiest part, but once I'd managed those, I used the knife upon the back and was able to remove a huge layer in one fell swoop. It was like peeling an orange. All this took about an hour, during which time the Pole cried and pleaded like a man undergoing some sort of horrible torture. How he wept!
I laid down my tools and surveyed all that I had achieved during my hour of slicing and snipping. I had succeeded in completely removing the man's denim jacket.
At one point though, my scissors had jabbed the flesh on the man's elbow, which probably hurt him a little. I apologized, but he would not cease his caterwauling. Goodness only knows what he'll be like when I actually start removing the skin from his miserable body.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
I Attempt to Garrote a Hound
Once again I have failed. Initially, all proceeded as intended: I successfully abducted a dog using every ounce of guile and evil at my disposal, by creeping stealthily into Dundee's Animal Rescue Centre and offering to adopt a dog so that I might take it home and care for it by taking it out for regular walks and treating it to tin after tin of Pedigree Chum. The well-meaning fools were duped and gladly gave me one of the many mangy brutes that had been cruelly abandoned or abused by the evil folk of Dundee.
When I got the dog home, I prepared to test my mettle by garroting the cur with a length of wire. However, as I tautened the cord around the wretched creature's neck, my dead mother's voice could be heard.
"Horton Carew! What on earth do you think you are doing?!" she ejaculated.
"Why, mother," I replied, somewhat confused by her unanticipated ejaculation, "I am preparing to garrote this hound. I assumed that this would please you, evil as you are."
"No!" she ejaculated again, "I am horrified by what I see!"
This latest ejaculation perplexed me no end, for of course, it was my evil mother who egged me on and persuaded me of the value of killing a dog in the first place. Now it was my turn to ejaculate.
"What horrifies you mother?" I ejaculated furiously, "Surely it pleases you to see a dog murdered?"
"Of course!" she ejaculated, "But not that breed! You have selected a scottie dog, you halfwit!"
She went on to explain that because her soul is currently housed inside the little scottie dog from Monopoly, she could not bear to witness me strangulating a dog of that breed. It felt like a personal attack, she claimed. She regarded it as highly symbolic and an eerie reminder of my rejection of her some 13 years earlier, and could not suffer it.
So, dear readers, I have had to abandon my scheme of garroting that hound. At my mother's insistence, I released the brute onto the streets of Dundee, where it scampered freely in the fresh March air. My mother did not see what followed, but a large lorry mowed the creature down under its collosal wheels, which caused me to laugh uproariously and brought a feeling of warmth to my heart. From this unusual reaction to a splattered dog, I think I may safely deduce that I am truly evil. Either that, or my reaction to the death of that particular breed of dog is symbolic in some way, and is therefore too specific a case to extrapolate that I would act similarly evilly towards all dogs.
Who knows? Whatever the case, I will get started on skinning the Pole tomorrow, as I feel it's only fair to the man. I have, after all, been promising to skin him for several days now, and, evil though I am, I do not wish to gain a reputation for being unpunctual.
When I got the dog home, I prepared to test my mettle by garroting the cur with a length of wire. However, as I tautened the cord around the wretched creature's neck, my dead mother's voice could be heard.
"Horton Carew! What on earth do you think you are doing?!" she ejaculated.
"Why, mother," I replied, somewhat confused by her unanticipated ejaculation, "I am preparing to garrote this hound. I assumed that this would please you, evil as you are."
"No!" she ejaculated again, "I am horrified by what I see!"
This latest ejaculation perplexed me no end, for of course, it was my evil mother who egged me on and persuaded me of the value of killing a dog in the first place. Now it was my turn to ejaculate.
"What horrifies you mother?" I ejaculated furiously, "Surely it pleases you to see a dog murdered?"
"Of course!" she ejaculated, "But not that breed! You have selected a scottie dog, you halfwit!"
She went on to explain that because her soul is currently housed inside the little scottie dog from Monopoly, she could not bear to witness me strangulating a dog of that breed. It felt like a personal attack, she claimed. She regarded it as highly symbolic and an eerie reminder of my rejection of her some 13 years earlier, and could not suffer it.
So, dear readers, I have had to abandon my scheme of garroting that hound. At my mother's insistence, I released the brute onto the streets of Dundee, where it scampered freely in the fresh March air. My mother did not see what followed, but a large lorry mowed the creature down under its collosal wheels, which caused me to laugh uproariously and brought a feeling of warmth to my heart. From this unusual reaction to a splattered dog, I think I may safely deduce that I am truly evil. Either that, or my reaction to the death of that particular breed of dog is symbolic in some way, and is therefore too specific a case to extrapolate that I would act similarly evilly towards all dogs.
Who knows? Whatever the case, I will get started on skinning the Pole tomorrow, as I feel it's only fair to the man. I have, after all, been promising to skin him for several days now, and, evil though I am, I do not wish to gain a reputation for being unpunctual.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
I Fail to Establish my Immorality
Today I precipitated the demise of a cat through ghastly methodology and felt no concomitant guilt. From this success I deduced that I was indeed truly evil. Boasting to my dead mother of my feat, I was surprised to hear that this was by no means sufficient proof of wickedness, because more than half the world's population hates cats and would kill them themselves given half a chance. My dead mother, who is knowledgable about such things, informs me that cats are creatures of evil anyway, so technically I have committed a good act by ending its miserable life.
This is a step backwards. My dead mother suggests that a better project to test my evil nature would be a dog. All dogs are innocent and wholly good, with the exception of Zoltan (hound of Dracula). My mother proposes, and I have taken her up on the challenge, that tomorrow I find a dog and garrote it. This I will do, and monitor the levels of guilt I feel consequently. If no guilt is felt, I am undoubtedly evil.
I hope I can do my wicked mother proud, or else that poor Pole will never get skinned!
Monday, March 19, 2007
I Perform a Hobbling
Hello halfwits!! In order to regain my wickedness I have eaten the crystals of evil in their entirety. I am certain that it has succeeded for reasons I will explain below.
Yesterday, to test the strength of my evilness, I crushed the leg of a ladybird (it was innocent of any wrongdoing and deserved no such torture). It was exactly like that scene in the film Misery where the fat woman cripples the writer with a sledgehammer, except that I merely used my finger to destroy the ladybird's leg and, of course, the ladybird was not a romantic novelist. I am confident that I am imbued with the evilness of ten devils for I felt practically no guilt after performing this nefarious act. In point of fact, at seeing the ladybird hobble away, I laughed aloud.
I remain wary of skinning the Pole until I am absolutely assured that I am 100% evil because I do not want to be bothered with pangs of guilt midway through administering the skinning and be forced to stop, for that would be embarrassing and would be most unpleasant for the Pole.
Tomorrow I will take the life of some creature. If I suffer no guilt and I delight in the creature's death, then it is certain that I am evil and I can safely graduate to skinning the Pole. However, if I feel sorrow at my actions then it will be painfully apparent that I am not evil enough to flay another human being and I will be forced to abandon my ambitions of becoming a world-renowned Dark Lord.
