Ghost word - 1

Ghost word - 1

You might laugh me out of the text but I think is is etymological discrimination. Just you check and see how many times little words like ‘the’ and ‘and’ get used compared to me. I understand the argument about conjunctions and articles being used a lot because they are essential to the smooth running of the prose but what about real meaning? Now there is something that is vital to any exposition, have you seen what Elmore Leonard used to do to his novels? I never rated them myself and I think some of the readers who raved about them could be described as me; I mean, he never really even describes his characters properly and leaves out the bits that readers would skip anyway. That’s no good, novels are supposed to be hard work aren’t they?

      I think my basic problem is that I was born as an adjective. Now, what is the essence of adjective. What is its function?  The humans always boast ‘I think therefore I am’. The most an adjective can say is that ‘I describe therefore I am’. This means that my existence depends on someone using me to describe something or someone else. I have no independent existence, I always have to depend on a noun being available that I can apply myself to.

      Don’t get me started on nouns. Do you know how arrogant they are? ‘I am therefore I am’, they always say, relishing their independent existence. And as for gerunds, they are even worse, seeing themselves as upmarket nouns, ‘we can do the job of both nouns and verbs,’ they boast, ‘I am and do therefore I am.’ Snobs, all of them.

      Yes, I’m afraid I suffer from the adjective’s perennial problem, low esteem. I have been been to see my Thesaurus, Dr Roget,  but she wasn’t much help. ‘You should just accept your place in the lexicon and be happy with that,’ she said. ‘you have had a good life, I know you were in the Army, the Paras wasn’t it? That gave a you a chance to travel and I believe Jonathan Swift wrote all about your adventures around the world.’

      ‘Yes, but even he spelt my name wrong. You’d think a man of the church would go to the trouble of getting that right wouldn’t you? I think the main cause of my problem is that I am still the only word that has been left out of an edition of the OED by mistake. They made sure I was back in the next edition but how do you think that makes me feel? What do you think I should do?

      ‘ My suggestion is this. Accept your place in the order of things and your characteristics that you cannot change. You will always be an adjective for example and there is nothing wrong with that. Where would we be without the valuable work that you and your colleagues do? The world would be a very simple and plain place. I suggest that you go back to your home in the OED and make friends with your neighbours. The one before you, ‘the passage by which food passes from the mouth to the stomach,’ sounds like he may have some interesting stories and the one after you,’a ravine or channel formed by running water’ may have some stories of far-off places that you both have visited?’

      ‘OK, I’ll try that. Thank you doctor.’

      ‘No problem, always glad to help. If you have any more problems, you can always come and look me up.’

I walked out through the waiting room and saw an old friend of mine, Hanna Rayburn,  sitting in the corner.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked

      ‘I’ve been coming here for some time, to see Dr Roget, she is treating me for my problem.’

      ‘What problem is that?’ I asked, a little indelicately.

      ‘I get frightened by old fashioned cookers in big, open plan kitchens, ‘ she said, ‘ the doctor thinks I am suffering from agarophobia.’

      ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I had better let you get on with your therapy then, I can see you have a lot on your plates.’

      ‘Yes, I’m cooking dinner tonight.’

She knocked on the door and walked in the doctor’s treatment room. I didn’t believe a word of it. Who did she think I was? I’m not a backward Evian. I’ve been around a bit.

      I did as Dr Roget suggested and made my home in the ‘G’ section of the OED. I was getting well settled in when, one day, there was a lot of noise from just overleaf, on the next page. I looked it up and found it was gunfire, ‘the repeated firing of a gun or guns’ so I looked across to the opposite page and talked to my guardian, ‘a person who defends and protects something’. Yes, I know he is one of those nouns, but he agreed to look after me. I think he was feeling quite proud to be asked, even if it was only by a lowly adjective. He was really a guerrilla guardian from Guatemala who was quite fond of alliteration so we bonded well as we went fishing for gudgeon together.

      That’s what he told me and I, of course, believed him. That is what I do.

*

I heard on the grapevine, ‘the spreading of information through talk or rumour’, that some of the subjects and predicates of sentences had been getting together to form independent clauses. This was, of course, not allowed by the Great Samuel J., but it seems they crept past Maurice Waite and Sara Hawker, of the OED, unseen. The next I heard was that they had been chatting up verbs, and even some gerunds, to try to make sentences. They were really getting above themselves.

      I decided that something had to be done. I got together with a few of my friends, well neighbours really, and we formed The G Force or Grammarians. The founding members were; myself of course as GB (Gully Bull ) with Guardian, Gully and Gullet closely behind in the Guerilla Army. Our motto was ‘G today, then onwards through A to Z’. ( It’s alliterative if you say it properly, with an American accent )

      We decided to set a test case so we reported a couple of dodgy clauses to the Lexicon Police.( Leptons for short, hadrons for long or Higgs for very short ). They investigated and passed the file to the DPP ( Department of Publishing and Philandering). They decided that there was a case to answer so a date was set for a trial in front of a Judge. ( after all, what was the point in holding it behind his back? ). The public prosecutor was An Urine Bevin who was reluctantly brought back from  the dead after the requisite affydavid was signed by the Judge. He was the only literate on the centre court on that day, all the rest were away playing tennis, or some similar racket, on the Net.

      We had appointed a leading QC, called Quentin Carrville, to lead the defence’s case so we just had an ordinary barrista, called Jen Dobrie,  for the coffee, from Gdansk.

On the appointed day everyone turned up in court and the Clerk pounded his Gavel and said, ‘All be upstanding, the ‘orrible Judge Dreadlock presiding.’ The clerk had a way with words but it wasn’t anyone else’s way so there was plenty of scope for misunderstanding. Luckily we were moving on to ‘H’ words next. The judge calmly combed his hair and asked if everyone was there. ‘Is everyone here?’ No one answered.

      ‘Well, that’s ok then, everyone’s here,’ he said, ‘on with the trial,’ “Just like the Red Queen,” said Lewis, as an aside to Llewellyn as the judge tried to bang his gravel. It sounded rather gravelly so I investigated where the extra ‘r’ had come from. It transpired that it was from Farther Christmas, some misspelling in a letter to the North Pole no doubt. I removed it so that the judge could bang on properly.

      As I said to the Grammerians, ‘if we can’t even get a ‘G’ word right, how are we going to manage with the other twenty seven letters?’ That was a rhetorical question so there was no answer. We had no plans to do the ‘R’ words for many a year, so no one understood what I meant, so they still didn’t answer. A case of two unknowns ending up with the right answer.

