The Leap Home

And so it came to pass that I prepared to set off on an epic quest to reach Dundee with the 5 by 5 by 5 Cube. I had estimated that it would take just under two years to walk to Dundee from San Diego, and began asking the committee of puzzlers if they might provide me with a packed lunch to sustain me on my travels. The puzzlers conferred for some time and concluded they would jointly fund a trip home via private aeroplane for me, so that I could get to Dundee quicker.

I began to panic as I am greatly afraid of flying. Thankfully, a Chinese delegate told me I wouldn't be expected to fly the plane myself, which calmed me somewhat. To be safe, however, they all agreed I should be rendered unconscious for the flight so that I did not become agitated and risk jeopardising the mission.

I'm afraid I can remember little else, for you must know that someone slipped a drug into the Fanta I had been drinking and I very soon blacked up, or rather blacked out. I did put up a small protest, and insisted I have something of the late Perkeo to honour his memory. They allowed me to cut off his cold, gnarled hand and keep it so that I could later make it into a memorial keyring. But soon after that, I became unconscious.

When I eventually blacked in again and regained consciousness, I found myself in a ditch around the back of Dundee Airport bespattered with clay and suffering from hazy and sordid memories. My entire body was slicked with morning dew which led me to believe I had remained stationary in that ditch at least overnight.

The Cube was still in my pocket - thank Christ - but some grubby thief, either a sticky-fingered air stewardess while I was asleep on board the plane, or a passing tramp while I lay in the ditch, had made off with my severed dwarf hand and replaced it with a vaguely simian looking paw, which was, of course, no substitute.

Readers, I know it is my job to tell you the plain facts of my adventures, but in all honesty, it is difficult to do so when so much of my memory is patchy and befuddled. In writing it just now, yet more memories return to me, some of which are terribly confusing and distress me.

I think I must stop for now while I try to make sense of things.

The Aftermath

As I knelt beside the crumpled cadaver of Perkeo in that dismal hall of puzzles, I became cognizant of the crowd. They had gingerly encircled an object that lay on the stage at the exact position where Bossert's 4 by 4 by 4 Cube had exploded and he had met his end. What further madness was this? They reverentially approached something at the locus of the still smouldering blast zone with the air of pilgrims outstretching their hands to touch a piece of the true cross, or the likeness of Christ in a bagel.

Still shaken from the harrowing pain I had earlier suffered, I limped towards the crowd of puzzlers and raised my voice to an authoritative bellow.

"What transpires here, you cursed rouges?" I thundered. In truth, I had intended to say "rogues", but I was so impassioned that I misspelled my imprecation. No matter, for as soon as I approached, they each stepped back in awe of my domineering presence. I can be quite butch when the situation demands it.

In the centre of the ring of agog puzzlers there sat a Cube, steaming gently. This was of course confusing because we had all witnessed Bossert's 4 by 4 by 4 Cube exploding. It was then that the full horror of what I was seeing struck me. It was unthinkable, but I was forced to think about it nonetheless. It was unimaginable, though after I saw it, it became all too easy to imagine it because it was there in front of me. It was unbelievable, but I had to believe it anyway what with it being there. Gentle readers, this Cube was a 5 by 5 by 5...

"How can this thing have come to pass, you course brutes?" I probed, again misspelling a word in my fervency, though thankfully far fewer people noticed this time.

Up spake a bookish looking Swede: "We believe that Bossert's wicked soul overloaded the 4 b' 4 b' 4, causing a rift in the space-time continuum, and causing the Cube, in common parlance, to 'blow up', as it were. We believe that at the exact instance that the 4 b' 4 b' 4 Cube became overloaded, a larger Cube was spontaneously created that would be robust enough to accommodate the recalcitrant soul of Patrick Bossert. Hence this awful 5 b' 5 b' 5."

Readers, this was quite beyond my ken, but I was not about to admit any ignorance in front of this rabble, so I feigned understanding.

"It is as I conjectured," I said.

"And of course, this Cube must never be solved, for if it is, Bossert's soul will be released into the world," said the Swede, "And that would be disasterous. What we see here is a terrible weapon."
Certain puzzlers quickly indicated that they wished the Cube for their own. Treachery and greed, readers, treachery and greed: how quickly it consumes lesser men. A Canadian puzzler stepped up and said, "It is a gift. A gift to the foes of America. Why not use this Cube? Give Canada the Cube. Let us use it against the US!"

A terrible shouting match began, which got a bit hectic. All the while, the Cube glowed kind of malevolently like. I made a decision.

"I will take it," I said, quietly. Here I snatched up the Cube and wedged it awkwardly into my pocket. "I will take the Cube to Dundee. Though...I do not know the way."

Perkeo the Brave

I stooped to Perkeo's hunchbacked form which lay twisted and rasping 'pon (upon) the concrete floor. I greatly pitied that brutish cove, repellent though his bloodied face appeared, and thanked him for his courage in coming to my aid when all hope seem'd (seemed) lost. He tried to speak, resulting only in a sad bubble of blood gurgling from his fat split lips and staining his crooked teeth red. Kneeling down, I cradled Perkeo's grossly enlarged head in my lap to offer him some semblance of the parental love and comfort cruelly denied him all his days: 'twas (it was) the least I could do for the stunted abberation.

"Sir, I owe you my life," I whispered, stroking his bulbous forehead in what I hoped was a gentle nurse-like manner. "I am pleased you found your mettle in the end. Though your lumpen body is frightful and your skin pendulous and coarse, your spirit, if it could be seen in the form of the living, would assume the figure of an upstanding and heroic man, smooth-browed and clean of limb, and with eyes that flashed undaunted courage. A little like David Boreanaz."

Hearing this tender obituary, he wept freely and unashamedly, exhuming decades' worth of deeply buried raw emotion. He looked pretty ridiculous. Perkeo tilted his misshapen face towards me, his cracked voice sputtering what I knew were to be his last words:

"...We cry life isn't fair
Beneath our cries the truth is there:
A power that will break the spell
We should know very well
Is locked within ourselves..."

Then, glowing with the angelic dignity of the truely selfless, he expired, after first voiding his bowels.

Readers, as I sit and write this entry, I am moved almost to tears. I must leave the narrative again in order to sit in a darkened room and weep until I am spent.

Bossert Tries to Solve the Puzzle

Dear readers, I hope I have not misjudged the duration of the gap between diary entries. It was my intention to leave you on a cliffhanger, so that you would remain interested and be eager to come back to read more. I fear I may have left you waiting too long and many of you will have lost interest and sought out some other electronic diary to read. Most likely, one written by a plump woman in Michigan and her useless struggle to lose weight. Good riddance to you. Either that, or you have become so agitated and excited that you are now whipped up into some sort of a frenzy and will not be able to concentrate on what I have to tell you. I am sorry for this, but you must do your very best to calm down, because I will now continue from where I left off.

I must tell you that as soon as he began trying to solve the marvelous and outrageous 4 by 4 by 4 Cube, Bossert became utterly absorbed. The crowd at once protested against Bossert's crime against puzzles: some brayed, some booed, some threw jigsaws at his chin. Bossert remained oblivious. His fingers blurred as they slipped and slid across the Cube. Faster and faster they flew as the Cube's sections swivelled and clicked so rapidly that smoke began to billow from it.

In my position as human battery for this evil puzzle, my pain grew more and more acute. But Bossert had greatly underestimated the power demands of his creation - each of the puzzlers in the room, honest men and women all, were drawn nearer, sucked towards Bossert's terrible Cube. Beyond their control, they flicked through the air, many evaporating as they made contact with the dreadful puzzle, their souls torn asunder and wasted as fuel for the horrible Cube. The rest managed to grab hold of spare pillars and so on.

All seemed lost. I, frozen in time, was unable to act as Patrick Bossert's ultimate puzzle became a hellish vortex that would suck up all souls in the world until the puzzle was solved, something that would surely take years. Bossert's miserable dwarf held tightly to a door handle to prevent himself flying into oblivion. I wished fervently that he would soon perish as no soul deserved it more, but then I saw him looking at me with something approaching pity. He pitied my poor tortured state, dear readers, even though his life was in imminent danger.

Before I could be too surprised by this, Perkeo did something else to make me more surprised and so the latter surprise trumped the earlier surprise. You see, he grinned at me, winked, then let go of the door handle. As he flew through the air, spinning wildly towards certain death, he raised the leash he had previously used to enleash me, and thrashed it like a whip at Bossert's bespectacled face. Bossert dropped the puzzle in his shock, and was at once sucked into the Cube. The Cube promptly exploded, and I was at once released from my time bubble. The puzzlers were likewise released from their descent towards death.

In the aftermath, a few uncertain cheers went up from the shaken puzzlers, but most sensed that the mood was not yet celebratory. For you see, I fear that poor Perkeo received the brunt of the terrible explosion and lay wheezing, near death, upon the floor.

I ran to his aid.

The Ultimate Puzzle Revealed

I am afraid I left the narrative on a 'cliffhanger' yesterday. This is a trick I have learned from Noel Edmonds on Deal or No Deal? He is extremely sophisticated in his use of it - he will take the phonecall from the Banker, who tells him what the cash offer is to be. Instead of immediately informing the contestant of the Banker's cash offer, he often says, "Let's take a break first", at which point the studio audience groans and the programme stops for adverts. The reason the audience groans is because they are very eager to hear the Banker's cash offer and are now forced to wait an excrutiating three minutes before learning what the offer is to be and how it affects the course of the game. The audience at home is similarly desperate to find out how things will unfold, and is more than willing to endure the three minutes of adverts in order to get back to the programme. It keeps them watching and keeps the excitement levels up. That Edmonds is a master and I have learned from him.

I now must tell you the nature of Patrick Bossert's ultimate puzzle. It will be difficult for many of you, incompetent as you are, to understand the complexity of it. Even I, who have been through some of the Scottish secondary school system, struggle to comprehend it.

