Almost There

One feature of towns and cities in the United Kingdom is the Blue Plaque. These are put on the outside of buildings to commemorate famous people who had some association with that building. Or at least that is the idea. Most of the blue plaques commemorate people that most of us have never heard of. They may have been well known in their own field at one time but they never came to the attention of the general public. We approach the plaques in anticipation and go away wondering who on earth the person commemorated was and why they were considered so important.

Raul Entzpach does not have a blue plaque to his name. He was supposed to have a much more important commemoration. But his achievements will forever be tainted by one moment of madness. He is only remembered if at all as the man who cast away everything he worked for and never lived to repent of his misdeeds.

Herr Entzpach was an Austrian. He arrived in the U.K. in 1917 as a Prisoner of War. He was glad to get out of the fighting and wanted a chance to learn a more useful trade than the cataloguing of archery relics he used to do in Vienna. He therefore pleaded for useful work in the Prisoner of War camp. He was set to repairing army vehicles and proved fairly competent at this. Gradually he was given other machinery to fix and one fateful day this included a typewriter. He had done typing before. Now with time on his hands he not only repaired the typewriter but became very proficient in its use. The owner let him keep it until the end of the war. When the armistice was signed Raul was the fastest typist for miles around and the owner of the typewriter gave him a secretarial job as soon as he was released from the camp. Despite his faltering English Raul proved both brilliant and popular and seemed to have a fine future ahead of him.

As the best typist around Raul could name his own price for his skills. He soon did. Within a few years typing competitons had become common as a means of encouraging people to take up the activity. Raul was unbeaten in these competitions for five years. Of course as time went by typing proficiency was measured not in words typed per minute but in artistic interpretation of a given text. In these terms too Raul excelled. By now he had adopted the English name of Reg and as Reg Entzpach he gave memorable renditions of the typing classics required by all serious practitioners. His sweeping interpretations of "To Whom It May Concern" and "Polite Notice: No Nailed Shoes Beyond This Door" will never be forgotten by those privileged enough to have witnessed them.

Although largely unknown to the general public Entzpach was the acknowledged king of the typing world. His fellow professionals sought to honour him in some way. A plaque on his Prisoner of War camp was suggested but this was rejected by Entzpach himself who regarded himself as fully assimilated in British society. Then it dawned on someone that Entzpach already had a place named after him by default. Reg Entzpach was only one small step from Regent's Park. The Prince Regent had never been popular even when he was alive. The simple redistribution of the space between the words would provide a fitting honour for the uncrowned King of Typists.

Records reveal that the Corporation of London was perfectly happy to accede to the demands of the art typists and rename the park after Entzpach. Then disaster struck. The Times newspaper ran a small story on an inside page in its May 23rd 1927 edition suggesting that Entzpach owed his pre-eminence to the use of performance enhancing drugs. This was of course long before the term or even the concept had become generally known. Entzpach did not consider the allegation worthy of his attention. He was therefore shocked when the same newspaper ran a front page story six weeks later. This included an interview with the man who had supplied him with the masking agent which nullified the effects of keyboard noise and the inhalation of printer's ink. He tried to defend himself but the weight of evidence and the hostility of jealous rivals who had previously supported him proved too strong. Reg Entzpach never got a park named after him. He disappeared into obscurity far quicker than he had emerged from it. Two weeks after the article he had a stress-induced stroke and was confined to a wheelchair. His typing days were over. Six months later he deliberately wheeled himself off Beachyhead into the tumbling English Channel below. His life and reputation were gone. There was no point in living when all he had had been taken away by his own greedy desire to remain at the top forever.

The death of Reg Entzpach was also the death of artistic typing. No one could follow in his footsteps and arouse enough public interest for the activity to be considered worth anything. It also provoked a reaction from the authorities. With redoubled force they ensured that long articles about the origins of Regent's Park and its connection with the Prince Regent appeared in the public press. They did everything they could to distance themselves from the disgraced artistic typist. So much so that today he is forgotten and his area of expertise derided at every turn. Want to be an artistic typist? They would rather lock you up than do anything at all to help you fulfil your desire.

Next time you see a blue plaque commemorating someone you have never heard of ask yourself this. Why are there no plaques on some of the other houses in the street? Is it because no one who achieved anything lived there? Or is it because the authorities are so ashamed of their conduct that they do not want you to know who lived there? The houses with plaques on are not architecturally distinguished from their neighbours. They attracted the same sort of residents. What might the world have been if their inhabitants had the character to live up to what people expect achievers to be?

Word Is A Word Is A Word Is A Word

We all know a few words of languages we do not speak. Once in a while this enables us to identify the language two strangers are speaking. When we hear a word we know we suddenly notice it and try to interpret what else is being said.

There are a few words of Russian which are well known in Western Europe. We understand Pravda, Izvestia, Glasnost, Vodka, Rouble, Bistro, Perpetuallymiserable. One word that is also not unfamiliar is one which sounds like "Dooshay". This means "soul" either literally or metaphorically. You can imagine the sort of discussions where this word would be used and they are generally at such a high or technical level that most of the other words would not be understood. Nevertheless when we hear Dooshay we get an idea what the conversation is about and what sort of sentiments are being expressed.

It was good to move into a new flat. People seemed to like the new place. In particular a Russian speaker I know. They had visited the old flat and seen some of my belongings there whilst others were in a storage room. On this occassion everything I own was crammed into one room and objects not previously encountered were now visible.

The Russian speaker sat down for a while. They were enjoying the chance to sit down and feel good and get to know the new place. The experience even seemed to be having a spiritual effect. They tried to express their delight in being there but could not think of the English term. So they languidly pronounced the word "dooshaybah". Quite right too. "Bah" was clearly a grammatical form of the word I had not come across. They were telling me how much their soul was uplifted by being in the new flat. They were also implying that it made them think about other uplifting things such as their children and their Church. I agreed and repeated the word. It was very nice that they were there too and the day itself was thus likewise "dooshaybah".

It was a surprise when they responded with "this dooshaybah". They were referring to a particular tangible thing but were not pointing anywhere. This altered the possible meaning of the word. I asked "what is dooshaybah?" "Here dooshaybah" was the reply. I was right the first time. It was dooshasybah to be here in the new flat. I agreed and began to converse about how nice things were.

Finally my companion lost patience. They said firmly "televizor dooshaybah". Indeed it was. "Televizor" clearly meant television. This had been in the storage room at the old flat. Written on the frame of the screen was the word "Toshiba". So much for stereotyped views of Russian inscrutability. This deep and meaningful phrase had been shown to have hitherto unperceived depths of shallowness. Just because it was foreign it was assumed to be mysterious. You would never imagine a spiritual Russian speaker would debase themselves by wasting their words on mere consumer goods.

After the laughter had died down it was time to reflect. There are only so many sounds human beings can make. There are several instances of sounds which mean one thing in one language and something totally different in another. "Calda" means hot rather than cold in Italian. But there are reasons why the same sound is considered to be the best expression of different meanings. All sounds have an intrinsic meaning which the words they are used in try to interpret. So what was the connection between the uplifted soul and a specific Japanese electronic goods manufacturer? Were the Japanese trying to say that the products of the company are figuratively dooshaybah? Was the first Mr. Toshiba so named because he appeared to be a particularly enlightened being to those around him?

There was a Russian mission in Japan. There is now a Japanese Orthodox Church as a result. It has never been conclusively proven that what we now call the Toshiba family had not encountered the term dooshaybah. There is no evidence to prove that they did not consciously adopt this name as a result of discovering its meaning. After all surnames are a relatively recent invention. Are not our lives closer to a state of dooshaybah as a result of this company and its goods? Was my mispronouncing friend actually wiser than they knew?

If the above is so all we need to work out is what the company would be called if it were English not Japanese. It is obvious that only one word can express the same exalted spirituality as dooshaybah. If Toshiba was English it would be called Birmingham. That city adopted that particular name because that variant was used on its quality manufactures. Was Birmingham the first dooshaybah? If so no lifetime will ever be enough to fully assimilate this fundamental human truth.

Where Clay Foot Never Trod

In the English West Midlands lies the famous city of Stoke-on-Trent. We all know this is the capital of The Potteries. Therefore if you had never seen the place you would expect its buildings to bear some reference to that industry.

Go and look at Stoke. Too right they do. Its centre is so packed with factories, statues and shops connected with ceramic companies that there is room for little else. It is as if every person in the town thinks of nothing but pots. It remains a surprise that inhabitants do not have given names like Toiletbowl, Sideplate, Cupansaucer or Noveltysheepdog. Everything in Stoke was built by and for potters and somewhere there must be a Plastic City where its younger generation went to work when pottery was not so popular. Or at least there would have been before it was flooded by the damming of a virtual river to create Silicone Valley.

If you were born in Stoke you would be conditioned to live in a monomathic town. If pottery was not your thing you would go and live in another town where the industry you liked was the dominant force and develop the whole town in the image of that industry. It would be very difficult to trace all the places where people born in Stoke have gone to live. But it is obvious where they have never lived. There are several other one industry towns in England. These would now look very different if people from Stoke had gone to live there.

Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire is famous for its connection with the food industry. Pork pies were first produced there and most Stilton cheese is made in the town. Many of its major buildings do indeed reflect the local industry. The parish church is a large cheese-coloured building and a pie shaped traffic island sits proudly in the middle of town. But there are other things there too. Egerton Park in the centre does not resemble either a pie or a cheese and neither does the pub which used to be the residence of the unfortunate Queen of England Anne of Cleves. Clearly therefore no native of Stoke has settled in Melton Mowbray. If they had the inside of Anne of Cleves' house would be full of meat and its windows would have been bricked in. Egerton Park would be covered in roundabouts for children to play on and the streets would be pathways of yellow circles. The few shops which did not sell either pie or cheese related products would be growing pies and cheeses in window boxes outside their upstairs rooms. Melton is many things but it is not Stoke and history will judge whether it should be glad of that.