      The judge asked for the accursed, ( sorry, ‘the accused, that pesky extra ‘r’ again ) Mr S Clause, to enter the dock, alongside the Maersk St David, the biggest container ship in Wales. It was too big for the Suez canal, the Panama canal, with the new extension and even for the Manchester ship canal so it normally berthed at Pembroke Dock – minding the draft of course. Because of this, it was called a Man’ size container ship. He floated in on the tide and pleaded to be set free. ‘No,’ said the judge, ‘wrong answer. Guilty or not guilty are the only two possible answers. Otherwise you’re sunk.’

      ‘Not guilty then’, said Santa Clause. ‘I did never, not do it, wot I wos accursed of.’

      ‘Enter a Not Guilty plea please Mr  De Klerk,’ said the judge, in spite of the apartheid.

It was getting late by this time. All were assembled, the Gury had been sworn in – I had managed to change the Jury to Gury so that they were in the ‘G’ section with me and so more likely to believe whatever tall story they were told by the accused. Luckily the Gudge hadn’t noticed as both Gudge, Gury were ‘G’ words and so had been checked out by the grammerians. It was now lunchtime so the Gudge asked Jen Dobrie to produce the coffee for everyone. She banged the dripper on the edge and saw the grounds for dismissal drop into the tray. The Gudge also asked if there was a Friar in court as he was very partial to his chips.

      Friar Tuck trudged in, pulling his handcart. ‘Can’t you leave your cart outside?’ said the Judge, ‘It smells a bit ripe in here.’

      ‘That’s Robin, I’m afraid,’ said the Friar. ‘He’s been dead a while and he gets a bit whiffy now and again.’

      ‘Yes, I can tell, but why?

      ‘Well, it was like this see, Judge,’ said the eponymous Friar. ‘I was attending to Robin, one of our most famous hoodies, who was feeling quite poorly at the time and he was contemplating his demise like. I was in attendance.’

      ‘Do you mean he was thinking about his death?’ asked the Judge politely.

      ‘You’re right there Guv, you ain’t a bad a Judge. He came up with that old trick of shooting an arrow up in the sky.’

      ‘What for?’ asked the Judge.

      He said. ‘ Wherever this arrow lands within the boundary of Nottingham Wildwood, let my mortal remains be buried there.’

      ‘What has that to do with your smelly cart?’ asked the Judge quite reasonably.

      ‘Well the arrow rose up in the air, turned around and descended. It landed on my cart, unfortunately. I had to keep my promise to Robin of course, being a Holy Man and all that. So I ‘as to cart his body around like. Most inconvenient, the weight of course, apart from  the smell.’

      ‘So, given all that, can you still make us up some French Fries?’

      ‘Yes, no problem except that they will have to be chips. I don’t hold with that French rubbish after Agincourt, the field of the cloth of gold and all that other stuff that Henry made up.’ said Friar McDonald, getting out his chip pan, wood chips and  filling up his barbie with waste diesel oil.

      I didn’t believe his name, who is really called ‘Friar McDonald Tuck?  I looked it up at Dr Roget’s’. ‘A wily owner of a chippy who masquerades as a Holy Man. Known to have a high BMI and is a good friend of Robin Hood.’

      Well that settled that, he was whom he appeared to be. His Carte may not be very Blanche but he was the real deal, or Happy Meal as he was sometimes known.

      We all settled down to eat our chips, with some highly suspect red sauce, and finished our meal off with an excellent cup of coffee from Gdansk. ‘Dziękuję,’ said Dzień Dobry politely, as we passed the cups back.

      ‘The court is now in session,’ said the Judge as he banged his gavel on the newly formica’d bench. ‘ Call the first witless, sorry, witness.’

      ‘Call Samuel Johnson, call Samuel Johnson, call Samuel Johnson,’ the call echoed around the corridors of power until it woke up he good Dr who was sleeping off a rather large lunch on a bench in one of the waiting rooms. He pulled himself together and walked into the court and stepped up to the witness box.

      ‘Do you, Dr Samuel Johnson, swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth’? recited Mr de Klerk.

      ‘Not likely, would you?’ Answered the good Dr..

      ‘Err, well, no, of course not,’ said the clerk.

      ‘Well, don’t ask me then, OK?’ said Sam.

      ‘Let’s get on with it,’ said the judge irritably, who was a little dyspeptic. ‘ Your witness Mr Bevin.’

      An Urine heaved himself to his feet and addressed his notes, he had forgotten to do it over lunch.

      ‘You are, I believe Doctor S Johnson who is an acknowledged expert on Lithology. Is that so?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Have you heard of clauses getting together asking nouns, and sometimes Gerunds, if they would like to make a sentence?

      ‘No’

      ‘What do you mean, No?’

      ‘What do you think I mean? I don’t know what a clause, noun or gerund is, do I?’

      ‘But, but, you are a world renowned Lithologist are you not?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Is not Lithology the study of words and grammar?’

      ‘No, it is the study of rocks and minerals. Things like granite, clay and limestone. I can witter on for hours about them if you wish, just like any geologist.’

      ‘That will not be necessary Doctor, thank you,’ said the perspiring An Urine, as he sat down.

      ‘No questions, your honour.’ Said the defence QC, quickly. He didn’t want to hear about rocks, just like any normal person.

      ‘I call Mr Callum McDillon,’ said the worried An Urine.

      The call went out and echoed around the halls as before but it gets too boring to write it down each time so please assume it happened, thank you.

      ‘Are you the standard feckless Irishman?’ asked An Urine

      ‘Yes, I am sir. I was taught to stop swearing by my Ma in Law a couple of years ago.

      ‘Do you…’

      ‘Not likely, that Dr Sam got away with it so I don’t see why I should have to.’

      ‘Objection.’ Said the Judge. ‘I’m bored, can we move on please.

      ‘Very good, my Lord. And what do you know about the clauses having a conspiracy?’

      ‘I heard that they were getting above themselves and promoting themselves as sentences.’

      ‘Thank you Mr McDillon. Your witness.

Mr Quentin Carrville stood up to his full height, adjusted his wig and fixed the Feckless Irishman with a stare that would easily have turned a statue from stone into wiggly snakes. ‘Tell me, Mr McDillon, or may I call you Callum?’

      ‘Yes, Callum is OK.’

      ‘Tell me Callum, are you really a Feckless Irishman or are you just one of those witlesses we heard the Judge describe earlier?’

      ‘To be sure, I certainly am one of those fecking, feckless witnesses, soir.’