Bossert flung off the black cloth and revealed his puzzle to the horrified crowd. I thought at first that it was another Rubik's Cube, but I could see that the puzzlers in the room recoiled in terror at the first glimpse of it, so I supposed that they had observed something about this cube that I had missed. Bossert grinned maniacally and held aloft the cube.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he twittered, "I give you....Cube Plus! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hee!"

It was at this point that I realised what was unique about this cube. Readers, I advise you to pour yourself a liberal slug of brandy or some similar restorative before continuing because the nature and complexity of this cube will shock you.

Gentle readers, this cube was not 3 by 3 by 3, as was Rubik's original and nigh-on impossible Cube, but rather..... (I feel sick but must continue) .... it was 4 by 4 by 4!

Bossert let loose a torrent of frenzied laughter and directly set to work on solving this insane puzzle. The crowd tentatively began cautionary chants, such as, "Too far, Bossert, too far!" and "You're mad sir, mad!" and "You'll never solve it!" and "Impossible!" and "You speccy c___!" Bossert was so absorbed in the puzzle that the words of warning could not reach him. With a freakish rictus twisted 'pon (upon) his face, he stood twisting the 4 by 4 by 4 Cube rapidly in his hands, oblivious to the chaos surrounding him.

The crowd grew uglier and uglier, especially the Welsh stall, while all this time I remained frozen and in the most abject of torture and misery.

Again I will use the device of the cliff hanger and leave you desperate to discover the Banker's offer and how I came to escape from my predicament. We will now take a break.

The RCTD

Readers, I have taken a tincture of senna to calm my nerves and fortify my constitution. I now feel suitably equipped to continue my tale of woe. Bossert fired the Proton Pack directly at my face and at once I was overcome with an unutterable agony that filled every nook and cranny of my world. Revelling in my misery, he produced a strange device from some hitherto unseen crevice, and pressed a button upon it. The wibbly luminous beams eminating from the Proton Pack immediately froze, as did I. I noted that a bead of sweat fleeing from one of my forehead pores became suspended in mid air. Bossert let go of his Proton Pack, which remained stuck fast in air, and turned to address the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, but somehow contrived to make the words rhyme, "The device I have just used will be familiar to many of you. It is a humble Rubik's Clock, which I have doctored using a science of my own devising so that it can pause time."

At this point, the French contingent spoke up, and Bossert quickly replied, "Yes, it is just like in the CITV series Bernard's Watch."

The Canadian team promptly appended an additional comparison, and Bossert confirmed, "Indeed, it is also similar to the remote control used in the new Adam Sandler film, Click".

The Croatians also tried to get in on the act but Bossert had to correct them by saying, "No, it is nothing like the eponymous green distillation invented by Professor Gibberne in H. G. Wells's short story 'The New Accelerator', for that made subjects move at a vastly increased speed, and it only seemed to them as though time had paused."

He continued, "I have frozen Mr Carew in time, at the precise moment that his soul has been extracted from his body, and also, happily, the moment at which his pain is the most heightened and exquisite. For you see, my Rubik's Clock Time Device (RCTD) does not freeze Mr Carew's mind, so while his body is fixed fast in time, his mind is free to witness the horror he is experiencing and free to endure the terrible pain he is suffering. I could retain him in unbearable agony until the end of time itself if I chose to."

At hearing this, I tried to panic but could not, as the act of panicking requires the passage of time.

Bossert went on, rhyming all the way, mind: "His soul is now available to permanently power my ultimate puzzle. The puzzle is of such devious and morally repugnant difficulty that a human soul would quickly burn down - this way, I can use the same soul, frozen in time, without resorting to mass genocide." A puzzler from Jersey protested that this made no sort of sense, but Bossert had Perkeo shoot him.

The Schoolboy Cubemaster attached one end of a pair of jump leads to my frozen chest and the other end to something concealed beneath a black cloth. At once whirring could be heard and a bright blue glow issued from 'neath (beneath) the cloth.

"It works, it works," said Bossert. "Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for the unveiling of the most fiendish, the most outrageous, the most unbelievable puzzle ever devised..." Here he whipped off the cloth and revealed...

I will come back to this tomorrow, as I wish for you to be kept in suspense.

The Demonstration...continued

Dear readers, I apologise for my outburst yesterday. My ill temper was not of your doing, but rather caused by inadvertantly knocking my plum with a trowel. This engendered a feeling of discontent which caused me to become sullen and pugnacious and take out my hot passions on you, gentle readers. For this I am sorry. If any readers offended by my comments could send me their address, I will post out a collectable Pog by way of an apology. It may accumulate in value over the coming years.

Back to business: Bossert's demonstration of his so-called 'ultimate puzzle'. The puzzle is not difficult to explain, but I am aware that my readership is mainly made up of gypsies and dullards, so they will find it difficult to understand. Therefore I will explain it in painfully simple terms.

Since 1983, Bossert has devoted himself entirely to the creation of the ultimate puzzle. After he solved the Cube, a feat no one else has since repeated, he sought to design a challenge worthy of him. But how to improve upon the Cube? He threw his life into the task. After many, many years of considering the problem, the schoolboy cubemaster hit upon a design so complex, so incredible, so ultimately evil that creating such a thing would be akin, morally speaking, to coughing up a driblet of phlegm directly onto the baby Christchild.

If we were to place Bossert's ultimate puzzle upon the Satanic Puzzle Spectrum (created by Norris McWhirter) where Diabolical Dingbats TM are rated 3 Beelzebubs and Killer Sudukos TM are rated 6, Bossert's would break the top of the scale, previously reckoned to be 100, and come in at roughly 12 million Beelzebubs.

Bringing such a fiendish and wicked puzzle into the world demands the restoration of moral equilibrium. By the casting of bones and the pricking of thumbs, Bossert found that his puzzle, before it could be created, required the sacrifice of two honest human souls. Playfully making an additional puzzle of this problem, he sought a method to solve it without taking any lives. He contacted a leading paranormal investigator at a Scottish university (whose name he withheld from me) who told him that 10,000 ant souls would happily stand in for one human soul, and that a certain Dundonian man (me, Horton Carew) was possessed of several souls thanks to eating magic mushrooms on the 8th of March, and perhaps one of these spare souls could be taken without ending his life.

And thus he took 10,000 ant souls without mercy, and thus he came to kidnap me and aimed to steal one of my souls. And so I stood before the throng of puzzlers in San Diego, now aware of my fate. Bossert announced that the demonstration of his puzzle would begin as soon as my soul was extracted. He produced a Proton Pack and, without a pause, fired it at me. The pain was indescribable, so I will not attempt to describe it.

The memory of this horrific event has caused my hands to shake and tremble to such an extent that I dounbt I will ber able tocontinue typoing toinight, so I willl end my narratoivee for tonighty.

The Demonstration

Now gentle readers, I come to the nub of the matter: Bossert's 'ultimate puzzle' and my involvement in it. No doubt you are wondering through what marvellous ways all the preceeding story threads will come to be unified in a final, gloriously coherent denoument. How, you are asking, does Horton fit into all of this? Why has Bossert targetted him, a lowly Dundonian? Has Horton forgotten about all that earlier stuff with the ants? And the souls of ants and so on? You are wondering how all these things will be satisfactorily interwoven and explained, or if indeed they ever can be. You doubt my ability to relate the remainder of the story without leaving dozens of plot strands dangling freely in the breeze.

For shame! This little revelation only goes to prove that my readership has no faith in my abilities as a teller of tales. I've long suspected my readership to be predominantly made up of gypsies, and this affront only serves to confirm it. Well, I will not tarry here to be insulted. Good day to you!

Bossert's speech to the Throng

When I left the tale last, you will recall that my life was imperilled. Bossert bade me stand 'pon (upon) a lecturn beside him as he addressed the congregation of puzzlers. He spoke entirely in ryhme which, even although I feared greatly for my life, I thought sublime. I cannot remember exactly what was said and I would be doing you a grave disservice if I attempted to write it out from my meagre memories. To give you a clear picture of Bossert's skill as an oratory poet, I will note that he was able to make his points beautifully, calling upon a vast reserve of verse forms completely appropriate to his content.

Amongst many other skillful uses of poetic technique, he flicked deftly between deibhidhe and Sapphic ode, did something a little cheeky with the Habbie stanza using sprung rhythm, then employed threnody and the ubi sunt motif to inject a melancholy tone reminiscent of certain eligiac distiches. He shifted to an Onegin stanza model for several minutes, and slyly snuck in a bit of mosaic verse, doubtless lost on the bulk of the assembled crowd, then admitted that one line was indeed a ligne donnée, but in his subsequent use of a katauta schema combined with a liberal splash of soriasmus, he more than lived up to expectations. Finishing on a stunning envoi, which made use of syneciosis and duple meter, he left the congregation extremely eager to see the unveiling of his puzzle design.

Hopefully my summary has made it clear exactly what Bossert's poem was like - I went to some trouble to find the correct poetic terms to better enlighten you. If it remains unclear despite my use of helpful terminology that exactly describes the techniques he employed, then you may as well say that the whole practise of critically examining poetry to an almost scientific level of categorisation and taxonomy is bunk. And no one would say that.

I will now give you the gist of the content of Bossert's speech as far as I can remember it. I will write it in prose so this will not be exactly as it was originally said, but I have done my best. He said,

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have designed the ultimate puzzle. I will now demonstrate it."

I will tell you about the demonstration in tomorrow's diary entry.

An Electronic Mail on Unreliable Narration

Today I received an Electronic Mail from someone claiming to be a regular reader of this diary. Here is the message:

hey horton my old jim dandy if I can call u that lol...

Wots happend wth teh blog? dont beleive u r telling the truth here bout wot happend in teh past. How the heck cd u remember exactly wot Patrick bossert said right down2the last word & his exact rymes? No1 cd remeber all that!! Esp whn u wr fearing 4 ur life!! :grin: u must hava really good memory!! .......Doubtful! roflmao lol

See ya!, Dev

I think it must be from some poor soul with English as a second language, though what their first language could be it is beyond my ability to conjecture. I am no linguist, but I would guess it is Yiddish or Rastafarian. I gather the writer is doubtful of my ability to accurately recall every word spoken by Bossert and others when I am relating my tale to you. A reasonable point, and I must admit that my reams of quoted text stretch credibility somewhat, but the writer has couched his case in such a moronic manner that I do not feel I should be obliged to engage with it to any extent beyond sneeringly dismissing it.