Canary Wharf in London was supposed to be the centre of the world financial community. It never became that but it is still populated largely by big companies in flashy industries. All that glitz and glamour have inevitably affected building design as the new Docklands Light Railway stations seem disturbingly futuristic. But it is clear no one from Stoke lives or works in that area. When a building needs renovation workmen use ordinary ladders and scaffolding rather than a collection of interlinked pound signs climbed by placing the hands and feet on the horizontal strokes. The corporate offices are glass and steel but not in the colours of banknotes. Nor do they have a lintel at the bottom where the totals of floors, desks, money earned and people working in the building above can be added up. They do not bear signs saying "I promise to be a building for the bearer" and those who work there do not wear signs saying "I promise to be a person for the bearer". It is another Stoke-free environment which is maybe why it has never become what it was originally intended to be.

In Devon there is the village of Topsham. This lies just south of Exeter and is a seaside village. Just that. Everything there is connected with sea and frolics. But it is clearly too far away for a Stokeian to have lived there. Firstly there are still a few streets where you cannot actually see the sea. Secondly there are actually streets in the village. It is not one continuous beach. People are allowed to walk around without trying to sell you pointless novelties and sickly food and are allowed to wear common or garden English clothes. They are not obliged to dress in clowns' outfits and laugh hysterically for no reason. You do not have to buy tokens to go into houses and you do not win a prize every time you knock something over with a ball. The lack of Stoke influence is plain to see and we still await the emergence of Stoke on Sea as the final flowering of the English seaside experience.

A century ago the world was divided into two halves. There was the pink bit where the British had been and the uncertain colours of the rest. Even then however this was a false distinction. The only true boundary is between places where the natives of Stoke have been and those where they have not. Why is this the real distinction? Because it is easy to tell them apart. But those who do not wish to be invaded by people from Stoke should be comforted by asking one question. What do you call a person from Stoke? Stokeian? Potterieite? Stoker? No one knows because they have blended with the local populations. Apparently every other gene is stronger than a Stoke one. When you understand this their monomathic desire to turn everything into a reflection of their local industry just begins to make sense.

A Number That Is More

Every newspaper editor and scientist is pestered by numerological crackpots. People who do maths obsessively and calculate with exact detail the forthcoming assassination of Mick Jagger or the impossibility of the square root. Desperately these folks try to convince everyone that numbers have meaning greater than themselves at the behest of some higher force. Tarot cards are the ordinary playing cards of certain European countries but have been elevated to mystical status on exactly the same principle.

It has become clear however that one particular number does have higher meaning. So imperfect is our knowledge that we have not yet grasped the full implications of the number. But experience proves that those implications are certainly there.

Many many years ago even I went to school occasionally. I would have gone more often but pterodactyls kept attacking the school bus and brontosauruses kept eating the building. On one particular day however a rather young teacher took on the hopeless task of trying to teach the class I was imprisoned in. He started well enough for a diffident young man not much older than the students. Then he created a situation where several students started asking him questions and talking to each other at the same time. He began to smile as everyone talked to him and the rest of the class at once. Thinking this was rather stupid and having a louder voice than most I simply turned my head away and said "sixty-four". This brought the noise to an end as everyone was stopped in their tracks by this incongruous comment and wondered what it meant and where it came from. It meant nothing of course. It nevertheless enabled the teacher to regain control of the class and the lesson proceeded.

By the end of the lesson everyone had forgotten about sixty-four. Or so I thought. It turned out the two people sitting at my desk had not forgotten. DarBid and Nosnoj (don't ask) kept asking me what sixty-four meant. They tried my trick on other occasions when classes got out of hand but their efforts had no effect as they shouted it rather than using simple tones which left the number to speak for itself. This went on for several weeks. What had they seen in this number? Why use this particular one when you have an infinite number of alternatives?

A trick you can employ on someone you wish to gain advantage over is to say "I know your weakness" straight to their face and never mention the subject again. This puts people off because they wonder what it is you might know about them. Try the same with sixty-four. If you are asked a question designed to put you on the spot look the questioner right in the eye and say "sixty-four". They cannot just dismiss the comment as lunacy because sixty-four has a precise meaning. But they do not know what it is. Have you said something good or bad? Worthwhile or irrelevant? They cannot work it out. But they know something particular has been said. This knowledge will haunt them every time they see you. The power of sixty-four has not yet been fully utilised but can never be discounted.

Sixty-four as a number is quite comforting because it is a multiple we understand. We live in a world of knockout competitions of different sorts and everyone understands that in a knockout 64 goes down to 32 and then 16 and 8 and 4 and the final 2. It also goes up to 128 but that is too long a number to have the same emotional impact. Is it the mathematical pleasantry we respond to in sixty-four? Or is it something altogether more sinister?

Consider the sound. The 's' aspirates but is incomplete. It leads us into anticipation of what will come next. The short 'i' is further clipped by the 'xt' combination which the unlengthenable final 'y' cannot quite rescue. Then the 'f' registers as the beginning of an 'aw' sound which brings everything back to earth. 'Aw' is the sound of certainty and depth not speculation. Sixty-four is a number which knows not a number which thinks. So is the person who says it. But there is more.

Infinity is for God alone. Humans have a finite trial here on earth to prepare for their infinite existence with or without God. Therefore to every human endeavour there is an end. It can be measured. The word 'glee' has the same sound at the end as 'sixty-three'. 'Sixty-four' just sounds like 'or'. It is not for any of us to presume on the judgment of God. But if something you have done is measured would you rather it were sixty-three or sixty-four? Maybe only sixty-three of anything are worthy of the ultimate rewards of anything. Is this merely my potentially blasphemous speculation? Try saying sixty-four to someone then tell me otherwise.

The Riddle Of The Sands

How often do we have to be told? We know the thing inside out and backwards by now. What more does anyone have to do to get us to listen?

We have all been there and seen it and done it. Others do the same every day. We see them all the time and never question it. We see the consequences too. Yet still we drift through life in ever deeper layers of ignorance. It is as if we do not exist at all. We are merely bulbous clouds of unknowing lit by sudden bursts of incandescence as we consume each new ignorance in our endless scud into utter but devastatingly dispiriting insouciance.

It all started long ago. It took years before anyone realised it had begun and many more years before anyone realised they could do something about it. A few valiant souls have been trying ever since. But even their efforts are fitful. It may be a slight exaggeration to say that we have now been brought to the brink of destruction. If this is so however the exaggeration is indeed slight. We stare oblivion in the face and have been doing so for so long we regard this is the natural condition of man.

Destruction can be achieved by one misplaced step. It all started with one misplaced step. Or maybe it was not misplaced at all. In the great scheme of things maybe this was all meant to happen. This claim is not a call to passivity. We are not to sit idly by and watch as the thing distresses itself towards inevitable flowering through its serpentine coil. But is there any hope left? We know we should do something about it but never do. We see it getting worse every day but do nothing about it. We see and hear nothing except the deeper and deeper groans of its slowly masticated victims. Time is no healer. Life is no way. All causes are fatuous. The march of progress has progressed itself into a pit from which all that can emerge are carrion insects nourished by all our broken hopes and dreams.

We look but do not see. We see but cannot believe. We believe but do not know. We know but do not understand. We understand but cannot act. We act but cannot achieve. Everything exists in a vacuum. Everything has its own terms alone and these are meaningless. We need meaning to live. We need to live to mean. We are vanquished at every turn. We are a pub with no beer or a pink which is not pink. We are football played with the hands and a softball which is as hard as the ball it is supposed to be softer than.

Contradicted by everything we calmly await the final rage of our incompetence. The day when the sun meets the moon and they ride off in the same orbit. The day when Peter Finch returns from the dead to rail at his final film. The day when the melting ice cap freezes again on the equator. The day when rabbits are hailed for their skills. The day when ducks are worth more than aces. The day when adding up and subtracting are the coin itself rather than two sides of it. The day when sense is the preserve of the sane. The day when all other days become as dust and the new order of disorder will reign. The day when Gerry Adams is given a knighthood by himself and accepts it on behalf of the British government ruling in Dublin. The day when the title of Wrong Honourable is established in law and all others abolished by the last judge left in the most lawless country on earth when all countries have become the same with entirely different rulers. The day when those who still walk have nowhere to go because everyone else has both run and hid at the same time.

Why? When? How? How am I supposed to know? All I can do is follow a reputable model. But if I really did I would live it out every day which no one fully does. So it becomes a matter of guesswork. My guess? There is a Welshman at the end of the rainbow. Why? Because conjuring up such a positive but ambiguous image is the only way to demonstrate that if you are not constantly amusing people there might be a good reason for your seriousness. There is no such thing as clinical depression. There is merely reading this far. You yourself know what that is called.

We Are Not In Charge

A while ago I was on the Management Committee of a community centre. We had a meeting between the local council and representatives from all the different community centres in the borough. A lady raised the very valid point that community centres are supposed to be about fun not boring meetings. Someone asked her how we could quantify the success of a centre by measuring fun. The lady insisted that she knew exactly what fun was and was able to measure it.