      ‘Thank you Callum, I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then shall I?’

      ‘I think so.’

      ‘You may be excused, Mr McDillon. Case proven,’ said the Judge. ‘Let’s all go down to the caff on the corner and get some decent chips,  begging your pardon, Friar. After I have summed up of course.’

      ‘I find the defendant guilty on all counts of trying to be a sentence. I shall now hand you down a sentence; from the tall wardrobe. It will be a custodial sentence. I sentence you, Mr S Clause to serve 43 years in custody with the Tooth Fairy and The Easter bunny until the 24^th December this year. Chips away.’

This meant, of course that Father Christmas only had Jen’s coffee left overs to rely on for a retrial.

     

     

 This piece has been part - published in WordBohemia.
www.WordBohemia .co.uk    

The meeting

The meeting

Colin climbed slowly up the beautiful white Portland stone steps and manoevered himself through the mahogany revolving door, taking care not to touch the immaculately polished brass finger plates. He debarked from the door system onto the polished, pattened Carrera marble floor with two symetrical columns rising majestically to support the vaulted roof. He tried to work out if they were Doric, Ionic or Corinthian. He pictured himself back at school in Miss Atabelia’s classics class where he had been faced with the same question,  ‘Ionic has the most scrolls, Doric is the plainest and Corinthian is the fancy one,’ he thought he remembered. Colin stopped in the middle of the floor and looked around him at the richness of his surroundings. ‘Was it all designed to impress or intimidate?’ he wondered. It seemed to work as he was feeling both.

      His first words to the receptionist behind the modern glass desk were, ‘Lovely pair of Dorics you’ve got there Miss.’

      ‘What? How dare you say things like that to me.’ said the outraged  receptionist, Judy Tench, according to her name plate set on the desk in front of her.’I’ll report you for a health and safety violation, you should be wearing a Hi Vis jacket like every one else in the country.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said a flustered Colin. ‘Are they Ionic then, I get confused as to which has the most scrolls?’

      ‘Mr Hadnib, can you please come over here.’

The heavyset security guy in a smart, but ill fitting three piece suite, marched over to the reception desk, his gleaming black boots squeaking – he was clearly not used to walking sofa. ‘What seems to be the problem Miss Tench? Is this man bothering you? Shall I ask him to leave?’ he suggested with a joyful glint in his eye, hinting that he would perhaps enjoy the process a little too much as it would probably include a little less asking and a little more physical persuasion.

      ‘No thank you Mr Hadnib, I just need to find out what he is doing here.’

      ‘Wot are you doing here, mate? Miss Tench needs to know’, asked Iqbal, with a firm grasp of Colin’s left elbow

      ‘I’m here to meet with the governor and the rest of the MPC, err that’s the Monetary Policy Committee.’

      ‘Yerst, we know what MPC stands for. We’re not stupid are we Miss Tench? Why do you want to see that lot then, wot’s your business with them?’

      ‘Well, I err, I’m the new economist on the committee and I’m here for my first meeting with them.’

      ‘Name?’ asked Judy stiffly.

      ‘Err, well it’s Colin Tudge actually.’

      ‘Why have you got three names?'

      ‘What do you mean?’

      Well, Colin Tudge-Actually, that’s a very posh name isn’t it?

      ‘No it’s Colin Tudge really.’

      ‘Well make up your mind, which is it?’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘Oh never mind, I’ll call the governor’s secretary and let him know that you’re here.’

      ‘Err, OK, thank you. What did you used to do for a living before you came here to work at the Bank of England, Iqbal?’ asked Colin, always eager to make new friends.

      ‘I was a screwdriver.’

      ‘A what?’

      ‘I was a chauffer for the govenor of Wormwood Scrubs.’

      ‘Oh, and before that?’

      ’I was a drug dealer.’

      ‘Heroin, cocaine, that type of thing?’

      ‘Nah. I used to work in Boots, selling aspirin, paracetamol and benacol. Then I got promoted to the perfume counter. I really liked Lulu, I had a real obsession about that one. I was always sniffing so I got sacked.

After that I got a summer job as a lifeguard at the gene pool.’

      ‘You may go up now Mr Tudge and please leave my dorics off the agenda in the future.’

      ‘Err, ok then, thank you Judy. Which meeting room are we in?’

      ‘It’s the Schrődinger room, its locked and open. I know it’s there somewhere but I never can find it.’

      ‘Huh?’

     

*

‘Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the MPC meeting and a special welcome to young Colin here and myself, haw, haw. It is our first meeting and I am sure you will all make us both feel at home. I have a list here and I see that Brian Sledge is missing, where is he?’

      ‘Eh, I’m afraid he called an hour ago and said he would be a little late,’ said James Threadneedle, the governor’s secretary, from his support seat behind the governor’s right elbow.

      ‘That’s not good enough, I thought you Brits were tougher than that. Didn’t Churchill say, “ask not what your country can do for you but what can you do for your country?”’

      ‘Err, no, that was Jack Kennedy.’

      ‘Who’s he? Never heard of him. Well, let’s get on with the meeting, Brian can join us when he decides to get out of bed. “This is not the time for sound bites but I feel the hand of history on my shoulder”, as Nixon said a few years ago.’

      ‘No that was Tony… err never mind.’

      ‘Oh, hi, come on in. You must be Brian. What happened to you?’

      ‘I’m so, so sorry Guv but I was walking down Oxford Street with a friend of mine – his name is Henry and he walks very fast and… well, never mind all that. The point is that Henry was hit by a rental car that ran over one of his legs and broke it in two places. By the time I called an ambulance and got him sorted out I lost quite a bit of time and so that is why I am late. Sorry again.’

      ‘Waal, that sounds like a good enough excuse to me but don’t let it happen again. Was Henry in much pain from his broken leg?’

      ‘Yes, I think so. I asked him that and he said “Yes, it Hertz.”’

      ‘I surely hope he gets better soon.’

      ‘Thanks guv.’

      ‘Call me Bruce, please.’

      ‘OK, Bruce Please.’

      ‘Is that the famous Limy sense of humour.’

      ‘Err no, I thought that was your name.’

      ‘If you call me that, I’ll call you Brian Sledge-Late and hope you don’t do a runner. Haw, haw, “runner”, geddit? I said “runner” because your name is Sledge and sledges have… oh never mind.’

*

‘Right let’s get down to business. I don’t know what your approach to all this fiscal and monetary stuff is but I never can tell the difference. “We’ll fight them on the bleachers, we will fight them on the baseball grounds, we will never surrender,” as M.L. King once said as he gave Roosevelt a high six.’