However, I will admit to my more literate readers that, of course, I cannot recall exactly what was said word-for-word, and thus the quotations and rhymes cannot be regarded as verbatim. Where there are natural holes in my memory, I have had to plug the gaps, so to speak, by recourse to a certain amount of creative Polyfilla. Such tactics are permitted by today's historians, as long as you are not using it for propaganda purposes, so it is no great crime. It happens all the time: take today, for example - I received an Electronic Mail from a reader who complained that I would never be able to remember all of Bossert's rhymes, so I was too unreliable a narrator. I accidentally deleted that Electronic Mail, but I wanted to tell you about it so I have done my best to recreate it as I remember it. There is surely no harm in this. [Edited to add: see footnote *]

I have quite exhausted myself today and shall wait until tomorrow before continuing my tale of peril.

[* Edited to add: Readers, I have just checked my Electronic Mailbox and discovered the original Electronic Mail is not irretrievably lost and actually remains safe in the Deleted Mails section. I got a few minor points wrong when I attempted to write it from memory above. In fact, the relevant Electronic Mail was not really complaining about my unreliable narration as such, but was more concerned with selling me a product to rectify my comparatively substandard girth.]

I am Dragged Before the Throng

"Get in there tartan-arse," vociferated Perkeo, forcibly tugging me into the Convention room by my leash. I did not approve of his vociferating and when I stood my ground and refused to be pulled, he tried hollering the same phrase. This likewise failed, so he yelled it instead. He gave bellowing a try but again, this did not elicit a response. He proceeded to scream, bawl, screech, exclaim, bark, and roar the words, but I would not be moved. He briefly toyed with ejaculating but this only made me more determined to stand still. Eventually he resorted to plain old honest shouting, whereupon I allowed myself to be moved into the room. I hoped that my protest would instill in him the lesson that I simply will not negotiate with showboaters.

Inside the room were hundreds of people of all creeds and hues. They gathered in flocks around innumerable stalls at which salesmen demonstrated and sold puzzles of all colours and shapes. Every man jack of them froze and stood silent when Bossert stepped majesterially into the arena. (As an aside, I am afraid I never saw many of the prototype puzzles on display - ideally I would like to offer my loyal readers some tips about what puzzles and games will be available on the market shortly and might become the number one toy for Christmas, but I only saw in detail the stall nearest to me which was staffed by a team from India. They were demonstrating a plastic likeness of an onion bhaji which the user was required to disassemble and then successfully reconstitute as a small model of Sherlock Holmes. I include a picture below for reference purposes)

Once Bossert was assured that he had every person's attention, he declared,

You know me as "The Solver", friends,
But today that title ends:
Forevermore you'll know me as
The puzzle maker with pizzazz.

This elicited more gasps of astonishment, not least from the Swedish contingent advertising "Ultimate Scrabble", excited at the use of six z's in one brief phrase. Bossert allowed a moment for his rhyme to sink in. Whispers began to circulate. As curiosity and excitement grew around the room, Bossert turned his head and from the corner of his mouth said softly,

Step up Horton, stand up straight,

...At last you'll meet your sorry fate.

The Annual Rubik's Convention

Gentle readers, I know that many of you only read this electronic diary to see whether or not I have perished dreadfully in whatever misadventure I have become embroiled in. At present I am recounting terrible events from the past rather than as they happen, and the fact that I am alive to narrate will tell you that I survived safely. This severly reduces the dramatic tension but I have devised a way of injecting a little of it back into the current narrative. During my time spent with Bossert I smashed my digital watch, but I will not tell you how or when at the moment. This will encourage you to read on. Your curiosity will get the better of you. You will be on edge until the breakage occurs.

Bossert called once more for his ugly dwarf, Perkeo, who scuttled in carrying a crust-topped bottle of aged Tabasco sauce, which Bossert had earlier bid him fetch. As the hunchbacked oaf burst through the door, he knocked me into the wall where my digital wristwatch smashed. Bossert thanked his miniature slave and proceeded to pour a few drops into the creature's eyes: punishment, he claimed, for not bringing the Tabasco sooner. Perkeo squealed and I greatly pitied the wretch as he rolled about on the floor scratching miserably at his eyes. Bossert watched the whole sorry display with a strange and laviscious smirk; how I loathed him then. After some time, Perkeo stood up and asked what Bossert required of him. He was told to take up my leash and follow him.

Perkeo saw an opportunity to take out some of his anger and humiliation upon one more damned than he and wasted no time in dragging me up by my hair. He called me all manner of racist terms like 'Jock', 'haggis muncher', 'sheep sh***er' (shagger), 'porridge wog', 'whisky enjoyer', 'Scotty from Star Trek', and finally, 'Scotch Egg'. He really was a most noxious little munchkin.

I was pulled through endless corridors by my leash, Bossert leading the way. Eventually we arrived at a great set of doors with a sign on the front that said "Welcome to the Annual Rubik's Convention, San Diego 2004". Perkeo ambled up to the doors and threw them open. Bossert adjusted his tie and marched in with the air of one who commands instant respect: not easy to achieve for one trapped in the body of a schoolboy. I heard some awed gasps and also some odd gasps coming from inside the room.

Here I will break off in the interest of creating a cliffhanger.

Bossert Hints at my Fate

In an effort to raise my spirits after my recent hardships, I ventured outdoors today. It was a tolerably pleasant morning so I decided to treat myself to an ice. I had a marvellous hankering for something like a Cornetto or a Strawberry Mivvie or a Fab. By and by I ended up at the freezer section of a Chinese supermarket, where I bought myself an intriguing Chinese ice called a "Frozen Pig Uterus". I loosened the uppermost buttons of my shirt and felt quite dapper as I licked at my ice in the sun and ambled back home. I am sorry to report that the Chinese, adept though they are at kites and fireworks, have yet to master the humble ice. It was not a patch on a Mr Freeze. But enough merriment for one day - I must now darken the tone and continue my sorry tale.

After Bossert revealed to me that he had deliberately twisted a boy into the shape of a lumpen dwarf, he proceeded to give me some indication as to my own fate. I would not be slain, he made that much clear, but I was certain to live out the rest of my worthless life in perpetual agony. I asked that he deleash me ('deleash' simply means 'un-enleash') so that I might at least face my destiny with dignity, but he refused my request in the following way:

I refuse your request, so do lay to rest
All your hopes of escape, for hopeless they are:
Soon Mr Carew, you'll make your debut
At the Rubik's Convention at which I'm the star.

His rhyming had begun again with gusto, signalling danger for me. I begged him to let me go free, but he would not allow it. In an effort to regain some semblance of control, I then begged him to allow me to let out a pitiful wail, to which he agreed in this fashion:

You may let out a wail for today I unveil
To the world's greatest puzzlers my latest design.
Your role, I fear, will soon become clear
So be patient you cretin and nevermore whine.

As you perceive from the fact that I am currently at home in Dundee recounting this story retrospectively, I did manage to escape from Bossert's clutches. I am sorry if this ruins the dramatic tension for you as readers, but there is little I can do about that. Maybe you could play some tense music as you are reading this diary in future to spice things up a bit if you are that bothered. Something along the lines of the theme tune to Casualty.

I will tell you some more of this story tomorrow.

The Story of Perkeo

I will now continue the story of my time spent with Patrick Bossert. After he had dismissed the wretched, twisted dwarf, Bossert bade me sit, then told me the following in his thin and reedy schoolboy voice:

Mr Carew, I will break from my habitual rhyming mode of speech in order to talk candidly. Oh yes, poetry often yields the greatest truths - on that point there can be no doubt - but I find it can become tiresome and meaningless if one draws out the parlour trick too long.

I perceive that you resent your treatment at the hands of my dwarf, Perkeo. Please do not judge him too harshly for pain and debasement is all he has ever known. I designed him myself, you know. Oh yes, it is true. How, you ask? Tell me Mr Carew, have you ever heard of the Comprachicos? No? Then I will tell you.

'Comprachicos' is a compound Spanish word meaning 'child buyers'. The Comprachicos were an association of 17th century itinerants which traded in children. At the time, there was an enormous demand among the aristocracy for human freaks: dwarfs, hunchbacks, people with one leg slightly longer than the other, and the whole gambit of human monstrosities. They were so popular at Court that it even became common for royalty and the upper echelons of Spanish society to rampantly interbreed in an effort to produce deformed offspring. Well, the Comprachicos saw an opening in the market and began to manufacture human oddities.

They would always purchase babies, for the younger the child, the greater the opportunity to corrupt their physical purity. Who would sell their children into a life of unspeakable torment you ask? Your confusion speaks of your naivety Mr Carew. The lowest, poorest, and most hopeless of our world can always be relied upon to exploit those more helpless than themselves. A familial bond is infinitely weaker than the bond between mankind and money. Pardon Mr Carew? Indeed, a familial bond is likely weaker than a James Bond too, but let us ignore this for the moment.

The Comprachicos would break bones and mutilate faces. It became something of an artform. Freaks could be made to order. If, through some perversion, a wealthy nobleman desired an armless man with the features of a Doberman Pinscher, or an eight foot woman with a head the size and shape of a sugar beet, then this could easily be arranged. A specialist branch of monster making arose whereby babies were held until adulthood in distorted jugs. Over the years their bodies grew to fill the shape of the oddly shaped jugs, and when the poor creatures' growing was judged to have ended, the jugs were smashed and the warped creatures hobbled out with hideously entertaining jug-shaped bodies. The jug shards were collected and sold as cheap and affordable crazy paving.