One of the symptoms of the fall of man is that we try to measure everything. We think we can understand everything that way and thus control it. This is of course nonsense. But someone now has the task of quantifying fun so we should all do our bit to help.

The usual method in England is to give people a feedback form to fill in. As soon as they finish their activity they should be given a piece of paper and asked whether they had fun. Most will say yes but this does not define what fun is. Consequently the answer cannot be evaluated or compared with the amount of fun people say they have elsewhere as two sets of people may mean different things by fun. Therefore supplementary questions will be necessary. The most obvious one is "what aspects of the activity in particular were fun" with a choice of boxes to tick but this would also be misleading. In any given activity some parts will be more fun than others and the activity will not take place without someone doing the less fun bits. It would not reflect the overall level of fun to be gained from the activity or the community centre which hosted it.

It would also have little effect if you asked people what they meant by fun. To produce valid data you would need a common mode of expression. Different people will say fundamentally the same things in different ways or use the same words when they mean two completely different things. There are other methods of measurement such as videoing the activity and counting the smiles on people's faces but this too is inherently inexact. It would only produce worthwhile data if the smile tolerance of each individual on film had been measured previously. You would need precise data on how often someone smiled during a significant sample period and if there were any patterns to what made them smile to calculate the effect of the activity. Similarly you would have to demonstrate that the fun level obtained was significantly higher in the community centre than it would have been if the activity had taken place elsewhere. This would involve measuring fun levels of the same activity outside the centre with all the time, expense and legal implications of this.

The statistical measure of fun most favoured by community centres themselves is how many people come to the centre to do things when they could be doing other things. This method of assessment has some undeniable advantages over others as it is a simple calculation of free will. It does however have some clear disadvantages. The data would only have meaning if everyone came to the centre to have fun. Some of those who organise activities do so out of a sense of duty or contractual obligation but no longer get any fun out of it. Some people take part in activities because they have nothing else to do or because someone has told them to take part. Some just want to get out of the house because they have a bad domestic situation and do not care whether they enjoy what they do as long as it is outside their home. Fun is not always the motivating factor in taking part in an activity or going to a community centre to do so. Once again although this measure has a lot of superficial attractions it ultimately fails to present a meaningful picture of the nature and effect of fun and its relation to the hosting of that fun by the local community centre. Still we search for the exact theoretical framework for measuring fun and for calculating why we should want to do so in the first place.

There are some literary critics known as "unpopularisers" who take a popular work and bore the pants off its fans by subjecting it to endless criticism of a very technical kind. The way they appreciate the book is totally different from that of other readers. It is often felt that it is in the interests of social harmony to break down barriers such as this. Sod it. Take your own definition of fun and you will find it at West Acton Community Centre. If others are incapable of appreciating it that is their problem. We do not have to measure fun. Our only need is to measure those who need to measure everything. Over and over again until we have measured them out of existence by their own definition of it. Want to join me?

How It Should Have Been

It has been said that the genius of the English is not taking things to their logical conclusion. There is more than a small grain of truth in this. In other countries people take an idea and follow it through to the letter. In England we take a bit of an idea then compromise it out of existence to make it fit everything else.

Nevertheless there are several ideas which have never been taken to their logical conclusion anywhere. Presumably this is due to the baleful influence of the English. If only they had been developed exclusively in other countries the world would be a different place.

Take modern architecture. One of its fundamental principles was "structural honesty". You were supposed to see all the parts of a building in their purest form unadorned by decoration or disguise. Unfortunately some of the leading theoreticians of this movement were English. Consequently you can see all the metal beams holding the building up but it stops there. If you want to achieve real structural honesty what about the scaffolding? You cannot erect a building without scaffolding. Nor can you do so without builders and labourers. A finished modernist building should be covered in scaffolding and fringed by workmen's huts and cement mixers with workers continually on site adding and subtracting bits of it and drinking tea. Indeed there is no need for the building at all. Scaffolding is pure structure. Erect the scaffolding and drape a few windows and sheets of metal off it and you have your building. If buildings had been made this way we would not have had the outcry which followed the destruction of our favourite cities by the barbarous brutalism we have all come to hate.

Similarly there is the question of the cycling dogs. In a park called Grange Gardens in Cardiff in the early 1980s there was a large sign saying "No Cycling Dogs Allowed". I lived near there at the time and never saw a dog riding a bicycle but clearly this was a big issue in the area. Why stop at putting up a sign? If cycling dogs are a menace they should be treated accordingly. We would have been spared the vicious debates about foxhunting if we had employed huntsmen to round up packs of foxes to hunt the cycling dogs down. This would have been a major tourist attraction in the area and contributed significantly to the depressed local economy whilst the huntsmen paid their own way as they always do. It would have silenced the pro-fox anti-hunt brigade and opened up hunting opportunities for a section of the population generally excluded. There is also the question of the bicycles. The dogs must have been getting them from somewhere. Why did no one pass a law against selling bicycles to dogs? If their owners were buying them did no one notice the disparity in size? It is ridiculous to believe that only the dogs as big as men were terrorising Cardiff on their bikes. If you want to stop dogs riding bicycles all kinds of action could be taken. Instead of which the council relied on a painted wooden sign which was admittedly very effective.

Then there is the Chelsea Flower Show. Every year thousands of people gather to observe these extravagant floral displays and see the new breeds of plant that gardeners have developed. No one seems to care that it is not in fact the Chelsea Flower Show at all. It is owned and run by humans and all the exhibits are put there by humans. The flowers have no say in the matter. If it is a flower show the flowers themselves should own and run it and if it is the Chelsea Flower Show those flowers should come from Chelsea. All we know about flowers is what humans have discovered about them. As we are still discovering things the flowers must be able to do more than we know. So what is the problem with letting them do what they want at the show? Allowing them to form their own combinations would expose humans to hitherto undreamt-of possibilities. If they were responsible for their own planting and growth their natural limits would become clear. Furthermore if they had to prove they came from Chelsea to gain admittance to the show they would try ever harder to raise the standard to maintain this privilege. More flowers would come to Chelsea the rest of the year and flowers elsewhere would breed rapidly so that their towns could hold a similar event. Everyone would gain from a real Chelsea Flower Show. But it is not hard to see why it remains the Chelsea Human Gardener Show rather than that strange tribe of know-alls admitting the flowers might do it better.

We English do not take ideas to their logical conclusion because we are too frightened to do so. Maybe this is the root of the repressed character other nations accuse the English of having. We would all be better off if good ideas were completely fulfilled. But one of the few areas where the English still have influence is in the trades and professions. Things will never be done properly if the English run them. This is doubly sad when we realise that only the English are actually capable of running anything properly as history has shown us time and time again.

One Leg Is Enough

One of the most famous comedy sketches in Britain is the Peter Cook sketch One Leg Two Few. This concerns a one legged actor called George Spiggott who arrives to audition for the role of Tarzan. The casting director tries his hardest to point out politely that the actor is unsuitable for the role because he only has one leg. The actor cannot understand this at all and keeps asking him to explain. The embarrassment and incomprehension of both parties makes for high comedy.

Peter Cook wrote the sketch at eighteen. He did not live long enough to tell the full story of George Spiggott. Only now is it presented to the world for the first time.

George Spiggott is not a fictional character played by Dudley Moore. He was a real one legged actor trying to make his way in the world. Peter Cook encountered him when he turned up in Torquay to audition for a part in a pantomime. Cook was perfectly polite to him then but later wrote the famous sketch which Spiggott saw as vicious mockery. Spiggott never forgave Cook and protested by letter several times to no effect. He was even more outraged when he discovered that his name was to be used in the Cook film Bedazzled without his permission. Furthermore it was the name adopted by the Devil. On this occasion Cook pacified him by offering him a part as his stunt double and many of the long shots of Cook in the film are actually a computer elongated George Spiggott with a false leg attached.

When not auditioning for acting roles Spiggott worked in a hardware shop. It is where the mac in the sketch came from. It was the same hardware shop in which the Two Ronnies sketch Four Candles was subsequently set. Spiggott had considerable objections to this too. Firstly his name and image had been used without permission and now his place of work was referenced without him being offered a part. Although not interested in politics he became a campaigner on image rights and disability issues. The BBC was at pains to point out that it was not his disability which had led to him being overlooked for the part. This cut no ice with Spiggott. Others had gained wealth and fame off his back and it was no coincidence for him that they were all able bodied.

Spiggott continued working in the hardware shop by day and taking the odd acting job. He made a memorable King Lear at the Warehouse Theatre in Tooting and a sardonic police inspector interviewing a patient in Emergency Ward Ten. What happened next took him completely by surprise. Spiggott lived in Holloway in the London Borough of Islington. A new left wing council was elected which gave considerable financial support to local groups but had very strict criteria for doing so. Only the most radical and politically correct groups were considered for funding. Perhaps it was inevitable that one of these would be the Alternative Film Unit. This was formed to challenge the stereotypical portrayal of certain groups in the media by remaking films from their point of view. The gay version of Ben Hur entitled Ben Him was perhaps the most famous. When the disabled insisted on fair representation in the organisation they could have only one standard bearer. George Spiggott as a local one legged actor was made for the Alternative Film Unit. Similarly there was only one role he could play. On 23rd January 1984 production of the Alternative Film Unit's version of Tarzan began at the Unit studios at the back of St. Thomas' Church in Highbury. The legend had already been created and was now taking tangible form.