      ‘I think you’ll find it was Churchill who almost sai…oh never mind.’

      ‘I need some ideas on what we need to do to get your economy out of the deep, doo, doo it’s in. You can start Colin. What would you do to clear the doo doo?’

      ‘Well, err, um, I’d start by…/

      ‘Sorry to interrupt, Colin, just as you were going to share your brilliant idea with us. What about some coffee to make sure we are all awake and on top form? Is there a lawyer in our little group here?’

      ‘Err, well, yes, I’m a barrister.’

      ‘And who are you?’

      ‘Rupert Tristram Smythe actually.’

      ‘And why have you got four names Rupert? Oh, I forgot, we’ve done all that haven’t we? Well Rupert, would you like to serve the coffee please?’

      ‘Well, ok then, but why did you choose me?’

      ‘You’re a barrista ain’t yu? You just said so. Is there a law against lawyers working for a living? Haw, haw. You could call it your pro boneo job for the day – like taking a dog for a walk.’

Rupert served the coffee, he didn’t think an explanation would help. He didn’t have a dog anyway.

      ‘Back to you then Colin, we are all prepared to be amazed.’

      ‘The first thing I would do is to print some money.’

      ‘Oooh Kaaay… how much would you print?’

      ‘I’d print enough to give every citizen in the country on the electoral roll £2,000.’

      ‘Whoah there yogi bear, what about giving some to the banks?’

      ‘No point. They would just pay it out in bonuses and it would be spent on foreign holidays and luxury goods made overseas. I suggest we give out the cash in voucher form that has to be spent within three months on goods manufactured in the UK. That is a boost  to the economy of about £90 billion. It would also have the advantage that all the money goes straight into people’s pockets and improves the feel good factor so people will go on the spend some of their own money.’

      ‘I can see where you’re coming from Colin but it ain’t gonna happen ‘cos it jest won’t work.’

      ‘Why’s that?’

      ‘Come on Colin, work it out for yourself, you can’t just give money away.’

      ‘But we’ve been giving money to the banks for the last three years, ever since we started QE.’

      ‘Yes, but that’s different Col, baby. “I have a dream that one day all bankers will be rich beyond their wildest dreams.” Your Tony Blare said that y’know. It was in his ’63 speech about the British revolution being forged in the white heat of technology.’

      ‘I thought it was Martin Luther Wilson?’

      ‘No, he was in Pirates of the Caribbean, playing Johny Depposit I think?’

      ‘Right Rupert, why don’t you tell us about the interest rate? What is it at the moment?’

      ‘A recent youguv poll put it at 34%.

      ‘Isn’t that a little high? I only get 1.3% from my building society account.’

      ‘Well, if you consider that 61% are not interested and 5% don’t know, it starts to make sense.’

      ‘Maybe to you Rupert, but not to me.”Many are cold but few are frozen” not sure who said that, but it’s in the KJV so it must be gospel.’

      ‘Can I ask how you got this job Bruce? If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t seem like a typical governor of the BoE.’

      ‘That’s because I ain’t, young Rupert Tristram. I was working in this circus in Montreal see, when I was made redundant. I had trained the lions so well that they knew what to do, so I was out of the door – well flap actually. I needed a job so I rang my old mate Ozzy and he suggested I come over for a gig in the good old U of K. So here I am. Ozzy said that he had checked with the chancellor and she was happy so I got the job.’

      ‘Err, I’m afraid that was me. Ozzy is an old friend of mine so I just agreed with him. I’m Anne Chancellor by the way Bruce.’

*

The telephone by James’ hand chirruped gently.

      ‘Hello James speaking, how may I help?’

      ‘Isn’t he a lovely speaker?’ said Bruce.

      ‘Err, this is Judy here on reception. I have an angry looking guy here called Marvin Carney who says he is the new govenor of the Bank of England. What shall I do?’

      ‘Tell him I’ll be down to meet him directly, Judy. Bruce, you need to leave, the real govenor is here.’

      ‘Okay, I guess I had best shoot through then. Nice to chat with you guys. “I shall return,” as Ghandi once said.’

          ‘When you said about Ozzy, I assumed you meant George Osborne, and it wasn’t Ghandi, it was Arni Schwartzengaga or General Douglas MacArthur,’ protested Colin.

      ‘Never heard of them, but you know what ‘assume’ does don’t you Colin? “Makes an Ass of U and Me.”’ I think Henry Kissinger said that first, or was it Maslow?

      I must get a shift on as I’ve got a gig at the Hackney Empire tonight and need to check if Ozzy has ordered enough lions. That’s the mane thing. “Mane”, “Lion” geddit? Haw, haw. Just remember you guys, “Omnia mutanur, nihil interit”  ("everything changes, nothing perishes"), Ovid wrote that in his Metamorphoses. Check it out if’n you don’t believe me.’

      Bruce marched off, stage left, right, left, right, out of the quantum meeting room, tucking the cat under his arm.

I feel sad

I feel sad

I do not feel miserable, morose, melancholic, mournful or miserable.

I do not feel downhearted, depressed, despondent, downcast or doleful.

I do not feel unhappy, miserable, wretched, glum, gloomy, forelorn or heartbroken.

I feel sad.

that many are hungry in our world,

that there are too many people for our world

that soils and plants, insects and birds, seas and fish, and other animals, are dying for us

I feel sad

that education hasn’t yet rid us of the evil nonsense that is religion

that people die fighting, even with their imaginary friends in the sky on their side

that human intelligence hasn’t yet defeated superstition

I feel sad

that I did not educate myself earlier in life

that there are so many wonders that I do not have time to learn about

that I am not clever enough to understand the universe.

I feel sad

for the child born today that will die tomorrow

for the mother who watches her child die without food

for our greed in not sharing our plenty with those in need.