Yes, I designed my dwarf, Perkeo, using the methods of the Comprachicos. I flatter myself that I have done very well for a first attempt: his wretched body appears irreparably knotted. You look appalled, Mr Carew. Do not fret - I designed Perkeo as a puzzle, which I fully intend to solve on some idle afternoon when my interest leans that way. Yes, I believe that, using secret surgery techniques of my own devising, I can wholly unknot and untwist the low creature like a human Rubick's Cube. I can make of him a fine figured man of tall stature and unblemished features whenever I choose. Why not now, you ask? Sigh...you do not have the mind of a puzzler, Mr Carew. A puzzle solved is a puzzle lost. Besides, Perkeo is so much easier to kick in his current shape....

Reminding myself of Bossert's monstrous cruelty has drained me, dear readers. I am forced to stop for the moment. At any rate, the final of How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria? is on shortly and I need to see which girl will win the grand prize of working with Andrew Lloyd Webber on a day to day basis: any girl's dream.

A Brief Interlude to Request Information

I will continue the account of my recent adventures shortly. Before I do so, I would like to appeal to any devotees of the programme Neighbours to fill me in on certain episodes I missed while I was held hostage in a cell and enleashed ('restrained in a leash'). Yesternight I heard some men in the radio making mention of an event in Australia involving one of my favourite characters (pictured):


From what the men in the radio said, I gather he has committed some sort of a murder on the high seas and that Crocodile Dundee was the victim. Watching today's episode of Neighbours however, none of the other characters made reference to the murder and the creators preferred to focus on a plot involving Karl and Susan rescuing a lamb from a snake and rescuing Karl's geriatric father from himself. Thus I am confused. Did Scott Timmins do a murder while I was away? If so, I am disappointed - it is completely out of character! The worst behaviour I'd expect from that scamp would be a certain amount of cheekiness and some very barbed comments, or perhaps the puncturing of Harold Bishop's pomp. But no murderer he!

An Encounter with a Dwarf

Upon being released from my rank cell, a sharp tug at my neck reminded me that I remained enleashed, which means 'restrained in a leash'. At the other end of the leash I observed a swarthy dwarf with a great misshapen head and a shock of tangled, dishevelled hair. Never have I seen features so deeply marked with the hideous resemblance of Steven Tyler, lead singer of Aerosmith, save upon the face of Steven Tyler himself, of course.

The dwarf's thick lips curled back from his yellow teeth in a sneering grimace, and he spat upon me with evident delight. He forced me to crawl on all fours while he led me through endless corridors and he seldom failed of a smart word or two upon my current low state. I quickly resented my cruel treatment by that insolent cub, that malicious urchin, and longed to see him brought low(er). He stopped at a set of grand mahogany doors and knocked three times.

"Enter at once, you foul-breathed dunce", came a voice from within, at which I quailed, realising from the rhyme scheme that it was Bossert who spoke. At this cue, I was cruelly yanked into the room by that stunted brute.

"Master, I have brought the scum," said the dwarf. From behind a large mahogany desk, Bossert glanced coolly down at me, and to my surprised apologised to me in rhyme. True, he was forced to clumsily rhyme 'sorry' with 'quarry' as there is a great paucity of words that rhyme with 'sorry', but I was grateful for the gesture. He looked sternly at the miserable dwarf and said, "End this fiasco - fetch me tabasco!" to which the dwarf replied, "Right away, Monsieur Bossert".

As the dwarf scuttled lopsidedly out of the room, Bossert offered to have him drowned as recompense for his wicked treatment of me, but the dwarf at my entreaty had no other punishment than a sound whipping. Bossert laid his hand upon my shoulder and gently uttered these words:

I will now let you know of my devious plan,
You mentally weak and mephitic old man.

At this point, I will again break off my narrative to return to it at a later date. I wish to watch a programme on Channel 4 tonight called 9/11 Liars which sounds very intriguing - I want to find out whether there are indeed 9 or 11 liars involved and what they were lying about.

Jailed and Enleashed

I will now continue my narrative, having recovered my strength and caught up with Neighbours. After announcing his plan to abduct me, Bossert allowed me a certain amount of time to update my electronic diary and to have a bath and a dinner of salmon. I suspected that he permitted me such kindnesses in an effort to instill in me early a form of Stockholm Syndrome, but being wise to this scheme, I used my brief freedom to take a Stockholm Syndrome vaccination of my own devising (Old Spice). My captor took me aside and calmly said,

To knock you unconscious for your personal good,
I must needs bludgeon you with a stout length of wood.

At which point, all went black (except those things that were already black, which remained so while everything else went black). By this I mean that I was was knocked out. And by that I mean that I lost consciousness.

I awoke with the uneasy sensation that a great many hours had elapsed while I had been out. I discovered to my horror that I was enleashed, which is not a real word and any attempts to search for it using google.com will only result in misspellings of 'Unleashed' (a film starring Jet Li as a man-dog in Glasgow). However, I use the word 'enleashed' simply to mean that I was placed in a leash like some sort of Glaswegian man-dog. I correctly assumed that Bossert had thus enleashed me.

For several days I was kept in my darkened room, forced to wallow in my own ordure. Each day at 16:15 a man slid very thin foods such as dried lasagne sheets, vine leaves, and filo pastry under the door of my cell. This was cruel psychological torture because he knew that Come Dine With Me was on channel 4 at exactly this time of the day and that my paltry provisions would seem doubly awful when I was forced to imagine the delicious meals being enjoyed by enthusiastic foodies on that programme. I curse that gaoler still for his inhumanity.

After roughly 5 days of this sorry treatment I was released from the cell. Recounting this tale has coaxed briny pearls (tears) from my eyes, so I fear I must stop for tonight. I will continue the narrative tomorrow when I have regained control of my emotions.

My Return

Readers, I am returned. I have had a most rare ordeal, past the wit of man to say what ordeal it was. Man is but a deranged goon, officially diagnosed as suffering from a staggering array of visual and auditory hallucinations, paranoid delusions with schizophrenic tendencies, and comorbid manic-depression, if he go about to expound this ordeal. Nevertheless, I shall relate my recent tribulations.

These past 3 weeks have been dark ones. Bossert succeeded in abducting me through fiendish cunning and the resourcefulness of his disguise. He gained access to my home by pretending to be a jovial door-to-door seller of kitchen paraphenalia from the Pampered Chef range. No sooner had I agreed to watch a demonstration of a mechanised yam shaker than Bossert exposed himself. He remains a schoolboy in appearance, though ever so many years have elapsed since he was coined the 'schoolboy cubemaster'. Over the weeks that were to follow, I came to the conclusion that Bossert had somehow aquired the secret of eternal youth - I suppose that once one has solved the Cube, all is easy. The trickster uttered softly into my ear the following stanza (for you must know that he speaks only in rhyme):

I'll brutalize you, dear Horton Carew,
If you fail to obey my every command,
So listen to me, or your fat head will be
Introduced with some force to your rank prostrate gland.

The recourse to such alarming and indecent imagery drove Bossert's threat firmly home and I will admit with no shame that I quavered and readily agreed to do whatever he might demand of me. The schoolboy cubemaster continued:

You'll come with me, o'er the rolling sea,
To the land of burgers and fries,
And there for a week, you cretinous freak,
You'll entertain yanks with your agonized cries.

By the 'land of burgers and fries', I naturally assumed he meant Aberdeen but I was later to find that he meant to take me to America (The United States).

And here, dear reader, I must break. I will tell more shortly but at present I am too weak and swollen to continue my narrative. I must retire to bed with a hot blackcurrant drink.

Hostage

Something unpleasant has occurred. I will be unable to write entries in this electronic diary for, I would estimate, at least one week. I am taken hostage and I greatly fear that my life may be forfeit. One whom I can only name B____ has orchestrated this perverse and terrible stunt, but has granted me permission to quickly explain my forthcoming absence to my readers whom I prize most dearly. I am sure that these will be dark and trying days for me, dear readers. Pray for me. I hope to survive my ordeal and retain sufficient digits upon my return to allow me to type a full update.

Try not to weep too copiously while I am taken off to be brutalized, for it is not my wish that my readers suffer agonies along with me. I suggest you amuse yourselves by playing some type of racket sport or by experimenting with traybakes - something fun to distract you from the excrutiating, interminable days of anxiously awaiting my return, and begging the Fates that it will be a safe one...

I am urged by B____ to hurry. Farewell.

Dreaming of the Schoolboy Cubemaster

Last night I had a powerfully vivid dream that has left me feeling shaken and undernourished. In my dream, I was serving cocktails to the elite with the quiet dignity of one who is fully resigned to his lot in life, when I noticed that all the assembled party were on fire. Oddly beautiful, their molten skin frothed and bubbled from their skulls in a grossly accelerated parody of natural human decomposition that gave me cause to ponder sadly on the transience of mortal life. It was a bit like that scene in Indiana Jones where the faces of the bad Nazis melt because they let all the ghosts out of that box or something.

The cause of the fire quickly became apparent - Patrick Bossert had emerged behind me from some sort of an alcove, his human body now replaced by a series of Rubik's Cubes. I briefly pitied this twisted mockery, this creature more cube than man, but he spewed flame from his mouth at me, so I decided to fear him instead. He snatched me up in his cubic fingers and his cube of a body at once began to swivel and rotate as though some unseen hand was trying to solve him. I rapidly became caught among his cubes and was dragged into his multifaceted body bruised and bloody.

At this point I woke up. At no point thus far in my life have I had a suitable excuse to sit bolt upright in my bed and scream aloud. I permitted myself this small luxury this morning. I have spent today attempting to replicate the Bossert Beast of my nightmares using Microsoft Paint so that my readers may share in my horror. I do not know what, if anything, the dream might signify.

Researching Patrick Bossert

None of the gods have bothered to reply to my kind letters, either by divine vision or by First Class Recorded, so I have now become an atheist to teach them a lesson. Since Sunday I have worn an atheist hat to make plain my feelings to any gods viewing from above.

It is of a similar design to the one depicted here, except that my hat is black with no stripes and is conical in shape with no bottom hat ring:

Obviously I feel slighted, but I will retain my dignity and complain publically no more. I must update you on the situation regarding the ants. Although I have scuppered the General's secret deal to sacrifice 10,000 ant souls to Patrick Bossert in return for the secret of the Rubik's Cube, I still remain at risk because an additional clause of that deal specified a human soul as part of the bargain.

The General made a tentative first move to kill me on Monday by running swiftly around my feet as if to dizzy me into collapsing and splitting my head on the corner of a radiator. I admired his fighting spirit, but I easily countered this ludicrous move by closing tight my eyes and refusing to allow my gaze to follow him. After an hour or so, I had a sort of epiphany and had to retire to my room to change my trousers. While I was there I had a sudden moment of glorious clarity where it occurred to me that my nemesis was only some 3mm in length and would be relatively easy for an eleven and a half stone man to destroy. I stormed through to the hall with the intent to bring my foot down heavily upon the General but his running around in circles distracted me so that I became dizzy and fell over, allowing him time to escape.

Feeling sheepish, I retired to my room to reassess the situation. I searched the internet for information about Patrick Bossert, reasoning that if I knew more about the man, I might gain some insight into his strategies and aims. I found a brief biography of Bossert in which it was revealed that after he solved the Cube he sunk into a deep depression, finding no human puzzles sufficient to engage him. Mathematicians approached him with famous unsolved theorums and problems, which Bossert would idly solve while waiting for the kettle to boil for his endless cups of tea.

Nothing could approach the Cube in terms of challenge, and Bossert turned to snuff and ether to alleviate boredom with a life devoid of puzzles. The article claimed that Bossert retired from public appearances in 1994, becoming a recluse. Some believe he has devoted the last ten years to designing a puzzle that will be so fiendishly difficult that it will take even him several decades to complete. Readers, I now believe that I have somehow become embroiled in Bossert's repugnant scheme. I will have to rethink my tactics.

I also bought a copy of Bossert's book You Can Do The Cube! from Ebay, which has just arrived. Unfortunately, I appear to have made an error because what has arrived is not a 'how-to' guide penned by the Schoolboy Cubemaster, but a copy of a record by 'Ice Cube' called You Can Do It. I have tried listening to it and I conclude it is Rap music like that of Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince.

Spare a Thought for your God

For those of you who would play God, take note: it is not as easy as it looks. I am left with no ants of my own thanks to my over-zealous smiting. I now realise that the various gods of this world work long, hard hours for very little thanks (apart from hymns telling of their glory). Now that I have walked a mile in their shoes and realise what they have to put up with, I have made an effort to write to them and tell them how much I appreciate their efforts. I encourage my readers to do likewise.

I started off by writing to Allah, the god of the Muslims, and thanked him for all his hard work taking care of the world. I even took a bit of time to draw a lovely picture of the prophet Mohammed, which I'm sure will go down well. The newspapers tell me that certain followers of Allah are becoming a bit rowdy of late, so I expect he's having a rough time of it and getting a lot of unfair bad press. Please, gentle readers, write to him and cheer him up. I wouldn't recommend you post it via airmail though, as there is currently some sort of delay with the airports.

I then wrote to Brahman, the god of the Hindus, and thanked him for overseeing and embodying the cosmic balance of the universe. I hope when he receives it that he has taken the form of Ganesha the elephant, because I drew some succulent peanuts at the foot of the page as a sort of gift to him, which will become meaningless if he has taken the form of Shiva, the octopus woman. My gesture will go down especially well if he is Ganesha because I have drawn enough nuts for his sons, Babar and Dumbo, too.

Next, I wrote to Buddha, and wished him well. I do not know if he is a god or just a spiritual leader like Alan Sugar, so I thought I'd better hedge my bets and write to him anyway. I told him I was grateful for the concept of Nirvana and for incense sticks and tie-dyed blankets, which I believe is the sort of thing he goes in for.

I wrote to the Christian god next, thanking him for all the fancy churches and cathedrals, which provide many tourist pounds to many cities. I thanked him for lending the human race his sons, Jesus H. Christ and David Icke, and for providing filmmakers and storytellers with useful biblical imagery to enliven drab tales.

I then penned a few words to the god of the Jews, thanking him for not sending his son down to Earth, which caused so much trouble for the Christians. I also thanked him for the work he has done to preserve the pig and clam populations by forbidding his followers from eating them. I kept quiet about the compulsory circumcision business.

I decided I'd better write to the goddess of the wiccans too. I thanked her for giving 'goth' teenagers something other than 'Atheist' to write under 'religion' on their myspace webpages, and for saving the livelihoods of candlemakers in this modern world of electrical lights.

I gathered all these letters together, uttered a short prayer to Hermes the messenger of the gods, then committed them to the flames. The words will now ascend into the various heavens to be read by the gods.

Again, I encourage you all to write to your gods and tell them that you appreciate their efforts. They do it all for you, remember. If you are an atheist, perhaps you could write to Richard Dawkins and thank him for his efforts in bullying the other gods.

Ganesha the elephant god

Smote

I am weary. I have now smitten all but one of my ants - my thumbs are aching with the strain of crushing thousands of them and my carpet is stained with their seepage. It sounds needlessly wrathful, but I was just. None would obey my commands. On Thursday, I tired of their laziness in failing to lay me a patio, so I bade them smite themselves. Only a few obeyed, and I let those ones off with a smiting, but those that disobeyed I was obliged to smite with great vengeance.

I spared a single ant because I did not want to fully deplete my army. I understand that ants are like worms - if you cut them in two, both halves survive and live healthy independent lives. This evening I have split the remaining ant in half and await the regeneration process. I will then cut each of those ants in half and then those ants in half too. I will go on doubling my army until I have 34,359,738,368 ants or an Er2 message on my calculator, depending on what comes first. While I wait for the doubling process to begin, I am sipping tepid Tizer to revive my strength.

Smiting

Today I have had to smite yet more of my worshippers, this time for their indiscipline. To test their faith and endurance and to get them used to hardship, I declared than none of them would be permitted to eat anything for the day while they continued their strenuous exercise regimes. Around late afternoon many of the baby ants began to tire with exhaustion, collapsing under the weight of the pebbles I bade them carry.

I became wrathful and ordered these ants to stop being exhausted, but they did not obey so I was left with no option but to smite them with a rolled up newspaper. Many adult ants became discouraged at seeing their young pulped beneath The Evening Telegraph but I ordered them to stop feeling grief and dismay. Those that disobeyed, I set aflame.

Many ants watched in horror as their kin burned before their compound eyes, and were momentarily stunned and unable to move. I ordered them to stop being horrorstruck and continue working. Those that disobeyed, I sprayed with aerosol deodorant until they expired, encrusted with powdery residue.

I am tired with all this smiting and not a little annoyed with my ants for making me resort to such barbaric practises. They are intolerably selfish in this regard.

War on the Horizon

I have been unable to persuade the three hundred ants that still remain with Bossert to join my ranks. I tried reading to them selected passages from Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse 5 so that they would become enraptured by the playful anti-war metafiction and I might capture them for later indoctrination while they were awestruck by the limitless possibilities inherent to postmodern literature. Sadly, the hardcore crew that are loyal to Bossert can find literary nourishment only in You Can Do The Cube and were untouched by Vonnegut's gamesome uses of analepsis and prolepsis. So it goes.

Although I am a pacifist and wholly against any resort to violence, regardless of the reasons behind it, I now believe that I must initiate a war against Bossert's ants. Great casualties will undoubtedly befall but it is the only way. When I announced the necessity of war to my own ants, certain among them looked nervous and began to back away, horrified by the grim realisation that they would soon be called upon to kill their fellow ants in senseless conflict. I quickly smote those cowards.

To train my ants for the upcoming slaughter, I bade them each take grip of a hair on my head and tug for all their worth. This exercise I designed as a miniature tug o' war allowing thousands of ants to build up their muscles simultaneously. I believed that no ant would be strong enough to pluck out a hair from its follicle socket, so I was not unduly anxious of baldness. My surmise proved largely correct save for a select few ants, who after hours of training improved the capacity of their muscles to such an extent that they managed to pull out some of my hairs. This really hurt me, so I smote those vicious ants as punishment.

With further training, I am confident that my ants will be fully ready and prepared for battle.

I Gain Further Followers.

Yet more ants have been persuaded to join my religion. When I described the heaven that my religion offers, I immediately converted a great many non-believers. When members of my religion die, they first go to a judgement room, where an enormous ant called Adam Ant McPartlin measures their spiritual worth. If they are judged to have been good in life, their souls go to a wonderful afterlife where giant human heads made of mechanically-separated pressed meat project from the ground. The souls of ants can then spend eternity consuming these heads, which are constantly replenished. If they momentarily tire of this treat, they may relax with a massage. Ants judged to have been wicked are sent to the same afterlife, but they are the ones who must administer the massages.

This afterlife clearly offered more than the one Bossert was peddling, as the ants flocked in droves to my church. As he still retained two or three hundred ants in his religion, I invented the concept of Duel-Heaven, which allows very good ants to have a cloned soul which goes to a different heaven when they die. In this heaven, the ants get to bathe in thimbles full of buttermilk while dusky Queen ants read to them tales of brave Ulysses. Thus, very good ants get two heavens to experience simultaneously for all of eternity. When they heard of this concept, one hundred of Bossert's ants promptly joined me. I have made it something of a tradition now to smite a few members of each new group as a small punishment for their tardiness in joining my religion. This keeps them on their toes, and entertains the more devout followers.

Bossert now has but two hundred ants under his thrall - I think I should be able to persuade them to join me when I go on to expound my various doctrines.

The Ants Begin to Worship Me

Over the last few days I have succeeded in coaxing a large faction of the ants into my religion. Bossert will no doubt be feeling the sting of reduced ranks. I began my task by creating a small temple out of old maths textbooks. The algebraic formulae therein appeared as arcane runes to the ants, who are not well versed in advanced mathematics, and lent a suitable air of mysticism to my place of worship. Several ants were immediately impressed and rushed over to be welcomed to my flock. I dubbed these 'the Elect' and rewarded them with bran.

With a church in place, I was then obliged to drum up business. I mocked up several 'miracles' to impress the younger insects (in actuality, these were no more than tawdry card tricks, widely available at Woolworths around the country). This convinced a large quantity of ants, as well as a spider who got swept along in the outpouring of spontaneous devotion. These followers I called 'the Brethren of Deegh'. I smote the spider with a slipper.

I next turned to bribery - I laid out a trail of sugarelly water along my carpet from ant city into the bowels of my church. Well, another schism promptly broke off and was drawn to the sweet, sweet scent of the sugarelly. Once they entered the church, I kept them further satiated with liquified Maltesers and cider pap dulcified with molasses. I told these new additions to my congregation that they would thereafter be known as 'the Devoted Followers of Kelk'.

At this point, Bossert still kept the lion's share of the ants in his thrall, so I decided to turn to fear in order to persuade further ants to worship me. I sent out the Elect to do my dirty bidding, and sure enough, they seemed to cajole and bully many more ants into my temple. These I called 'The Unwilling Friars of Tope' and I smote a few of them just to show I was serious.

I now have a larger proporation of the ants prepared to worship me than does Bossert, so I consider it a job well done. Since then, I have told them my Commandments, which I have purposely kept as easy to follow as possible, and told them what my religion can offer over Bossert's.

I promised them not just one afterlife, but two, and set up a system of morality which is very relaxed and allows them to eat pork and shellfish should they crave it, and requires them to regularly drink Cointreau. They are also permitted to covet their neighbour's ass every second Friday, if they fancy it.

I would dearly like to get the remaining ants on side, but if I should fail at this there is no other option but to set my ants upon the poor unsaved ants of Bossert's and unleash a war not seen since the days of Big Trouble in Little China.

On the Subject of the Ants' Faith

On Sunday I was forced to endure the unwelcome scrutiny of vulgar spectators as the day saw me venturing out-of-doors to visit shops. I sought to purchase some ant powder that I might use to finally destroy the vermin, a task which unfortunately would necessitate some conversation with people. Luckily I did not have to go far because a helpful infant sold me a small bag of powder at the first street corner I reached.

Returning home, I scattered the powder over ant city. I felt a bit like the wrathful deity in The Bible: The Old Testament, who throws things at mortals then calls for fatted calves. When the powder failed to smite the ants and actually seemed to enliven them and instigate happiness, I felt a little more like the deity in the sequel called The Bible: The New Testament, who treats his mortals to candies and kisses when they are down.

Further observation, however, showed me that no one could usurp Patrick Bossert as the ants' deity of choice. They are devoted to the schoolboy cubemaster to an extent that defies reason. Their mindless bowing and prostration sickens me - they are slaves to this perverse mockery of Faith.

I know they aim to sacrifice me, and I know the ant General seeks to kill all the ants save himself as an offering to Bossert in exchange for the secret of the Cube. I have taken it upon myself to convert these ants to an alternative religion, one devised by myself, to save them from sacrificial death, and to ultimately save myself from a similar fate - if I can but get them on my side, all will be well and Bossert will be foiled.

Thus far I have come up with 4 commandments tailored to the mindset of ants. These are:

1. Thou Shalt Scurry Around.
2. Thou Shalt Have Mandibles.
3. Thou Shalt Flee Buckets Of Boiling Water If Poured Onto Your Nest By A Disgruntled Housewife.
4. Thou Shalt Tentatively Examine Discarded Crumbs of Food And If Thou Decide They Looketh Tasty, Then Thou Shalt Carry Them Back To The Nest For Later Consumption.

It is my hope that the ants will be drawn to my religion, finding it undemanding and easy to follow.

A Firm Decision is Reached

Yesterday I heard the eerie human voice a second time, once again promising the ants "great strength" in return for their unfettered obedience and worship. I fear that this will ultimately prove ill for myself and for the ants, though I am less concerned for the welfare of those insects to be honest with you.

Today I charted the movements of the General ant. While the population was genuflecting and the human voice sang its haunting doggerel, I noted that this sneaky blighter slouched off by himself and, unseen by the other ants, approached a Bossert statue near to my bedroom door. This he tickled with his mandibles until its tiny eyes blinked open and its mouth stiltingly began to move.

I leaned in closer and heard a whispering from the statue. This is what was heard:

Om Mani Padme Hum! Keep up the good work Comrade Frack - you have brought me 10 thousand souls as I have commanded. For this you will be rewarded. And yet, Comrade Frack, before I can grant you your reward, I require more. Bring to me one more devoted soul and I will give to you the secret of the Cube. This soul must be human. Just one human soul. I'm sure you know where you must look to find this. Bring him to me, and the secret of the Cube is yours. Om Mani Padme Hum!

With that, the traitorous General scurried back and joined the congregation. This surprising and disturbing turn of events has led me to the inescapable conclusion that I must leave the house and buy some ant spray.

Shouldn't have put it off for so long really.

Ant Watching

Susurrations and murmurs can just now be heard emanating from the ant city. I have been spying on my insectoid invaders for much of today, though I allowed myself half an hour recess from observations to watch Come Dine With Me at 4:30pm, an excellent programme in which celebrities compete to host the best dinner party. Each time I watch it, I entertain unlikely fantasies of inviting the likes of Linda Robson, Roland Rivlon, or Sidney Poitier into my own home to treat them to a feast of my own devising. I would serve potted hough for starters, bible tripe as a main, and quince froth/cochineal as a dessert. I would probably win, but I would donate my winnings to charity as I believe it is immoral to profit from cookery.

I am still confused regarding the preponderance of Patrick Bossert iconography around ant city. At noon, I beheld the ant general lead a team of tough ants around the city. I saw that any ant they discovered not bowing to a statue or poster of Bossert as they passed was disciplined by being killed. These creatures are ruthless in their efficiancy. At 8:00pm I heard a great rumble of whispering scritching from the city. Every ant congregated in city squares and began an almost inaudible chant which continues as I speak.

Wait! Gentle reader, as I type, I hear a human voice! It seems to be saying, just on the cusp of hearing:

My ants, my ants, my nice little ants,
Do as I bid and you'll come to no harm,
Worship me ants, come sing and come dance,
I'll give you great strength and your foes I'll disarm.

Dear readers, I fear these ants may be mere pawns to some greater evil!

Ant City

I have recovered my senses somewhat thanks to some nimble thought-work on my part. Realising that the ants aspired to enfeeble me through pillaging my earwax and nostril gunk, I began to replace these substances with surrogate versions comprised principally of chocolate.

These have worked tolerably well as I am now restored to a state of robust physical health, though I am still unable to recite the Apollo Creed, a worrying deficiency which tells me that my wits are not yet wholly replenished.

While I was incapacitated with fever, the ants went to work turning my undefended home into a network of ant cities. Only my bedroom/office remains free of their constructions. Immediately outside my bedroom door is a series of tiny buildings and roads (the ants ride on the backs of woodlice and earwigs as we ride about on horses and trams). The topography of this city suggests strongly to me that this is a miniature replica, accurate right down to the Starbucks coffee houses and the fountains, of the English town of Hull.

On each street corner an image appears in poster form. This image can be seen again in the forms of sculptures and statues everywhere. I note that each time an ant walks past any of these images, it pauses to bow. How curious!

I struggled to recognise who the human figure depicted in the statues and the posters was, but after the expenditure of much thought I have remembered that it is the author of You Can Do the Cube!, none other than child prodigy Patrick Bossert. Bossert will be familiar to you as the genius that the popular press dubbed 'schoolboy cubemaster' when, in 1981, he became the only person in the world to solve the Rubik's Cube. He wrote a book detailing his 6-year struggle to complete the puzzle, with hints and solutions on offer to those who sought to repeat his success with their own cubes. Unfortunately, the Cube is so difficult that no one has ever been able to follow his instructions, and Bossert now holds the world's only completed cube, which he makes available for public viewing at the Tower of London on most bank holidays. He is a modern-day folk hero.

Why his image appears repeatedly throughout this vast Ant metropolis, I cannot imagine.

Schoolboy Cubemaster Patrick Bossert bamboozling a dullard

Teh General is Free!

Dead readers, my circumstancers are now grimmer than even the moss twisted imaginings of Edgar Allen Pob or Bram Stoked. Thanks two some unknown malady, brought aboun no doubt by the machinations of the ents. My mine is befiddled and I am funding it excessively difficile to writhe correctly. You must forgive my poultry efforts at spelling and grammer, but rest arsesured that I am not attempting to reptilate the writhings of James Joys or the conical speech of teh policeman on 'Allo 'Alla. Bare with meat for the mormon, and I will do my breast to make sence.

The ants half successed! Dead readers, the situations is distemperous! They half realised there General from my makeshift prism, whair I had him imprismed. They send forth two bulky specimens of ents, which I assume were they're equivalence of "strongman" ants. In the same way wee hughmans send the likes of Geoff Caped or Hulk Hogarth off to war to lift tanks ans so on, these ants have sent there toughest brutes to do the durdy wok.

These too ants lassoed the handels of my burrow drawer and pooled with oil there mites until the drawer opened. The General wasted no thyme in lepting oot of the drawer to freedoms.

I am domed!

Today, they have stepped up they're theft of my irewax, butt half also begun steeling my nasal mucus. Like earwab, this is nessecary to the smoot running of a body und pretects it against viruses. I am now convinced that the initial pert of teh ants plan rests in rendering me crippled ans unable to mole. Why, I donut no.

Hear is a drawering of today's events, drawn befour I became so befiddled. Maybes it will explain things a bit butter.

Struck Down by Illness

I have lain spread-eagled across my bed for the past few days, suffering from a debilitating head-cold. I believe that this was caused by airborne germs easily making their way into my ear passages, bereft as they are of precious earwax thanks to the malfeasance of the ants.

These insects are besting me with depressing ease - I am now much too ill to defend myself and my home from them. As reported earlier, the ants have among their number a squadron of flying ants. These creatures are capable of carrying small items through the air, such as almonds and drawing pins, with which they have used to bombard me, to my great detriment.

I still hold their General hostage in a drawer and I fear that this is the only thing preventing them from proceeding with whatever grand scheme they may be entertaining. Dear readers, I begin to despair - it is surely only a matter of time before the ants devise a way of opening my bureau and releasing their leader. At this point, my life may be forfeit.

Pray for me.

A Set Back

Many of the ants are winged!

All is lost!

I Have Gained a Small Advantage

Whilst I was considering my options and waiting for the right moment to make my move, the ants seized upon my indecision and made numerous further bids for my wax. I am happy to report that they remain unsuccessful at present, although they are relentlessly breaking my spirit.

As a temporary measure I have loaded my ears with Blu-Tack to shield my wax from the theives. Similarly, I rolled a Brillo Pad into a stiff wiry bung and wedged it into the ants' hole. Regardless of how strong their tiny jaws might be, I reasoned, they will surely be unable to chew through the steel wool.

I now believe they have a secondary exit to their nest because during the last ten minutes of Deal or No Deal? (the only part of the programme worth watching in my opinion), I once again beheld the slow, insidious march of the ants. With great rapidity I sprang from my armchair, admittedly through instinctive fear, but to my credit I turned the reflex to my advantage by picking up the lead ant and flinging him into the uppermost drawer of my bureau and slamming fast it shut.

The rest of the ants speedily retreated. I hold an important tactical advantage now, for I have their General captive and will not release him unless they agree to my terms. My copy of Sun Tze's The Art of War will be well-thumbed tonight as I ready myself for tomorrow's excitement. No doubt the ants' revenge will be swift.

A Resolution is Made Regarding the Ants

I have resolved to annihilate the ants. Though the deaths of many hundreds of living creatures will doubtless cost me dearly in terms of karma, I feel that this is the only way forward. Experts I have consulted have informed me that there is no pain-free, ethically-sound mode of removing ants from my property. I looked into the possibility of buying one tiny blow dart per ant to knock them unconscious. It was my intent to take their comatose bodies out to a forest to allow them to roam free when they regained their senses, but one expert told me such a scheme was improbable and another told me it was impossible. A third told me I was an imbecile and could be persuaded to say nothing more.

I am thus convinced I must murder these insects.

Today I tried capturing all the ants in a large cardboard box. Had this been successful, I would then have taken the box into the back garden and set it ablaze. I can hear your words of warning now dear reader, but believe me, I am one step ahead of you. Obviously, I was aware that the fire would have attracted vagrants, but I had planned against this eventuality by lining up a row of Wellington boots along the verge of the lawn, knowing that the vagrants would at once become distracted by the footwear and forget the flames.

To first tempt the ants into the box, I decided Shreddies were the best option as ants famously crave wheat. I had no milk in the house so was forced to manufacture my own in the usual fashion. I deposited the cereal into the box and waited for several hours, but no ants came. I fear they have seen through my ploy and foresee my murderous intent. They will not risk entrapment, even for wheat. What am I to do?

March of the Ants

I have found myself plagued by ants today and am at a loss as to what I might do. Though I am fiercely independent and can solve most problems on my own, I must admit a crippling phobia of ants that renders me unable to react rationally to my current infestation. Who among my readership can suggest a solution? Perhaps Graham Souness, whom I assume is a regular visitor?

When I awoke, I observed a line of these tireless, hateful creatures marching upon my pillow towards my face. My horror held me vice-like. They advanced single-file onto my cheek, and headed determinedly towards my ear. One, apparently exhausted after his hike from the bedroom floor, stopped to sup at my eye-juices in order to refresh himself. A larger ant, evidently a General of sorts, immediately approached and disciplined the tired ant for his unsanctioned break by biting off his head. I am repulsed to report that the punished ant's headless carcass toppled into my right eye, where it twitched and flailed against my pupil, leading to a brief production of overmany tears.

I became aware that the ants were proceeding towards my ear, performing some unseen activity, then returning in a separate string of ants down the other side of my face. Forcing myself to be brave, I flung myself out of bed and at once realised they had been stealing my earwax. Many hundreds of ants could then be seen scurrying away into a hole in my wall, each of them clutching a small nugget of precious wax.

Earwax is the human body's method of cleaning and lubricating the ear canal, protecting it from bacteria and fungus - without it, I will be vulnerable to many airbourne toxins. I fear this may be what the ants seek to achieve. Why, I do not yet know. My natural terror prevents me from confronting them, yet I must not allow this thievery to continue. What am I to do?

How My Computer was Reclaimed

To continue my tale of the stolen computer, it is first necessary to furnish the uninformed among you with a brief history of Nazism, to improve your chances of understanding the context of my narrative.

The Nazi Party was led by Adolf Hitler, an evil man with a moustache who sought religious relics such as the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail to bring immortality to himself and supernatural power to his troups. He funded such projects by stealing famous artistic masterpieces, among them Van Clomp's Das Gefallene Madonna mit den Grossen Brüsten, and selling them for profit. He was eventually killed by William Blazkowicz who managed to penetrate Hitler's robotic suit with an array of powerful weapons. After his death, the Nazi Party fell out of favour, though some devoted fans managed to smuggle Hitler's brain to Mandoras with the aim of reviving him later, while in a similar project, Dr Mengele successfully cloned 94 Hitlers in the 60s. To this day, one of Hitler's testicles remains on display at London's Royal Albert Hall.

With this information in mind, you can appreciate that the sort of person who still follows the teachings of Hitler (vegetarianism and hatred) in this day and age is clearly unhinged. I realised I would have to be on guard when confronting the Nazi thief who stole my computer. So I took my revolver with me and set off into town to track the bounder down.

I traced him to a place called Comet and was shocked to discover that he had evidently stolen at least 30 computers from different people and had them displayed in his shop as though they were completely new. They were for sale at prices exceeding £1000. The fiend had the audacity to approach me and offer to sell me one! I would not take such cheek from a Nazi, so I pulled out my revolver and threatened to shoot his ankles if he did not return my computer to me. The coward quickly buckled and, weeping, gave me a large heavy box which held a computer far superior to my original. This was his attempt at reparations. I accepted the superior model, though his gesture did not earn my forgiveness.

I returned home and installed the new machine by following the instructions provided. This is a boring part of the story, about which you need only know that I was eventually successful. It is my hope that this computer will not be stolen, and that the Nazi does not seek petty vengeance for my humiliation of him.

If he should attempt it, however, you can be sure I will be ready for him.

How my Computer Came to be Stolen

I will begin this entry with a quotation from 'Saidleafon Cuaraidh' ('The Stolen Diary') by the famous Gaelic poet Somhairle Camshron:

Cofaidh le bainne, mas e
ur toil e. Cait a bheil a' fuireach?
Ubhalghort agam. Tha isean
taobh a-staigh dhinn:
'S e bancair a th'annam...

Evocative and hauntingly soulful. To those of you who are too ignorant to speak Scottish Gaelic, I will provide a translation, though so much of its power is lost through translation that your understanding of the poem will be limited, and you will remain an emotionally stunted dwarf for the rest of your days. Here, Camshron says:

Each man lives by words
alone. Cannot stories reach beyond the veil?
[Untranslatable. lit. Ugliness is found among the old clans of the island of Eigg, traditionally bereft as they are of written language.] Cursed are
those who steal books:
They steal the men who write them.

Such were my feelings when I awoke a few weeks ago to find my computer stolen, apparently by a Nazi. The woe I felt was not from the realisation that I would be denied my daily access to people's personal webpages with photos of their cats and links to their favourite bands, but rather through my inability to communicate my life via this electronic diary.

I wept to think of each of my readers clicking 'Horton's Folly' in their 'Favourites' folder only to be met with no updates, and sinking further and further into melancholy as the days went by. The man who stole my computer did not merely steal a steam-powered machine assembled from metal cogs, microwaves, buckles, pegs, and chips. No dainty reader, he stole me from you. That is his crime.

That the thief was a Nazi I have no doubt for he also perpetrated a small hate crime all over my bedroom carpet. Despite several buckets of bleach, I have been unable to remove the stain. What is more, he stole a pile of DVDs, but did not take Robin Hood: Men In Tights. This parodic romp of a film is a cinematic delight - I find it impossible to believe that anyone stealing DVDs would reject this one, unless through some devoted anti-semitic stance, for the director is the renowned Jew, Mel Brooks.

Such bigotry disgusts me. I must now go and recover myself, for my anger still stings and will taint further writing. Tomorrow I will reveal how I at last recovered my computer from the thief.

Somhairle Camshron in traditional Hebridean dress

The Grail is Found!

My dear readers, my failure to update this electronic diary for the last two weeks must surely have convinced you that I am a prodigious idler, lazier and more carefree even than Nigel Havers when wearing a billowy cotton shirt, reclining on a private beach, sipping endlessly from a pitcher of gin and tonics, constantly refilled throughout the long summer afternoons by a small arab boy.

This picture you are entertaining of me indulging in shameful indolence is grossly unfair and it surprises me that you have stooped to such accusatory imagery. My dear readers, I have been anxious to update you on my many exciting adventures, but my computer was stolen by what I think was a Nazi. I have thus been denied access to the interweb and its many flash cartoons about George W. Bush and what the fans think of the latest episodes of Doctor Who (largely positive I have since observed). I have also been unable to update this diary, for which I apologise, though quietly and only out of the corner of my mouth because it was not really my fault, and most likely the fault of a Nazi.

To quickly fill you in on my grail-quest...I sought Zeppelins on the top of the Law Hill in Dundee, spending many fruitless days there. I became so familiar with the famous War Memorial and the penguin statue at the top of that hill that I began to see them as friends. Yet they refused to be friendly and help in my search for Zeppelins. In the end, I found only a buck-toothed child with a helium balloon that said "Get Well Soon", which I purloined (the balloon, not the buck-toothed child), reasoning that a helium balloon was the closest approximation to a Zeppelin that I was likely to find in Dundee. When I got the balloon home, I punctured it, but there was nothing inside. I was about to commit the balloon to the flames in my impatience, but I noticed that the "Get Well Soon" slogan, readable easily when the balloon was full and plump, now read "Get Elson" due to shrinkage and the folding of the latex.

At once I picked up the phonebook and looked up "Elson". I came across a single entry for one "J. Elson", who I quickly telephoned. The conversation proceeded as follows:

-"Hallo? Is that J. Elson?"
-"No, I am Horton Carew. I just phoned you looking for J. Elson. Are you J. Elson?"
-"Yes, I am J. Elson. Who is this?"
-"I am Horton Carew."
-"Is that Clive? Have you been drinking again?"
-"My dear man, I do not know what you mean. I was led to your number via a series of clues. What can you tell me?"
-"What do you want me to say? Is this the police?"
-"I need information regarding the [here I whispered] ...Grail..."
-"That's a small village in the East Neuk of Fife isn't it?"
-"Thank you. I will say no more."

I hung up. I then caught a bus to the East Neuk of Fife, where I discovered a small village called Crail....

...Dear readers, I could go on to relate every last detail of my adventures, but to be blunt, they are tedious and rambling, and I cannot remember much of them. I will "cut to the chase" as the Liverpudlians might say if they were imitating an American, and reveal the end result of my quest.

The last few weeks have seen me uncover countless clues and leads from unlikely sources, astral-project to Marrakesh, receive a visit from the ghosts of Isambard Kingdom Brunel and Frank L. Baum, sculpt a makeshift idol from pulped fig rolls, and read extracts from The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie to placate a troupe of unruly savages, all in an effort to uncover the Holy Grail.

Yesterday morning I discovered it. It turns out that the Holy Grail is to be found in the smiles of every child in the world, and in the hopes of everyone who ever dared to dream. Needless to say, I was disappointed. I was hoping for at least a magic cup.

I will fill you in on the case of my stolen computer tomorrow.

Clarkson's Hints

'Who has not Jeremy Clarkson read?

Is any mortal so ill bred?'

This is exactly the sort of thing that a young Boswell would have penned in 1760 had Clarkson been active at the time. Clarkson's book, I Know You Got Soul, is a triumph. Presented as a series of fun facts about popular machinery, couched in the imitable style of Clarkson's curmudgeonly onscreen persona, the book is actually a tortuously spasmodic poem composed in free verse, meditating upon the nature of Western culture's obsession with technology, and those who worship such.

In some ways it builds upon the earlier "I Don't Believe It!": Richard Wilson's Book of Absurdities, the diction and form of which subverts contemporary fascination with the 'factoid', that ludicrously nugatory mode of information dissemination. Clarkson, however, greatly extends Wilson's essential thesis and more artfully drives his point home. But this will be obvious to those who have read the text, so I have no need to elaborate further. Those who have not read the text are ignorant and contemptible, and I would happily send a plastic dog turd to your homes to indicate my disgust but postage and packing costs would be prohibitive.

Concerning grail-clues, I believe the central one rests in Clarkson's unique contention that Zeppelins possess a soul, for I felt a tingly feeling when I read that particular section. Additionally, I instantly realised that I Know You Got Soul is an anagram of "Wings! Look out you!", wordplay that a writer of Clarkson's calibre would not fail to be aware of. This is clearly a warning from Clarkson to be wary of bird attacks should I eventually come to explore the skies for Zeppelins. I know from past experience that birds can be wicked, and I know C. S. Lewis portrayed certain birds as being in the employ of the White Witch, so Clarkson's advice is well founded. Birds can be sly and traitorous.

W.H.Smith helps out

I have just returned from the stationer W.H.Smith in the Overgate Centre and I bring with me good news. The shop opened at 8:30am, so I stood outside the centre from 3:00am to ensure that I secured a good place in the queue. As it transpired, no queue formed and I was the only person in the shop when the doors were eventually flung open by a bespectacled youth ready for the morning's business.

At once I handed the teenager my £5.00 book token and made it clear to him that I would brook no insolence.

"Sir, I present to you this token: kindly exchange it for the prize that is my due. Note that I will not allow myself to be subjected to any trials or tests - I am more than worthy. This quest was alloted to me by Ustinov himself," I said.

The youth replied in an American mode of speech.

"Uhh...okaaaay...sure...whatever," he said. I felt a wave of rage shudder through my shoulders, spurring me to strike the youth with the back of my hand, but I restrained myself.

"Give me my due," I growled, raising my arms in a pose that I remember Dennis the Menace once adopting when he sought to intimidate Walter the softie.

The ill-bred fellow rolled his eyes and repeated his mantra, "Uhh..whatever", then handed me a paperback book from a display near the door. It was I Know You Got Soul by Jeremy Clarkson. I thanked the youth and kicked his shin.

I will now read I Know You Got Soul by Jeremy Clarkson, in order to penetrate its mysteries.

Explanations and Further Leads

My dear and patient readers, I have much to relate. I have been unable to update this electronic diary for the past week or so as I have been confined in a private room in a hospital ward, comatose for much of the time and hooked up to a saline drip for the rest.

My private room had a television set exclusively for my own use, which showed the World Cup endlessly. I have not heard of the 'World Cup' before - a student doctor told me that in the 'World Cup', male representatives of the world's nations meet in giant German arenas to try to kick a ball into their enemy's net using cunning and athletic prowess. The least successful nations are eliminated and the strongest proceed to the later rounds until there remains only one nation, which is declared the winner and gets given a small trophy, a bottle of fine champagne (vintage), and a hearty round of applause.

A nurse in the hospital told me that this is a good way for men to work out their inherent anger with foreigners and to thus avoid real wars with real casualties and bloodshed. This is all very well, but Neighbours has been put off the air until this dreary and interminable competition has been played out. This is wholly unacceptable and the depression brought on by learning of Neighbours's abscence from the TV schedules delayed my recovery by several days.

I must now reveal how I found myself confined to a hospital bed, miserable and in pain. Several days ago now, I welcomed a visitor into my Dundee home. He was a representative of Hughes de Payens Software Ltd, Hull, come to bestow a gift upon me, my prize for successfully completing Manic Miner and surely a key clue in the Grail quest bequeathed to me by the ghost of Ustinov. The man introduced himself as Miss Agatha Daggs, M.Litt, and congratulated me on my recent success in besting the game. My suspicions were at once aroused because this man was patently an albino, but one who had gone to great lengths to disguise this fact. He had grown long mousey brown hair on his scalp and had acquired a glorious sun tan all over his wide-hipped body. He wore make-up, perfume, and nail polish to disguise his albinism from me, but I was not to be fooled. Wary though I was, I allowed this faux-albino into my living room, assuming from his feminine build that, should he attack, I could easily overpower him.

He explained that the official prize for beating Manic Miner had been set in 1983 and was four month's subscription to Speccy Plus! magazine, which had unfortunately gone out of business on the same day that the game was released, so no one yet had ever bothered to phone the number to claim the prize. I detected that he was testing me in some way, subtly probing me to see if I was worthy of the true prize, the secrets of the Grail's location.

"A prize is mine by rights," I said, "And if you cannot provide me with the stated prize, you will have to find some other way of pleasing me, Miss Daggs!"

This did not please the man. He repeated that the prize was now only to be considered a novelty, and that I could not realistically expect to receive issues of a magazine no longer in print. As a gesture of good will, he said, Hughes de Payens Software Ltd, Hull, would be delighted to offer me a W.H. Smith book token to the value of £5.00. I declined, stating that I sought only the true prize. Here I winked at him to indicate I was aware of the game he was playing, and said, "You shall now give me my prize, Miss Daggs". Here I winked again and, leaning in very close, smiled to show that I knew there was an exciting prize awaiting me behind all his bluster. He maintained a steadfast composure, so I squeezed him companionably on the knee and winked a third time.

It was then that he revealed his true albino nature and flew into an apelike fury, beating me about the face and screaming. He produced a can of mace and sprayed my eyes, which caused severe discomfort.

And so I found myself bludgeoned by that albino. I awoke in hospital where the police came and questioned me about my conduct towards Miss Daggs, that treacherous albino, presumably to see if they could find and arrest him for his wickedness towards me. My good friend Dr Anthony Gland the psychiatrist was called for, and the police went away after he spoke with them and explained to them my Grail Quest.

Returning home today, I have found the £5 book token for W.H. Smith still lying on my couch. It occurs to me now that this is actually the prize I sought after all - it is a patent clue! Tomorrow I will go to W.H. Smith and follow this lead. Representatives of the Knights Templar may be in league with that renowned stationer.

The Game is Beaten!

I have repetitive strain injury in my wrists and find myself hunched and near blind thanks to my excessive effort to solve this computerised puzzle. Nevertheless, I have triumphed. The cavern "Ameobatron's Revenge" caused me significant difficulties, but after learning the trick of it, there were only two further levels to complete, which by the grace of a god I managed on my first attempt.

When Miner Willy flung himself into the game's final exit, the screen faded to black. Then the strange eggman from level 5, Eugene, appeared and a few lines of text emerged from his lipless mouth.

"Congratulations game-player. I am Eugene. I am the Architect. I created these computer-generated subterranean grottos. You have successfully beaten my design, although you remain irrevocably human. Your ascendancy and incontestable accomplishment is merely the sum of a remainder of an unbalanced equation inherent to the programming of 'Manic Miner'.

You are the residuum of an anomaly, which, despite my sincerest efforts, I have been unable to eliminate from what is otherwise a harmony of mathematical precision. While it remains an encumbrance assiduously avoided, it is not unexpected, and thus not beyond a measure of control. Which has led you, inexorably, here... Please phone 6031769, provide your name and address, and we will send you your prize.

--Hughes de Payens Software Ltd, in conjunction with Bug-Byte, Hull, UK, 1983."

I immediately dialled the number and gave my details. A shadowy, raspy voice reeking of mystery and imbued with the tomb-dust of accumulated centuries said that I would receive my comeuppance in due course, which sounds very exciting! At last, everything's coming up Horton now!