"Tarzan of the Limps" is not the best Alternative Film Unit production but it does have considerable merits. The scene where Spiggott as Tarzan arrogantly directs the council officials who have come to fit a disabled modification to the rope he swings through the trees on is very impressive. The premise of the film is that the disabled boy has been lost in the jungle to which all the able bodied have been banished as deviants and the poignancy of this is expressed in the fights between Tarzan and the muscular white man he catches stealing food from his adopted family. Though clearly determined to beat his opponent he clearly retains sympathy for this ignorant creature with more legs than he knows what to do with. One of the film's drawbacks is that Tarzan appears to know too much about the world of the disabled outside his jungle with the references to car adaptations and the like. Nevertheless the film provided some fulfilment for Spiggott and was widely shown in council run cinemas and particularly among disabled groups in the area.

Of course Spiggott then demanded his due. He banged on the door of the BBC and every theatre in the land shouting about integrated casting and their legal obligation to consider disabled men for roles. To an extent he was successful. He appeared as a female doorframe in several episodes of Eastenders and in a religious documentary called "Attila the Nun". He also gained a victory over Torquay when he appeared in panto there as Long John Silver's parrot with an able bodied bird as Long John Silver. He never achieved star status but there were more roles now. Although badly affected by the political crushing of the Alternative Fim Unit and official disapproval of those associated with it he started to find film roles in Canada where the National Film Board was undergoing a funding crisis due to its failure to adopt sufficient political correctness in the eyes of the government. Leading roles in The Search For The Four Eyed Moose and screen adaptation "Der Frozenkavalier" made him familiar to a new audience. He eventually moved to Canada in 1993 and died there on September 4th 2004 at the age of sixty three after a long battle with woodworm. He has ensured that he is not solely remembered as Peter Cook saw him. He had his place in the world and did well enough to demonstrate that he deserved it.

Most people will always prefer One Leg Too Few to Tarzan of the Limps. Nevertheless they each have an audience. We all have the right to exist on our own terms and not simply as others see us. But maybe the misinterpretation of others can give us the start we need to be mentioned at all.

The Next Big Thing

Every so often someone comes along who appears to have terrific potential. A superstar in waiting. But as often as not the next big star becomes nothing of the sort. History is littered with examples of those who failed to live up to their promise. In many cases it is not immediately obvious why. In others however it is as clear as day that a particular problem which went unnoticed for a long time ultimately prevented that person becoming what they were expected to be.

Danny Gray played football for Barnsley in the 1970's. From his first game aged 17 he looked an outstanding prospect. He would never be able to stay at unfashionable Barnsley and the club salivated over the huge transfer fee it could obtain for him. Danny was scouted at every match by the biggest clubs in the land and ultimately in Europe. His career however was over by the time he was 19. Why? Danny was a blisteringly fast player but seemed to lack a little ball control. It took a long time for club doctors to realise that this was because he only had one leg. He had skilfully disguised this handicap by wearing a wooden leg and long trousers claiming he had a rare skin disease which became highly contagious when exposed to light. His performances rendered his handicap irrelevant until opponents got near enough to tackle him and injured themselves on the wood. Danny was given a free transfer before the news got out but it soon became public knowledge. Though hailed as a hero by disability groups he was unfit for football and most other things as he could not concentrate on anything else. When last heard of Danny was in jail as a result of stealing wooden legs and carving them into unusual shapes. These "art legs" never found a market and upset the owners they were still attached to. It is to be hoped that one day Danny will find another path through life now his dreams have been cruelly denied him.

Sandra Auling read the news on cable TV channels in the United States. Serious and sharp and stunningly attractive she appeared to have all it took to reach the top of her profession. Indeed she soon came to the notice of the major networks and was asked to screen test for NBC. It was there that her problems began. Cable TV channels were prepared to make certain allowances in order to get their presenters on air. NBC was astonished to discover that Sandra turned up for her screen test accompanied by a large man who refused to leave the set and insisted on standing behind her with a curtain in between. When the man was sent away and Sandra sat silently at her screen test they assumed it was some sort of protest. Only on the closest examination did they discover that the dream girl of cable journalism was made of plastic and her voice provided by the ventriloquist they had sent away. In fury NBC demanded their travel expenses back. The ventriloquist however eloquently argued that his client had no bank account and therefore no means of returning any money. The network tried to open one for her by keeping up the pretence that she was human but in vain. She could not sign the bank documents. NBC kept the story quiet for many years but eventually the ventriloquist spilled the beans when he got a show on CBS. Sandra now has pride of place in the museum in the ventriloquist's home town. It is not an undiginified fate but is a serious disappointment to her legions of fans who expected so much more.

Of course we all remember The Reverend Archimedes Stool. Rev. Stool was one of the most popular evangelists in North America. From his temple in rural Wisconsin he distributed video lectures on the power of the gospel by mail order. These became bestsellers of their kind and gained him a huge following. It was expected that the reverend would become the head of a much bigger ministry based in Hollywood or New York. Then the root of his strange charisma was discovered. The reverend had achieved so much in a short time because he appeared to be all things to all men. It took a team of media experts several months to discover that he did not actually exist. The Reverend Archimedes Stool tapes were compilations of existing tapes from a multitude of different evangelists. These had been spliced together on a word by word basis with one word from the first tape being followed by one word from the second and so on. The various voices had then been melded into one by audio trickery and projected through the mouth of an actor on light sensitive tape. This would change colour depending on the colouring of those who watched it so that the Reverend would have the same skin, hair and eye colour of the viewer. Some called it a cruel deception. Some called it a miracle. Some called it the American Way. In any event the Reverend Stool tapes slowly disappeared from view as people were made aware of their nature although the actor responsible for them is currently raising finance for a Presidential campaign in 2008 on an "All Americans Are Equally Moral" alternative Republican ticket.

The reasons some people fail to fulfil their potential are often a lot less obvious than those above. But somewhere there is a dark secret behind the seeming failures of the seeming great. Has it ever been conclusively proven that they do not harbour a secret disability or are made of plastic or do not exist? Maybe we have been too blind to consider this possibility. Maybe this blindness is the reason most of us also fail to fulfil our potential. Maybe we would be better off as Danny Gray or Sandra Auling as they can at least now see their situation clearly.

We Got Them Wrong

The recent publication of the memoirs of Arthur Davis has proved a treasure trove for the lover of comedy. Previously forgotten work by two London based comedians of the twentieth century has been presented to new audiences who have thus rekindled their dormant love affairs with the genuises who created these comic nuggets.

Arthur Davis was a milkman who worked in Ealing in West London. In the early 1960s comedians Arthur Haynes and Sid James lived almost opposite each other on the busy Gunnersbury Avenue. Davis soon came to know that he had two celebrity comedians on his round. He recounts with joyful glee the examples of their humour he encountered during his milk delivery work.

On one occasion he called at Sid James' house. James was famous for his lecherous laugh and the roguish cockney characters he often played. It was no surprise to Davis that he came across a humorous note. Left outside the front porch were three bottles rather than the usual two. In the neck of one of the bottles was a note in strange handwriting reading "no milk today". Davis recalls that he laughed so hard he was almost rooted to the spot gazing at this glittering bon mot. Here were three empty bottles instead of the usual two. Someone clearly was drinking extra milk. Then there was a note written by someone he did not recognise saying "no milk today". What was he to think? Had aliens invaded the house and eaten the occupants and washed them down with extra milk? The incident set him alight for the rest of the day and is recounted in glowing detail over forty years after the event as if it had happened yesterday.

An example of the humour of Arthur Haynes came one day in 1964. This comedian is forgotten now but once had a top rated TV show full of strange characters. He was also a morose person off screen which added to the comic effect of his milk-related wit. One day Mr. Haynes or someone in his family left a note saying they wanted to see Davis on Thursday morning when he came to collect the empty bottles. Davis rang the bell at the appointed hour and found there was no one home. In his mind's eye Davis saw Haynes dreaming up the joke and then walking around afterwards with his miserable demeanour seemingly oblivious to his own humour. Once more comedy genius had struck. In the Greystoke pub that afternoon Davis regaled everyone with the story and its force is not lost so many years later when it is retold in his book.

One further incident among many involved both Haynes and James. As Davis recalls he was approaching Haynes' house at the beginning of his run. As he drove along he disturbed a ten pound note left lying in the gutter for some reason. Davis did not earn much as a milkman and so got out of his float to chase the note. It blew across the busy road right into James' front garden. Scampering after it he fell flat on his face just as James himself came out of his door. Classically James asked him if he was alright. Davis stood up and said he was fine and got back into his float. Clearly the jape had been perpetrated by the two men acting in concert. It was probably not a real ten pound note anyway. Once more the irrepressible humour of these great comedians had been bestowed on the humble Davis and he almost cried with laughter as he recalled the incident over and over again as his family have frequently testified.

Arthur Davis is one of the last surviving links with the era when Haynes and James were neighbours. His memoirs cast new light on the true nature of the comedy of these great men. Comedians often complain that people expect them to be funny all the time and they are not allowed to do anything ordinary and unamusing. Davis graphically demonstrates that everything Haynes and James said and did was humour of the highest order. It has enriched his life and given him an endless fund of anecdotes to see him through old age. How grateful we should be that he has now chosen to share them with us all so that we no longer suffer the delusion that a comedian can be anything but.

It Made Us What We Are Today

When they finally discovered it everything made sense. Despite all the technological advances of the preceding decades no one had managed to utilise them to maximum effect. Then it happened. One of those Eureka moments that transform the world we live in. Life has never been the same since Zebediah suddenly realised there was more to this planet than meets the eye.

It began in a small way as these things always do. Eminent Victorians had been building ever more impressive machines for trade and industry. Great cities had grown up around the exploitation of these machines to manufacture goods. Prosperity such as never before was available to a few. Yet even the inventors who had created this prosperity lived in perpetual frustration. They knew their machines worked. They just did not know how. They could explain how the bits they invented worked but not why that was the case. The bigger picture was beyond their vision. Without understanding the natural laws which governed their manufactures they would never be able to use them properly. They had achieved a lot. But in an age which dreamed of eternal progress their achievements could never be enough.

Zebediah Puddlecock was an amateur in the full sense of the term. He earned no living and dabbled in everything to a certain degree. At some things he became quite competent. One week he travelled to Hereford and won the Welshman Shooting Championship held there in the cathedral close under the terms of an ancient bye-law. Another he built a prototype mechanical tortoise which he saw as a more viable prospect than the mooted internal combustion engine. A third week he rowed the river Humber in a box with one arm. Zebediah was quite happy with his leisurely life. He needed no sense of purpose. Then suddenly he found one. He had to go a long way to do it but finally the missing link of all the developments of his age hit home. It was there waiting. Always had been. It was only strange that it had taken so long for anyone to come across it before.

Zebediah was taking his usual passing interest in a new amusement. He wanted to go up in a balloon. He asked how it worked. It was explained to him that air was heated to make the balloon rise. He asked what air was. He was told that it was the stuff that is around us all the time. He pondered on this. We are all individuals and our lives and circumstances differ. Around us? All of us? All the time? This needed further explanation if it were to have any real meaning.

Zebediah decided on an experiment. He travelled to the far north of Scotland where he had never been before. Nothing there was a part of his life before the experiment. Sitting on a deer fence in Sutherland he assessed what was all around him. There was some breath from the natural world but there were other things too. He still had all his problems and joys with him. As they existed independently of him they surrounded him. As did everything else in his world. There was a lot more to air than some sort of atmospheric movement. Air must be everything that is part of a person at any one time that also exists outside that person. He then followed this idea to its logical conclusion. Air is what you say it is. It depends on you. All those great machines that needed air to operate only worked because people said they did.

At the time Zebediah's ideas were dismissed. Objective standards were considered inviolable. Then science fiction was invented. Writers began to map out strange new phenomena such as television, fax machines, computers and space travel. Then people who read the books developed working models. They worked because the science fiction writers said they did. All that was needed was for the right person to come along and put the theory into practice. All they ever needed was the air that they breathed and to love them.

We all benefit greatly from the discovery of the true nature of air. Armed with this knowledge we can make things exist simply because we say so. Zebediah died forgotten except by a few close friends. But was he wrong? Look at the next budget and see how it relates to the world you experience. Is not the true conception of air the basis of our entire civilization?

You Are Or You Aren't

This afternoon I sat next to a lady who was talking to someone else. The other person enquired if she was healthy as people do. The lady responded that she was "originally from Scotland".

Either you come from Scotland or you do not. If you are "originally" from Scotland it implies that you now come from somewhere else. So how do you get over being a Scot? Why would you want to? What would you aspire to be if you no longer wanted to be a Scot?

The noble race of the Scots has certain characteristics. Firstly they are all liars. The Scots actually come from Ireland and the Irish from Scotland. Look back to the sixth century and you will see that this is so. The English however come from England as they did not exist before the Anglo-Saxon tribes invaded from Germany and Denmark and then settled here and developed into a separate people. If you are "originally from Scotland" it means that you now acknowledge that you are not an actual Scot at all. You now admit to being Irish or Pictish or Lothian as they really do come from Scotland. But of course you cannot prove it conclusively because no one can. You remain a Scot by remaining a liar but at least you now acknowledge the fact.

Another element of Caledonianism is that they all claim to speak English and then insist it is a separate tongue called either "Lallans" or "Heeland". Either they speak English or they speak another language. Being English one minute and different the next is usually the preserve of third world dictators who base their credibility on being "jailed by the British" when it was the fact that they were British people committing British crimes which got them in a British jail in the first place. If you are originally from Scotland but are no longer from there you acknowledge that you only speak one language. It may still be Lallans or Heeland but in such a case you would regard it and any accent in English as a personal eccentricity rather than a self standing linguistic form.

There is nothing wrong with being a Scot and no reason to not want to be one. Unless of course you do not like the French. Scotland as opposed to Britain has no real enemy because it was always allied with the enemies of England before the Act of Union. It has a foot in all camps and can justify any position because of it. The alliance between Scotland and France however was long and deep rooted and ultimately successful in the Hundred Years War. The only reason to forego belonging to a nation which is the friend of all is if you do not wish to be the friend of some. You get over being a Scot if you go along with the British policy of aggressive alliances for personal reasons.

So what would you wish to be if not a Scot? Clearly not English or even British as the other British nations are the continual butt of Scottish "humour". A Scot wanting to be someone else would be a Serb. This small nation is greatly unfortunate and whenever it tries to unite its people and territory the rest of the world tries to prevent it for reasons no one seems to know. It also claims that it can do what it likes to smaller nations on the grounds that it too is a small nation. If you come originally from Scotland you think you come from a small nation with a big neighbour who stops you from doing what you want. How you wish you could strike out at those around you. If you are a Serb you can do that precisely because you are a small nation and still claim to be the victim. Being no longer a Scot means you are really trying to become a Serb.

All of the above is racist. Or so it seems to me as an Englishman. But who am I to judge? I do not feel the need to say I am "originally from England" when I do not agree with aspects of Englishness. Does this mean that Scots have no right to demean themselves by falling prey to this temptation?

Comprehension After A Hundred Years

When people speak we often become aware of their accent. We can tell which part of our own country someone comes from or whether they are a native at all by the way they speak. Different people gain different impressions of accents however depending on where they themselves come from. If two people from two different parts of the world hear the same words coming out of the same mouth at the same time their impression of the speaker's accent will be very different.

About a hundred years ago the German poet Christian Morgenstern wrote his "Fishes Nightsong". This is a transcription of a song he heard from the mouth of a fish at night. His transcription consisted of the characters - and ( in a variable linear pattern similar to the English Pindaric Ode. I have yet to meet a fish who feels this is an accurate representation of their language. Of course when I talk to them they reply in their various fish dialects and somewhere along the line they must use the same words recorded by Morgenstern. Due to my English speaking background however I hear them as something different. I hear the occasional * or ~ but never a - or (. I am therefore unable to decipher the song due to my unfamiliarity with the sound patterns of nineteenth century German through which Mr. Morgenstern rendered the sounds of the fish.

In some perplexity about what to do I have asked a number of German speakers what they understand the fish to be singing. These discussions often make little progress as in all cases the first thing a German says to an English person is "the ball was not over the line" and this discussion about the 1966 World Cup Final goes on way beyond reasonable drinking time. It has however been pointed out to me that fish respond to what is said to them by humans in different countries. In order to know what the fish is trying to sing to a German we need to know where the fish originally came from. Then we can understand what it thinks it is trying to sing in German and what characteristics it is exaggerating to make itself sound German. Thus we can see how this relates to English and how the song should therefore be transcribed in the English language.

A possible clue came to my attention last week. This is an account of a German intelligence officer who toured Tahiti during the Second World War trying to prepare the island for invasion. The account states that the fish in his area were a threat to him throughout his intelligence work as they were the only creatures that could pick him as a German. They were able to hear a strange honking noise in his English accent which Tahitians missed and they imitated it when they spoke to him. Fortunately the locals did not realise that the strange sounds the fish were making were their attempts to speak like a German. But from this encounter the officer realised what he sounded like to the fish and when they were imitating that sound. If the Morgenstern fish came from the Tahiti area their song would be a similar attempt by a Tahitian to speak German. Gratifyingly that now appears to be the case.

The account of the officer includes a conversation with a fish in which the Morgenstern characters of - and ( appear. Translating this into English would give us a big clue as to how the song should sound to an English person and therefore be transcribed for the English. German translations are done automatically in certain computer programmes and by applying one I have discovered the English import of the song. Here for the first time is the song reproduced in fish language as heard by English speakers.

The poem as heard by an English person runs:

*****
##!#!
*****
##!#!
*******
~~{}~~
*****
~~{}~!

So know we know. I am not aware of any English translation of the Fishes Nightsong but if anyone wants to do one this is how the song should appear to make sense to an English speaker. This is not simply my opinion. I have sung this song myself to the fish at Paper Tiger Chinese Restaurant in South Kensington which are some of the best fish in London. They respond by joining in and tell me it is as familiar to them in this form as "Swing Low Sweet Chariot" is to English rugby supporters. The Morgenstern version has often been dismissed as nonsense. How unfortunate it is that due to a simple mishearing of different accents his celebration of an essential part of fish culture has fallen so utterly from public perception. How sad it is that we still fail to understand each other simply because we hear the same things very differently.

Unsung No Longer

We are all familar with being told that such and such a person is the best at what they do. Why are we told this? The implication is that they are a model to follow. Do as they do and you will achieve what they have. Ha ha. Jack Nicklaus once claimed that the key to his success as a golfer was his physical strength. Plenty of people can lift as many weights as him. Can they play golf just as well?

Of course we all saw through this long ago. Ordinary exponents of any activity are more likely to adopt less exalted figures as models. These do not have the stellar reputations and critical acclaim of acknowledged masters. But for generations they have proved a more appropriate inspiration for creative endeavours which have defined our culture and brought pleasure and profit to many. It is time they were properly celebrated.

Chessplayers are always seeking advice from someone greater than themselves. Chess grandmasters are all but unanimous in their opinion that the immortal Bobby Fischer was the greatest chessplayer of all. The trouble is that in order to match the genius he demonstrated around 1972 you have to be Bobby Fischer yourself. Only he could do what he did. So for many years a little known Dutch player has been the dominant model for the player of average standard. Mr. Bugher Doep of Nijmegen played a few games in the 1840s and quickly realised that in any given position some pieces are stronger than others. All an opponent needs to do to attack you is pressurise your weaker pieces. He therefore developed his eponymous defensive system in which each of your own pieces is made as weak as possible. With no obvious centre of attack the opponent has no obvious move even if he has a greater variety of them. The system was later refined by his brother Bols who stripped it down to its logical essentials by defending solely with the king. Despite their antiquity the two systems remain popular. Average players frequently state that they have a Bugherdoep or Bolsdoep defence to this day.

Professional billiards was once a big deal. In its golden age it was dominated by the Australian Walter Lindrum who could score over 1,000 points at will with incredible speed. He was so good that the average player could not go to his club and try to reproduce what he saw Lindrum do. The average player instead looked to a model familiar to modern readers. Mr. Jack Shotty was a pumping engineer from Tipton in the West Midlands. He spent his working days driving long rods backwards and forwards through the pumping engines to maintain their speed. This conditioned his reflexes to repeat the same action all the time. On his way home one evening he stopped off at his local billiard hall and found that the only shot he could play was to line up behind a ball and hit it with the same action that he drove his rods. He saw no future in this and was about to walk out. It was then pointed out to him that there was an uncivilized game called snooker which worked on the same principle. It dispensed with all the subtelty and science of billiards and was in effect a version of tiddlywinks with balls instead of counters. Shotty was still not interested but others used his technique to play snooker. This became the refuge for those no good at billiards and has now supplanted it as the major table game due to the dumbing down policy of the BBC which broadcasts both games.

But perhaps the most deserving but least celebrated of unsung heroes was C.P.E. Grammerworth Marques of the Imperial Austrian Court in 1791. Mr. Marques had arrived in Austria as an English tutor to a member of the Frankenfurter family in 1780. He had worked his way up to a similar position in the Habsburg Court and supplemented his English language tutoring by giving music lessons to lady courtiers. Naturally he also composed a few pieces. Unfortunately they vanished into oblivion as soon as they were performed. There was only one composer in town and that was Mozart. In a flash of inspiration Marques ensured his place in history by creating a revolutionary new musical form. He simply removed his wig. From henceforth his music was not expected to be refined, cultured, tasteful or anything else of any distinction. It was quickly forgotten in itself but the principle behind it has remained as an inspiration for composers of all kinds throughout the intervening two centuries and a bit. No longer does music have to have a tune or any perceivable quality at all. How many know that the work of C.P.E. Grammerworth Marques is the ultimate progenitor of all we nowadays get the chance to hear? It is a pity his followers still claim that they are more influenced by others although it is easy to understand why.

There are models and there are suitable models. Most of us are better off with a lesser model than a greater. We stand less chance of being accused of failing to live up to them. We also stand less chance of being compared to unsung heroes. Is this the real reason the critics who have ignored them for so long want them to remain hidden from public view? Hard news. It is in the common interest if the leaders of the majority are undervalued no longer.

They Are Out There

Two previous posts on this site concerned Rolf Harris and hedgehogs. A correspondent has asked me to write a single post about both Rolf Harris and hedgehogs. With all due respect what is there to write about? It is well known and perfectly obvious that Rolf Harris is the Australian form of hedgehog. Look at the hair. Of course the rest of Mr. Harris does not resemble a hedgehog but that is because he is the Australian form. Extreme? The Kangaroo is an Australian horse. Enough said.

It is however unfair to single out Mr. Harris in this way. Many other Australians are the native form of a creature familiar in the West. One does not have to think too hard to find other examples.

Take Nicole Kidman. Yes I know it is an old joke. Following the Rolf Harris principle the hair is the key. She is clearly an Australian Golden Retriever dog. Whatever she does with her hair it springs back into its natural long curly style and the rest of her swishes along behind. We can also add the eager eyes and the very similarly sized hands and feet. Doubtless some agent in Australia claims to have discovered Nicole Kidman. She was in fact discovered by a pioneer squatter in New South Wales in the early 1840's as one of her ancestors emerged from the bush with a stick of gum tree in its mouth. It then proceeded to chew the stick which explains the accent.

The composer Percy Grainger was Australian. He hated the mediterranean culture which gave us so much classical music and other art and preferred English and other non-European folk sources. He showed his respect for the authenticity of these by composing his own new music and presenting it as somehow ancient. He was in fact the Australian version of an American. People have often commented that President George W. Bush does not present himself as being the smartest of men. The key to understanding him lies in a television advertisement made by his father when he was President. George Bush Senior tried to encourage people to visit America by asking them to enjoy its history. That should take a good thirty seconds. Mr. Bush Senior made his request without a hint of irony and it might explain a lot if we are to think that this highly educated man really meant what he said and imparted such an outlook to his son.

Shane Warne the great cricketer has been the butt of many remarks about his physique. "Built on rather lavish lines for a newcomer" was an opinion proferred when he made his debut. Comments are also made about his extrovert and clubbable nature and his ebullient gestures. Exactly. Shane Warne is the Australian version of a beer barrel. In the West they are manufactured out of wood and metal and somesuch but in Australia they occur naturally due to the innate propensity to alcohol consumption frequently observed in even the quietest and most moderate Australians. The Warne is a prime example of the free market dictum that if there is a need for something it will naturally come into existence simply because there is a need. Warnes were originally conceived by duckbilled platypuses and washed up in rivers but now grow alongside native cork along the banks just under the waterline. Hence the bung. The cricketer is called Shane because he was discovered in an urbanised section of the Yarra River. The Melbourne skyline blocks out the light and he was found when it was momentarily bathed in what Australians pronounce as "sunshaaiin".

Which brings us to the celebrated Ms. Kylie Minogue. This lady has taken the pop charts by storm and developed a devoted following in her highly successful career. This began when she corrupted public taste by introducing Western Europe to the Australian soap opera Neighbours. It continued when she shed about seven years to become a preteen pop princess and developed through several incomprehensible metamorphoses designed to adapt her form to different monetary purposes. She now has a form where she is able to rule the world. We are inextricably led to the sad conclusion that Kylie Minogue is the Australian Antichrist. Her saving grace is that as she is the Australian form there must be a more evil form waiting somewhere else that she can only be a pale imitation of. Maybe that is why she is susceptible to very nasty human diseases. But we have been warned and would be wise not to let it stop there.

Every Australian is the antipodean version of a creature we know in the West. There are only so many creatures we can know or count. One day the Australian may slip through the net who is the Australian version of ourselves. That above others is the one we would never wish to meet. Consider our sins for a moment. Then contemplate a mutation so hideous as to be unrecognisable but which still carried the same sins. It is not without reason that Hell is regarded as lying in a downward direction from earth. Just as Australia is for the rest of civilization.

When Quality Kills

A few days ago I was in the Worcestershire town of Stourport-On-Severn. I waited for a bus to Kidderminster at a bus shelter decorated with grafitti. Among the usual obscenities was a grafitto simply consisting of the letters "RSC".

They have a better class of grafitti vandal in Stourport. In other towns grafittists extoll the names of their mates or football teams. In Stourport they declare their undying love for the Royal Shakespeare Company.

Few at the bus stop would have realised that this is a modern manifestation of an particular ancient phenomenon. The original Vandals are often thought to have destroyed the civilized Roman Empire by force of arms. Nothing could be further from the truth. Grafitti was their main weapon in the struggle against Imperial oppression. From humble beginnings in the plains of Germany they spread their literate cancer throughout the Western Empire until it became an unstoppable force. Who is to say that from its tentative revival at one bus stop in Stourport the same will not happen again?

The Vandal tribes were citizens of Rome. Although living in the remote northern fastnesses of the Empire they were educated according to the best Roman models. They were therefore highly civilized and cultured people who spoke fluent Latin in addition to a primitive form of pig German known as "Danish Bacon". Like all peoples they were led by an intellectual elite with a superior education and refined political skills. It was among this elite that grafitti first developed. Danish Bacon was only a spoken language for about three hundred years with no written form. In the fourth century A.D. the Vandal elite began to give it one by subtly altering documents in classical Latin to conform with Danish Bacon pronounciations and incorporating a few Danish Bacon words. The hybrid language thus created was called Vanman or Essexman. Initially it was intended purely for domestic consumption as a way of redacting Roman laws in a language all the natives could understand. Soon however its potential as a weapon of war became obvious.

The elite of the Vandals owed their position to deals with the Roman state. If they opposed them too openly the superior Roman armies could crush them without breaking sweat. So to show their subservience they sent copies of their legal documents with the added Vanman grafitti to Rome. On unrolling the scrolls the Roman legal clerks had a considerable shock. No one had warned them that in place of the scrupulously correct Latin which Vandal documents had once contained they would find inelegant overdaubings of rough new grammatical forms and low phrases they had only ever heard from the mouths of slaves. Such things had never previously been contemplated in official documents. Contemporary reports speak of whole squadra of legal clerks dying on opening these documents and being buried with their filofaxes on Capitoline Hill. These reports were long regarded as spurious. The recent discovery of skeletons inside the hill buried with rolls of leather-bound vellum fiercely inscribed with corrections to still-extant Vandal hybrid documents suggest that if anything these reports are too conservative in their claims for the effect this mutilation of Latin had on the educated Romans of the day.

The Vandals heard the reports too. Suddenly an opportunity to collapse the Roman state from within and free themselves from its domination presented itself. Soon undercover teams of Vandal scribes began getting government jobs in Rome and applying Vanman grafitti to official reports which were to be read in the Senate. The barbarous alterations had the same effect on the Senators as they had on the legal clerks. Before long the common people were afflicted by a plague of Vanmanised inscriptions in public squares. Their Latin protestations were silenced by the undercover agents whispering Vanman phrases in the ears. The linguistic plague decimated the once-proud civilization built upon the polishing and codifying of Latin. Soon the Empire was open to attack by all comers and many tribes availed themselves of the opportunity. It is significant that it was the Vandals themselves who were first to actually reach Rome. The Sack of Rome was perpetrated by Vanman scholars spouting their twisted phrases at shopkeepers and requisitioning their goods as they fled. Soon they had enough materials to destroy the few citizens who had become immune to their deLatinizing. The glory of Rome was gone. Byzantium with its Greek culture became the centre of the world and the Western peoples could take what they wanted undisturbed as they have continued to do in Italian cities to this day.

The Vandals understood that to destroy a state you had to destroy its institutions from the top down. Their grafitti destroyed the educated classes and soon the common people too. Modern grafitti has not had that effect. This is because it is aimed at the wrong target. Nowadays the common people use it to show off to or offend their own kind. If the educated and cultured take over grafitti for their own purposes the history of the Vandals shows us what will happen. Today the RSC is celebrated in Stourport. Soon it will be obscure philosophers or composers in central London. Then it will be handwritten misspellings in theatre and concert programes. Then it will be parliamentary scribes misquoting debates. Soon reporting news in English will be impossible. Soon the life will be suffocated out of the people as they are unable to use their language for basic requests. Soon teachers and other propogators of English will be shooting themselves in despair and shame. Soon the invaders will walk in. Soon everything we know will be destroyed by the modern Vandals. Soon we will be left without any language with which to resist. Soon the chaos that followed the Sack of Rome will envelop the whole English-speaking world and the fundamentals of our existence will be lost forever.

The worst thing is that we know who is behind this. They are a separate tribe who speak perfectly good English but think and act differently to the rest of the population. We call them Wolverhampton Wanderers or Wolves Fans. We treat their idiosyncracies as football-induced eccentricities. How long must we remain blind? The people of Stourport who are predominantly Wolves Fans have not removed this superior class of grafitti. Global warming will provide us with one form of death. This one grafitto in charming Stourport and the inevitable consequences of ignoring it have every chance of getting us first.

Spare A Thought

Whenever a major public construction project such as a motorway or a power station is planned there are howls of protest from many people. Destroying the environment! Riding roughshod over local opinion! Noise! Pollution! Rowdiness! Lives and businesses ruined by central government diktat!

Strangely enough whenever the same public work is demolished you get the same people protesting again. Destroying history! Ruining local businesses which depend on it! Demolition noise! Demolition pollution! Rowdiness! Local community destroyed by a planning process they were not involved in!

We have all wept over the loss of beautiful woodland and traditional villages and crafts. We have all watched as a dying community has reinvented itself in a new way. We have all watched as a new culture has gradually replaced an old one so that the community is defined by what it does now rather than what it used to do before. No one knows what practical things will happen at any one time. We want to replace romance with romance if we have to lose it at all and ignore the fact it takes time to develop any sort of culture particularly when we are doing all we can to resist it.

Spare a thought therefore for the lost communities of the M25. The different creatures which have developed as a result of the building of the London Orbital Motorway and all the others. The ones whose presence and activities are vital in maintaining the ecosystem of the area. The ones without whom they would have no identity and whose destruction in the demolition of the motorways would make every civilized value crash down around them.

Every motorway has it Bolt Mites. These are a breed of insect which has developed from the field flies that used to live there before. They differ from their predecessors in having developed thicker and stronger legs culminating in sharp claws. They spend their days flying from bolt to bolt on the crash barriers and sitting on them with their legs draped around them. After a few seconds this tightens the bolt and prevents it shearing in the event of impact. After sitting on a bolt they excrete a mixture of dust and sweat which is then eaten by the next bolt mite. So the system continues to the great benefit of motorists and mites alike.

Every motorway also has its Mechanical Daffodils. Where once there were fields of flowers generating oxygen there are now rows of yellow mechanical flowers which seek out sustenance on their own little runners. Rather than staying in one place as their predecessors were obliged to do these roll up and down sucking the excess oil from the air to keep themselves healthy and reduce pollution and the possibility of accidents for all of us. So potent is the oil that mechanical daffodils are much larger than the originals and appear to be gathering in larger groups even though they move around. You often see them beside motorways and railway tracks where they stand out gaily with their serrated heads and the letters JCB protruding from them. These letters are a defence mechanism which has developed in place of thorns. They are a subliminally acting exhortation to "Jump, C**ks**king Bastard".

Motorway users frequently ask the question "who is growing those cones?" These small hills of orange or red tend to proliferate in difficult weather conditions and certain sections of the motorway are closed to traffic in order to grow them. Contrary to popular belief they are not fed and watered by the men in fluorescent coats usually seen drinking tea beside them. This task is left to the Cone Leeches. Once the cones were left to fend for themselves and were always perceived as being one single colour all the way down. Now these glossy tripe-coloured mammals wrap themselves around their middles to protect them. Their shiny coats act as reflectors of heat and light thus cooling the temperature of the cones which would otherwise wither in the hot exhaust fumes and smoking traction burns of the passing cars. The same coats are slimy on both sides thus conveying essential nutrients to the cones and warding off predators such as abandoned dogs whose noses stick to the sides of the cone leeches. In recent times the cone leeches have been joined by a second species. This is the Giant Ring Grub which attaches itself to the base of the cone. This provides a link between cone and concrete ensuring that the water in the man made substance can be siphoned up into the cone whilst passing excreta the other way to revivify the concrete itself.

Maybe the shortsighted protestors who are unable to grasp the emergence of these new environments should ask themselves a question. Would they want to perform the same function as the Bolt Mite, Mechanical Daffodil, Cone Leech or Giant Ring Grub? Nature has provided what man will not provide for himself. Truth and righteousness will always win. Once again all the fundamentals of existence are demonstrated to be the opposite of what we choose to believe for our own selfish and prejudiced reasons.

The Future Of Publishing Is Now

Some years ago Alan Coren got into trouble for writing a book called Golfing For Cats which had a swastika on the front. He had heard that books on golf, cats and Hitler were the three biggest sellers so he included all three on the cover. Unfortunately his customers did not see the funny side of a book with this title which contained nothing about any of them. They involved solicitors. His next book had a title relevant to the content and he explained why in the introduction.

Nowadays the world seems obsessed with cooking. Chefs have become media celebrities and there are cookery programmes on TV everywhere you turn. Sooner or later this will run its course and there will be no more recipes people want. There will be no more chefs on TV. There will only be actors or comedians showing us the same recipes as entertainment with no attempt to impart knowledge or improve people's lives.

Of course when that happens the present huge market for cookery books will diminish considerably. The only way to attract attention by writing about cookery will be to include the recipes no one else will dare print or publish. This column is my first attempt to cash in when that day comes. When the bandwagon begins to roll I will have already claimed the copyright by writing this column today. Here are two of my favourite dishes from my almost kitchen. I can personally guarantee that they are reproducable by even the most undistinguished of domestic culinarists.

BOILED BABY

Serves: 1 - 5 depending on size of baby.

Ingredients: Water, oil, baby.
Utensils: Large pot and small petrie dish.

Method:

1) Catch your baby. They are generally available in supermarkets being pushed around by distracted parents who wish they had never had them in the first place. Poaching is often effective and unlikely to be reported but discount purchases can frequently be made if the baby is making a noise at time of purchase.

2) Heat water in large pot.

3) At regular five minute intervals remove a portion of the water with the petrie dish. Measure tolerance level of baby to hot water by dripping water from petrie dish onto baby. Repeat process until baby flinches.

4) Dip elbow into water. Continue to heat water until elbow indicates it is sufficiently hot.

5) Baste baby in oil speading evenly.

6) Place baby in pot. At this point water will be approximately twice the heat of tolerance level of baby previously measured.

7) Place hand in water and pour handfuls over baby. Continue until baby turns bright red and stops squealing.

8) Remove baby from pot and attempt to revive. When this fails garnish with parsley and onions and serve to taste. Obtain similar baby as in point 1 to assuage suspicion.

9) Deflect comments and police investigatioons by pointing out that you simply bathed the baby according to time and trusted methods as your supposed parents did before you.

10) Change name and location if necessary.

SCOTTISH TOAST

Serves: any number but generally one as no one else will be invited to eat at your expense.

Ingredients: Ryvita or similar wafer concoction. Small quantity of vegetable oil. 1 quart whisky. 1 quart Irnbru.
Utensils: Cheap liquid filled cigarette lighter. Copious numbers of glasses, mugs etcetera.

Method:

1) Take slice of ryvita and cut into tiny portions.

2) Burn each portion evenly on one side with cigarette lighter for five seconds each.

3) Dip one corner of portion into vegetable oil as required.

4) Eat portions taking care not to consume more than one portion per quarter hour.

5) Wash down with one measure of whisky per portion.

6) When all is consumed drink amount of irnbru corresponding exactly to amount of whisky consumed.

7) Congratulate self on feeding oneself in the most economical way.

8) Congratulate self on feeding oneself sufficiently to absorb alcohol intake without diminshing taste or effect of alcohol.

9) Congratulate self on disguising taste and effect of alcohol with irnbru and absorbing excess fluid in bladder by same method.

10) Present oneself to returning spouse fed, sober, justified and not suspiciously inconvenienced by any of the above.

Find these recipes elsewhere if you will. This is the way forward. Doubtless I will be derided like any other visionary. My day will come. Whether that day is also your day depends on how much you are willing to listen.

At Last!

There are many very clever and very serious people discussing the world's problems. They keep on discussing them because their discussions never reach any worthwhile conclusions. Of course circumstances change as soon as you have discussed them. But surely there are basic principles of good which can be applied in order to resolve the consequences of bad?

Those who discuss problems should instead be discussing solutions. There has always been one major obstacle to this however. Diplomatic discussions always take place in the international language of English. In the English speaking world the concept of 'solution' means very different things to different people. To the British person it means 'set an exam or form a committee'. To the American it means 'invade'. To the Canadian it means 'stop thinking we are the same as Americans'. To the Australian it means 'who cares mate?' To the New Zealander it means 'who cares sir?' To the Asian or African it means 'something someone else has'. To the South African it means 'why are you always saying we have problems?' To the African-Caribbean it means
'tomorrow'.

As no one else is doing it someone has to solve all the world's problems. So I have taken it upon myself to do so. Here is the list of the solutions to all the world's problems. Never let it be said that this ultra serious column has failed to provide a public service.

THE LIST OF SOLUTIONS

1) Allow it to grow by 5% per year for three years then apply retrospective tax benefits.

2) Yes but only on Wednesdays.

3) Reclassify it as a fish.

4) Do it again backwards.

5) It should be a different colour.

6) Establish a no class postal system.

7) It appears in Dr. Johnson's Dictionary.

8) Bronstein suggested something similar in the 1950's.

9) It is written in Welsh.

10) No.

If you apply these solutions to all the world's problems you will resolve them. The only question then remaining is exactly how they should be applied. Here therefore is this list.

HOW TO APPLY THE ABOVE SOLUTIONS

1) Well.

2) Badly.

3) As soon as possible.

4) After someone else has raised objection to it.

5) By you.

6) By me.

7) By someone we do not like.

8) By drawing up a timetable.

9) By shooting it.

10) The same way we usually do.

Ridiculous? Try it. Go out and solve the world's problems exactly in this way and then come back and tell me it does not work. After all the only way you will be able to demonstrate my solutions and their method of implementation are incorrect is if you can demonstrate you have followed them to the letter and have done this hard enough for long enough. It is obvious that any problem only exists to give serious people something to discuss. For centuries wise men have stated that we should live things rather than talk about them. If you think my ideas are so stupid go and do likewise.

The Other Side Of the Coin

My last post bewailed the fate of a group of unemployed animated actors. Quick as a flash a correspondent mailed back asking the rhetorical question "what about B. Lowe Randle?" Good point. Randle endured a long spell in the wilderness too. But he fought back and won.

Jim Randle was born in Boston in 1927 the son of a doctor and a teacher. In 1944 his pacifist parents were jailed for expressing their opposition to the Second World War. To save the family name Jim enlisted himself. His parents never forgave him and declared he would not be welcome at home if he survived the war. In 1945 the fighting was over and he accepted the offer to stay at the home of an army pal until he sorted himself out. His pal was a small time Hollywood actor and Jim entered the same profession to help pay the bills.

Randle was born to wear a short sleeved shirt. His outdoor action man looks and intense introversion gave him a screen presence of brooding menace. Soon he was getting regular work in low budget fillers such as Curse of the Were-Mexican and Biff Douglas Cleans Up Prince Edward Island. He earned a comfortable living as a casual heavy and became known as "Below The Title Randle" as he was always available for small supporting roles. When another James Randall arrived in Hollywood and refused to change his name the ever-helpful Jim adopted his nickname instead and B. Lowe Randle was born.

All went well until Randle got too good. His charisma was so strong that he unbalanced the film by appearing in a small part. Stars refused to work with him and directors became frightened of hiring him. It was stardom or nothing for B. Lowe. But he was never once offered the major part his talent demanded. There was not a whiff of scandal attached to his name as he was a mild-mannered man who played the flute and grew potatoes offscreen. But people assumed there must be a good reason he was being ostracised. In 1952 he was in regular employment. By 1954 his once richly promising career was to all intents and purposes over.

One day his agent revealed to him the sad truth. B. Lowe would never be taken seriously as a major star because he had never married Elizabeth Taylor. His agent suggested having a sex change and marrying Mickey Rooney as there were more openings there. For once Randle allowed himself the luxury of disagreeing. He left Hollywood altogether and set up a car dealership. When he had lost all his money through lack of business sense he washed up in Hollywood again. They wanted someone who sounded like him to provide voices for cartoon characters like his. After several auditions he got his first part and adjusted himself to a career the other side of the camera. One part led to another and soon his uncredited voice became as ubiquitous as his face had once been.

One day the animators of a short feature Randle had voiced went on strike. They declared that studio bosses had been altering their animations without either telling them or paying those responsible for the alterations. The studio bosses flatly denied any such thing. It soon emerged that Randle had been sneaking into the studios at night and altering his characters. He had developed such an empathy with them that he could see small imperfections in their appearance frame by frame. The bosses preferred the new versions and on careful reflection so did the animators. Randle was offered an animation job. He went further than that. He permanently drew himself and was granted the exclusive right to alter himself. Hence the multiplicity of humanoid animations where once there were only animal figures. Hence the sudden concerns over the violence of cartoons as an animated actor people remembered as a human was now involved.

Randle became a bigger star as an animation than he could ever have been as a human actor. He even married both Elizabeth Taylor and Mickey Rooney. He lived in the mansion right at the top of Hollywood Boulevard and retired gracefully when his colours slowly became incompatible with new camera systems. He is of course still alive and provides the potatoes for Paul Newman's sauces. Randle remains the model for all actors wishing to become animations. Few however could hope to bring the depth of character and sheer two dimensionality to a role that B. Lowe so amply provided for so many years. Few indeed could hope to do with an army of pens what B. Lowe could do with one single millimetre alteration of his stomach line or perspiration beads.

B. Lowe Randle demonstrates there is hope for us all. All it requires is to make little sacrifices such as eating, breathing and having any personal dignity. Maybe there is justice in the world after all. Maybe there is also a world beyond human judgment where truth no longer matters. That after all is the world B. Lowe Randle exploited so successfully. Just think of the benefits we would all enjoy if all the earnest human actors of today would jump off their fear induced gravy trains and follow his example.

Sadness Upon Sadness

Many years ago a new creamy topping was introduced called Crowning Glory. It was launched with an expensive advertising campaign which led people to believe it was made by elves. An animated cartoon shown extensively on TV depicted Cornish pixies stealing the ingredients from an old man and putting the Crowning Glory together. The ad ended with the small people being photographed with a box of their creation.

I was so impressed by this I invented a board game in which the Spriggans and Knockers and Piskies and Bockles mentioned in the advert stole the ingredients and competed against each other to make it and be photographed with it. The Knockers were particularly successful I recall. Unfortunately there were six different elves in the advert rather than four teams of two. Once I saw them on a poster beside a park in Birmingham. I went back the next week and the poster had gone. So had the Crowning Glory. I never saw them again. I would never be able to make the figures in my game reflect the ones in the advert. Fortune had turned its face away from me and my dream had been dashed forever.

Sad? I still remember it so maybe. But what about the elves themselves? Would you like to be in their position?

Animated actors have some advantages over human ones. You do not have to pay them once you have drawn them although there are always residuals for creators, agents, interpreters and suchlike. They should also by definition be perfect for any part they play as they can be adapted to suit character and visual taste. But what happens to an out of work animated actor? How can someone who is drawn for a purpose get on with their life when their purpose has gone?

The elves in the Crowning Glory ad will never cease to exist because they have been recorded on videotape, poster and box. Someone somewhere has the artwork for these so they remain fixed in that form forever. They cannot grow old as we that are left grow old. Age cannot weary them nor the years condemn. Nor can years alter their form to make them more suitable for other parts. They are not well known enough to become pin ups or the basis of a range of dolls which can redefine them. They are the Crowning Glory elves and will never be anything else. Unlike the rest of us they have no hope of beneficial change. Their world no longer exists and they are not drawn for another one. They have nothing but an eternal present in which they can neither die nor have a reason to exist. But exist they certainly do and that will curse them forever.

Someone must have told them once that their contracts were not being renewed. How did they take that? Could they even understand the concept of other jobs and other worlds? Their only skill was to steal the ingredients of Crowning Glory and look good doing so. They might have modelled for cream producing companies if they had not been bound to Crowning Glory by copyright. They might have worked in the cream making industry if they had been able to use their hands without the help of an expensive animator. How many cream producers employ animators? The Crowning Glory elves are the only ones who cannot forget themselves. While the world wishes them away they must exist until every piece of art work or memory or advertising and product record have ceased to exist. Then some bloody historian or archaeologist will dig them up and the cycle will start again.

The film "Who Framed Roger Rabbit" was a sympathetic commentary on the problems of 'toons' as they are called in America. It nevertheless created a glamourised view of animated actors. Not everyone can be Bugs Bunny or Edward Fox. An out of work animated actor is redundant in a much deeper way than a human. They are a perpetual and irrevocable mistake. And the Crowning Glory elves do not even have any of the product to eat after all they tried to do for it. You often wonder if there is any justice in the world.