I feel sad

that women of the world do not control their lives

that women do not more run the world

that women do not have equality with men

I feel sad

that we still make war instead of talk

that we send our young people to kill and die

that they fight because our leaders always fail us

I feel sad

that clever people don’t know how to make things better

that we do not cherish our precious planet

that we will learn how, too late

I feel sad

that I am not leaving the world a better place

that I have been too selfish to help others

that I have not been what perhaps I could have been

I feel sad

that the world has not improved during my life time

that we are not better at cooperating

that the small gains I see are not enough

I feel sad

that the hope we saw in 1945 has been dimmed

that the ‘war to end all wars’ - didn’t

that we never learn from history

I feel hope

that education is improving

that religion and ignorance is retreating

that science is becoming better understood

I feel hope

that women of the world are demanding education

that all the male religions are in decline

that woment will refuse to give their children up to war

I feel hope

because the ‘starving millions’ are fewer each year

because there is food enough to feed us all, if we want it enough

because we are starting to share our riches

I feel hope

because my children are better educated than me

because my children have no time for religion

because my children are better people than me

I feel sad

for the past

I feel hope

for the future

Ghost word

Ghost word

You might laugh me out of the text but I think is is etymological discrimination. Just you check and see how many times little words like ‘the’ and ‘and’ get used compared to me. I understand the argument about conjunctions and articles being used a lot because they are essential to the smooth running of the prose but what about real meaning? Now there is something that is vital to any exposition, have you seen what Elmore Leonard used to do to his novels? I never rated them myself and I think some of the readers who raved about them could be described as me; I mean, he never really even describes his characters properly and leaves out the bits that readers would skip anyway. That’s no good, novels are supposed to be hard work aren’t they?

      I think my basic problem is that I was born as an adjective. Now, what is the essence of adjective. What is its function?  The humans always boast ‘I think therefore I am’. The most an adjective can say is that ‘I describe therefore I am’. This means that my existence depends on someone using me to describe something or someone else. I have no independent existence, I always have to depend on a noun being available that I can apply myself to.

      Don’t get me started on nouns. Do you know how arrogant they are? ‘I am therefore I am’, they always say, relishing their independent existence. And as for gerunds, they are even worse, seeing themselves as upmarket nouns, ‘we can do the job of both nouns and verbs,’ they boast, ‘I am and do therefore I am.’ Snobs, all of them.

      Yes, I'm afraid I suffer from the adjective’s perennial problem, low esteem. I have been been to see my Thesaurus, Dr Roget,  but she wasn't much help. ‘You should just accept your place in the lexicon and be happy with that,’ she said. ‘you have had a good life, I know you were in the Army, the Paras wasn’t it? That gave a you a chance to travel and I believe Jonathan Swift wrote all about your adventures around the world.’

      ‘Yes, but even he spelt my name wrong. You’d think a man of the church would go to the trouble of getting that right wouldn't you? I think the main cause of my problem is that I am still the only word that has been left out of an edition of the OED by mistake. They made sure I was back in the next edition but how do you think that makes me feel? What do you think I should do?

      ‘ My suggestion is this. Accept your place in the order of things and your characteristics that you cannot change. You will always be an adjective for example and there is nothing wrong with that. Where would we be without the valuable work that you and your colleagues do? The world would be a very simple and plain place. I suggest that you go back to your home in the OED and make friends with your neighbours. The one before you, ‘the passage by which food passes from the mouth to the stomach,’ sounds like he may have some interesting stories and the one after you,’a ravine or channel formed by running water’ may have some stories of far-off places that you both have visited?’

      ‘OK, I'll try that. Thank you doctor.’

      ‘No problem, always glad to help. If you have any more problems, you can always come and look me up. I'll be quite happy to patronise you for as long as you wish for a lot of money per hour.'

I walked out through the waiting room and saw an old friend of mine sitting in the corner.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked

      ‘I've been coming here for some time, to see Dr Roget, she is treating me for my problem.’

      ‘What problem is that?’ I asked, a little indelicately.

      ‘I get frighted by old fashioned cookers in big, open plan kitchens, ‘ he said, ‘ the doctor thinks I am suffering from agarophobia.’

      ‘Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I had better let you get on with your therapy then, I can see you have a lot on your plates.’

      ‘Yes, I'm cooking dinner tonight.’

He knocked on the door and walked in the doctor’s treatment room. I didn't believe a word of it. Who did he think I was? I’m not a backward Evian. I've been around a bit.

      I did as Dr Roget suggested and made my home in the ‘G’ section of the OED. I was getting well settled in when, one day, there was a lot of noise from just overleaf, on the next page. I looked it up and found it was gunfire, ‘the repeated firing of a gun or guns’ so I looked across to the opposite page and talked to my guardian, ‘a person who defends and protects something’. Yes, I know he is one of those nouns but he agreed to look after me. I think he was feeling quite proud to be asked, even if it was only by a lowly adjective. He was really a guerrilla guardian from Guatemala who was quite fond of alliteration so we bonded well as we went fishing for gudgeon together.

      That’s what he told me and I,of course, believed him. That is what I do.

Annie's drunkard's walk.

Annie’s drunkard’s walk

Annie walked into the kitchen, put her shopping bag on he work top next to the ‘fridge and started sorting out the spoils from her shopping expedition. The frozen chicken went in the freezer, the yogurts and that nice piece of mature cheddar that had been on offer secured their place on the middle shelf of the ‘fridge and she used the bag of Tetley tea bags to top up the tin from a long forgotten PG tips promotion a few years before. She was quite fond of that tin.

      Annie was exhausted. It had taken her nearly three hours to get back from the corner shop, which was all of half a mile away in the village. The problem was getting worse and she was determined to have a long discussion with Jed about it this evening when he got back from the lab. In the meantime, she would have a little rest and enjoy a cup of Tetley. She liked her tea very hot. She thought it brought out more of the flavour.

‘What do you think is causing it Jed?’ she asked, after they had finished their meal. ‘I can’t go on like this. I seem to be walking miles just to travel a short distance. I can’t take the car as I often run out of diesel before I get to where I want to be.’ They were sat at the kitchen table sipping a cup of tea after their meal. Annie had used up some leftover mushrooms that were in the fridge and added some of the cheddar to make a tasty pasta bake. The cheese crusted nicely on the top, giving that rush of flavour as the teeth cut through it. They didn’t use the dining room much now that there was just the two of them at home. Annie had nearly finished her cup while Jed was still blowing on his as it was much too hot for him to drink.

      ‘How can you drink tea that hot? You must have a stainless steel stomach,’ he grumbled. It was an old complaint of his so Annie didn’t bother replying. ‘I think one clue is that the problem seems to get worse in the winter. Why don’t you go and see Doctor Adams at the surgery and see what he thinks. I’ll take some time off and come with you, I don’t want you walking down the lane in the dark. You might not find your way to the end of it.

‘South Green surgery, how can I help?’

It was 0801 the next morning, a Tuesday, and Annie was taking no chances, she wanted to be the first to jump through the necessary hoops to get to see her doctor.

      ‘I’d like an appointment as early as possible this morning to see Dr Adams please,’ said Annie in her best, positive, affirming voice.