Keep your fingers crossed for me you halfwits!!
Saturday, March 17, 2007
An Uncomfortable Avenue of Thought
Today my dead mother said something which gave me cause to worry. As is her wont, she had been expounding at length upon the nature of evil and had been tutoring me in the most efficient methods of bewitching the good people of the world.
"It is quite simple to hex the Godly," she said. "With the power of evil, we can make good people believe practically anything. The mentalist Derren Brown, for example, is adept at such mesmerism, for he is one of us - a being of pure evil."
This factoid concerning Derren Brown was not the thing that gave me cause to worry. After all, why should it? A man's moral tilt does not affect his ability to entertain and Brown is a showman of no small talent. No, the thing that worried me was this:
"Did you see how easy it was for me to bewitch that ass Gland and the two policemen?" she asked. "I merely twisted reality so that any good person in the immediate vicinity of our victim would perceive the victim as a pillow effigy. Of course, you and I saw the truth of the matter for we are each of us completely evil and have no trace of good in us, but the good doctor and the two lawmen saw a pillow effigy. Now Horton, fetch a blade at once! That Pole won't skin himself you know!"
You understand why this gave me cause to worry? I too had seen the Pole transformed into a pillow effigy when my mother cast her spell. Does this fact mean that I still have good in me? I hope not!
I have managed to put off skinning the Pole for the time being whilst I consider my options. I have fobbed my mother off by saying that because I am so evil, I wish to savour the Pole's terror for as long as possible before skinning him and she seems satisfied with this for the moment.
I do hope I am still evil otherwise I won't enjoy skinning the Polish man at all.
"It is quite simple to hex the Godly," she said. "With the power of evil, we can make good people believe practically anything. The mentalist Derren Brown, for example, is adept at such mesmerism, for he is one of us - a being of pure evil."
This factoid concerning Derren Brown was not the thing that gave me cause to worry. After all, why should it? A man's moral tilt does not affect his ability to entertain and Brown is a showman of no small talent. No, the thing that worried me was this:
"Did you see how easy it was for me to bewitch that ass Gland and the two policemen?" she asked. "I merely twisted reality so that any good person in the immediate vicinity of our victim would perceive the victim as a pillow effigy. Of course, you and I saw the truth of the matter for we are each of us completely evil and have no trace of good in us, but the good doctor and the two lawmen saw a pillow effigy. Now Horton, fetch a blade at once! That Pole won't skin himself you know!"
You understand why this gave me cause to worry? I too had seen the Pole transformed into a pillow effigy when my mother cast her spell. Does this fact mean that I still have good in me? I hope not!
I have managed to put off skinning the Pole for the time being whilst I consider my options. I have fobbed my mother off by saying that because I am so evil, I wish to savour the Pole's terror for as long as possible before skinning him and she seems satisfied with this for the moment.
I do hope I am still evil otherwise I won't enjoy skinning the Polish man at all.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Dr Anthony Gland Pays a Visit
Hello halfwits!! On Wednesday evening I received a visit from an overwrought Dr Anthony Gland who was accompanied by two policemen. Before I had time to invite them in, the policemen stormed through the hall to my bedroom where the weeping Pole was bound and gagged, awaiting a skinning. As they did so, Dr Anthony Gland talked slowly and gently to me and reassured me that everything was okay now. He explained in measured tones, as though talking to a child or a simpleton, that he had read of my recent actions on my blog and was deeply concerned about my welfare and the welfare of the unnamed Pole.
"Tell him you made it up," my dead mother hissed. Evidently she communicated telepathically for Gland heard none of it.
"My dear man," I said, "Forgive me for the confusion caused, but I simply made all that business up. It is mere fiction. Dark subject matter of course, and certainly not to everyone's tastes, but fictional nonetheless. You did not seriously believe that I had abducted a Pole and meant to skin him? Why, it's palpably absurd!"
At this point, the policemen reappeared and urged Gland to accompany them to the room where the bruised and bloody Pole lay quivering on the floor. Well, I was certain then that the game was up and my indiscretion would be uncovered - there was no denying I had a bound Pole in my room. I followed them and was alarmed to see that in place of the weeping Pole, there was a collection of pillows tightly restrained by a length of stout rope.
"Tell him you made it up," my dead mother hissed. Evidently she communicated telepathically for Gland heard none of it.
"My dear man," I said, "Forgive me for the confusion caused, but I simply made all that business up. It is mere fiction. Dark subject matter of course, and certainly not to everyone's tastes, but fictional nonetheless. You did not seriously believe that I had abducted a Pole and meant to skin him? Why, it's palpably absurd!"
At this point, the policemen reappeared and urged Gland to accompany them to the room where the bruised and bloody Pole lay quivering on the floor. Well, I was certain then that the game was up and my indiscretion would be uncovered - there was no denying I had a bound Pole in my room. I followed them and was alarmed to see that in place of the weeping Pole, there was a collection of pillows tightly restrained by a length of stout rope.
"I have bewitched them Horton," my mother whispered, "They believe that the man is a mere pillow effigy crudely decked out to look like a Pole. Go with it Horton and all will be well."
"Is this the Polish man you wrote about on your weblog Horton?" asked Gland, indicating the pillows.
"Of course!" I said, "You see? The whole thing was a mere fabrication! This collection of pillows is no more a Pole than you are a jar of tartare sauce. Now that this is settled, would you care for some Um Bongo?"
The policemen, peeved at having their time wasted, gave the house a cursory once over then left. Gland spent some time talking quietly to me about any worries I might have and any strange ideas I might be having. He told me to phone him if ever I felt angry or glum, to which I agreed.
As soon as he left, the sound of weeping could once again be heard. Checking my bedroom, the pillow effigy had returned to its true state as a trussed up Pole. He knew he had been naughty, that Pole, and sensed that his punishment would be swift and sharp.
The Pole in his form as a pillow effigy
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Further Wickedness
The itinerant Pole eventually regained consciousness. Currently he is tied up in the living room. It was I who trussed him up in such a way, because it seems that I am irredeemably evil. How he weeps! If I wasn't evil, I would certainly be wracked with guilt and fear over my inhuman actions to this Pole, but I am evil and hence feel no such guilt or fear.
I have not yet done anything to physically harm him (apart from the initial bludgeoning), though my dead mother berates me constantly and urges me to do so. She calls for the Pole to be skinned. She is fixated upon this point and will not accept anything less. How the man weeps! It is difficult to concentrate with such a din.
In an attempt to placate my dead mother, I made some effort to torture the Pole by making a hot cocoa for him but I wilfully omitted the sugar so that he visibly winced at the bitterness of that drink. My dead mother was unimpressed by my barbarity and continued demanding that I skin the Pole at once.
How he weeps! Because I am evil, I suppose I must ultimately skin the man, yet something stays my hand. It cannot be guilt or pity because I am terribly evil and unaffected by such whimsies. I must take a while to strengthen my courage and remind myself that I am a being of pure evil.
Must go now - Dragons' Den is on.
I have not yet done anything to physically harm him (apart from the initial bludgeoning), though my dead mother berates me constantly and urges me to do so. She calls for the Pole to be skinned. She is fixated upon this point and will not accept anything less. How the man weeps! It is difficult to concentrate with such a din.
In an attempt to placate my dead mother, I made some effort to torture the Pole by making a hot cocoa for him but I wilfully omitted the sugar so that he visibly winced at the bitterness of that drink. My dead mother was unimpressed by my barbarity and continued demanding that I skin the Pole at once.
How he weeps! Because I am evil, I suppose I must ultimately skin the man, yet something stays my hand. It cannot be guilt or pity because I am terribly evil and unaffected by such whimsies. I must take a while to strengthen my courage and remind myself that I am a being of pure evil.
Must go now - Dragons' Den is on.
Monday, March 12, 2007
An evil act is committed
Today I received a visit from an itinerant Pole. He was shabbily attired and asked in broken English whether he could sell me one of his drawings for £8.00. Doing so, he intimated, would allow him to support his family as well as leaving me with a drawing I could display in my home. I had no need of a picture of a daffodil, so prepared to send the cove on his merry way.
At once, my dead mother's voice could be heard urging me to accost the Pole. I gathered that the Pole was oblivious to these cries, for he did not react in any way to my dead mother's shrieking.
"This is your chance Horton," she said. "Capture this man and do evil unto him. You must hone your skills. Do it. Do it now!"
Because I am now evil, I invited him into the house. Swiftly, I struck him a heavy blow on the back of the head with the blunt end of an umbrella stand. He remains unconscious on the floor of my hall as I type this.
Dear readers, although I am terribly evil and revel in treachery and violence, I must admit to being shaken by my actions and confess that I rather hope my evilness wears off before tomorrow when my dead mother, whose maniacal laughter still echoes through my Dundee home, will surely force me to do awful things.
At once, my dead mother's voice could be heard urging me to accost the Pole. I gathered that the Pole was oblivious to these cries, for he did not react in any way to my dead mother's shrieking.
"This is your chance Horton," she said. "Capture this man and do evil unto him. You must hone your skills. Do it. Do it now!"
Because I am now evil, I invited him into the house. Swiftly, I struck him a heavy blow on the back of the head with the blunt end of an umbrella stand. He remains unconscious on the floor of my hall as I type this.
Dear readers, although I am terribly evil and revel in treachery and violence, I must admit to being shaken by my actions and confess that I rather hope my evilness wears off before tomorrow when my dead mother, whose maniacal laughter still echoes through my Dundee home, will surely force me to do awful things.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Some Drawbacks to Evilness
My dead mother has continued to persuade me to increase my efforts to be evil. Apparently the evil acts I have thus far committed are simply insufficient. Readers, to be candid for a moment, I feel I must admit that, evil though I am, and pleasurable though evil is, I am growing somewhat weary of the evil way of life. It is not without its drawbacks.
Today, for example, I sat down with a mug of miso soup and an egg mayonnaise sandwich (two of the most evil foodstuffs I could think of) and prepared to watch Diagnosis Murder with Dick Van Dyke. No sooner had I switched the television on than my dead mother screeched at me to switch it off. She explained that, because I was now evil I could only watch a pirated copy of the programme. If an opportunity to harm someone exists, regardless of how minimal that harm may be, the evil man must seize that chance. Thus I had to scroll through fan webpages on the internet to identify what episode I should be watching.
Satisfied that I had found the correct episode (Season 2, Episode 2: 'A Very Fatal Funeral'), I was then obliged to download it illegally on YouTube, though someone, in an ignorant effort to be helpful, had broken up that episode into several smaller parts but had named each file inconsistently. It took many hours to piece together the episode and the final result was unsatisfying. Tiny picture, tinny sound, and Dr. Sloan's moustache was far too pixelly to be appreciated as Van Dyke intended.
I found myself wishing, just then, that I could turn off my evilness for just the shortest amount of time, so that I could enjoy the legal showing of Diagnosis Murder on BBC 1. That feeling was fleeting however! I am properly evil again. I hate you all, you halfwits!
Today, for example, I sat down with a mug of miso soup and an egg mayonnaise sandwich (two of the most evil foodstuffs I could think of) and prepared to watch Diagnosis Murder with Dick Van Dyke. No sooner had I switched the television on than my dead mother screeched at me to switch it off. She explained that, because I was now evil I could only watch a pirated copy of the programme. If an opportunity to harm someone exists, regardless of how minimal that harm may be, the evil man must seize that chance. Thus I had to scroll through fan webpages on the internet to identify what episode I should be watching.
Satisfied that I had found the correct episode (Season 2, Episode 2: 'A Very Fatal Funeral'), I was then obliged to download it illegally on YouTube, though someone, in an ignorant effort to be helpful, had broken up that episode into several smaller parts but had named each file inconsistently. It took many hours to piece together the episode and the final result was unsatisfying. Tiny picture, tinny sound, and Dr. Sloan's moustache was far too pixelly to be appreciated as Van Dyke intended.
I found myself wishing, just then, that I could turn off my evilness for just the shortest amount of time, so that I could enjoy the legal showing of Diagnosis Murder on BBC 1. That feeling was fleeting however! I am properly evil again. I hate you all, you halfwits!
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Wickedness and Stan Brakhage
Hello halfwits!! In this blog entry, I'm not going to use any paragraph breaks and I'm going to write in a small font and use multiple different colours. In case you have forgotten, I am now evil so I am allowed to do this kind of thing. I derive an almost indecent amount of glee at the thought of you halfwits screwing your eyes up in a foolhardy effort to read this entry - because I am evil, I disrespect you so much that I want it to be an unholy chore for you to plough through this blog. You might be beginning to hate me now...GOOD!!! I am evil and thrive on hatred. My dead mother, in the form of the little scottie dog from Monopoly, keeps urging me to be more evil. She says my previous efforts have fallen short of the level of evilness she had hoped for when first she tempted me to eat the crystals of evil. To this end, I paid a trip to Dundee's Art House cinema this afternoon and sat through a Stan Brakhage festival (that man is also evil and does not wish to bring his audience any pleasure). Throughout the various screenings, I ate noisily from a large bag of TORTILLA CHIPS! CruNcHy! lol. The three other people in the audience were thoroughly irked. You might note that I just used the acronym 'lol'. This also derives from my newfound evil nature. I just love to think of my readers being momentarily annoyed because of me. L8R halfwits!!
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
I Explore my Evil Nature
Greetings halfwits!! I have continued my life of evilness with a great deal of pleasure. Yesterday I put potato peelings and banana skins into my general waste wheelie bin and failed to put them into my organic waste wheelie bin. Dundee City Council will no doubt be furious when they learn of this, because it is as though I am completely belittling their efforts to encourage us to be more environmentally friendly. Because I am so dreadfully evil, this thought amuses me greatly. My laugh, which has heretofore been a modest 'ha ha ha' has now aquired the prefix 'bw-' and the suffix '-aaaaaaah!!" in deference to my new evil status. Hence, when now I chuckle, my laugh is as follows: 'Bwah ha ha haaaaaaah!!'.
The day before yesterday, I stole a copy of Sliding Doors from HMV. That is correct - I did not give the cashier the £2.99 cost of the DVD - I simply took it for my own without any money changing hands, so evil am I. The film stars Gwyneth Paltrow as a women with two different hairstyles, and the man from Four Weddings and a Funeral as an ingratiating Scot. There's also something about alternative universes but not done very well because there are no evil twins involved.
The day before the day before yesterday I snuck into the Wellgate library and folded over the page corners of selected books by Kathy Reichs. Untraceable to me of course, but it gives me a certain amount of malevolent glee to think of various future readers being irked by the folded pages. Bwah ha ha haaaaaaaaaah!!
Today I saw a child dressed as Peter Pan collecting money for Comic Relief. I gave her nothing save a sneer of contempt. The look of disappointment on her crestfallen face warmed my black heart for the rest of the day. I do so love being evil. You halfwits!
Friday, March 02, 2007
Evil!!!
Readers, I am evil. Doubtless you will scarcely recognise my new mode of narration because I am now so unconscionably iniquitous, but I care not!! You will observe that I made use of two exclamation marks at the end of the last sentence. This is not in keeping with accepted rules of punctuation, but I am free of such tyranny now that I am evil. My dead mother was dead right - I have greatly enjoyed my albeit brief daliance with the world of wickedness - all my doubts and fears about embracing evilness now seem immature and misguided - I revel in my sins, and derive inestimable pleasure from committing atrocities, and not just atrocities of punctuation!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ;-)
You will see that I made use of multiple exclamation marks and a 'smilie' at the end of the previous sentence. Had I not informed you that I was evil, most of you would have guessed by now - no person possessing any degree of morality would deliberately choose to so offend their readers by utilizing such tortuous effects. My decent into the maelstrom of evilness is so assured that I can even leave glaring spelling errors uncorrected in my writing, as in this sentence!! I care nothing for my readers' enjoyment, so evil am I. Horton Carew? You must now call me Hellrton Scare-ew, because I am so evil. And bow when you do so.
You will see that I am late in updating this blog (it cannot escape your notice that I now use the unpleasant-sounding word 'blog' to refer to my electronic diary - this is because I am evil and no longer wish to protect my readers from the vagaries of irritating modern-day nonce words). The erratic approach to the updating of blogs shows severe disrespect for one's readers. Thus, because I am evil, I will continue to annoy you by not updating regularly.
From now on, I will refer to my readers as 'halfwits' because I am evil. Any photos I choose to post will be offensive in nature and will cause you distress. But who cares?!! Not me, I'm evil!! You halfwits.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
My Resolve Is Finally Defeated
The final steps towards losing myself completely to the diabolical word of evilness have almost been taken. I feel unable to withstand temptation any longer.
Is denying responsibility for my weakness merely proof that I have already in some way succumbed to evil? I do not know. I will say that few men could withstand the temptations I have been compelled to endure and survive unscathed and untainted. Well do I remember the harrowing day in which my dead mother, in the form of the little scottie dog from Monopoly, turned evil. From that day forth, this mysterious associate has contrived to wind herself into my affairs, both spiritual and temporal, and break me. Surely no man is strong enough to resist the myriad benefits of evilness? Whether it behoves me to curse God for forsaking me these last days, or to curse myself for failing to be stronger in resolution, is hid from my discernment and will remain so hidden until that day when my accounts are to make up and reckon for in another world.
I will go, weeping now, to the fridge. There I will take out a crystal of pure evil and devour it. I hope it doesn't taste like horseradish - I can't abide the stuff.
Is denying responsibility for my weakness merely proof that I have already in some way succumbed to evil? I do not know. I will say that few men could withstand the temptations I have been compelled to endure and survive unscathed and untainted. Well do I remember the harrowing day in which my dead mother, in the form of the little scottie dog from Monopoly, turned evil. From that day forth, this mysterious associate has contrived to wind herself into my affairs, both spiritual and temporal, and break me. Surely no man is strong enough to resist the myriad benefits of evilness? Whether it behoves me to curse God for forsaking me these last days, or to curse myself for failing to be stronger in resolution, is hid from my discernment and will remain so hidden until that day when my accounts are to make up and reckon for in another world.
I will go, weeping now, to the fridge. There I will take out a crystal of pure evil and devour it. I hope it doesn't taste like horseradish - I can't abide the stuff.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Giving in...
Readers, I am in turmoil. These last days, I have done my utmost to withstand the temptation to eat the forbidden crystals of evil and join my dead mother in a life of wickedness, but feel I am losing this battle of wills. I have descended into a paranoid swither.
"Go on, Horton - be a spawn of Satan," my dead mother said. "You'll love being evil. You can eat foie gras and veal and any variety of succulent but unethical foods. No more overpriced free-range eggs! If you become evil, you can save money by buying the cheap, battery-farmed eggs. They taste the same anyway - you know they do!"
Foie Gras: a delight
"You will no longer have to buy Fairtrade coffee," she went on, "And you can stop using public transport and start driving an environmentally-unfriendly SUV. It'll make you look like a big man. And you can make sexist jokes. Give in to temptation, Horton."
And so it went on. Day after day, I was reminded of the many benefits of embracing evilness. In a vain effort to provide myself with some form of counterpoint to these views, I turned to Songs of Praise but found only a boyish Welshman who singularly failed to make goodness seem cool or hip.
I do not think I will last much longer. The pewter scottie dog which houses my mother's soul seems to be smiling as I type this - it surely knows that my resolve is weakening. Alas, I fear I am not strong enough to get through the week without eating one of those crystals...
Dear god - if god ye be - come to the aid of a poor lost sheep.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Tempted by Evilness
I have spent the last few days fretting over a moral conundrum. My dead mother, through the vessel of the little scottie dog from Monopoly, has beleaguered me with constant glorification of the evil way of life. She never stops telling me of the benefits of being evil and embracing the dark side of one's nature. She urges me to eat of the evil crystals in the fridge and join her in being wicked.
"Give in to your evil side," she says. "It is a lovely life. You can laugh at cripples without any guilt."
You see how she tempts me? She promises we can be evil together and embark on a reign of terror, which sounds nice. Intuitively, I know I should not give in to this, no matter how enticing my mother makes evil out to be.
I hope I am strong enough to resist. Won't somebody help me?
"Give in to your evil side," she says. "It is a lovely life. You can laugh at cripples without any guilt."
You see how she tempts me? She promises we can be evil together and embark on a reign of terror, which sounds nice. Intuitively, I know I should not give in to this, no matter how enticing my mother makes evil out to be.
I hope I am strong enough to resist. Won't somebody help me?
Friday, February 09, 2007
The Evilness Must Stop!
So bad was today's taunting that I briefly toyed with the notion of exorcising the malevolent soul of my late mother, but quickly abandoned the scheme when I realised I possessed neither the wherewithal nor gumption to perform such an act. Perhaps foolishly, I still hope that the evilness will go away of its own accord and leave me with the sweet, good, and untarnished soul of my cold, dead mother, so that we might resume our relationship that ended 13 years ago in unfortunate circumstances. We could go on picnics and such.
The photograph of my dead mother has melted so that she now looks like Andrew Lloyd Webber or one of those saggy-jowled fellows.
Webber, Andy Lloyd
Today I caught the scottie dog doing something unpleasant to a crucifix, so decided that enough was enough - I would have to establish exactly how and why evilness has been permitted to gain control. The game is afoot! This will take every ounce of my deductive ability and will likely take months and months of painstaking research before I uncover the mystery.
Edited to add: It turns out the scottie dog has mistakenly eaten some of the raw evil in the fridge (see entry at January 14th). That's probably it!
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
The Dog Continues its Evilness
Today the evilness continues unabated. The glowing red eyes and the harsh voice persist, but have now been augmented by copious swearing which I cannot reproduce here for fear of offending my female readership. I have no doubt that if I had a tiny leather jacket, the little scottie dog would instantly don it, and that if I provided a miniature packet of smokes, it would instantly smoke them, so unassailably evil is that dog.
Oh mother - if mother ye be - what have I done to turn thee so evil? Do you hold me responsible for the terrible events 13 years ago? Tell me, what must I do to make things right?
Oh mother - if mother ye be - what have I done to turn thee so evil? Do you hold me responsible for the terrible events 13 years ago? Tell me, what must I do to make things right?
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Evilness in Pewter Form
Readers, I have endured a sweat-slicked and sleepless night. Given previous grim events that I have recounted to you in this electronic diary, you will perhaps be unsurprised to hear that my sweat-slicked and sleepless night was not occassioned through a passionate encounter with a nude lady, but rather through terrifying and discommodious thoughts. I fear it is now certain that the little scottie dog from Monopoly, which houses the soul of my dead mother, is evil.
Whether my mother's soul has been spirited away to some dark realm and been replaced by some demonic entity or whether her soul has actually become evil, I cannot say. However, that the scottie dog is evil is indubitable because its eyes glow red. There is no surer sign of evil, save for torture and murder on an epic scale, than glowing red eyes. And to confirm its evilness, it now speaks in a crackly, hoarse voice, which is the mode of speech favoured by the irredeemably wicked.
All last night the evil voice taunted me by saying things about my late mother. Evil things. The evil voice had perhaps gone a bit overboard with the gravelly, rasping business because I could not really hear what it was saying. I think I caught it saying, "Your mother knits socks in Hell" but I could have misheard.
Its eyes continue to glow red. Readers, I do not know what to do.
Whether my mother's soul has been spirited away to some dark realm and been replaced by some demonic entity or whether her soul has actually become evil, I cannot say. However, that the scottie dog is evil is indubitable because its eyes glow red. There is no surer sign of evil, save for torture and murder on an epic scale, than glowing red eyes. And to confirm its evilness, it now speaks in a crackly, hoarse voice, which is the mode of speech favoured by the irredeemably wicked.
All last night the evil voice taunted me by saying things about my late mother. Evil things. The evil voice had perhaps gone a bit overboard with the gravelly, rasping business because I could not really hear what it was saying. I think I caught it saying, "Your mother knits socks in Hell" but I could have misheard.
Its eyes continue to glow red. Readers, I do not know what to do.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
The Photograph Mutates
Since I went public with my hypothesis yesterday, the photograph of my dead mother has visibly altered. Here is an image of what the photograph looks like today:
I can only assume that this bodes well.
Friday, February 02, 2007
The Truth about the Dog
I feel confident now in revealing my suspicious suspicions regarding the little scottie dog from Monopoly and my dear late mother...
They are one and the same. The soul of my dead mother has somehow found its way into the tiny pewter likeness of a dog. Of that there can now be no doubt.
That is all.
They are one and the same. The soul of my dead mother has somehow found its way into the tiny pewter likeness of a dog. Of that there can now be no doubt.
That is all.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Testing my Theory
I am almost ready to go public with my theory regarding the little scottie dog from Monopoly and my dear late mother. It is a crazy theory and one that will never be accepted by today's scientists or even by my own devoted readership which consists principally of gypsies and dwarves. It will shock you to the very core of your being.
Today saw me placing a rubber quoit adjacent to the dog and recording the results in a jotter. Those results augment my theory nicely, but I will refrain from sharing them.
I also took the dog to Debenham's hosiery section and observed its reactions, which fell pat as I assumed. Again though, I will not report the nature of my findings.
Finally, I briefly opened the hatch to my basement and held the dog above it. After clearing up the ensuing mess and arranging to have my perforated eardrum fixed, I am satisfied that my conclusions concerning this strange little dog are correct.
The implications are terrifying.
Today saw me placing a rubber quoit adjacent to the dog and recording the results in a jotter. Those results augment my theory nicely, but I will refrain from sharing them.
I also took the dog to Debenham's hosiery section and observed its reactions, which fell pat as I assumed. Again though, I will not report the nature of my findings.
Finally, I briefly opened the hatch to my basement and held the dog above it. After clearing up the ensuing mess and arranging to have my perforated eardrum fixed, I am satisfied that my conclusions concerning this strange little dog are correct.
The implications are terrifying.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Wavering over Waverley
The little scottie dog from Monopoly will not be persuaded to detatch itself from the photograph of my dear dead mother. I tried tempting it off by forming a tantalising trail of bouillon crystals from the photograph to my pantry, but to no avail.
This morning, to further test my hypothesis, which is so outrageous and unlikely that I am reluctant to articulate it here for fear that my readers will think me quite unhinged, I placed copies of several works by Sir Walter Scott on one side of the manteltop and a selection of novels by Stanley J. Weyman on the other, with the little scottie dog situated equidistantly between the two. Both collections of historical novels belonged to my dead mother, though she greatly preferred the works of Stanley J. Weyman, because she harboured a life-long hatred of the Scott Monument in Edinburgh.
I uttered the phrase, "Which will you, madame?" then left the room. At the end of the day I checked the mantel and discovered the dog, still attached to the photograph, had shifted 3cm towards the works of Stanley J. Weyman.
It all begins to fall into place.
This morning, to further test my hypothesis, which is so outrageous and unlikely that I am reluctant to articulate it here for fear that my readers will think me quite unhinged, I placed copies of several works by Sir Walter Scott on one side of the manteltop and a selection of novels by Stanley J. Weyman on the other, with the little scottie dog situated equidistantly between the two. Both collections of historical novels belonged to my dead mother, though she greatly preferred the works of Stanley J. Weyman, because she harboured a life-long hatred of the Scott Monument in Edinburgh.
I uttered the phrase, "Which will you, madame?" then left the room. At the end of the day I checked the mantel and discovered the dog, still attached to the photograph, had shifted 3cm towards the works of Stanley J. Weyman.
It all begins to fall into place.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Photographic Magnetism
I harbour a suspicion which I will not share with my readers lest I am mistaken and it is later used as evidence to have me committed to a mental institution.
I will, however, reveal that today my suspicion was in some way confirmed. I looked out a treasured photograph of my dear late mother Lavinia Carew (see below).
I will, however, reveal that today my suspicion was in some way confirmed. I looked out a treasured photograph of my dear late mother Lavinia Carew (see below).
Gently weeping over her sweet features, I introduced the photograph to the little scottie dog from Monopoly which sits atop my mantel in the corner of my living room. At once, a chilling scream was heard and the dog flew at the photograph, affixing itself firmly to its surface as though magnetically attracted to my mother's two-dimensional likeness.
There it remains still. I cannot remove it without damaging the photograph, an action I am loathe to take for this is the only photograph I have of my mother that is suitable for sharing with others.
I will need to conduct a few more tests before the suspicion I harbour can be undocked.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
A Scent is Sent
Still humming yesterday's newly-recalled childhood ditty, I took a brunch of a bunch of grapes in my living room. Occassionally I would permit myself a small glance over to the little scottie dog which, silent and stationary though it was, somehow conspired to radiate a sense of enjoyment. Together we watched Loose Women, the midday magazine show wherein loose-jowled women sit at a desk and share disparaging comments about their husbands and those men who have wronged them in the past. The dog seemed appreciative of such vituperation and indicated its approval by remaining motionless.
By the end of the programme, I felt sordid and ashamed on behalf of my sex and prepared to leave the room and retire for a candlelit Radox bath. As I did so, a scent permeated the room. An instantly and shockingly recognisable scent. At once I was transported back in time (not literally) to childhood Sunday mornings, dressing for church. My mother would take me out of the jute sack I habitually wore and bedeck me in a shirt and trousers. After this, she would prepare herself for worship by donning a dress and daubing her chin with her favourite perfume.
Without doubt, it was this smell I smelled. Penhaligon's little-known and long discontinued Brechin Bouquet. My mother's scent. It was strongest over by the mantelpiece where sat my little dog. Of course, I could not leave the room then. I lay down, inhaled the fragrant scent of Penhaligon's Brechin Bouquet, and wept at the memories aroused.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
The Dog Sings
Still in a weakened state, this afternoon I sat and gazed out of my living room window at passers-by passing by. As commonly happens in such circumstances, one finds interest and novelty in imagining the different styles of hat which each passing man, woman, and child might wear in private. After a while however, one's mind begins to wander.
I saw a stately woman with mien of lord or lady march past my home clutching the hand of a grubby urchin. I was reminded of my dear late mother and how she used to hold my hand as we trudged the streets of Dundee when I was nothing but a child. She would often leave me standing in various doorways while she went off with one of my many uncles who would charitably provide her with temporary labour. Before she went, she would always sing a tender little song, then instruct me to sing it to myself until she returned. As long as I was singing it, I would be safe from any harm. I had not thought of that song for years until today, when it appeared, unbidden and fully-formed in my mind. I began to sing:
'Twas the gatherin' o' the clans, and all the Scots were there,
Skirlin' on their bagpipes...'
I was more than somewhat surprised when I heard a tiny tinny voice complete the line from over by the mantelpiece. I tried another snippet from the song:
'O the ball, the ball, the ball o' Kirriemuir,
Where folk o' high an' low degree were...'
Sure enough, the little scottie dog from Monopoly (for this curious canine was surely responsible) completed the line yet again. I tried once more:
'There was dancin' in the meadows, there was dancin' in the ricks,
Ye couldnae hear the bagpipes for the swishin'...'
and was happy to note that the little scottie dog sang the remainder of the line. I went on in this manner, singing line after line and listening as the little scottie dog finished off each verse for me with gusto.
It made me feel safe and at ease.
I saw a stately woman with mien of lord or lady march past my home clutching the hand of a grubby urchin. I was reminded of my dear late mother and how she used to hold my hand as we trudged the streets of Dundee when I was nothing but a child. She would often leave me standing in various doorways while she went off with one of my many uncles who would charitably provide her with temporary labour. Before she went, she would always sing a tender little song, then instruct me to sing it to myself until she returned. As long as I was singing it, I would be safe from any harm. I had not thought of that song for years until today, when it appeared, unbidden and fully-formed in my mind. I began to sing:
'Twas the gatherin' o' the clans, and all the Scots were there,
Skirlin' on their bagpipes...'
I was more than somewhat surprised when I heard a tiny tinny voice complete the line from over by the mantelpiece. I tried another snippet from the song:
'O the ball, the ball, the ball o' Kirriemuir,
Where folk o' high an' low degree were...'
Sure enough, the little scottie dog from Monopoly (for this curious canine was surely responsible) completed the line yet again. I tried once more:
'There was dancin' in the meadows, there was dancin' in the ricks,
Ye couldnae hear the bagpipes for the swishin'...'
and was happy to note that the little scottie dog sang the remainder of the line. I went on in this manner, singing line after line and listening as the little scottie dog finished off each verse for me with gusto.
It made me feel safe and at ease.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Beeton's Treats
I am still officially convalescing so have upped my usual food intake to include more restorative recipes. I turned to my grandmother's well-thumbed copy of Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management and looked for some meals suitable for invalids. If you have misplaced your own grandmother's copy of Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management or cannot be bothered to fetch it from your loft, then here is a weblink which you may click to see some of her recipes for the crippled and infirm: http://www.mrsbeeton.com/39-chapter39.html
All of the recipes comprising the chapter 'Invalid Cookery' looked delightful, particularly 'Barley Gruel' and 'Calf's Foot Broth', but I found myself limited in my stock of available ingredients. I did have the relevant components to make her recipe for 'nutritious coffee' (i.e., coffee and milk) and 'toast and water' (i.e., toast and water) and 'toast sandwiches' (i.e., toast and raw toast(bread)), so made up these treats and tucked in.
Good old Mrs Beeton saw me right - her delicious meals returned some of my lost strength, as did the Ibuprofen which I also took.
All of the recipes comprising the chapter 'Invalid Cookery' looked delightful, particularly 'Barley Gruel' and 'Calf's Foot Broth', but I found myself limited in my stock of available ingredients. I did have the relevant components to make her recipe for 'nutritious coffee' (i.e., coffee and milk) and 'toast and water' (i.e., toast and water) and 'toast sandwiches' (i.e., toast and raw toast(bread)), so made up these treats and tucked in.
Good old Mrs Beeton saw me right - her delicious meals returned some of my lost strength, as did the Ibuprofen which I also took.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Burns Night
In the days of auld lang syne (olden days), working men were given ample time off when they were afflicted with an ague (illness). Initially, because they were too weak to perform their duties as a schoolmaster, usurper, wig heckler, or whatever they did to earn their crust (money). But they were also entitled by law to a further fortnight (two weeks) off after they had beaten their disease in order to convalesce (laze about in order to regain their former level of strength). Nowadays, the working man is afforded no such luxury and must return to work the instant that his malady is beaten.
Fortunately, I am currently between jobs (unemployed) so I am able to honour the traditional period of convalescence in its entirety by remaining indoors dressed in a comfortable robe in the style of Hugh Hefner (smut baron).
As reported yesterday, I have successfully rejected all ferrules from my body, so must now recover my strength. Today is the 25th January, the third most Scottish day of the year, with the first being Hogmanay and the second being Bagpipe Day. Today the world celebrates the birth of the Scotch poet Robert Burns, and I planned to incorporate some poetry appreciation into my day of convalesence. Little in this world is more rousing than good poetry.
I read 'Poortith Cauld' ('cold poverty'), then 'Gude'en to you, Kimmer' ('good evening to you, girl'), then 'Willie Brew'd a Peck o' Maut' ('William brewed a measure of malted ale'), and finally 'Cock Up Your Beaver'. This intellectual nourishment quite revived me and eased my pain, as did the paracetamol I also took.
The poet Robert Burns
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
The Ferrules are Ejected
The ferrules have passed from my system. My throat is bloodied and raw, but the relief is incredible. I feel as though I have given birth, albeit through my mouth and to a collection of metal objects. Like any new mother, I am exhausted and crave rest, so I will keep this entry brief.
But, in my neverending quest to furnish my readers with items of interest and to educate the dullards among you, you may click this weblink to read some information about ferrules: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferrule
Wikipedia is an encyclopedia conceived and written by people from Wick, so take everything you read with a pinch of salt.
But, in my neverending quest to furnish my readers with items of interest and to educate the dullards among you, you may click this weblink to read some information about ferrules: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferrule
Wikipedia is an encyclopedia conceived and written by people from Wick, so take everything you read with a pinch of salt.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Disgorging
I have spent today disgorging.
By this, I do not mean that I have been involved in the final step of the méthod champenoise process of making sparkling wine whereby sediment is successfully removed.
No, my meaning is rather more prosaic: I have been vomiting profusely. The ferrules in my guts are yet to appear, so I fear that I must continue disgorging until these obstructions are dislodged. Back to the toilet I must go.
By this, I do not mean that I have been involved in the final step of the méthod champenoise process of making sparkling wine whereby sediment is successfully removed.
No, my meaning is rather more prosaic: I have been vomiting profusely. The ferrules in my guts are yet to appear, so I fear that I must continue disgorging until these obstructions are dislodged. Back to the toilet I must go.
Monday, January 22, 2007
A Visit to the (Medical) Doctor
My (medical) doctor's appointment was for 10:25am, so I arrived at the practice at 4:30am, bright and early. I could not gain access until 8:30am when a surly receptionist let me enter. She bid me sit in a waiting room and wait. I amused myself by reading a National Geographic magazine from 1986. Doctors' receptionists always place a large collection of aged, filthy, germ-ridden magazines in waiting rooms so that all visitors will catch at least one disease from them. You see, doctors become foul-tempered if they are forced to deal with perfectly healthy hypochondriacs or fakers, so receptionists attempt to provide them with genuinely ill patients wherever possible.
Because my appointment was relatively early in the day, fortunately there had not been enough time for a serious delay to develop, so I had only to wait until 2.45pm before I was seen. I picked up a cold from a copy of Amateur Photographer (Jun 1990), so felt suitably ill to justify my visit to the doctor.
"Come in and take a seat," said Dr Paré, a spiky and alarming man. "What seems to be the problem Mr Carew?"
"I have it on good authority that I am ill," I said. "My abdomen was identified as the seat of the malady. I wish you to confirm whether or not I am to perish."
Paré agreed to examine me, asking that I expose my stomach so that he might prod it.
"Is it painful when I do this?" he asked, punching me hard in the belly. When I indicated that it was indeed sore, he announced that I would need an X-Ray immediately. He had a special X-Ray camera that looked exactly like a normal digital camera and with it he proceeded to take a great many pictures of me. Apparently the special X-Ray rays would only work if I was completely naked though, so I was a little embarrassed by the whole episode, but readily agreed so that a full diagnosis could be made.
"Well Mr Carew, it's not good news," Paré announced. "I see at once that you have an abundance of umbrella ferrules obstructing your pyloric antrum which may lead to you developing fistulous withers. Your gall bladder contains some two quarts of inspissated bile, your greater omentum is strangulated beyond recognition, and your gullet is ruptured. Tell me, Mr Carew, how you came to swallow so many umbrella ferrules."
I told him I had no memory of swallowing any portion or segment of any umbrellas at any stage in my life, an assertion which only angered him.
"Mr Carew, I know that the popularity of programmes such as Jackass and The Late, Late Breakfast Show has encouraged a stunt culture wherein people perform dangerous acts for fun or fame. I expect you have been filming yourself swallowing countless umbrella ferrules and posting the film on YouTube to entertain American teens. As usual, it is up to us medical doctors to patch you up when things go wrong. Sigh. You are doubtless in tremendous pain: I cannot fathom how you have tolerated the paroxymal agony and concomitant tympanites for as long as you have. The esophageal neoplasms alone must be tortuous. I'm afraid your macho antics have resulted in you having but months to live."
I gasped and begged him to help me out of my predicament. Seeing my tears and desperation to cling to life, he softened and agreed to assist me if I promised to never swallow any species of ferrule again in an effort to show off to internet users. I agreed at once.
"Well then, what can I suggest?" mused Paré. "First you must daily take a copious draught of an infusion of 'blessed thistle' and ipecacuanha. This will cause violent vomitting and it is to be hoped that you reguritate those ferrules directly. You must then take a gentle purgative, antispasmodics, and some iron jelloids. They'll get you ship-shape before you can say 'orthomyxoviridae'! You are a lucky man, Mr Carew. I do not know who told you about the danger you were in, but they did you a great service - had you not seen me today, you would have been dead within 3 months."
I thanked Dr Paré and returned home, collecting the prescription drugs on the way. As soon as I got in, I smothered the little scottie dog in kisses and thanked it a thousand times. It truly is a guardian angel. I regretted all those times I insisted on playing Monopoly as the racecar or ship.
Because my appointment was relatively early in the day, fortunately there had not been enough time for a serious delay to develop, so I had only to wait until 2.45pm before I was seen. I picked up a cold from a copy of Amateur Photographer (Jun 1990), so felt suitably ill to justify my visit to the doctor.
"Come in and take a seat," said Dr Paré, a spiky and alarming man. "What seems to be the problem Mr Carew?"
"I have it on good authority that I am ill," I said. "My abdomen was identified as the seat of the malady. I wish you to confirm whether or not I am to perish."
Paré agreed to examine me, asking that I expose my stomach so that he might prod it.
"Is it painful when I do this?" he asked, punching me hard in the belly. When I indicated that it was indeed sore, he announced that I would need an X-Ray immediately. He had a special X-Ray camera that looked exactly like a normal digital camera and with it he proceeded to take a great many pictures of me. Apparently the special X-Ray rays would only work if I was completely naked though, so I was a little embarrassed by the whole episode, but readily agreed so that a full diagnosis could be made.
"Well Mr Carew, it's not good news," Paré announced. "I see at once that you have an abundance of umbrella ferrules obstructing your pyloric antrum which may lead to you developing fistulous withers. Your gall bladder contains some two quarts of inspissated bile, your greater omentum is strangulated beyond recognition, and your gullet is ruptured. Tell me, Mr Carew, how you came to swallow so many umbrella ferrules."
I told him I had no memory of swallowing any portion or segment of any umbrellas at any stage in my life, an assertion which only angered him.
"Mr Carew, I know that the popularity of programmes such as Jackass and The Late, Late Breakfast Show has encouraged a stunt culture wherein people perform dangerous acts for fun or fame. I expect you have been filming yourself swallowing countless umbrella ferrules and posting the film on YouTube to entertain American teens. As usual, it is up to us medical doctors to patch you up when things go wrong. Sigh. You are doubtless in tremendous pain: I cannot fathom how you have tolerated the paroxymal agony and concomitant tympanites for as long as you have. The esophageal neoplasms alone must be tortuous. I'm afraid your macho antics have resulted in you having but months to live."
I gasped and begged him to help me out of my predicament. Seeing my tears and desperation to cling to life, he softened and agreed to assist me if I promised to never swallow any species of ferrule again in an effort to show off to internet users. I agreed at once.
"Well then, what can I suggest?" mused Paré. "First you must daily take a copious draught of an infusion of 'blessed thistle' and ipecacuanha. This will cause violent vomitting and it is to be hoped that you reguritate those ferrules directly. You must then take a gentle purgative, antispasmodics, and some iron jelloids. They'll get you ship-shape before you can say 'orthomyxoviridae'! You are a lucky man, Mr Carew. I do not know who told you about the danger you were in, but they did you a great service - had you not seen me today, you would have been dead within 3 months."
I thanked Dr Paré and returned home, collecting the prescription drugs on the way. As soon as I got in, I smothered the little scottie dog in kisses and thanked it a thousand times. It truly is a guardian angel. I regretted all those times I insisted on playing Monopoly as the racecar or ship.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
The Dog is Walked
I stayed awake all last night worrying over what the little scottie dog from Monopoly had hinted at. I found myself completely unable to enjoy ITV's new series of Dancing on Ice, though admittedly this was not through anxiety but rather through the programme being mindless pap.
I am preoccupied with the little scottie dog's imperative to visit a (medical) doctor and fear that I may have some terrible wasting disease. Still, all will be revealed tomorrow when I visit a (medical) doctor, and I cannot blame the dog for my current state of terror - I am sure it means only to help me.
To show that I was grateful, I decided to give the little scottie dog a treat. I think I have overdone food-based treats recently and am concerned that I may be harming the dog, albeit through kindness and not malice. I do not wish to create an obese dog because Victoria Stillwell of It's Me Or The Dog might appear to chastise me and I do not want to create a bad impression for I mean to woo her one day.
Thus I decided to take the dog out for a walk, which is something dogs enjoy partaking of. However, it was bitterly cold outside so I felt it necessary to swaddle the dog before subjecting it to the elements. Prior to today, the dog has perforce remained an indoor animal, for Monopoly is a game rarely played out of doors, what with the risk of the money and Community Chest cards being forfeited to the wind.
I gave the dog a boot and a hat to keep it warm, then pulled it around the streets of Dundee attached to a piece of string. Though it could not move its legs, I am sure it enjoyed itself.
I must now drink endless cups of fortified wine in an effort to stave off anxiety. I look to tomorrow with dread.
I am preoccupied with the little scottie dog's imperative to visit a (medical) doctor and fear that I may have some terrible wasting disease. Still, all will be revealed tomorrow when I visit a (medical) doctor, and I cannot blame the dog for my current state of terror - I am sure it means only to help me.
To show that I was grateful, I decided to give the little scottie dog a treat. I think I have overdone food-based treats recently and am concerned that I may be harming the dog, albeit through kindness and not malice. I do not wish to create an obese dog because Victoria Stillwell of It's Me Or The Dog might appear to chastise me and I do not want to create a bad impression for I mean to woo her one day.
Thus I decided to take the dog out for a walk, which is something dogs enjoy partaking of. However, it was bitterly cold outside so I felt it necessary to swaddle the dog before subjecting it to the elements. Prior to today, the dog has perforce remained an indoor animal, for Monopoly is a game rarely played out of doors, what with the risk of the money and Community Chest cards being forfeited to the wind.
I gave the dog a boot and a hat to keep it warm, then pulled it around the streets of Dundee attached to a piece of string. Though it could not move its legs, I am sure it enjoyed itself.
I must now drink endless cups of fortified wine in an effort to stave off anxiety. I look to tomorrow with dread.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
A Troubling Command
As I awoke this morning from uneasy dreams I found myself transformed in my bed into a gigantic insect. At once I realised I must still be dreaming and waited patiently until I woke up. As I awoke proper this morning from that uneasy dream, I found the little scottie dog from Monopoly lying on my abdomen. Before retiring last night I saw the dog in its usual spot atop my manteltop so it must somehow have arrived there independently, or else I have become a somnambulist and can no longer be trusted.
"Why sit ye there?" I asked.
Through the fug of newly-awoken senses, methought I discerned a faint voice whisper, "...Doctor, Horton..." At first I was understandably confused and replied that I was no doctor, having failed to gain the required exam results to get into medical school, and, indeed, to attend school in the first place. The voice was heard again, "...Doctor, Horton..."
"Can I confirm whether you are designating me with an erroneous honorific or whether you are issuing an imperative?" said I. The voice only repeated, "...Doctor, Horton..." I reasoned that a pewter dog, supernaturally imbued with the ability to communicate and with a past record of ensuring my safety and wellbeing, would be unlikely to use its rare powers to flatter me by giving me a false title in the early hours of a Saturday morning. Thus I concluded that the dog was commanding me to visit a doctor. Presumably a doctor of medicine and not someone with a doctorate in Sociology or something equally moronic.
I immediately phoned the (medical) doctor and booked an appointment for Monday. Now all that remains is for me to worry that I have a fatal ailment and have but months to live.
"Why sit ye there?" I asked.
Through the fug of newly-awoken senses, methought I discerned a faint voice whisper, "...Doctor, Horton..." At first I was understandably confused and replied that I was no doctor, having failed to gain the required exam results to get into medical school, and, indeed, to attend school in the first place. The voice was heard again, "...Doctor, Horton..."
"Can I confirm whether you are designating me with an erroneous honorific or whether you are issuing an imperative?" said I. The voice only repeated, "...Doctor, Horton..." I reasoned that a pewter dog, supernaturally imbued with the ability to communicate and with a past record of ensuring my safety and wellbeing, would be unlikely to use its rare powers to flatter me by giving me a false title in the early hours of a Saturday morning. Thus I concluded that the dog was commanding me to visit a doctor. Presumably a doctor of medicine and not someone with a doctorate in Sociology or something equally moronic.
I immediately phoned the (medical) doctor and booked an appointment for Monday. Now all that remains is for me to worry that I have a fatal ailment and have but months to live.
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