      ‘Is he your doctor?’ asked the dragon gatekeeper.

      ‘No, he’s my lion tamer,’ Annie wanted to say but thought better of it. ‘Yes, for the last twenty three years,’ she meekly replied.

      ‘He has two slots available, one at eight thirty and the other at two this afternoon. Can you get here in time for the first one?’

      ‘Yes,’ replied a rapidly infantilising Annie as she was sucked into the system. ‘My husband will be bringing me.’

      ‘Ok, we’ll put you down for that one.’ The phone went dead with out as much as a ‘goodbye’ or a lick of flame from the dragon.

‘Mrs Brown to consulting room three please, Mrs Brown.’

A red, round face appeared around the door of the waiting room. ‘Come in Mrs Brown, I don’t like that that new loudspeaker system, do you? It seems just too formal to me, I still like to come out and welcome my patients personally. After all they must be ill to want to come and see me and the last thing they want is to be shouted at by some mechanical voice from the ceiling.’ He wittered on in his usual avuncular style. Was it any wonder that there was always a waiting list to see him while some of the other doctors in the practice sat twiddling their thumbs with no patients to see while tutting about their colleague’s inefficiency? The ten minute rule for the length of consultation meant nothing to him. He would take as long as necessary for each patient.

      ‘Good to see you again Mrs Jones. I see you've brought your husband with you this time. I hope that doesn’t mean that you have a big problem for us?’

      ‘Oh no doctor, it is just that Jed offered to drive me down to the surgery this morning, what with these dark mornings and me not being able to walk straight, he thought I might fall into the hedge or some such…’ The tears came, it was such a relief to be able to tell someone about it and she felt safe sharing it with Dr Adams; he would sort her out if anyone could.

      ‘Why not tell me about it and then we can decide what to do?’ suggested the good doctor.

      ‘Go on, dear, tell Dr Jones what has been happening,’ urged Jed as he squeezed her hand.

      ‘It’s like this doctor. I just can’t walk in a straight line. If I want to walk from A to B in a straight line, I end up going to G J L K, Z and D before I get to B so I usually end up walking about ten times further than I want to. I just can’t seem to be able to control where I am going. People who see me walking think I am drunk or on drugs.’

      ‘OK, I get the picture. Now let me ask you some questions to try to get to the cause of the problem.

      Have you had any problem sleeping recently?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Have you been suffering from headaches?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Do you try to avoid walking on the cracks in pavements?’

      ‘No!’

      ‘Have you felt any muscle weaknesses recently?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I’ll obviously need to carry out a full physical exam and take some blood to get a few tests done but I have a few more questions that may help me.

      ‘Is this problem worse in the winter?’

      ‘Yes!’

      ‘Do you like to drink very hot tea and coffee?’

      ‘Yes!’

      ‘Very well, I think I have a fair idea of the problem from the answers you have given me so I suggest we sent Jed back to the waiting room while I carry out the exam and the practice nurse will come and take some blood from you. I’ll book a brain scan at the Egglington Royal Infirmary, just to be sure, and then I suggest you book an appointment with our drago… sorry, receptionist, on your way out to come back and see me in about three weeks time. In the meantime, I would like you to give up hot drinks completely. Substitute tea and coffee with water or wine or even gin and tonic. I am not certain but I think I have a fair idea what the problem is. I won’t be certain until we have tried all these actions.’

‘Good morning Doctor.’

      ‘Hallo Mrs Brown. How did you get here today, I notice your husband is not with you?’

      ‘I walked, on my own.’

      ‘And did you come straight here or did you go all around the houses like you have been doing?’

      ‘No, I came straight here with no problems. I haven’t had that problem for a couple of weeks now, it just gradually faded away.’

      ‘Good, that confirms the test results. The physical exam I carried out a few weeks ago was fine, your blood electrolytes are within the normal range and your MRI brain scan showed no abnormalities. So, Mrs Brown, you are completely healthy and if the symptoms have now vanished as you say, then I am even more confident in my diagnosis than I was before.’

      ‘So what was the problem Doctor?’

      ‘It is a little complicated but I will try and explain. There is a part of the brain, called the hydro cortex that is responsible for filtering out and correcting any conscious decisions that you take that may be harmful to you. So, for example, if you stood on the edge of a cliff and then decided to jump off, you would feel a strange sensation in your muscles that would prevent you jumping for a few seconds, a sort of temporary muscle paralysis. This would give you time to reconsider your decision. You will still be able to jump to your death if you sadly decided to do so but at least you would have had time to pause and reconsider. This hydro cortex, as its name suggest, is a fluid reservoir in the brain that works in a similar way to the semi circular, fluid-filled canals in the inner ear that tell the body which way up it is.

      It is normally at body temperature and it does not like being hotter or colder than normal. If its temperature drops, it stops allowing decisions through so it becomes very difficult to move at all, whereas if it becomes overheated, it starts generating spurious signals which are read as commands for the muscles to move in random directions. I suspect this is what has been happening in your case. We call this Brownian motion. The effect it causes of walking in random directions is known as ‘The Drunkard’s Walk’. It is named after a random generation of numbers in probability theory in physics.’

      ‘What do you think has been causing this Doctor?’

      ‘ I suspect it is an over consumption of cups of very hot tea during this long, cold winter. This is why I suggested you replaced the hot tea by cold drinks. How are you finding that?’

      ‘I don’t really miss the tea now I have got used to it Doctor and I quite enjoy a gin and tonic in the afternoon.’

      ‘I am glad that is resolved, Mrs Brown. I’d better get on and see to my next patient. I hope not to see you again soon.’

      ‘Me too Doctor. Thank you very much. I’ll just go and say goodbye to your drago…receptionist.’

Fracking

Fracking

The early morning sun flooded into he BBC helicopter’s cabin as it rose above the stubble of the recently harvested wheat field. James Naughty rubbed his hands together to get the feeling back. He was used to early starts but it had been cold waiting in the field, in the shadow of the South Downs, impatiently waiting for the pilot to complete his pre flight checks.

      ‘5 minutes to air,’ came the producer’s voice through his head phones.

He cleared his throat and checked through his script once again. Looking down through the windscreen, he could see wisps of smoke curling up through the still air as a few of the campers started preparing for their day protesting against what most of them didn't understand but, ‘Hey, man a good few days out in the country anyway?’

      Jim listened to the weather forecast – a fine late August day – and then the pips followed by the voice of his colleague.

      ‘Good morning. This is BBC Radio 4 with the Twoday Program. John Humfries here in the studio and James Naughty in Sussex, reporting from the fracking protest in Balcombe in deepest Sussex. Here are the news headlines…

*

      ‘…Now over to James Naughty in Sussex.’

      ‘Thank you John. I am flying above the fracking protest camp on the ouskirts of the pretty little village of Balcombe which lies folded into the Northern slopes of the South Downs, here in Sussex. It is a beautiful late summer morning. The sun is slowly heaving itself above the South Downs to shed its light on this beautiful area of the country; just as we will today try to shed some light on the fractious debate that is taking place below us as many protesters try to make their voice heard against the voices of government and big business. For the moment I will return you to the studio but we will come back to Balcombe later to talk to some of the people involved and try to understand why such strongly held opinions are held on both sides of the fracking debate.’

      ‘Thank you Jim. Now we turn to a subject that has been of great interest to everyone over the last seven weeks…’

*

‘Now we return to Balcombe and a report from Jame Naughty on today’s situation on the fracking protests. Over to you Jim.’

      ‘Thank you John. Err, you join me here near the beautiful, normally peaceful, little Sussex village of Balcombe. I say normally peaceful because the villagers are now out numbered by perhaps ten to one by people from all over the country and some from abroad, who have descended on this quiet corner of rural England to make their opposition known to any drilling being carried out here for oil or gas and, in particular, the use of the controversial fracking technique. This, as many of you may know, consists of steering a drill horizontally into layers of shale strata that lie at great depth and then shattering the rock by the injection of water, under very high pressure, that contains various chemicals. This allows the gas trapped within the shale to be released and taken to the surface.

      ‘I have with me Mr Ernest Newton who is the Chief Executive of the drilling company Tridrilla. Can I ask you. Mr Newton, why you think you have the right to despoil such a beautiful part of the country with your drilling rigs and potentially cause earthquakes and pollute the drinking water with this unproven technology?’

      ‘I’ll answer your question one point at a time if I may. Firstly we are doing nothing illegal and it is government policy to develop our indigent gas resources to replace our imports from unstable regions of the world.’

      ‘But…/

      ‘Please don’t interrupt, you asked me a question and so I would like the opportunity to answer it.’

      ‘Err, OK then.’

      ‘Secondly. Our plans have been agreed by the democratically elected representatives of the local community. We have clearly explained to them what we plan to do and they are happy with it.’

      ‘Thirdly, we have no intention of fracking from this site unless we find we need to at a later date and that will require further discussion and permission from the local planning authority.’

      ‘Err, but…/

      ‘If I may finish answering your question?’

      ‘Well, we don’t have much time and I would like to bring in someone else.’

      ‘Perhaps you should have asked a shorter and less slanted question then.’

      ‘Well…/

      ‘As for despoiling the beautiful countryside in this area. Have you seen the oil field at Wytch Farm which has been producing oil for some fifty years and are you aware that the biggest gypsum mine in the country is under this area?’

      ‘Well err, no.’

      ‘Exactly! That is because both of these major installations can hardly be seen and so are not despoiling the countryside as you put it. Now for your final point.’

      ‘We really must err…/

      ‘As for fracking being unproven technology, are you aware that over 10,000 wells have been drilled using this technology? Also the scare stories about flames coming out of water pipes we started back in the 1920s before shale gas or fracking had been heard of. They have all been shown to have been caused by domestic wells being drilled into shallow methane reservoirs. I would suggest Mt Naughty that you have been badly briefed and are talking from a point of view of ignorance.’

      ‘That may be true Mt Newton, I don’t pretend to be an engineer. I’d now like to bring in a protester who is against the drilling in this area, fracking and the use of fossil fuels in general. Your name is?’

      ‘I’m not giving me name or the law will be after me to stop me dole.’

      ‘OK then Mr X. I believe you are protesting against fuel poverty and the use of any fossil fuels?’

      ‘Yes, that’s right. We think it is outrageous that poor people and pensioners in particular are having to pay fuel bills that rise every year.’

      ‘So what fuel do you propose we use to keep these poor pensioners warm?’

      ‘It is essential that we move over to the wholesale use of green energy to stop pumping filthy greenhouse gases into the atmosphere.’

      ‘By green energy, you mean wind, solar, tidal etc.?’

      ‘Yeah. ‘course.’

      ‘You do realise that the use of these technologies requires increasing subsidies as the cost of energy produced in this way is more expensive than burning fossil fuels?’

      ‘Yes, but it is worth it to get clean energy.’

      ‘So where do you propose this money comes from?’

      ‘The government should pay of course.’

      ‘So this means putting up taxes or increasing the price of energy?’

      ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

      ‘So the poor pensioners that you worry about will have to pay higher energy bills or extra taxes. How is that helping them out of fuel poverty? Wouldn't it be better if they could use the cheaper gas that Mr Newton here says he can supply. Gas that, by the way, produces half the CO2 of burning coal as we do at the moment?’

      ‘Well err, I dunno about all that stuff.’

      ‘Can I ask if you are paying taxes at the moment Mr X to help support these poor pensioners you are so worried about?’

      ‘Well I would if I could get a job wouldn't I.’

      ‘I did hear that you left a very well paid job recently because, like Mr Durken, ‘you were sick and tired of workin’ and decided to have a summer on the dole, joining the protest circuit around the country.’

      ‘Well that is a little unfair…

      ‘But basically true?’

      ‘Well, yeah, I suppose so’

*

‘It is still early morning in this sleepy corner of Sussex and very few protesters have yet shown themselves. I can see one person walking slowly down the lane here towards the drilling compound using a walking stick. It appears to be an old lady with a placard. I'll go and have a chat to her.’

      ‘Good morning Madam, James Naughty from the BBC Twoday programme. Could I have a word with you please?’

      ‘Yes, young man, how can I help you?’

      ‘I’m just wondering what you plan to do here today and I am very interested in what your placard says.’

      ‘I am here today to stand up for free speech and democracy. The local people have decided, via their council, that drilling can go ahead here. It is within the law and it is also government policy to look for new sources of oil and gas in this country. I have lived in Balcombe for thirty seven years and I fully support the right of Tridrilla to continue with their operations without interruption from protesters, some of whom who have probably travelled many miles to cause trouble here.’

      ‘That is all very well but, if you don’t mind my saying so, you are probably not aware of the technical and geochemical issues involved here?’

      ‘You’re probably right and I am sure that applies to most of the protesters here and, if you don’t mind my saying so, young man, it probably applies to most of the people employed by the BBC.

      ‘Touché, Madam, but in all seriousness, what is your knowledge in this area?’

      ‘I am professor emeritis of the Earth Science department of Brighton University. I have specialised in the study of oil shales across the world. I worked in the USA as a consultant reservoir engineer at the start of fracking there. And what about you, young man, do you have any knowledge in this area?’

      ‘Err, not really and I apologise for doubting your credentials. What do you plan to do here today?’

      ‘I plan to peacefully demonstrate my support for the drilling operation here by holding up my placard in front of the drilling compound gates for one hour. Then I shall return home for a nice cup of tea.

      ‘What does your placard say?’

      ‘As you can see, it says; ‘Keep Calm and Frack On.’

      ‘Thank you Madam. Good luck with your protest. Now back to you, John, in the studio.’

      ‘Thank you young man. I think you met your match there.’

The new range

The new range

Brian was on a roll, he had picked all the low hanging fruit and was now convinced of his creative marketing genius. This was fine, there are often people like this who have a strange, usually undeserved, high opinion of their abilities. The problem came when other people got sold on the idea and started to believe Brian’s self propaganda.

      He had joined the marketing department of the Dulucks Paint Company just six months before. He had the luck to have his interview on the day that the Head of Marketing, Christopher Scroggs, had gone down with an previously unknown brand of virus. Mrs Scroggs thought he should take a couple of aspirins, man up, and carry on as normal , as she would have done but no, Chris had to go the whole seven yards. He talked himself into an appointment to see his GP, Dr P Sillin, then trot down to the chemist with a prescription for a completely unecessary antibiotic that the good doctor gave him just to get him out of the door. Chris wasn’t going to be fobbed off with some advice to ‘go home, take an aspirin and go to bed for half a day,’ that was too close to his wife’s prescription. He paid his taxes didn’t he? What do women know about man flu anyway? Any sly comments from Mrs Scroggs would be countered by a comment such as, ‘it must be serious, my doctor prescribed an antibiotic and bed rest.’ This would result in much eye rolling on the part of Mrs Scroggs and the two mini Scroggs.

      What Christopher should have foreseen was the fact that his deputy, Miss Chlamydia Bagshot, who he knew was not very good at interviewing, would decide that Brian was the man for the job. This proved his point about Miss CB in a circular logic, tautological sort of way.

      The task of the marketing department today was to come up with the names for the colours of the paints in the new autumn range. Red, green and blue didn’t do the business any more, the names had to have a feel of the shade about them and inspire a mood. This was so that a DIY customer could decide what sort of mood fitted their personality and aspirational style – as copied from a glossy magazine that cost nearly five pounds and gave advice and information that could be had for free from Fred at the local hardware store. What Fred didn’t know about paint wasn’t… This type of consultation didn’t suit everyone, partly because Fred’s favourite colour was a light beige that could be self mixed by tipping the remains of the white ceiling emulsion in the half tin of magnolia left over from last year’s burst of DIY fervour.

      Brian had already come up with ‘Spring passion’ for what a second hand car salesman would have called ‘Tart’s red’ had he been selling a Ferrari. His offering of ‘Terra Cottage’ for a sludge brown had been met with rapturous approval from his colleagues. ‘Chlami’ as she was know to her very few friends, nearly leaned over and kissed him when he vouchsafed ‘Eau de Nile’ for what Fred would have known as Dark magnolia’.

      Brian was flushed with success now, there was no stopping him. At this rate he would soon be promoted to second deputy marketing secretarial assistant. The next colour swatch was pink but Brian knew that this wasn’t good enough. He applied his creative genius at full throttle to the brainstorming task. ‘What is the essence of pink?’ He asked himself. What could pink symbolise to an upwardly mobile, aspirational couple? He thought about his own partner, Nigel. What would they call pink?

      As you may have realised by now, Brian was gay. In fact he was as ‘queer as a concrete parachute’as he liked to tell anyone who cared to listen, which wasn’t very many. Brian was nothing if not out and proud. He was now fifty five and had been out longer than most of his friends. ‘I was a  homosexual when it was just a cottage industry,’ was one of his proud boasts.’

      He had it! The essence of pink was pig. He knew this from watching Peppa the Pig, Sunday mornings on CBebees. Pink also had associations with gayness. If you put the two together, you got ‘Gay pigment.’ What a superb name for one of the new range of colours! The company would be so grateful to him for dragging the pink pound out of many a pocket. He was beside himself with joy. Chlami was delighted and thought Brian had excelled himself although he had never been known to touch a spreadsheet, he much preferred a duvet.

      No doubt Mr Scroggs would have been just a little sceptical about some of Brian’s colour descriptions but he was still at home,’suffering’ from man flue and enjoying every minute of it. So all the colours were approved by Miss Bagshot, the tins were printed in their millions, filled with the appropriate paint and dispatched to the retail trade.

      Buyers at B & K, Homebasics and some branches of Asday shook their heads in disbelief. ‘What had Dulucks done this time, had they finally lost it? How could an orange possibly be described as ‘Atlantic sunset, or a beautiful pastel green as Bileous taup? The only name that was really redolent of the colour of the paint in the tin was ‘Gay pigment.’ They knew they wouldn’t sell any though – can you see a 23 year old macho, Saturday morning football playing, pint drinking, husband with two kids, marching up to the paint counter in B & K to ask for ‘two and a half litres of Gay pigment, please?’ No, me neither. It didn’t do what it said on the tin – not if he could help it.

      So that explains how the annual gay pride march came to be sponsored by Dulucks that year, they could see no other way of off loading all that pinkness.

      What happened next? I hear you ask.

      Chris Sproggs died soon after, without ever returning to work. His ‘man flu’ turned out to be a variant of the black death, or Graphite grey mort, as Brian would have called it. He had apparently caught it from the lab rats in the Dulucks R & D department.

       Chlamydia Bagshot was promoted to acting Marketing Director. She was very good at the job as she was an accomplished actor, just not very good at marketing, directing, interviewing, choosing paint names or…She saw the hassle that Brian had caused so she sacked him – he never did get his yearned-for promotion.

      He soon found a position as consultant colourist with Andrés’ Heir Salon on the High Street where he soon made a name for himself, Rolf Waldo Emerson[1],  by constantly complaining about the poor spelling and errant apostrophe on the salon’s name board.

      If you are interested in paint, and who isn’t, can I suggest that you keep a lookout for Duluck’s new paint range next spring and see how Chlamydia has got on with selecting the new colour names? You can, of course, enjoy the names while watching Duluck’s product dry, it is nearly as much fun.

     

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[1] "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines."