# Madazine



## Courtjester

Madazine comprises a large number of articles, ranging from 300 to 1,600 words in length. Some items are stand-alone, while others form series, the latter being Professor Ovis Jopp’s scientific exploits, Sir Bertram Utterside’s social commentaries, the ill-fated mountaineering expedition led by Trevor Node, the correspondence between cosmonaut Dweedles and home planet, and the engineering feats of Kevin Spout, widely known as Yorkshire’s own Leonardo da Vinci.  The first piece appears below, preceded by an introduction to the Madazine staff.

*The Team*​ 
Editor: Will Rider-Hawes (70 but sprightly, British) – Gee-Gee to friends.
Sub-editor: Tom Bola (45, Slovakian) – has no friends.
Reporter: Trixie Larkspur (29, British) – friendly, intrusive.
Proof-reader: Meya Culper (34, British – she says) – dour, hostile.
Typesetter: Phyllis Tyne (56, British) – detached, distant.
PR officer: Bella Donner (42, Canadian) – acerbic, dominative.
General Admin: Rick O’Shea (17, Australian) – troubled, inaccessible.
Cleaner: Sherry Tipple (39, going on 60, British) – desensitised.

Note: In addition to the work of our permanent staff, articles on science and some social issues are contributed by freelancer Axel Griess (49, South African) – nihilistic, horizontal.


*SURPRISES IN STORE*​ 
A startling new shopping concept was introduced yesterday when Priceless Stores opened the first of a projected nationwide chain of supermarkets. Costs of all items are set at opening time and shown on a large control board, linked to the tills and updated continuously. Special offers are indicated by a crawler strip crossing the bottom of the main display in TV news channel style. Variations in supply levels are noted by two patrolling inspectors, whose reports cause prices to rise or fall, reflecting the assessed values of remaining items. Ebullient manager Rod Perch explained:

“It’s a bit like Wall Street, or maybe a flea market – if there’s any difference. Our boss got the idea from a book on physics, where he came upon Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle. Basically, customers try to outwit the store and vice versa. People select items, referring to the control board, but there may be changes before the goods are checked out. On reaching the tills, purchasers are roped off and committed to buy, irrespective of price movements. Complaints are not entertained: punters must accept the rules.”

Perch took a brief phone call, then went on: “Employing a couple of monitors is labour-intensive, but there’s no choice. We used our own staff to experiment with shelf sensors, designed to detect the weight borne, relative to the items concerned, but it was hopeless. You’ve no idea how devious people can be. The favourite trick was to put bricks on the shelves before removing any goods, thus deluding the electronics into thinking that stocks were high and that therefore, prices were low. Human nature is disgusting.”

Speed is vital, as shopper Dudley Herring learned. “The trick is,” he said, “to buy cheap goods close to the check-outs, then get them through quickly. Yesterday, I bought eighteen packets of washing powder for £3.10 each. My transaction raised the price of the remaining twelve packs to £6.60 a time, but I’m all right for some years.”

Added obscurity arises from re-stocking being completely random, with shelves refilled by staff members whose work does not necessarily relate to what has been bought. The gamble is completed by a daily ‘crash-out’, when the manager, at whim, switches off the control board, which is reactivated ten seconds later, the prices having rotated willy-nilly. An extreme case was the transposition of dried fruit and spirits. Thus, computer programmer Andy Trout paid 59p each for two bottles of cognac, while struggling widow Edna Salmon forked out £13 for a kilo of raisins. 

Teacher Daphne Whitebait was slightly disappointed after picking up eight tins of baked beans at an indicated price of 18p apiece. Unfortunately for the young lady, nimble pensioner Alice Haddock followed her to the shelf, but beat her to the till, having bought twenty-three tins, the checking out of which cleared the stock, raising Ms Whitebait’s identical purchases to 77p each. “C’est la vie,” said Daphne philosophically, adding: “I don’t mind too much: we British love a flutter.”

If this catches on, the National Lottery could suffer.

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## Courtjester

*BEYOND THE CRUNCH* ​
It was perhaps predictable that the ranks of cosmic evolutionists would be augmented by Professor Ovis Jopp (pronounced Yopp), the lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’, regarded by some as the greatest scientist of our time. Jopp says that although he has yet to apply a few touches, his contribution is the most significant one to date. He accepts that there was a big bang about 14 billion years ago, but opposes many cosmologists by maintaining that this will be reversed. The fearless Nordic scholar went further, predicting what will follow the crunch.

Never afraid to demonstrate his ideas, Professor Jopp tried out this one in a field near Narvik, where he took a gigantic green balloon and festooned its surface with blobs of clay to simulate the galaxies. Respecting his penchant for using the lowest technology for any given task, he employed student volunteers, who took turns on a car foot pump to produce a vast globe, into which Jopp had initially inserted his famous secret green box. Then the team, working on fast-retracting gantries at staggered heights, deflated the sphere with simultaneous pinpricks.

Recovery of the green box revealed the strange phenomena of post-crunch physics. The shrinkage will be so violent that not only will everything be squashed to a virtual zero point, but will then emerge inverted in an explosion following the collapse. There will be counter-galaxies, counter-solar systems and even a counter- Earth, where humans and buildings will be, as it were, upside down inside the crust, retained in place by reverse gravity. Waving a foot-long cigar of green seaweed, Jopp added that the new cosmos would have an emerald hue.

Earlier explanations of our universe will, the professor suggests, be overtaken by his findings. “We can forget Einstein’s E equals whatever it was,” he said. “My proposition is far more elegant. The mathematical notions are abstruse, but in layman’s terms, the resultant equation is IF=EP, meaning that implosive force equals emitted power. I don’t think there will ever be any advance on this.”

Not everyone agrees. Professor Jopp’s arch rival, the ‘Swedish Savant’, Dr Terps Dunderklap, was scathing. “Jopp is an idiot,” he snapped. “He does not realise that apart from those in our solar system, all celestial bodies are thin, carpet-like structures. There will indeed be an implosion as they rush together, heaping themselves one atop the other before collapsing under their own masses, forming a sheet of infinitesimal thickness and virtually infinite length and width, from which nothing will emerge. Jopp will be a part of that flatness and I shall walk over him then as I do now. That might cure him of his obsession with green things. Also, the vapid Viking does not tell us what is inside his balloon. Is he saying that our universe is empty in the middle, with matter only on the surface of an arbitrarily conceived sphere? If so, perhaps he used his head as a template. Incidentally, he could have used, as I did last year, a soccer ball, paper hankies and a dash of nitroglycerine.”

Speaking from a Stockholm girls’ school, Dunderklap, five-foot-four in height and similar in circumference, did not explain how he will survive the compression, while Jopp will succumb. However, Dr D’s prestige is such that no disinterested party is willing to reject his contention, though it does not yet have a title or a supporting equation. When told of it, Jopp was dismissive. Beaming across his green-topped desk, he suggested that ‘The Axminster Theory’ might be appropriate, as he would soon pull the carpet out from under Dunderklap’s feet.

Time, or space-time, will tell which, if either, of these intellectual giants is right.

More of Jopp’s exploits coming up.​ 
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## Courtjester

*THE NODE BULLETINS : NUMBER ONE*
​Tashkent: 14 June. The planning is over. We have reached our start point and are in passably good heart. As leader of the expedition to climb the Snow King, I, Trevor Node, shall issue brief reports of our progress at weekly intervals. I was first here and during the past week have been joined by the other four members of the party; Amanda Flatpole, Ridley Gannett, Hugh Pugh and Desmond Thoroughbrace.

It all seemed so simple when we conceived it three months ago, over drinks in the London headquarters of the Peripatetics Club. However, I must say that I never expected our undertaking to be frictionless. Indeed, when I proposed conquering the great peak, my initiative was immediately contested by Pugh, who observed that the mountain had already been climbed by nine other groups. I silenced him with the reply that there was more than one way of being first, and that I saw no reason why we should not be the first party to take tenth place in subduing the giant. My logic was endorsed by the others and we soon had a plan on the back of an envelope.

We apportioned responsibilities today. Pugh was the natural choice as pathfinder, since during his university days he made the trip from Putney to Mortlake, accompanied by only eight others. Gannett, an ex-grocer, was an obvious selection for quartermaster. Thoroughbrace, a former woodwork teacher, was always destined to be our technician and transport officer, while Flatpole, a health fanatic and linguist, takes charge of hygiene and communications. I, having no speciality, am to be expedition leader. I think it was unkind of Pugh to remark that this was akin to appointing as cricket captain an all-rounder, equally incompetent at batting, bowling and fielding. Sooner or later, this fellow will be troublesome. We shall set out tomorrow.

More Node Bulletins coming up.

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## Courtjester

*IMPATIENT PATIENT* ​
The following letter was saved for posterity by our typesetter, Phyllis Tyne. She had applied it to a gas ring, in order to light the revolting stuff she puts into a clay pipe – we haven’t quite caught up with the smoking thing. At the last instant, she realised that the communication might be of interest to some readers. No-one here knows how we came by this item, nor (barring receipt of a confession) are we likely to find out, as the top of the single page was singed by the flames, which obliterated the writer’s name and address, and the signature was unreadable. Anyway, here it is:

Dear Mr X

I write concerning the letter sent to you some time ago by my GP. Regrettably, I do not recall the exact date, as the matter has been obscured by intervening festive seasons, anniversaries, family birthdays, annual holidays, etc., from all of which I infer that you are indeed as overburdened as my doctor feared. You may recall that the problem is a cyst on my right knee.

As it is clearly necessary to alleviate your workload, I have decided to perform the operation myself. I have little medical knowledge, but have been fortunate enough to procure a copy of a book entitled ‘Surgery on the Hoof’, written for the inhabitants of the American Frontier. Although the work was published in 1802, I imagine that basic procedures have not changed much in the meantime. I have assembled almost all the required equipment, much of which, being an average householder, I had to hand. My wife has provided an extra-large ironing board, not dissimilar in shape and size to an operating table. I shall use this as my base, since I do not wish to incur the wrath of the distaff side by possibly defacing our teak dining surface.

My other items comprise an excellent horn-handled knife – a family heirloom – and a small silver mustard spoon. Here, I would have preferred stainless steel, but we do not live in a perfect world. The knife already has a keen edge, but not wishing to leave anything to chance, I shall hone it thoroughly and afterwards dip it in hot water – essential because the oilstone I intend to use has been lying open in my toolbox for over twenty years.

As the offender is at the back of my knee, I am setting up an array of three angled mirrors, in order to, as it were, let the dog see the rabbit. I have conducted a dry run and have found the procedure less complicated than I had first thought. It is rather like reversing an articulated vehicle with more than one trailer. I propose to start by making an incision of about two inches, to expose the growth, which if necessary – you will appreciate that there is an exploratory element here – I shall puncture with a smaller cut, then remove most of the nasty stuff by (a) manual pressure (b) the mustard spoon and (c) a wall-mounted vacuum cleaner. That done, I shall snip away what I assume will be an empty sac. I may be wrong about this, but no matter, as I am very inventive and confident of my ability to handle what comes up. Still, I would not trust myself to complete the excision at an earlier stage.

Up to this point, I do not anticipate much difficulty. However, I am concerned about tying-off and wound closure. My understanding is that catgut is still widely used and as I have none, I wonder whether you could supply me with a short length – a foot or so should do the trick. If you do not have any, please do not put yourself out, as my daughter has offered to lend me an upper E-string from her guitar, which I think would suffice.

Finally, lest you should think that I am adopting a less than completely rigorous approach, let me say that I shall have by me throughout the operation, for internal and external use, a large supply of the strongest product from the house of Smirnoff.

Yours sincerely …

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## Courtjester

*GUARDING THE GUARDS*​ 
The recent spate of financial scandals emanating from some of the world’s largest companies has led to much concern as to what is to be done to assure investors that their money is not being frittered away by the deviousness of business leaders. This pressing matter was referred to that doughtiest of investigators, Sir Bertram Utterside, former professor of social studies at one of Britain’s top universities and recently described as ‘The Fearsome Ferret’. Probably few would doubt that Sir Bertram’s advice on major topical issues has become almost indispensable. Happily, he was available to handle yet another hot potato. His comments are given below:

Though not of major importance, this question of how to deal with errant business leaders deserves some attention, concerning as it does the wellbeing of many people. Once more I am asked to address a supposed problem, the solution of which is, as they say, a walk in the park – literally so on this occasion.

In approaching the matter, I found myself indebted to the humorist George Ade, who referred to ‘a people so primitive that they did not know how to get money except by working for it’. One could hardly put it better. What are stock markets but casinos, with opportunists putting their snouts into the troughs, all wanting to make fortunes without doing a stroke of real work? Why? I suggest that they do this because certain city analysts, themselves strangers to genuine effort, demand ever-more sparkling results from what is usually mundane activity. Small wonder that those who actually work often look askance at share-price movements.

In one of my earlier commissions, I referred to the work of Karl Marx and I now draw upon him again, in that I believe he regarded capitalism as a step towards a truly socialist society. I endorse that view. ‘From each as he is able, to each as he requires’ is an attitude that will finally prevail. My apologies if this offends any feminist readers, but I am merely quoting. Anyway, the point is what are we to do about corporate misdeeds?

They say there is nothing new under the Sun and here again, past commentators on the social scenes of their times had much to say. I am mindful of a snippet I once saw in a book preface, to the effect that good is an enduring, unchanging force, while evil continually manifests itself in varying forms. I believe Zarathustra touched upon this two and a half millennia ago. The robber barons of yesterwhen are still with us, in different guises. An associated thought is that expressed by Juvenal, when he posed the question of who should police the police.

There was a time when one could read a company’s accounts, confident that the figures presented an accurate picture of the business concerned. I suggest that we get back to that position by rating auditors in the same way as we now assess those in other fields, such as sport. Many business houses yearn for a good credit rating from a top source. Why not extend this to the book-checkers? One could envisage a situation in which these firms were ranked according to their soundness. A sign-off from an auditor with a triple A rating would be the best available to a company, indicating that everything was tickety-boo. An endorsement from, say, a single A bean-counter might suggest something slightly iffy in the official record, while one from an unrated source would indicate that the accounts were not worth the paper they were printed on.

This raises the question of who would vet the rating agencies, who were supervising the auditors, who were monitoring the companies. These receding shades of overseeing resemble fractal geometry, bringing good old Mandelbrot to mind. I suggest that the final arbiter should be a disinterested member of the academic community. Far be it from me to offer any indication as to who might accept so onerous a duty. I have no more to say.

Further pronouncements from Sir Bertram coming soon.​ 
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## Courtjester

*NO MORE QUARKS*​ 
For the second time within three months, the scientific world has been shaken by Professor Ovis Jopp, the lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’. Having dealt with the unimaginably large, the Dutch-born, Norwegian-naturalised polymath turned his incandescent intellect to the opposite end of the size spectrum. He says that we have been misled for decades by the alleged findings of numerous physicists. Jopp ascribes this to excessive communication, contending that having been criticised for remoteness, scientists have over-compensated by announcing a plethora of supposed discoveries, some exaggerated, others totally spurious. He claims that such confusion arises from people operating in teams, the members feeding upon each other’s hare-brained ideas until they don’t know reality from fantasy. Truly great scientists work alone, he maintains.

Jopp’s fertile mind has lately been occupied by the strange world of particle physics. His conclusions are dramatic, debunking seventy years of worldwide work on quantum mechanics. “From Max Planck onwards, they have all been wrong,” said the gaunt genius, speaking in the green room of his fjordside home. “They have been inferring, unjustifiably, ever smaller entities. Once, they were satisfied with protons, neutrons and electrons, then they sought – and supposedly found – an alphabet soup of sub-atomic particles, including quarks, of which they assert that there are six kinds. This is nonsense.”

As ever, Jopp tested his theory by experiment. The site this time was a soccer ground near Hammerfest, where the professor’s team built an immense hollow cube of green polythene, into which progressively smaller cubes were placed, the centre being taken up by Jopp’s celebrated secret green box. “It was a brilliant example of reductio ad nihilis,” smiled the triumphant boffin. “The last eight hundred containers and the green box were inserted by transmural filtration, for which I used an osmotic infuser, which I invented. You could call it a ‘ghost through a wall’ machine.”

What did retrieval of the mysterious box reveal? “Exactly what I expected,” said Jopp. “The atom consists of a single body, the groat, which varies in size according to the element concerned. It comes in shades of green and travels in a quadrilateral path around a massless focus, energy being discharged when the body is sufficiently agitated to lose matter on striking the corners of its circuit, or to coin a word, squarecuit. This is what gives us electricity and, I regret to say, mushroom clouds.”

Asked whether there was an equation involved, Jopp explained the bizarre world of groat mathematics; one in which he says we must abandon common sense and accept that two plus two gives the same answer as two times two. He expressed the formula as E=4GS, meaning that energy in ergs equals four groat strikes in mass loss.

Jopp’s chief critic, Dutch-born Doctor Terps Dunderklap, locally naturalised after many years in Stockholm, was derisive. “Jopp is an ass,” snorted the ‘Swedish Savant’, interviewed outside an Uppsala ladies’ academy. “Also, he is excessively thin. If he would keep abreast of the times, he would know that I demonstrated to my own satisfaction that apart from the electron which puts our lights on, there are no sub-atomic particles. The groat is as unreal as any other. All atomic cores are indeed of zero mass, in which respect they resemble Jopp’s brain. Any contrary ideas are products of human imagination and as illusory as the rest of our earthly existence. Let’s see what old Greenfingers makes of that.”

As he is occupied with another vast project, Jopp hasn’t yet responded.

More Jopp exploits coming soon.​ 
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## Courtjester

Editor’s Note: This item was misfiled on receipt and has finally emerged. Better late than never.


*MILLENNIAL ANGST*​ 
The advent of a new millennium may well have caused much rejoicing, but the glee is not quite universal. Some people have been disadvantaged, among them being those whose livings depend on work connected with Roman numerals. The abrupt change from nine letters to only two, identical at that, has obvious implications for these tradesmen – this being a largely male preserve – who are usually employed on a piecework basis. In Britain, not all the affected workers are represented by a single body. To date there has been no comment from the largest group, the Monumental Masons, which ironically has a monogram similar to the Roman letters for the year 2000. Despite its attempts to achieve unity, the industry remains fragmented.

Dick Spratt, spokesman for the Worshipful Order of Gravers (the WOGs), which claims to be the oldest guild in the UK, voiced his co-workers’ distress. “This is a calamity,” he said. “My members’ aspirations have been steam-rollered. It was bad enough at the end of the previous year, when we fell from MCMXCVIII to MCMXCIX. That was a drop to seven letters. Now, with the reduction to just MM, the bottom has fallen out. We are devastated.” His comments were endorsed by a representative of the Venerable Institute of Licensed Engravers (VILE).

A wider view was expressed by Stanley Nibb, head of the Fraternal Amalgamation of Romanic Technicians, which discourages use of an acronym. “It’s history repeating itself,” he moaned. “The same thing happened at the end of the first millennium, which came shortly after the incursion of Arabic numbers. There was unrest all over Europe, as people were thrown out of work. It’s a matter of record that this came to a head in Naples, where protesting craftsmen drenched the town hall floor with ninety gallons of ferret stew. Things improved a few centuries later, as we approached the mid-point, when we were able to make extensive use of the D, which like the C is a hard one to carve. Then we had our halcyon days in the run-up to MM, but now, as honorary Chief Chiseller of England, I am pessimistic.”

The Europe-wide umbrella organisation, the Brotherhood of Engravers of Roman Numerals (BERN) has, coincidentally, its headquarters in the Swiss capital. Now largely German-staffed – though in deference to tradition communicating in English – this august alliance used to be French-dominated, though even then used its anglicised title with the abbreviation BERNE (Brotherhood of European Roman Numerals Engravers). In fact there was a two-hundred-year battle – the Initials War – over the name, the conflict being enshrined in Germanic guild lore, where it is pithily termed ‘Der zweihundertjährige Kampf um die Anfangsbuchstaben unserer Genossenschaft.’

In charge at Bern is part-timer Manfred Kutt. With the hotheadedness we have come to associate with the Swiss, leading local barber Herr Kutt gave his assessment. “It is inconvenient,” he said. “However, we have not yet exhausted all possibilities. There are untapped markets. I understand that this is the Jewish year 5,760-odd, and that the Chinese chronology offers similar openings. If one looks at it objectively, this could be an opportunity for the more enterprising spirits in our fellowship. We might be able to restore the use of the old Roman bars and brackets as multipliers. Obviously, those not willing or able to embrace new concepts will fall by the wayside. On the whole, I am concerned but not downhearted.”

This looks like a classic case of some winners, some losers. Time will tell.

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## Courtjester

*TELEMARKETING*​
“Lord Garthlemmon’s residence. May I help you? … No, sir, I am the butler, Threadbare. … Very droll, sir. However, I was referring to my name, not my apparel. … Perfectly all right, sir: I am accustomed to such quips. What can I do for you? ... Sorry sir, that is out of the question: His Lordship does not take telephone calls. ... Quite understandable, sir. The instrument was installed many years ago at the behest of Lady Garthlemmon, who is no longer with us. ... Thank you, sir, but your condolences are a little late. Her Ladyship left us fourteen years ago, as a result of a riding accident. ... No, sir, the mount was a motorcycle. Lady Garthlemmon was leader of the local chapter of Hell’s Angels. ... Quite, sir. Unlike His Lordship, she was widely considered a little eccentric. ... Very kind of you, sir, but she had a good life and was eighty-two at the time. Please forgive me for a moment. It is midday and I must open the kitchen curtains.

“Now, sir, I assume you had something in mind. ... Reducing the telephone costs. That would be impossible. His Lordship lives on the state retirement pension, which suffices to cover the line rental charge. He does not make calls, so his bills for actual usage are always zero, plus VAT, of course. He has maximum resistance to salespeople and never makes purchases, not even of the things he wants. ... Beg pardon, sir? ... Oh, food. That is of no consequence here. We have a large supply of tinned goods, mostly corned beef, sardines and peaches, acquired by His Lordship’s grandfather in 1902, after the second Boer War. We also have dried milk, obtained by my master during World War Two, and instant mashed potato, procured when there was a shortage of the fresh produce some decades ago. ... Do not distress yourself, sir. With the garden and a little imagination, we manage very well. ... No, sir, His Lordship has no interest in the nutritional quality of his food: he concentrates on its shape. ... Yes, you heard correctly. He likes his meat or fish to resemble chicken legs, regardless of origin or colour. ... Excuse me again; another minor duty.

“Where were we? Ah, yes, the fowl. That is no problem. In fact, the canned meat is perfect, as it can be formed much as one wishes. I have designed a mould that fits the bill. Sardines are rather more difficult but with a little forcing, they conform. ... What was that, sir? ... Oh, potatoes. The same principle applies. His Lordship prefers them crenellated, in the same way as his seat. ... No, sir, by ‘seat’ I do not mean his anatomy but his home; the turrets, you understand. ... Quite all right, sir. By a happy coincidence, I took responsibility for the grounds when the gardener died, so am familiar with topiary. One needs only to extend the idea to the dinner table. His Lordship delights in a mound of mash with the appearance of battlements, the whole edifice surrounded by a moat of onion gravy. ... No, sir, we do not buy them. We usually have a surplus of vegetables. At present, there is a splendid array of savoy cabbages here, far in excess of our requirements. His Lordship’s normal procedure is to distribute them to the poor of ... No, do go on. ... You would? That is most gratify… er … interesting. A moment, please – one more domestic matter.

“Are you still there? ... Certainly, sir. I checked the position this morning. We have a thousand prime specimens, scaling on average just over three pounds each, almost all heart. His Lordship amuses himself with the thought that they resemble him in that respect. ... The cost? Well, we are not worldly at Nevermore Hall, but I believe the commercial practice is to price goods fractionally below a round figure, to give the impression that they are cheap. I had in mind a pound per head, but shall we say ninety-nine pence? ... Excellent. And you are based locally, could collect at three p.m. and harvest them yourself? ... Splendid. Oh, pardon me yet again – the oven needs attention: I am also the cook.

“Sorry about that, sir. Now, as to payment. ... No, a cheque would not suffice. ... Plastic? I think you are ahead of me there. ... Sorry, I am not familiar with that. However, I am permitted to negotiate for His Lordship and must tell you that he deals only in coin of the realm. If you pause at the entrance to the Hall, you will see on the gatepost his coat of arms and the family motto, Mon Dieu Et Mon Argent’. ... Yes, rather quaint. It is a variation on the Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s theme and dates from his Lordship’s earliest traceable ancestor, Guillaume Garthe de Citron, who took part in the Norman Conquest. ... Quite, that is how it became Garthlemmon. The first transposition was to the English ‘lemon’, the second ‘m’ being added later, when His Lordship’s forebears tired of being addressed as Garthle-mon. Please indulge me again – a further triviality. One’s work is never done.

“My apologies, sir. Now, was there anything else? ... I see. Well, we have leeks, but I couldn’t contemplate selling them. The Garthlemmon products are legendary and much envied. They are remarkable for size and uniformity. Nearly every one of them trims out to exactly a pound in weight. ... Solid, you say. They certainly are: firm as fence posts. No, sir. Please do not tempt me. The Threadbares have been at Nevermore Hall since 1790. It would be more than my position is worth even to think of … Oh, fifty pence apiece, you say. Hmn, in the circumstances I might consider … Very well, let us say three hundred. ... No, sir. His Lordship leaves such things to me. In any event, he will not know, as he does not like leeks. Also, he never sees the vegetable patches: his bedroom is front-facing and he has not left it for many years. ... Most solicitous that you should ask, sir, but he is in good health for a man of ninety-six. However, his view is that one day is much like another, and after experiencing thirty thousand of them, he concluded that enough was as good as a feast. Excuse me once more – I must see to the kettle.

“Back again, sir. … Exercise, you say? … Very thoughtful of you. At the risk of indiscretion, I will confide that His Lordship has a system. He keeps his chamber-pot twenty feet away from the bed, so at his age he gets a good deal of movement and is seldom supine for more than a few minutes, especially after his morning magnum. Mumm’s the word, sir, if you understand me. ... No, sir, I was attempting to introduce a humorous note, combining an adjuration to secrecy with the name of His Lordship’s preferred brand of champa… Yes, it would be better in writing. Perhaps I should have refrained from levity, but there is little enough of that in this mausole… no, I am going too far. I must not be disloyal. Pardon me again while I poke the fire.

“With you once more, sir. We seem to be plagued by interruptions. ... Dear me, sir, this strikes a discordant note. You seem to be requesting a price reduction in exchange for your silence. Well, I will borrow from the American film world by suggesting that we ‘cut to the chase’. Your position is weak. I deal with all mail and visitors, and have already said that His Lordship does not take or make telephone calls, so your prospects of contacting him are negligible. However, on the off chance that you might do so, I will compromise. Let us say 75 pence each for the savoys, but I am resolute on leeks. ... Very well. So, three o’clock, then – and the total price is £900 – in advance and in banknotes of not more than twenty-pound denomination, preferably non-sequential. Kindly knock on the door of the tradesmen’s entrance at the rear. A pleasure to do business with you, sir. Goodbye.”


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## Courtjester

*FIRST MESSAGE TO PLANET X*​ 
Dear Colleagues

You must have received and digested the information I sent by tachyonic transfer. Sorry I had to work back to front by sending the appendices first. I judged it best to do this, as it eliminates the need for numerous explanatory asides. I shall henceforth use Earth terminology, now surely familiar to you.

It would be beneficial if I were able to present a complete report in one transmission, but you will understand that my resources preclude this. I am forced to decide whether to keep you waiting a long time for the whole story, or to send relatively short missives via the accelerated route, which makes heavy demands of my equipment and necessitates frequent recharging.

I have chosen the second course, so might need to interrupt my offerings at tantalising moments. This would be appreciated by certain humans here – more on them later – who are addicted to being left gasping in anticipation of what is to come in further episodes of whatever serialised entertainment engrosses them. Also, commenting this way obviates any need for possibly misleading epitomisation. I know I am thought of as garrulous, but you don’t have a competent journalist who can match my ability to cruise the Cosmos, right? What would you do without me?

Now, I have been swanning around here for about a century in local terms. How do I convey my experiences? The length of time I have spent here indicates that there must be something to say, or I would not have used a twentieth of my likely current lifespan hovering around a place so remote from home. I have done so because my arrival coincided with rapid developments here.

You will have gathered that this planet has a slightly shorter year than ours, but is strikingly similar with regard to gravity, atmosphere, temperature, water/land distribution, and in having a single unusually large satellite. The Earth is rather younger than our home base and is at present less stable. Still, it is the first body I have found that has conditions broadly approximating to our needs. It would be a tolerable location for our expected overspill, but I must say that anyone moved from home and deposited here would face some uncertainties.

This planet has for aeons experienced upheaval by way of meteorite bombardments, some of which have changed living conditions quite drastically. Being in a fairly quiet quarter of our own galaxy, we have not had to contend with mountain-sized chunks of space debris striking us at many thousands of kilometres an hour. From what I have gathered, this kind of thing disrupts life here for long periods. We could cope, but there would be difficulties.

As if extra-terrestrial intrusions were not enough, the Earth itself throws up some problems by way of volcanic eruptions, grinding tectonic plates, huge ocean waves and goodness knows what else. This place is not for the squeamish. Survival here is a precarious matter, made more so by the activities of humankind – hold your collective breath for the grisly details.

Please don’t excite yourselves about the geography here, as it changes constantly – excuse the apparent oxymoron. The current continental profile arose from a break-up – about 200 million years ago – of a vast land mass called Pangaea, which split into Laurasia in the North and Gondwanaland in the South. No need for us to worry about this, as there will be further movements, with which we could cope.

Now, my batteries register almost empty, so forgive the pause. By the way, I think you should try to get your heads around this communication thing. After all, we are supposed to be quite advanced, aren’t we? It shouldn’t be left to me to tell our boffins what is required. I will resume contact as means permit. 

All the best to everyone. 

Dweedles

Note to the reader: Don’t be deceived by this quiet start. There’s dynamite on the track ahead, as the exchanges between Dweedles and those pesky types at Mission Control become acrimonious. Does the lonely voyager need a shrink? What will happen when love comes in? Another griping (oops) instalment soon. Editor

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*THE NODE BULLETINS: NUMBER TWO*​ 
Tashkent, 21 June. Already we have problems. I trust they will not emulate the proverbial sorrows by coming in battalions. That we are still here is attributable to Pugh, whose conduct has confirmed my earlier suspicions. We were about to depart when he discovered that he was out of tobacco. He smokes a particularly noxious brand of black twist, and insisted on flying back to London for a further supply, returning here today, unapologetic about the inconvenience he has caused. Not wishing to sow seeds of dissent so early, I shall take him to task about this in private.

Pugh is not the only awkward one. Flatpole has introduced complications by what she calls ‘sleeping around’. This has nothing to do with morality, but concerns her ability to rest only in an ultra-foetal position, for which purpose she uses a circular sleeping bag. This is annoying, as it occupies an inordinate amount of tent space. I am nerving myself to remonstrate with her, but must be cautious, as she has fists like sledge-hammers and is not averse to using them. Also, she is extremely hirsute, which makes me wonder about our credentials as a mixed-gender party.

We are having difficulty with transport. I said at the outset that for five people and all equipment, we would need something more substantial than a twenty-year-old Volkswagen beetle. However, Thoroughbrace is something of a know-all and he told me to mind my own business. Well, he must now decide how to get a quart into a pint pot. On a happier note, I have not had any trouble with Gannett, who has been a tower of strength, merely by remaining almost silent. I shall reserve judgement on him, as his taciturnity may have arisen from an attack of laryngitis.

God willing, we shall finally depart tomorrow.

A further Node Bulletin coming soon.​ 
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## Courtjester

*SUPERLUMINARY*​ 
After passing every test since its appearance in 1905, the Special Theory of Relativity is finally tottering. Professor Ovis Jopp, the lean, seven-foot-two, green bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’ announced yesterday that he has propelled a material object to beyond the speed of light.

In the green room of his fjordside home, the jubilant professor explained all. “It was a fairly simple experiment,” he said. “I merely went out into the grounds of my house, taking an ordinary torch with a green bulb, the latter borrowed from my daughter’s playroom. I attached to the glass a film of joppium, a sub-hydrogenic element which I made and which is, I believe, the only humanly-contrived artifact of zero mass in existence. Under the film was an infra-microscopic motor, also made of joppium. I switched on the torch and, by delayed action, the motor. I saw clearly that the film was projected beyond the torch beam, indicating a velocity greater than that of light. I timed the experiment with my own watch, which has never lost more than five minutes a day. I entered a neighbour’s garden and recovered the film, which was singed at the edges – a minor hitch that I can overcome by employing an ablation shield, made of a joppium isotope. This is my greatest feat so far.”

If Jopp’s findings are confirmed, this will be an astounding breakthrough, causing us to wonder once again why there has not yet been a special award for this superman of science. Rumour has it that he recently rejected, for the seventh time, nomination for the Nobel Prize in his field. Sources close to Jopp suggest that he considers such an accolade inadequate for a man of his accomplishments, and that he is disposed to wait until someone devises an honour commensurate with his status.

As so often in such matters, there are sceptics. Professor Jopp’s would-be nemesis, the five-foot-four tall, five-foot-four round, hairless ‘Swedish Savant’, Dr Terps Dunderklap, is foremost among them. Interviewed near the nurses’ quarters of a Kalmar hospital, he was convulsed with laughter. “Not for the first time, Jopp is hoist with his own petard,” he guffawed. “If he would rid himself of his mania for greenery, he might make a passable junior laboratory assistant. By the way, his timekeeping was hopelessly inadequate. I would have been happy to lend him my watch, which would have sufficed, as it is reliable to within ten minutes a week.”

The doctor was asked to elaborate. “Gladly,” he said. “Jopp’s main mistake was an elementary one. He used green light and as I have established, the photons concerned are heavier than those of white light and therefore travel slower. Consequently, even with the extra impetus of the joppium motor, the existence of which I doubt anyway, Jopp’s film could not have broken the light barrier. But for the fact that he does not have the necessary intelligence, I would consider the man a charlatan.”

Dunderklap continued: “It is possible for a material object to exceed light-speed. I proved this last year, but did not publish my findings, as I considered them unimportant. My experiment was similar to Jopp’s, except that I used, correctly, white light. I capped my torch with a sheet of dunderium, an element of nil mass, which I invented, incidentally beating Jopp in that respect, too. I used a zero-impulse motor with the same properties as the sheet and achieved superluminary speed. You may inform old Grassface that he need not nose around for details, as there is only one dunderium assembly, and wild horses would not induce me to tell him that it is in a safe-deposit box in the bank next door to my home.”

This wrangle will surely continue.

More of Professor Jopp’s dazzling exploits coming soon.​ 
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## Courtjester

*SADSACK PUBLISHING COMPANY*​
Dear Mr Underthwaite

Thank you for your letter and welcome to our haven for new writers. We know how weary you must be after labouring so long and hard over your book ‘Reminiscences of my Early Years (1930s and 1940s) in a Yorkshire Mill Town.’ At 18,000 words, the work is only about a quarter of the average book-length, but we are sure you put heart and soul into so noble an opus and if, after what follows here, you choose to submit the manuscript, we shall strive to do it justice.

It is as well that when sending the synopsis, you mentioned having contacted us before any other fringe publishing company, as this gives us the opportunity to acquaint you with what you can expect if you approach our competitors. We have devoted some effort to this matter and have compiled a list of points typically raised by organisations operating in this field. These are given below in bold type, followed by our interpretations. Gird your loins and read on.

*We are not in the vanity publishing business*. We are in the vanity publishing business.

*You will be involved in a cooperative effort: author and publisher.* No, you won’t. You have already done the real work in writing the book. Now you will be asked to foot the bill, in advance, for the supposed partner’s contribution. After you have coughed up, the house concerned will have no financial exposure, nor will it incur any other risk.

*We offer you the services of our expert editorial staff.* That would be Jeremy (32), scion of a middle-ranking aristocratic family. Faced with disinheritance if he didn’t start work, J., who achieved the seemingly impossible by failing university examinations in (a) Art Appreciation and (b) Media Studies, realised that he would have to shape up. Therefore, he joined his old friend and bedmate Annabelle, of impeccable Sloanie credentials. She came up with the idea of founding a business that couldn’t cost much, even if it failed.

*You will benefit from our array of sophisticated technical equipment.* We borrowed a desktop publishing rig from Annabelle’s sister Evangeline, who was unable to use it, on account of the length of her fingernails.

*We have an unrivalled range of media contacts.* Not entirely accurate. Jeremy distinguished himself by frequently outdrinking his Irish crony Liam, who later penned two articles for a local rag in some dreary backwater, then drifted into leglessness after the twenty-eighth rejection of his seminal work ‘The Fall of Vercingetorix.’ Annabelle was in touch with an ex-lover who ran a small offshore radio station. Her offer to reinstate the provision of ‘certain favours’ for a consideration was declined.

*Our facilities extend to producing your book on the Internet. *Of course they do, but consider that many net-users are in search of pornographic entertainment. The rest will probably not have the stamina to get through the thicket to reach your work, regardless of its value. Remember also that book prices via this medium are high, so even slim paperbacks of limited appeal will most likely be offered for £12/15 – hardly tempting to prospective buyers rightly suspicious of pig in a poke deals.

*You must accept that in this competitive world, results can be disappointing.* Well, that’s dead right. Steel yourself for half a dozen sales, max.

So, Mr Underthwaite, you will see that we are ‘telling it like it is’. You might derive some comfort from learning that we are trying to spare you a good deal of time, effort and postage costs in pursuit of an elusive goal.

Should you wish to proceed, please note that you need have no inhibitions about presenting your work, irrespective of its standard. At the rear of our premises we have a lean-to – well, it’s more like a kennel – in which we confine our in-house hack, Minnie. She is fresh from rehab and, given continued sobriety, will be happy to convert any garbage we receive into acceptable English.

You will have gathered that we do our best to be objective, while trying to avoid discouraging new authors. Perhaps the appropriate expression is ‘tough love’. If you are still disposed to avail yourself of our services, please send your MS., together with a cheque for £4,950, on receipt of which we will do all within our power to advance your writing career. Alternatively, you could spend the same amount on a sea voyage, during which you might find a doting widow, willing to set you up, provided that you are prepared to do whatever may be necessary as a quid pro quo. In our view, your chances of literary success are about the same either way.

Don’t hesitate to let us know if we can be of further service to you.

Yours sincerely

Jamie Stoat
Literary Adviser * * *
​


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## Courtjester

*THE DEMOGRAPHIC TIME BOMB

*​Much has been made of the problem posed by our rising age profile. How are we to make adequate provisions for our senior citizens? This thorny issue was referred to that distinguished thinker, Sir Bertram Utterside, former professor of social studies at one of the UK’s leading universities. Long regarded as perhaps our most eminent observer in this field, Sir Bertram, senses honed by a short break spent in a public park opposite his home, accepted the commission and has delivered his views, couched in characteristically trenchant terms. They are given below:

I am happy to offer a solution to the supposed problem caused by our increasing longevity. This is a fairly simple matter and should have been dealt with below my level. Most of the furore surrounding the issue emanates from disproportionately vocal types, mostly business executives in early middle age, who wish to ensure post-retirement continuance of their extravagant lifestyles. These people should realise that they are already being rewarded far beyond their contributions to our common wellbeing. They have yet to learn the difference between need and greed. I believe Gandhi was credited with making the first reference to this distinction, though I had the same thought, possibly earlier than he did – our two lives overlapped by twenty-odd years.

I will not dwell upon the lower strata of society, as they comprise people whose working lives are mostly drab, and whose retirements will be similar. Still, those concerned are undoubtedly worthy and essential – they also serve who only stand and wait. That is just as well, since if everyone were to erupt simultaneously in a collective burst of creativity, the result would be intolerable.

What matters here is that the angst-ridden upper-echelon characters have no knowledge of how they will feel when they become OAPs. Let me remind them of the words of T. S. Eliot, viz: “In the last few years, everything I had done up to the age of sixty or so has seemed childish.” Not having his text to hand, I do not know whether he mentioned that by the time people reached what he clearly considered the age of wisdom, they no longer care much about anything. They are also aware that their thrusting juniors wish to see the last of them.

When the relative youngsters reach seniority in years, the wiser ones among them will grasp that their task is to contribute what they can, rather than seize what is available. They will understand that the coveted mansion or yacht they acquired will soon be owned by someone else, who will say: “Yes, this once belonged to an industrial or commercial bigwig. Can’t remember the name.” Is that to be your epitaph? The hot-shots I refer to should take a leaf from my book by slackening off, as they are too screwed up. Indeed, only last week a man I had hitherto considered an adversary was kind enough to compliment me on the looseness of my screws. I was mildly flattered and will send him a bottle of my dandelion wine.

Now, I am being paid to offer a solution, and am pleased to say that this is the easiest money I have ever earned. My proposal is that a Ministry of Demography be created, the person in charge to be of less than cabinet rank, reflecting the fact that the brief concerned will be of relatively minor importance.

It is interesting that when ageing people are asked what ambitions they have, many of them place travel before anything else. This is inexcusable, as it is bad enough that these respondents are no longer in the economic mainstream. If, in addition to this, they wish to ruin the environment with their globetrotting, there would seem to be little reason for their continued presence.

The job of the proposed ministry would be to arrange selective culling of the aged. Not being an uncaring man, I suggest that there should be a voluntary element. Those who wish to depart – a cohort the size of which will, I suspect, be much larger than most of our sociologists imagine – should get first go. Only after that clearance would compulsory arrangements be invoked. Naturally, those involved in creative work would be spared the axe, rather in the way that those in reserved occupations are exempted from the blood and guts part of warfare. I recall the unpleasantness of 1939-45, by the end of which event I filled a vital role in the corridors of Whitehall. Imagine the waste if I had been disembowelled while trying to gain a few feet of some Continental battlefield. Horses for courses is the phrase that comes to mind.

Should forced winnowing be necessary, it would be conducted in descending age groups, in which respect I urge older citizens to think of the benefits of calling it a day. No need to continue dealing with tiresomely bland meals, trying to don socks while standing on one foot, fiddling with plastic cards, or generally wondering how to make increasingly unwilling bodies do their minds’ bidding.

I advise those worried about a hereafter to consider that they will go to either (a) complete oblivion, which has its attractions, i.e., it offers neither good nor bad experiences, or (b) a plane higher than ours and detached from physical matters. There is no need to worry about going to Hell. We’re there now, as anyone with a modicum of sensitivity knows.

What I am proposing is a win-win situation, in which those oldsters who want to go will be accommodated, while those who are removed compulsorily need have no qualms. I submit this answer as the most reasonable one to what is, after all, a prosaic question.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*VENTURESOME VACATIONS
*​Excellent results have been announced by Hairshirt Holidays Ltd., British subsidiary of US giant, General Hazards Inc. These companies are dedicated to catering for those who wish to ginger up their breaks with a significant element of risk. UK Chief Executive Wayne Bumpkin was in effervescent mood after revealing the figures. “We’ve no time for wimps,” he chortled. “Aside from the fact that we don’t accept anyone under eighteen, neither age nor gender matters, as long as our customers come up to scratch. Just contact us and we’ll try to tailor the danger to your requirements.” Hairshirt usually obliges, as happy vacationers confirmed.

Bank cashier Sharon Gourd (29) of Wembley was interviewed after paying £650 to spend a week immersed in liquid coolant siphoned from a nuclear reactor. Asked how she felt, she said: “A little blue, but basically radiant.” Stroking her newly acquired tail, she added: “An extra nose must be a plus, and talk about afterglow … .” Bumpkin maintains that this is just the tip of the iceberg, in terms of spin-off from the atomic power programme, and that the leisure subsidiaries will eventually be bigger than the parent industry.

Doncaster architect Norman Thinstaff parted with £800 for ten days of virtually non-stop snorkeling in a San Diego shark tank. He was not available for comment, though his brother described him as a bit cut up, but more than satisfied.’ Mr Thinstaff was particularly pleased with the cuisine, having – before he was removed for medical treatment – remarked that he was fed like a fighting cock, albeit intravenously.

Muriel Tautbow, an 87 year-old widow from Slough, chose the High Fives holiday, costing £480. This involves leaping from a fifth-floor window onto – or not onto – an inflated, ten-foot-diameter safety cushion, which is computer controlled, changing position randomly at three-second intervals over a space of fifty by fifty feet. “It’s totally unpredictable,” beamed Bumpkin, “but we do allow the clients five minutes of guessing time before they jump, during which period spectators may wager on the outcome. After that, all bets are off. I can tell you that Mrs Tautbow was concussed, but said she didn’t mind, as that was better than migraine.”

Soon, holidaymakers will be able to undergo the Polar Bare experience, which will leave them naked at the North Pole, their clothing embedded in ice, thirty miles distant from them. The only directions they will be given for recovery of their apparel will be to proceed due south, but as they are not told which longitude to select, this is not helpful advice at the most northerly spot on the Earth. When asked to comment on an allegation that Hairshirt’s aim was a zero survival rate, Bumpkin was shocked. “That’s a wild exaggeration,” he said. “There may be casualties, but we expect that many people will come through. Frankly, the only real problem we have is constant nit-picking by insurance companies.”

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*REPLY FROM PLANET X TO EMISSARY*​Dear Dweedles

Your initial report duly received, as were the appendices, which are of truly intolerable length, this being the first of the bones we have to pick with you. Was it really necessary to send us such a bundle of bumf? You are excessively verbose, so it is no wonder you encounter battery trouble, which we hardly need point out has cost implications. Please note that the expense account for your jaunt is not unlimited. You have been away for two hundred years (Earth time) and what do we have to show for this but one planet that just might do? Maybe the long time you have spent alone has affected your thought processes.

As for the observations concerning your supposed indispensability, be advised that we have a couple of trainees who could give you a run for your money in the matter of hopping around the galaxies via cosmic wormholes. Nobody has exclusive possession of such skills. You may be interested to learn that as a final test in astronavigation, these two cadets took a short journey to a star twenty-odd light years from here and returned safely to us, three days _before_ their trip started. That’s what we call travelling.

You will see that your query concerning what we would do without you was injudicious, as it caused us to consider that question. Oh, dear, perhaps you have tripped over your tongue, which would not be a surprise, considering the length of that organ. 

Kindly let us have more details, and in doing so, remember that we are not occupied solely by a growing population here. Our star is warming up and we are experiencing some discomfort. There is an element of urgency.

Keep up the mediocre work.

Best wishes from Mission Control.

Watch out for a sharp reaction from Dweedles.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*POWER TO THE PEOPLE
*​Professor Ovis Jopp, the lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’ yesterday rocked the world of physics to its foundations once again when he disclosed the result of his recent experiment with nuclear cold fusion. The professor, speaking in the green chamber of his Stavanger laboratory, was exultant. “This is perhaps the greatest boon to humankind of all time,” he said. “At a stroke, I have consigned to the dustbin forty-odd years of global research and milliards in expenditure. Soon, thanks to my efforts, people everywhere will have energy galore at negligible cost.”

According to the slender sorcerer, a grateful populace will be able to power up the world with complete impunity. Following his normal practice of working solo, Jopp first devised his equations, then put them to the test. He started from the premise that other scientists had been on the wrong track all along in trying to harness hot fusion, which he says is ridiculously wasteful. He also discounted the ‘cold’ efforts of others as unenlightened, since they were based on a faulty grasp of nuclear physics. “They sought to utilise what I have already demonstrated are non-existent sub-atomic particles,” claimed the professor, referring to his earlier work in that field.

He went on: “It is merely a question of manipulating the groat, which I described in a recent paper. The ingenuity lies in the low-tech approach. I took a tube of green plastic, into which I inserted two groats before sliding a number of jubilee clips along the outside and using a couple of them to crimp the ends. Next, using remote-controlled screwdrivers, I tightened the clips progressively, thus leaving the groats with, as it were, nowhere to go except into each other. I must confess that the first test was disappointing, as the slow progress towards fusion suggested that the operation would take 80 million years. I realised that more groats were needed, so introduced them, reducing the time factor by many millions. It was quite simple.”

The professor explained that any element, or any combination of different ones, can be made to fuse. “The larger the groat, the bigger the bang,” he quipped, doodling on a pad of green blotting paper. “I have already clarified that the mass of any atom is defined by the size of its groat. For example, that of the dominant uranium isotope produces two hundred and thirty-eight times as much usable power as does its hydrogen counterpart, hence the familiar term U238. However, one can choose one’s element, since all groats are identical in properties and vary only according to size.”

Jopp’s words leave some experts unconvinced, the main detractor being, as so often, the short, hairless, quasi-spherical ‘Swedish Savant’, Dr Terps Dunderklap. Located in a Stockholm pole-dancing club, he was scornful. “‘Sage of Trondheim’ indeed,” he hooted. “I prefer to think of Jopp as the Norwegian nincompoop. As usual, he is in error. The only thing he has got right is his description of the groat. I admit that I was wrong in contesting his earlier findings in that area, and regret my reference to his theory as ‘groatesque’. However, having exposed his stupidity so often, I can afford to be magnanimous on this occasion.”

Brushing a muscular blonde from his minimal lap, Dr Dunderklap continued: “I have proved that cold groat fusion is possible, but in only one way. The desired effect can be produced by cooking groats in an oven made of dunderium, of which I have a monopoly. It is difficult to avoid being disrespectful to a man with so much facial hair as Jopp exhibits, but I will try to be objective. Let me just say that if you are intent upon scaling the heights of his intellect, you will get by with a very short ladder.”

Further developments are expected.

More of Professor Jopp’s exploits coming up.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*ADVANCED ANATOMY
*​The following communication, envelope unstamped, was found on the doormat of our head office. Well, let us not be pretentious, our only office. We do not know the writer’s address. Here is what he has to say:

Dear Sirs

It is with a heavy heart that I, a male feminist – I am tempted to say philogynist, but don’t want to seem too highbrow – put pen to paper. Why the woeful tone? It is simple enough. I have been noting for some years that our females are progressing in various ways, not least in the field of education, where I understand that they are outpacing males. While applauding this, I feel compelled to draw attention to a most distressing development in the physical area, to wit: the manner in which the ladies are handicapping themselves. Permit me to explain.

For the last two months, I have been watching people who use mobile telephones. In an effort to gather a representative sample, I have monitored a thousand of them on the streets of this town, with alarming results. Of those observed, 782 were females, leaving only 218 males. The indication is clearly that we are on our way to a partially one-armed society, the ladies being in the lead. In due course, they will be born with one upper limb permanently attached to an ear by means of a mobile phone. This will put them at a serious disadvantage in terms of dexterity. We shall no longer hear of women raising three children to tertiary education level, while simultaneously writing best-selling novels and cooking gourmet meals. They will not have enough free digits. Being predatory by nature, the males will seize upon this, first by noting what is happening to the females, then by exploiting it.

This is not the first time I have been a voice in the wilderness. However, I hope that on this occasion my words will be heeded. Ladies, the remedy is in your hands. Don’t say you were not warned.

Yours sincerely

T. Edgar Wongle (Aged 76)

Editor’s comment: Close but no cigar, Mr Wongle. As it happens, our staffer Trixie Larkspur has just carried out a similar but much more extensive survey. Her figures around town were almost identical to those mentioned above – she also counted 1,000 mobile phone users, finding that 749 were females. However, unlike our correspondent, she widened her exercise by including several rail and bus journeys, where the male/female split was near enough fifty-fifty. More significantly, Trixie took in people who did not use mobile phones at all – over 90% of the total. Our conclusion: keep chatting, girls: you have little to fear. As for you, Edgar, we suggest that as you proclaim yourself (we assume proudly) a senior citizen, your metier might be bowls, or painting – anything but social commentary.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*SPECIAL OFFER

*​“Good morning. Cre –”

“Yes. Sorry to break in. Could you connect me with Mr Lumb, please?”

“No can do, madam. Rodney Spoonbill here. I’m taking all calls this afternoon. It’s the staff Christmas party and I started work here yesterday, so I’ve got the short straw. I don’t yet know Mr Lumb, but I’m sure I can help you, today of all days.”

“I see. Is this a special occasion – aside from the festivities, I mean?”

“Indeed it is. We have a two-for-one offer.”

“Really? That seems odd for your business. How does it work?”

“Basically, it’s quite simple. If you are thinking in terms of a disposal, you need only extend the scope to take in another prospective decedent. For example, if you have an ageing family member who is, so to speak, on the brink, you might wish to consider whether there is a second person dear to you and approaching the same state. In that case, there might be an opportunity for both parties to leave us simultaneously at no extra cost. Two for the price of one, you see.”

“Well, what you say leaves me floundering a little, but I’m usually considered quick on the uptake, so I’ll try to enter into the spirit of things, Mr –”

“Rodney is the name. And you are?”

“Marion.”

“Okay, Marion, or shall I say Mazza?

“No.”

“Right. Now, how do you feel about our idea?”

“I’m not quite sure, really. Of course, there is my father.”

“Yes, a common situation. Elderly gentlemen tend to be as cantankerous as they are frail. They’ve been through a lot, you know, and some of them don’t want to face another full winter. Forgive my saying so, but judging from your timbre, I take you to be a lady approaching maturity of years. May I inquire as to the age and condition of your pater?”

“Let’s say he’s over seventy and deteriorating. Too crotchety for my liking, though he’s always been a bit that way, so his present state is no guide. All things considered, I don’t think he’s long for this world. Also, he has annoying literary pretensions.”

“Excellent. It’s easier when they conform to type. These old lads usually think they have something to say, but don’t realise that no-one wants to hear it. By the way, you’re not recording this conversation, are you?”

“Of course not. Why should I?”

“No reason, I’m sure. However, we have a number of suggestions which might, if I may say so, accelerate matters; hasten the natural process, as it were. I can’t mention them on the phone, but if you could call in –”

“We’ll see about that, but what do you mean? Are you hinting at a supplement to his daily fare?”

“Far be it from me to indicate that, but does he have any . . ah . . peccadilloes that might be helpful.”

“Well, he makes his own beer. It’s skull-cracking stuff, so I don’t think he’d notice a fairish squirt of cyanide.”

“He wouldn’t notice it for long, but we could discuss that later. Now, how about the second . . er . . possibility?”

“Nothing doing there. The only other candidate would be my mother. She’s about the same vintage as the old man, but fit as a butcher’s dog. Anyway, we get on well.”

“Ah, that’s a shame, particularly in view of the garden gnomes.”

“How do they come into it?”

“We’re including them in the special offer, free of charge. They’re hollow and very popular as repositories for the – ah – remains. People get comfort from looking out at their lawns, knowing that their loved ones are nearby. Customers are allowed to choose between plastic and concrete.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The plastic ones last longer, but the concrete jobs are healthier.”

“Well, I’ll think about it but I can’t see how I could take advantage of your twofer. Also, I’m just wondering why anyone in your line of work should be making these proposals. I mean, we all know that you’re allowed to advertise nowadays, but this strikes me as wee bit ghoulish. Are you trying to drum up business in the wills and testaments area?”

“Wills and testaments? I don’t understand, Mazz – er Marion. We have no interest in that department, or anyway, not a direct one. We’re merely trying to be competitive in a field in which we have many rivals seeking to get a share of a market which is hardly elastic. There are about three-quarters of a million departures each year, and everyone in our line wants a piece of the action. After all, we are a crematorium.”

“You’re what!?”

“A crematorium!!”

“You’re coming through loud and clear. There’s no need for you to speak in exclamation marks, Mr Teaspoon.”

“Spoonbill.”

“Sorry, but we’ve been talking at cross purposes. I understand everything now.”

“Oh, goody. Would you like to share the insight?”

“Yes. I’m phoning from my car and didn’t have the number I wanted, so I called Directory Enquiries. Got a chap who seemed to be hard of hearing and I had to repeat the request several times.”

“I see. How is that relevant?”

“I was trying to contact my solicitors. No doubt the silly fellow confused Cremmerton & Lumb with crematorium. Goodbye, Mr Spoonful.”

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*THE NODE BULLETINS: NUMBER THREE

*​Kyrgyzstan: 28 June. Having put Tashkent behind us, we have begun the true expedition. Largely at the idiosyncratic insistence of Thoroughbrace, we are to follow a route that makes a clean sweep of the ‘stans’. We have already encountered Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan and Kazakhstan, and shall proceed from here to Tajikistan and Afghanistan, then over the Delhi Sang Pass into Pakistan. Bracers, as I have dubbed our transport executive, was petulant when I vetoed his suggestion that we backtrack to Kurdistan and later loop over into Chinese Turkestan. I mollified him by pointing out that both places are not at present countries as such, but regions, the latter partly in countries on our route anyway. A nice diplomatic touch, I thought.

Pugh continues to give cause for concern. Yesterday, he decided to hone his skills when leading us out of the last village we stayed in. This spot had only one street, running east-west. Not wishing to interfere, I allowed Pugh to guide us into the setting Sun for two hours before I remarked that the Pamir Mountains lay in the opposite direction. Retorting that he was merely testing us, Pugh agreed to an about turn. I took issue with him, but he was defended by Flatpole, whose basso profundo grunts reminded me of the call of a wild boar I once heard in the Carpathians.

We shall soon be obliged to abandon our vehicle and proceed on horseback. I shall not be sorry, as Thoroughbrace, initially quite amiable, has become querulous. I told him in London that we would need spare parts, but he appears to have infinite faith in his inventiveness, plus a large supply of yak gut. He is wrong, as we proved today, when we covered eight miles, the last six by pushing our car.

I shall have trouble maintaining the group’s morale, but am not downhearted. 

A further Node Bulletin coming soon.

* * *
​


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## Courtjester

*TO JAIL OR NOT TO JAIL

*​The problem of overcrowding in our prisons having become acute, it was decided that the matter should be examined by a respected independent party. The authorities felt that they could hardly do better than call upon that outspoken arbiter, Sir Bertram Utterside, former professor of social studies at one of our leading universities. Fortunately, he made himself available and got to work at once. His findings are as follows:

Notwithstanding the fact that this matter clashed with my intensive course of bassoon lessons, I am obliged to the parties concerned for referring it to me. It is a bagatelle, but one takes what one can get. Incidentally, this gives me an opportunity to comment publicly on the hate mail I have received following some of my earlier exertions. I have been accused of casuistry, sophistry and speciousness. Rather than reply to the rabble in question on an individual basis, I hereby inform the authors of this scurrilous nonsense that their pratings are being treated with the contempt they deserve.

My answer to this prison question is two-pronged, being based upon consideration of the numbers incarcerated and the financial implications. The cost of keeping a person in jail has been put at figures ranging from £25,000 to £42,000 a year. I will accept the lower figure, which seems more than enough. If I lived alone, I could get by on far less than this, though of course I do not need a warder – a point that one of my above-mentioned castigators might care to note.

I understand that our prisons are full, having about 80,000 inmates. The first part of my solution is simple, as it involves only the crime of burglary. My information is that about 15% of prisoners are in this category. These people are confined in what I can perhaps best call colleges of criminality, where they are able to sharpen their existing skills and educate themselves in other nefarious practices. I recommend that we let these offenders go free and that we distribute to their victims most of the money saved by not jailing. The Home Office would be the appropriate conduit.

Some readers may consider this drastic, but I hope they will bear with me. I am reminded of a former colleague who lives in a suburb much affected by this type of crime. He recently caught a burglar in the act, though was unable to detain the culprit. That was the fifth time that my old friend had experienced this trauma, and I feel sure that he and his wife, both pragmatic, will accept my logic. As I shall demonstrate, they would have found it beneficial.

In this field, there could be a flourishing business, energising the wider economy, possibly to the extent that the ‘breaking-in’ element might wither away. There would have to be a firm tariff. Let us say that an initial offence would qualify for one year in jail, with persistent transgressors attracting longer sentences. The periods would be notional, as nobody would be imprisoned.

As it happened, the man almost apprehended by my ex-colleague was later arrested and proved to be a first-offender. Under my system, he would have been assessed as a candidate for one year in jail. If, for the sake of argument, we put the cost of proceedings against the wrongdoer at a quarter of that of a year’s imprisonment – and why should it be more? – the residue would have accrued to my friend and his wife, who would have been delighted to receive £18,750 in compensation. They could have replaced all losses – some with upgraded items – had their house redecorated, treated themselves to a new car and had an extravagant holiday.

Extended to a currently imprisoned number of about 12,000 burglars – even assuming them to be one-year types – the figures are impressive. The cost of incarcerating 12,000 people for one year at £25,000 a head would be £300million. By the method I suggest, about three-quarters of this sum would be injected into the economy almost immediately, instead of by the unreliable trickle-down effect with which we are faced at present.

One could imagine this idea becoming very popular, with commensurate social connotations. Retailers and tradespeople would experience a boom. The beauty is that the system would be self-perpetuating, miscreants always remaining free to conduct their normal business. In due course there would be a surfeit of desirable items, giving rise to an increased black market. Even this could be positive, as an export trade might develop, improving – albeit unofficially – the balance of payments position, in which the UK account is in the red. And let us not forget that what goes round, comes round. Having pocketed their ill-gotten gains, the thieves and spivs must be minded to spend them. How better than by indulging in the ‘shop till you drop’ mania? A boon to the economy. Here, I appeal to the criminal elements. Never mind the tax havens. If you get your loot in this country, plough it back into _our_ economy. 

There would be a downside, affecting mainly insurance companies and security organisations, since it would not be sensible for people to protect their house contents. I envisage a situation in which those who had not been burgled for a while might advertise the fact, perhaps with something like an estate agent’s sign, indicating that they had not been ‘done’ for several months, thus soliciting the attention of the larcenists. The householders could go out for an evening, leaving doors and windows open, secure in the knowledge that they would return to a property stripped of valuables. I submit that if this proposal is accepted, it will result in significant economic gains.

The second part of my solution might be more controversial. I propose that all those not covered by my first recommendation be imprisoned according to the system currently prevailing, but that the sentences be nominal. Once jailed, the inmates would be released on an eeny, meeny, miny, moe basis, the prison governors periodically drawing lots to decide who would be freed. Laugh if you will, but consider that would-be petty felons might be discouraged by the thought that if they were to be caught, their original sentences, often light, could by pure chance be extended indefinitely. At the top end of the market, murderers and their like would perhaps take their chances, but they form a small minority of jail inmates. Anyone contemplating a little shoplifting or pocket-picking would, I suggest, think twice. I am inspired by the quasi-scriptural connotations of this idea. After all, it represents random punishment for what is to the victims random crime, thereby demonstrating that we are a single great entity and that what an evildoer does to one party affects all of us.

If my suggestions are adopted, our prison population will decrease rapidly. This could produce a situation in which we might see an advertising campaign, inviting people to spend a night or two as paying guests in one or other of our half-empty jails – full British breakfasts included – with a financial plus to the prison service and, by extension, to everyone.

Like the Chancellor with his budget, I commend these proposals to the House – in this case the forum of public opinion.


* * *​


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## Courtjester

*WHERE’S THE BEEF?

*​The following note was delivered to us by a small boy, who said he had been paid £1 by ‘a funny old geezer’ to hand it in. We make no further comment. Editor

A short while ago I broke one of my few rules by listening to the news and was, for the umpteenth time, stuck by its banality. I do not remember every detail, but do recall that the main item concerned a former government minister who was assisting some members of the Royal Family with their financial affairs. We then ‘descended’ to the problems of an Asian bank, progressing to a story about a pop star perishing in the Antipodes. Then came a complaint from a state in South America, to the effect that a British media personality had insulted the country concerned. After that came talk of a possible ban on certain computer games, allegations of smuttiness in a soap opera, measures against football hooligans and protests from a Cornish village, regarding implied doubts about its Arthurian heritage.

I remarked on all this to my wife, who retorted that I should be pleased, as it indicated that nothing much was happening and that no news was good news. She was right, but despite her comment I found myself a touch nostalgic for the raw red meat of yore. I couldn’t avoid the reminiscence of twiddling big black knobs on brown wood-effect wireless sets and hearing Winston munching through speeches to the effect that our backs were so far pressed to the wall that our eventual advance would reveal an imprint on the bricks. Those were trying times, but as our former foes put it: ‘Nichts kann der Mensch schlechter vertragen als eine Reihe von guten Tagen’, meaning, as far as I can maintain the metre, ‘The thing we find most hard to bear is days on end without a care’. I am not a bard, you understand.

There was nothing insipid about the tidings in those days. One could rely on hearing about forty-thousand-ton battleships going to the bottom, aircraft plunging from the skies as fast as they could be sent up, cities falling to one side or the other as the conflict fluctuated, and legions of troops being rounded up at one go in some grey concrete Soviet conurbation. All stuff that a fellow could get his teeth into.

I am not suggesting a return to troubles on that scale, but a little substance wouldn’t come amiss. Appreciating that one must be thankful for small mercies, I would settle for something less cataclysmic than a world war. It might be worthwhile switching on to hear of, say, an epidemic of awesome proportions, a resounding stockmarket crash – say 3,000 points – a displaced hurricane wrecking one of our less pleasant cities, a canister of unthinkably virulent bacilli stolen by lunatic fundamentalists, a thriving trade in filched plutonium, a small state gobbled up by a slavering next-door neighbour, or a mass dive from a skyscraper by deranged members of an obscure sect. You see how modest one’s demands become.

Associated with this lack of solid fare is the inverse phenomenon of increasingly lurid language used to report trivial events. Nowadays, nobody is ever merely upset or disturbed. The minimum state of distress is to be devastated, though this may be over a two-day sugar shortage or the loss of a hubcap. We should have an official scale for these things. I will not set myself up as an arbiter, but would like to make the tentative suggestion that we might start the ladder with, say, ‘perturbed’, then climb to ‘agitated’, leading perhaps to ‘prostrated’ or ‘desolated’. We should always have one stage which has never been used before, which we can invoke if we are visited by hostile aliens, whose destructive capacity begins where ours ends. Is this asking too much?


* * *​


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## Courtjester

*CHILLED OUT

*​The scientific world was today stunned by yet another revelation from Professor Ovis Jopp, the lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’. Speaking to reporters in the green room of his fjordside home, the professor announced that he had overturned generations of misconception, by reaching a temperature below minus 273.15 degrees Celsius, which had hitherto been believed to be absolute zero.

Jopp – readers are reminded that his name is pronounced Yopp – stated that he had not set out to achieve this result. It was a digression from other work in the field of low-temperature physics. “I was just tinkering,” he said. “Basically, I proceeded as most others would have done, using adiabatic demagnetisation techniques. When I reached the lambda point of 2.19 degrees Kelvin, I was struck by a mental thunderbolt, realising that all my predecessors in the field had been wrong, in that they had applied theoretically sound cryogenic methods, but had been using the elements known to them. They lacked the vital ingredient of imagination.”

After passing around glasses of his home-made greengage champagne, the professor continued: “I leaned on my recent faster-than-light experiment, in which you will recall that I was obliged to manufacture a completely new, sub-hydrogenic element, joppium. It occurred to me that what I needed this time was something of even lower mass. I therefore produced a synthetic, ultra-light substance, which I call ovisium. I was at first inclined to name it in honour of my well-known but distinctly inferior contemporary – hardly a colleague, you may agree – Doctor Dunderklap. However, I heard that he had already named dunderium after himself, which seemed to leave only klappium as a possibility, and in view of a certain unsavoury predilection for which he is well-known, I feared that name might be misconstrued.”

When his listeners were restored to order, Jopp went on: “Once I had produced, thermally isolated and demagnetised a quantity of ovisium, the rest was easy. I gradually drove out the heat, which you will appreciate is merely molecular activity. However, there was one unexpected result, which arose as I progressed downwards a further 273.15 degrees, or precisely twice as far below zero Celsius as had previously been considered the lowest level. At that point, I was intrigued to note that my material showed the same behaviour patterns as it did at the freezing point of water. It appeared that as I continued to plumb the depths, the superconductivity I had observed earlier in the operation was lost, so I suppose one could really consider my experiment as U-shaped. I shall doubtless overcome this technicality, but even as it stands, the finding is remarkable and ranks among my best efforts to date.”

Reaction to Jopp’s announcement was swift. Within an hour, his leading opponent, the short round hairless ‘Swedish Savant’, Dr Terps Dunderklap was found and interviewed in the doorway of a Gothenberg nunnery. He was pithy. “The imbecile,” he shrieked. “Apparently his lunacy has no limit. Naturally his experiment was U-shaped. Does the buffoon not understand what he has done? Clearly, his equipment failed in the intense cold. He went down one stem of the U, encountered the obvious malfunction, then went up the other U-stem, returning to zero degrees Celsius. It will be a blessing for all of us when the men in white coats take him away. Incidentally, I proved recently that by use of table salt and an ingeniously extended kitchen thermometer, it is possible to achieve a minimum of eight degrees below what is usually regarded as absolute zero. I saw no merit in publishing my conclusion.”

This one could run and run.
* * *​


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## Courtjester

*MAN ON THE SPOT

*​“Now, I was about to say that from Ned Forecastle and me, Sue Pream, that’s all from ‘The World This Evening’. However, we can return briefly to the extraordinary happenings on the Indian Ocean island of Dhjamdhjar, about which news was reaching us when we came on air. We’ve now heard that our reporter Timothy Module is in situ there and on the line. Tim?”

Tim: Sue?

Sue: Tim?

Tim: Sue?

Sue: Yes, we can hear you, Tim. What’s going on there?

Tim: It’s astonishing, Sue. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Sue: Like what, Tim?

Tim: I’ve been here for three hours now and there’s no let-up. I didn’t see any sign of it at the coast, but soon found myself literally fighting my way through to the interior.

Sue: Interior? We were given to understand that the island is only about a mile square.

Tim: A mile can be hell in this, Sue, I can tell you. I’ve got the microphone in one hand and a stick in the other. It’s . . . oh . . . ah . . . get away from me.

Sue: Can you describe it, Tim?

Tim: Yes, Sue. It’s indescribable.

Sue: Is it possible to be more specific, Tim?

Tim: I’ll try, Sue. These are the most amazing scenes I’ve ever witnessed. The air is full of it. It’s . . . ouch, it’s raining ch . . . ooh, one of them just hit me on the head.

Sue: One of what, Tim?

Tim: It’s astounding. They seem to be everywhere.

Sue: Who or what are, Tim?

Tim: Oh, there was another. There seems to be no end to it.

Sue: Yes, Tim, I know this must be difficult for you. What exactly are these things?

Tim: . . . seem to be in various forms. The village headman says it all came suddenly, out of the mountains.

Sue: Sounds terrifying, Tim. Carry on if you can.

Ned: (sotto voce). Close your mouth, Sue. You’re drooling.

Tim: It’s a veritable sea. We’re surrounded on all sides.

Sue: We understand, Tim. If you’re surrounded, it would be on all sides. Can you clarify what it is?

Tim: Oh, God, I’m practically up to the thighs in them. It appears to be limitless.

Sue: We’re engaged with your problem, Tim. I’m just wondering, is this an ‘it’ or a ‘them’ we’re talking about?

Tim: It’s all of that and then some, Sue.

Sue: You seem to be in the same position as Hamlet, Tim. A sea of troubles. Would that be a fair assessment?

Tim: My goodness, I don’t believe it. Sometimes nine feet tall, other times liquid. I can say honestly that I’ve been in trouble spots all over the world, but haven’t experienced anything like this. It’s . . . it’s . . . harrowing, Sue. I’ve never been so . . . so . . . 

Sue: Harrowed?

Tim: That’s exactly right, Sue. This whole thing is a . . . ugh, bazaar.

Sue: Did you say ‘bizarre’, Tim?

Tim: Yes, Sue, bazaar.

Sue: You’re breaking up a little, Tim. I take it we’re we talking ‘weird’ rather than ‘market’?

Tim: More, much more. Oh, for God’s sake, keep your distance, you wretched th… Ah, take that. Sorry, Sue, but this is just too awful.

Sue: Tim, we heard earlier that there were dreadful scenes of carnage. Is that right? Is it really, really horrible?

Ned: (sotto voce). Will you stop panting, Sue. We’re on air.

Tim: I have to go now. I’m heading for the high ground. They say there’s an outside chance of safety there. I’ll contact you again as soon as I can. Out.

Sue: Well, we have to thank Timothy Module for his lucid account of the developments on Dhjamdhjar. We hope to return to this in our late bulletin. Coming up next, the weather report.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*SECOND MESSAGE TO PLANET X

*​Dear Colleagues

Being back to full transmitting strength, I must start by taking issue with your snide comments concerning my performance. You were aware of my verbosity before sending me into the void, so don’t carp now. I have found one more or less suitable planet and that’s better than none, right? Nobody knew the odds when I set out, so what frame of reference do you have for making judgements?

Regarding my value to the cause, I am forced to laugh when thinking of the two trainees you believe might fill my shoes. I am acquainted with both of them and well aware that neither could negotiate the diagonal of an average living room without following a paper trail. Get with it, folks. You need a galactonaut like me and we don’t grow on trees.

Notwithstanding your harsh words, I will continue to report, though with reduced enthusiasm. Even a superficial examination of the Earth clarified that what is significant to us is the land. Initially I gave brief consideration to the seas, as one naturally does when facing a body comprising over 70% water. There are aquatic creatures here with mental faculties somewhat akin to those of their closest counterparts on terra firma, but advanced as they may be in social interactions, few water-based organisms reach beyond their normal element. Some have large brains, but here it is noteworthy that the relationship between cerebral capacity and body size is important, This explains why human beings (for details see the appendices I sent earlier) have come to the fore.

The local star, the Sun, is an average one, about halfway through its likely lifetime, so it has roughly 5,000 million years still to go. However, the Earth will become uninhabitable for its current life forms, and for us, long before the star expires. I would say there are about 800 million tolerable years left.

Astronomers here have identified eight major planets and one dwarf one in their solar system. There is also a wide scattering of debris - probably a failed planet - between Mars and Jupiter, plus a few similar odds and ends elsewhere, and a number of satellites. The outer bodies would not be of any use to us, but in addition to the Earth, two other inner rocky ones, Venus and Mars, could be adapted to our needs, though I think that in both cases the effort would be too great. The Earth is the only reasonable candidate.

This planet is believed to be about 4,600 million years of age, and research suggests that complex life really got going only about 600 million years ago. The dominant species is, as indicated above, humankind. I shall have more to say about these creatures later. Among them are those who believe that the Earth – and they -appeared, ready made so to speak, on a particular day about 6,000 years ago, and that a creator was responsible for this. Make what you will of that. I do not intend to debate the question of a supreme being.

Unlike our androgynous species, humans have two genders – a common feature here – so procreation is normally a cooperative male/female effort. There is an overlap of sorts, with some people attracted to others of their own sex. I hear this applies to about 3% of the population, but I have not made any effort to confirm that.

Before I forget, let me address your implication that I may have been away from you too long. This led me to think that my absence might not yet have been long enough. A further ‘stretch of solitary’ – do you like the prison jargon? – sometimes seems more attractive to me than does the idea of rejoining you. I am tempted to disable my reverse gear, thus scuppering the prospect of a return trip. That’s a joke, folks. Or is it?

I have other goodies to offer, but owing to your failure to supply me with means befitting my task, I must close for a while. That will give you a chance to do a little more sniping before I can recharge my equipment. By the way, I note that our home star is warming faster than expected. Well, that’s another one for the eggheads, isn’t it? Why do we give them rewards beyond the dreams of avarice when they can’t predict stellar evolution? I repeat that I intend to keep up the work you so nastily describe as mediocre. Would anyone else care to be in my position? No, I thought not.

Yours as cordially as possible in the circumstances 

Dweedles


* * *​


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## Courtjester

*THE NODE BULLETINS: NUMBER FOUR*​
Tajikistan: 5 July. Flatpole disappoints me. Yesterday, we abandoned our expedition vehicle, the tyres having been stolen during the night. It seems that they are much prized by the locals as camp-fire seats. Thoroughbrace tried to keep us going on wheel rims – an excruciating experience. This misfortune led to our first need for Flatpole’s linguistic talents, into which I should have inquired more fully at the outset. She has revealed that her claimed command of French and German runs to ‘bonjour’ and ‘guten Tag’ respectively. If that is her idea of mastery, I shudder to think what her alleged smattering of a number of oriental languages might amount to.

The woman is habitually bellicose and did our cause no good today when, during an interview with prospective porters, she felled one poor chap who commented, I thought rightly, on the excessive length of her beard. Pugh waded into the ensuing fray and I was hard-pressed to restore goodwill. My own party is difficult enough without the burden of fractious natives. Thank God for Ridley Gannett, who remains strong and silent, especially the latter, as his throat problem persists.

Our group seems to be splintering. Flatpole and Pugh spend much time together and have little to do with the rest of us. Last night they disappeared, taking Flatpole’s curious sleeping bag and not rejoining us until dawn. Pugh has developed a marked stoop and I wonder how much longer he will be equal to his duties. Our hardships are exacerbated by the loss of our vehicle; an event that caused animosity between Flatpole and Thoroughbrace. She insisted that we had no further need of a technician, his riposte concerning her interlocutory skills being unrepeatable.

My leadership qualities are being tested, but I remain quietly confident.

A further Node Bulletin coming soon.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*COMINGS AND GOINGS

*​The debate about illegal immigration into the UK having led us into a seemingly impenetrable thicket, many people may be relieved to note that the matter was recently referred to that prince of puzzlers, Sir Bertram Utterside, former professor of social studies at one of our top seats of learning. Not for the first time, the arch-arbiter interrupted one of his breaks from intense cerebration to deal with this pressing issue. He gave it short shrift, as his comments below confirm:

Let me start by addressing the feverish media speculation concerning the origin of my brief. The newshounds may make their guesses, but I am in the same position as certain other professionals, in that I must respect client confidentiality. What I can say is that the solution to this supposed problem is simplicity itself, the only complication being that the statistics are unclear. However, that is not important, as the principle is the same over a wide range.

My researchers tell me that estimates of unauthorised UK residents vary from a trivial level to the allegedly significant one of about 400,000. This is a side-issue, as the method I suggest would be valid for all practical purposes. I will take a middling figure of 200,000. After all, the government picks its numbers out of the air, so why shouldn’t I?

Despite the lamentable record of the Home Office in keeping track of such things, I am prepared to accept that that authority will manage to trace the shadowy types I have in mind. Then what? It’s simple. We need to corral these people by offering them an amnesty, conditional on their joining a new body. Draft dodgers would have to be caught and summarily expelled. Anyone who suspects that I have not thought this through might care to note the strictures I propose, which are as follows:

Those taking advantage of the scheme would be offered secure employment as overseers at our points of entry – not only harbours and airports, but all inlets around the coast – their work being to intercept unapproved incomers, for whom they would arrange immediate deportation. The main condition would be that any infractions by the officers would result in graduated punishments, on the ground of negligence. I envisage a quota system, under which those not nabbing a fair share would face their own expulsion. I advocate this way of encouraging compliance, as it rests on the ‘I’m all right, Jack’ mindset – usually a powerful incentive.

In order to avoid nepotistic ‘oversights’, members of the new force might need further inducement to do their work efficiently. There would be an economical answer to this. Still thinking of a strength of 200,000, I suggest that we pay each of them a basic £20,000 a year, plus bonuses for those showing the zeal necessary to apprehend numbers above a given level. The annual cost of rather over £4bn. would amount to less than half of one per cent of GDP – surely a fair price.

I mention in passing that our population is a little over 60 million. and that life expectancy here is around seventy-five years. Though I do not have our mortality figures to hand, it is no great feat to calculate that by natural attrition we lose annually about four times as many people as would be employed in the proposed service. Therefore, any possible increase in our number through unlawful immigration could not be significant.

This is all I have to say in answer to what is hardly a taxing question. However, I hope readers will not mind my stating that I received quite a lot of mail following my recent paper concerning the jailing of miscreants. Happily, and I venture to suggest predictably, the response was overwhelmingly supportive, but there were several letters containing adverse comments, including one which I would like to mention here. I will not reveal the writer’s identity – you know who you are, sir – but would say this: I shall write to you in detail, but please note now that you do not appear to grasp the difference between rebuttal and refutation. Let me clarify that the former is simply a statement that a given proposition is wrong, while the latter proves it to be so. You have offered no proof, but merely what is commonly called a gut reaction. Well, you are about to receive a thirty-six-pounder just below the centre of your main yard arm, and we shall then see how you cope with a hundred feet of large-diameter timber athwart your beam and a ton or two of uncontrolled canvas flapping around your gunports. I hope the nautical analogy is not beyond you.


* * *​


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## Courtjester

Note from Madazine’s outer office staff: When the cat’s away, the mice can play. Our editor wrote this poem, which we can confirm relates his recent experiences. He didn’t have publication in mind and will be cross when he gets back to work and finds that we’ve slipped it in. Well, we don’t care. He can’t sack all of us. 

*GETTING ON A BIT

*Review your life said Socrates – no doubt he had a point.
One dwells on this when old and grey with creaks in every joint. 
The great man didn’t quite mean that – he dwelt on higher planes, 
And grappled with philosophy far more than aches and pains.

But he’s been gone two thousand years so will not mind a bit, 
If I tamper with his discourses and try to make them fit. 
Adapt them to the physical, those matters of the flesh,
That press upon us ever more when we’re not young and fresh.

The old Greek downed a hemlock drink – some say he didn’t care.
Most likely he was wondering what more he’d have to bear.
He’d just about got to the end of three-score years and ten. 
So probably he deemed it wise to end things there and then.

So passed from the Hellenic world a thinker of renown,
A fellow upon whom today the scholars seldom frown.
But enough of ancient Athens, let us now get up to date. 
I have a little tale to tell – bet you can hardly wait.

My first six decades went quite well, the seventh wasn’t bad, 
But number eight has been so hard, it’s made me rather sad. 
It started promptly on the day, the big seven-o came round. 
While walking through a local park, I tumbled to the ground.

At first it didn’t seem severe, I strode along all right. 
My trouble started later, in the middle of the night. 
Rib-cage, back and abdomen hurt like they were on fire. 
Hips and shoulders joined in too, the situation dire.

It took three weeks to simmer down, four more to disappear. 
A very inauspicious start to such a landmark year.
Two further months without a hitch and life seemed fairly kind, 
Until I was oppressed again, this time it was the mind.

My landlady assailed me with some nasty allegations,
Backed up by a battery of vicious imprecations.
She’d always been so shy with me, I never thought she’d try
To scold me, then I realised her mind had gone awry.

Her son turned up that evening, confirming what I thought. 
He apologised profusely, poor fellow was distraught.
I calmed him down but told him that our ways would have to part. 
Though hardly a spring chicken, I was game for one more start.

Why stop at domicile I thought, I’ll try something more grand. 
So as well as changing residence, I also swapped the land. 
Left the Emerald Isle behind and made for Albion’s shores, 
Excitement making me forget that when it rains it pours.

I got a house and settled down, but not for very long.
A few months in my new abode then something else went wrong.
The waterworks failed suddenly, a bolt out of the blue. 
What hitherto was crystal clear took on a different hue.

My visits to the smallest room caused maximum dismay. 
I’d started passing pure vin rouge instead of Chardonnay. 
I scuttled off to see the doc, whose face betrayed some worry. 
He wanted me in hospital, and said we’d better hurry.

The surgeon spoke harsh words to me of baccy, booze and diet. 
I had an argument in mind, then thought I’d best keep quiet.
He seemed a formidable lad, not wise to make him cross. 
I was prostrate, he had a knife, so that made him the boss.

He did his work then called on me and seemed in better humour. 
I’d soon be on my feet, he said, he’d shaved away a tumour. 
So back to domesticity – all quiet for a spell,
Until another happening, that rendered me unwell.

While out on foot one winter night, I sought a litter bin, 
But came upon a flower tub, located with my shin.
A strip of me three inches long and nearly half as wide
Had vanished, and though in some pain I sought it far and wide.

I had no luck, so limped off home and got another shock. 
The missing rasher wasn’t lost but rolled up in my sock. 
I tried to fix it back in place, with plaster and saliva,
Plus some herbal ointment that had set me back a fiver.

I got it right and turned my mind to sprucing up the dwelling
And overdid the labouring, but quite how there’s no telling.
This time a whopping lump emerged above the right-side groin. 
It felt much like a cricket ball embedded in the loin.

So off to the GP again – by then it was a habit.
‘Spread out upon the couch,’ he said, ‘we’ll just let dog see rabbit.’
He diagnosed a hernia, no cause for great alarm.
The surgery was simple and I needn’t have a qualm.

The sawbones was a gloomy chap but knew well what to do.
Got through four jobs like mine that day, with me last in the queue. 
I’m back and in the saddle now, at work with pen and ink, 
With senses honed by recent woes, or so I like to think

Carved up twice in fourteen months, I’m wondering what’s next. 
Another in the lower regions, that would get me vexed. 
But providence is on my side, I feel it in my bones.
It won’t be liver, pancreas, or even kidney stones.

I’m going for lobotomy, if fate will let me choose.
The old grey matter’s addled, so I haven’t much to lose.
When this thought occurred I guessed my brain would just go reeling,
Then I got the point that where’s there’s no sense there’s no feeling.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHINGNESS
*
​Just when some of his critics claimed that he had, as it were, not a shot left in his locker, Professor Ovis Jopp has done it again. The lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’, addressing an assembly of distinguished European academics in Bergen, revealed today that he has succeeded in constructing a black hole. Astounded listeners heard his explanation.

The ever-genial Jopp was in expansive mood. “Once one grasps the principle, the rest is plain sailing,” he said. “Rather like making an atom bomb. Classical theory suggests that a body the size of the Sun will eventually collapse to become a white dwarf. A somewhat larger stellar object will change into a neutron star, while an even bigger body will transform into a black hole. My genius lay in understanding that the operation can be downsized. One needs only a core, a distributor, a coating and an imploder. As a core, I used an old cannon ball. My distributor was a thick layer of polystyrene, moulded around the core. The coating was a spheroidal green canvas bag painted with tar and perforated in places to hold the implosive element, which was a sophisticated array of normal fireworks – good old-fashioned bangers.”

After pausing to take a swig of green chartreuse, the professor went on: “I put my assembly into a thick perspex globe, around which I inscribed a deep equatorial channel. Into this groove I placed a golf ball, attached to one end of a length of strong twine, the other end being fastened to the core through a borehole. To achieve detonation, I employed the same team of students I had engaged for an earlier test, this time supplying them with very long tapers, which they used to ignite all the fireworks simultaneously. The blast was distributed evenly around the core by the polystyrene, which has many tiny cells, making it ideal for the purpose. I observed the result with great care, the critical question being whether there was mass transference from the golf ball to the core. I did not precisely quantify this, but was quite satisfied that the ball, try as it would to maintain itself in orbit, was drawn inwards, proving that the core had all the properties of a black hole. This is a mighty leap forward for humankind and a tremendous personal achievement for me.”

Asked why he had devoted so much of his valuable time to black holes, the professor said that he had become disturbed by the confusion experienced by other scientists. “They were far too academic,” he stated. “They didn’t want to get their hands dirty and preferred to occupy themselves with unprovable claims to have noted a possible black hole in the constellation of Cygnus something-or-other. I, on the other hand, was mindful of the comment made long ago by a German fellow, viz: ‘Nur in der Praxis zeigt sich der wahre Meister,’ meaning that the true master reveals himself only in practice. Of course, you did not come here to learn of my command of languages, impressive though it is.”

Reaction to Jopp’s pronouncement was speedy. His redoubtable antagonist, the short hairless ultra-round ‘Swedish Savant’, Dr. Terps Dunderklap, had a withering response. Found at a women’s hockey match in Skaraborg, he opined: “I have for decades considered Jopp a cretin and nothing he does disabuses me of that notion. Can it be that he fails to perceive his blunder? Obviously, the twine connecting the golf ball to the core became twisted, so naturally the ball was pulled inwards. I have shown that it is impossible for us to construct a black hole, my equipment comprising a grapefruit encased in plastic explosive and heated by skilfully arranged electric fires, for remote detonation at the critical temperature. The result was negative.

Jopp plans further tests. Dunderklap predicts failure, plus danger to participants.

* * * ​


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## Courtjester

*THREE-GUN KELLAWAY

*​“Yessirs,” croaked the ancient raconteur. Surrounded by listeners, he was the only person seated in the saloon’s backroom, made available so that he could give the authentic account of an incident involving a long-dead pistolero. “Yessirs,” he repeated, his toothless mouth expelling an orange pip at almost eye-defying speed. The projectile hit a spittoon, described a half-circle inside the rim and whizzed off to strike the nose of a man who, in trying to avoid the impact, thumped his head against a doorpost and consequently lost interest in the proceedings. 

“Yessirs,” the old-timer said yet again to his audience, now reduced to eight, one being a large woman whose general Wagnerian aspect was accentuated by a helmet-style hat atop a huge coil of fair hair. “And ma’am,” added the oldster, noting the unexpected presence of a lady. “I mind well the time when Three-Gun Kellaway come to town. Showdown was right there.” He pointed an arthritic finger at the doorway to the barroom. “He come here . . .”

“What was that?” The interjection came from a fresh-faced youth, bearing a notepad and pencil.

“What was what?” snapped the taleteller.

“You said Three-Gun Kellaway.”

“Well, so what?”

“Sir,” said the young fellow, “I’ve known of two-gun this and two-gun that, but I never yet heard of three-gun anybody.”

“Son,” snarled the oldster, mustering as hostile a gleam as his rheumy eyes could manage, “first place, I’m tellin’ this story. Second place, you’re still wet behind the ears an’ third place, you won’t never hear much of anythin’ if you keep interruptin’ folks.”

“Sorry”, said the chastened youngster. “It’s just that I’ve only recently arrived from the East and this is my first assignment. I have to get my facts right or my editor will be mad at me. I was wondering how a man was able to handle three guns.”

“Well, if you listen you’ll find out,” retorted the wizened narrator, his temper fraying rapidly. “As I was goin’ to say when you busted up my thinkin’, this Three-Gun Kellaway was a plumb desperate character. Killed over a dozen men in his time. Anyway, he come here lookin’ for Bad Billy Brewster, an’ he was loaded for bear.”

“Loaded for what?” the reporter broke in again.

“Bear,” gritted the anecdotist, grimly curbing his ire.

“What does that mean, exactly?” the diffident newshound asked.

“Goddamnit”, yelled the venerable one. “Means Kellaway was an ornery critter an’ more’n a mite proddy. How the hell are you goin’ to report this if you don’t speak English?” The oldster’s voice, squawky at the best of times, rose to a falsetto warble.

“Beg pardon,” mumbled the scribe.

“What happened?” This from the large woman, whose tongue was running eagerly around parted lips as she envisioned blood soaking the sawdust.

“Well, I’m comin’ to that, ain’t I?” screeched the crusty historian, his face now alarmingly purple as he yanked at the chair arms until he realised that he was not in a rocker.

“I’ll bet they shot it out,” said the woman, her imagination running riot. “There must have been gore everywhere.”

“That’s what I came all the way from Philadelphia to find out,” said the eager reporter.

“Naw,” said one of the men, a lanky, lugubrious fellow. “Wasn’t like that at all, way I heard it.”

“Well, you wouldn’t know,” chimed in a short fat man, waving a large cherrywood pipe, from which sparks were scattering around the company. “Was before your time, anyway.”

“I heard it different, too,” put in a third man. “I was told that Bad Billy Brewster couldn’t face three guns, so he skedaddled out of town and Kellaway knew it, so he wasn’t taking much of a chance.”

“Nope,” drawled another. “Feller told me they called off the fight an’ spent the night drinkin’ whiskey, right here in this saloon.”

“That don’t square with what I heard”, said the fifth man, the town undertaker. “Old Tom Boone was here an’ he told me what went on. Just before he died, it was. He said Kellaway shot off his own kneecap when he tried to draw that third gun.”

“Well,” said the sixth and last of the local men, “I reckon you’re all wrong. My great uncle Dan worked with Kellaway on a little gold-prospecting. Before they split up, Kellaway admitted to Dan that he’d run off when he heard that Bad Billy Brewster had got hold of a Gatling gun and aimed to make a sieve of him.”

A babble broke out, which intensified until the young reporter called for order. “Come now, gentlemen . . . and madam,” he cried. “We seem to have a number of different versions of the event. As I understand it, the only person still alive around here who was present at the time is telling the story. Let establish the truth from him. Sir?”

They all turned their attention to the old man, but it was too late. As a result of being unable to get a word in edgeways, that testy chronicler, overcome by exasperation, had expired. 

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*VIEWPOINTS

*​The new novel by Jonathan Pestle reached the bookshops today, to the accompaniment of a mighty fanfare. Critics’ opinions vary, as shown by the two reviews below:

Three years we have waited, and this masterly effort is worth every minute. The second adventure featuring Mr Pestle’s peerless hero Nigel Blaike is, almost unbelievably, even more deeply satisfying than the first. Holding no official position, but on first-name terms with everyone who matters at the top levels of society in a score of countries, Blaike has a unique range of talents, here employed to recover the fabulous Brazov diamonds, stolen while on exhibition in the UK. This meticulously researched humdinger has everything. Adventure doesn’t come any higher. We are whisked at breakneck pace from London to Paris to Prague to Bucharest and to Samarkand before reaching a stupendous climax in New York. This time, Blaike is accompanied by the Magyar Countess Greta Szabo, a stunning package of pulchritude, and as well-connected as her escort.

The abundant steamy scenes are interspersed with stirring deeds, performed at levels ranging from a French dungeon to a snow-clad Transylvanian peak. This is a breathtaking eight-hundred-page feast of intrigue and dazzling action, and a truly electrifying effort from arguably the greatest of today’s British thriller writers, at the height of his perhaps unprecedented powers. Rumour has it that Mr Pestle received an advance of £1mn for this book. If that is true, his publisher need have no fears. It is a privilege to comment on this literary triumph. Cancel your engagements, disconnect the phone and jump in. 

The Southerner

One cannot really call this book an anti-climax because that would suggest that something of consequence preceded it. Pestle’s first sleepwalk was bad enough and this hogwash demonstrates that he has learned nothing since it appeared. The main fictional culprit is again Nigel Blaike, who is yet another in the tiresome line of meddling dilettantes – no wonder the official forces dislike them – flitting around the fringes of international high society. This time, His Nonchalance teams up with a clearly shop-soiled courtesan. Naturally, Blaike knows everyone and always just happens to have an old friend in whatever improbable locale, including – can you swallow it? – Uzbekistan. Supertwit is fluent in nine languages. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? As for research, try any of the well-known travel guides. They’ll give you all you need to know, just as they so obviously informed the author.

Blaike and his nympho partner stumble in irksome and too often bed-bound manner from one city to another, eventually lurching to New York – the American readers must be roped in – where Pestle’s magic carpet is particularly threadbare in an ending of risible banality. Our hero and heroine are parted, we are asked to believe poignantly, in order to pursue their respective promiscuities. This is publisher’s hype gone mad, but your deponent drew the short straw in having to comment on it. As for the £1mn. advance, Mr Pestle will chuckle while others squirm. Heaven forbid that you be hospitalised, but if you are, and if a well-wisher lumbers you with this drivel, you might try it as an alternative to a sleeping pill. Should you get burdened with a copy at home, skip the reading and look for a very short table leg – an object this thick must be good for something. 

The Northerner

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*SECOND REPLY FROM PLANET X TO EMISSARY

*​Dear Dweedles

Your second message received. We will not dwell on your disparaging comments about us. They are inappropriate and probably attributable to your long period of isolation – we are not unsympathetic, you know. Everyone here appreciates that you are one of a kind, the only question being whether it is the right kind – no offence intended. Let us waltz over your prima donna stuff and get to the nitty-gritty.

We have been studying the way you chart your movements. Dweedie, there are such things as spacetime co-ordinates. Is it really necessary for you to approach an unfamiliar galaxy with such comments as ‘a bit to the left’ and ‘large blobs at two o’clock high’? Do you remember nothing of your training at our Nautical And Space Academy – NASA, in case the acronym eludes you?

Do not underestimate the trainees we mentioned. Both have graduated with honours and could locate you in a trice if necessary – a possibility that is always under review here. This isn’t rocket science, Dwee. Well, actually it is, but you know what we mean. Anyway, don’t attempt to rise above your station.

The temperature here is still increasing inexorably and several lakes and rivers have dried up. Because our axial tilt is similar to that of the planet you are surveying, we are experiencing a drift towards the mountainous polar regions, where there is some relief from the heat at times. 

One consequence of this migration is that property prices in the high latitudes are soaring. We note that your residence is at 65 degrees North, so if you would like us to make a killing on your behalf by selling it for you and stashing the loot in your bank account, please let us know. You see, despite your insubordinate attitude we do care about you – sort of. However, we wonder sometimes what on earth we are to do with you – or to put it another way, what we are to do with you on Earth. Just a little pun.

Kindly let us have further news, and do make an effort to be brief. You might be interested to note that the latest nickname for you here is Chatsworth. Another merry quip. Do you get it? 

Passably sincere greetings from everyone at Mission Control. 

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*PER EASIER AD ASTRA

*​Having used the above words to open his speech today, Professor Ovis Jopp, the lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’ immediately apologised to the UK’s Royal Air Force for tweaking its motto, Per Ardua Ad Astra (By Hard Work To The Stars). He then revealed that he had solved the problem of travelling to Mars by what he called the short-haul route.

Sipping greengage wine, Jopp gave details of his experiment. “Like all great advances, it is elementary,” he said. “At its closest, Mars is, give or take the odd yard, about 35 million miles from us. Why is it thought necessary to undertake a journey of hundreds of millions of miles to get there? The answer is that earlier efforts involved the use of planetary motions to send probes on a long slow journey, because it is impracticable to make the vast fuel tanks needed to keep a spacecraft constantly under power during a direct trip. The ingenuity of my scheme lay in my realisation that the propulsive material could be burned here on the Earth.”

After pausing to let the audience grasp his idea, Jopp went on: “I decided that the best plan was to continuously pump fuel into a centrifugal machine. The site was a farm near Lillehammer. As propellant I used my newly-invented Joppanol. For the apparatus I adapted a conventional wind generator, painted green. I removed the blades and substituted a small model of a spaceship on one end of a thick chain, the other end of which was fastened to the generator’s hub. Thanks to practically unlimited fuel capacity, I was able to accelerate the spaceship to a speed which I calculated was well above the Earth’s escape velocity of seven miles per second. In effect, the construction is an immensely powerful slingshot. Believe me, we shall soon be reaching for the stars.”

Following thunderous applause, Jopp continued: “On reaching eight miles per second, I throttled down. However, there is no doubt that a larger version of my equipment will enable us reach Mars in a small fraction of the time hitherto regarded as a minimum. To provide suitable anchorage for my full-scale test I need a high sheer cliff. There is an excellent site near Geiranger. I may need to drain the fjord, but that is a minor obstacle. This is the greatest ever leap in the history of space travel. The system could be extended to take us far beyond Pluto and the planets Ovisius and Joppius, which I discovered a few months ago, though I did not publicise this.”

Apprehension was expressed by some scientists, in particular Jopp’s most vocal adversary, the short, globular, hairless ‘Swedish Savant’, Dr Terps Dunderklap. Interviewed outside a Kristiansand female nudist camp, he raged: “If this madman is not stopped, he will kill all of us. An error of one millisecond and his spaceship will go down instead of up, boring straight through the Earth. The oaf does not understand that even if he were right in principle, there is no sense in a vertical mounting. A horizontal arrangement performs better, though never well enough.”

Calming down slightly, Dunderklap continued: “I was far ahead of Jopp in this field, proving last year that the necessary impetus cannot be produced. I modified a fairground carousel, to which I attached a six-foot spacecraft on a length of ultra-strong twine. As fuel I used my own Dunderol. The test results accorded exactly with my predictions. At the speed of just over five miles per second, the craft broke loose, destroying two telephone poles and a barn. By the way, I notice that Jopp does not tell us how his ark is to return from Mars. What about that, brainbox?”

This seems like a good time for all of us to keep our heads down.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*MARKET FORCES

*​Should the UK liberalise its laws relating to drugs? Argument about this has raged for many years. The members of two groups in particular have been conducting a fierce propaganda battle. One observer dubbed them Bigots and Spigots, the former because of their allegedly narrow-minded sense of moral rectitude, the latter because of their declared intention to ‘tap the drug barrel’. The matter was finally handed to that renowned analyst of social issues, Sir Bertram Utterside, former professor of social studies at one of our top universities. He handled it in his usual forthright manner, as shown by his report below:

Though trifling, this question presents some points of interest. A research assistant has provided me with figures of government tax receipts for a recent twelve-month period. The total amount was well over £400 billion, of which close to ten per cent came from sales of alcohol and tobacco.

I have been given an estimate of the cost of medical care for those affected by illnesses supposedly caused by the two substances under review here. The amount was about £6billion. Obviously the people who pay taxes for alcohol and tobacco also contribute to general taxation in the same way as do their compatriots.

My recommendation is that all the drugs now proscribed be legalised and made available through new outlets, which would also become the only purveyors of alcoholic beverages and tobacco. All customers of these places would become registered users of drugs and the tax they pay for their addictions would be set aside for their use, individuals receiving benefits in direct proportion to what they spend on the various products. Any consequent shortfall in central government funds available to wider society for its range of needs would have to be made up by increases elsewhere in the taxation system.

Lest it should be felt that I have not been assiduous in my investigation, let me say that I have spoken with the Spigots’ leader, Mrs Lily Padd (79), a chain-smoking drunkard. She was euphoric. “It’s a wonderful idea,” she said. “We junkies would have our own sub-society, cared for hand and foot, with the best medical attention, including monthly check-ups, frequent spa treatments and so on. We reckon this will absorb no more than £15billion, so we shall have about twice as much as that left over to have a good time in other ways. We’ll all have lovely houses and cars and lots more goodies. Let the diehards look after themselves.”

I also interviewed the Bigots’ spokesman, jogging, iron-pumping Dan Bludgeon (38). “We’ll fight this,” he said. “If the Spigots get their extra billions, it will mean a huge rise in taxes for the rest of us. That would be ruinous. Also, the Spigots would monopolise many of the medical services, meaning a breakdown for other people. The prospect is horrifying.”

When I attempted to go into detail about the logic of my proposal, Mr Bludgeon was first extremely angry, then very abusive and finally incoherent. I must say that he lacked the intellectual rigour of his opposite number who, though profoundly inebriated, was lucid.

One cannot tackle issues as emotive as this one without raising some hackles. However, I am satisfied that I have been objective and I believe that my conclusions are sound.


* * *.
​


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## Courtjester

*THE NODE BULLETINS: NUMBER FIVE

*​Afghanistan, 12 July. I am beset by woes. Marcus Aurelius said that nothing befalls a man except what is in his nature to endure. I think he spoke too soon. There is now constant petty squabbling within the group. Even Gannett, so long a pillar of fortitude, has become vociferous, having recovered from his attack of laryngitis. He has revealed that we shall soon run out of food, a setback for which he blames Pugh. He is trying to pass the buck, but does have a point.

Shortly after I wrote my last bulletin, our pathfinder guided us to a mountain which he insisted was called Pik Oberpamir. I realised that we had reached the Pamirs, but could not see how the ‘Ober’ came in. Pugh was surely confused. By the way, his stoop is now very pronounced. Whether he is bowed with care or exhausted by his nocturnal activities in Flatpole’s company, I do not know. He laid out a course which we followed on decamping in the early morning of 9th July. After three days of hard slog, during which we had the Sun at angles I found puzzling – I had expected it to be mainly to our right, whereas we soon found it on the left – we came upon an empty corned beef tin. Recognising it, I instituted an investigation, learning that Pugh had led us on an oval route around the mountain and back to our starting point. This elliptical tour has indeed exacerbated our grocery problem.

There is some positive news. We are at last within sight of the lofty pass that will take us into Pakistan. Also, Flatpole has for once shown her worth. Our porters became recalcitrant and when verbal communication proved ineffective, our linguist employed physical methods for the second time within a week or so. The result was four-nil to her, all the porters suffering minor injuries, the outcome marred only by one of them sustaining a broken arm, which reduces his value to us. Still, they are now docile. Good work, Amanda.

I have many fears, but am keeping them to myself, as a leader should.

A further Node Bulletin coming soon.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*A TRAVELLER'S TALE

*​We present here a copy of a letter sent to us by a man who also supplied a brief covering note describing him as, among other things, an avid Madazine reader. Ah, so he’s the one. He has what we think is an intriguing slant on getting around. Editor

Dear Sir or Madam,

I hope some of your other readers will be interested to hear of an exchange of views I had last week with a friend who called to share a meal with me. During the pre-prandial chat he remarked that I seem to be something of a stick-in-the-mud, as I never venture more than two or three miles from my house, and then only on foot, whereas he and others known to both of us gad about quite a lot. He spoke of the alleged benefits of travel, especially the mind-broadening effect. I responded vaguely, sensing that there was an appropriate retort but being unable to give it.

The answer came to me as I was chopping onions. Incidentally, I bungled the culinary arrangements. The repast was a vegetable and lentil stew. Owing to either my intense pondering or my custom of dining alone, I failed to produce enough for the two of us, so made up the shortfall with cheese sandwiches. Happily, we are both somewhat bohemian in such matters, so neither of us cared much about my error. At the table, I imparted the fruits of my cogitation, as follows:

The Earth is turning on its axis, any given point on the equator moving at slightly over 1,000 miles per hour(mph). Owing to the latitude of my home, I don’t get full value from this, but do manage about 600mph. While it is busy behaving like a spinning top, our planet also clocks up about 580million miles a year, or 70,000mph in its orbit of the Sun, which in turn carts the Solar System around the Milky Way at about 500,000mph. On top of this, a recent survey suggested that our local group of galaxies is edging towards a larger cluster at a pretty brisk 1,000,000mph. I accept this figure pro tem, but realise that it will probably be revised before the ink I am using here is dry. The physicist Lev Landau remarked that cosmologists are often in error but never in doubt. To cap it all, we are told that the Universe is expanding at quite a lick. I will ignore this because I don’t believe anyone can give a reliable figure.

Along with everyone else, I am covering a vast distance at a minimum speed of nearly 1.6million mph, or 14,000million miles per year. My friend reckons that he drives about 12,000 miles in the same period of time and he never uses any form of transport other than his car. Therefore, he travels less than one millionth more than I do, for which dubious advantage he looks decidedly jaded and does a good deal of complaining about road stress. Also, his carbon footprint is quite heavy, while mine is about as light as a person can achieve without levitating.

With regard to the supposed mind-broadening effect of travel, I am bound to think of the intellectual giants of yesteryear, many of whom produced their outputs with very little gallivanting. My conclusion was that by moving around as much as I do with hardly any inconvenience, and I hope no great mental decay, I am getting a better deal than my friend is. I told him so and he said he didn’t understand me.

Yours sincerely, 

Rufus Narrowgnome

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*CONGRATULATIONS : PLEASE CLAIM YOUR PRIZE

*​
“Thank you for calling the Cosmoid Group of Companies. If you wish to speak with Cosmoid Imports and Exports, please press 1. If you wish to contact Cosmoid Merchants, please press 2. If you wish to contact Cosmoid Traders, please press 3. If you wish to contact Cosmoid Financing, please press 4. If you wish to contact Cosmoid Lotteries, please press 5.

Beep.

“Thank you for telephoning Cosmoid Lotteries. All our operators are busy at present and your call has been placed in a queue. We guarantee an answer within five minutes. Please enjoy the soothing music.”

“Good morning. This is Cosmoid Lotteries. If your query concerns General Administration, please press 1. If your query concerns prize distribution from any year but the current one, please press 2. If your query concerns the prize draw for this year, please press 3.”

Beep.

“Thank you for calling Cosmoid Lotteries Current Distribution. All our operators are busy at present. Your call has been placed in a queue and will be answered within three minutes. Please enjoy the soothing music.”

“Good morning. Cosmoid Lotteries Current Distribution. May I help you?”

“I hope so. Frankly, I’m getting a bit impatient. I was asked to wait five minutes to get through to you, then a further three minutes to actually speak to someone. I’d say you overstepped the bounds in both cases.”

“No sir, we did not. All calls are recorded. Your first wait was of four minutes, fifty-seven seconds and the second one was two minutes, fifty-eight seconds. We always honour our promises.”

“I see. Well, you asked me to return the form you sent, then phone you today. I understood that I’d qualified for a prize of eight hundred thous – ”

“Yes, sir. Please permit me to introduce myself. I am Luis, and you are . . .?”

“Green, forename Jo . . . hey, are you laughing at me?

“Certainly not. Some of our connections are giving trouble. I believe it is called tittering on the line.”

“Don’t you mean twittering?”

“Possibly. I do not understand these technological expressions.”

“All right. Now, where do we go from here?”

“Could you give me your winning number?”

“It’s WW 00373 7779 WW 27477 WW 009.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll just repeat that.”

“Oh, no. All those W’s and sevens take time. I’m sure you’ve got it.”

“I hope so, sir. And your name is Green?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Please wait a moment . . .Yes, your name and number correspond with our records.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, especially as I didn’t buy a lottery ticket.”

“That isn’t necessary. The prize winners are generated randomly from inhabitants of the Western Hemisphere. No tickets are sold. The prize money comes from a foundation set up by a man who made a fortune by playing games of chance. He wished to give back to the gambling world something of what he had gained from it.”

“Ah, so that’s how it works. Now, what’s next?”

“It’s very simple. There are only three formalities. First, you returned the bank transfer form. It’s most important for us to check that your signature was the one you normally used for your bank.”

“Of course it was. Go on.”

“You did not supply details of your account. We need that information in order to transfer the funds. Could you help us with this?”

“Yes, it’s ISBN – ”

“Pardon the interruption. That is the International System of Book Numbering. The bank account starts with IBAN – ”

“Oh, yes. Silly of me. I’ll give you it in a moment. Meantime, what about the second point?”

“It is of great value to us to learn the domestic status of prize-winners. Are you single, married, separated, divorced, a widower, or in another category?”

“Is there any other?”

“We have not encountered one yet, Mr Green, but we must allow for the possibility.”

“Fair enough. I’m a bigamist, but that would come under married, wouldn’t it?”

“Very much so. Now, it only remains for me to – ”

“Here, I’ve got it. You want to keep people on the phone, don’t you? The name of the game’s procrastination, isn’t it?”

“Porcastrination? I don’t understand.”

“I’ll bet you don’t. Porcastrination, eh? Look, you’re a foreigner, aren’t you?”

“Basque!”

“Oy, there’s no need for that kind of talk. Let’s keep it polite, shall we?”

“I was speaking of ethnicity, Mr Green. Anyway, we are all foreigners outside our national borders. Even the Chinese account for only a fifth of the world’s population.”

“Good point. What I meant was that you’re not British.”

“That is true of over ninety-nine per cent of us, Mr Green.”

“Oh, right. Well, let’s get back to basics. You want me to fork out a pound a minute for this call, don’t you?”

“I can’t comment on that.”

“I bet you can’t. However, I refuse to be deflected. What do you want me to do? Don’t go back to the bank account – I’ll get to that in a jiffy. What’s the third of those formalities you mentioned?”

“You are unusually diffic . . . perceptive, Mr Green. Very well. You can register your claim by pressing the ‘any’ key, then we’ll return to the bank matter.”

Beep.

“No, Mr Green, that was not the ‘any’ key, was it?”

“What do you mean? So far as I know, there’s no such thing as an ‘any’ key on a phonepad.”

“Ah, how unfortunate. I’m afraid that as you have been unable to comply with our requirements, the prize money concerned will be included in our next draw.”

“Look here, I’m monitoring this. I’ve been on the phone for over twelve minutes. You’ve leased this line, so you can rake in the call charges, right?”

“It’s thirteen minutes, forty-nine seconds, Mr Green. Sorry you didn’t win. Better luck next time.”


* * *​


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## Courtjester

*THIRD MESSAGE TO PLANET X
*​
Thanks – hardly the right word but never mind – for the snotty response to my second report. Dear me, we are touchy, aren’t we? I must be careful where I tread, as the sound of crunching corns is audible across the void. Still, I shall do my best, though I feel compelled to raise again the matter of the supposedly redoubtable pair of astrosleuths you have in mind to hunt me down. It’s bad enough that you need two, but couldn’t you have done better? I quake at the thought that they might have been activated when I had that breakdown in Andromeda. But for my foresight in taking along an adjustable spanner and a roll of adhesive tape, you would have been seeking me to this day. Don’t let those two dimwits out even together, let alone solo. They’re not up to it.

I don’t wish to go on too long about the dopey duo, but let me say that Dworkles needs a ball of string to get back home from the office – an epic journey of half a kilometre – while in the case of Dwindles – what an appropriate name – the only thing that has diminished is the intellect, which started at zero, then declined. I heard that the terrible twosome colluded in an examination involving multiple-choice questions. Among other howlers, they selected ‘our historic move to socialism’ as a definition of redshift and ‘stellar-powered central heating’ as a solar system. I’d hate to think of this brace of dumbos getting lost in some asinine attempt to clap me in irons, and can imagine your chagrin at having to appeal to _me _to find _them_. I’ll try to avoid mentioning this again, but give no guarantee.

By the way, I’d like to know why we are all pigeon-holed at birth by the first two letters in our names, in my case DW, signifying a space traveller. If you really want to know, I would have chosen to be an architect, but nobody ever asked me, right? When thinking of the designs I could have produced, I cry like a baby, especially when I combine the thought with musings on how I have wrenched my guts in repeated – apparently vain – efforts to satisfy you.

I haven’t much to report because I gave you a great deal of information in the appendices I sent earlier – another effort for which you didn’t embarrass me with thanks. However, I will offer a few words about how the human male/female relationship has functioned. Historically, the usual tendency has been for males to wander and for females to stay at home, so the former have usually been the ones to make first contact with others of their kind. Unfortunately, too many of these meetings have been collisions rather than civilised encounters.

There is some debate here as to whether the story would have been different if the females, who seem more disposed to cooperation rather than confrontation, had been the ones to venture out. One cannot say, as the few females who have acceded to high office seem to have behaved much like their male counterparts. Perhaps it is a case of the jobs being onerous, no matter who does them – the office moulding the holder and not vice versa. Be that as it may, this gender thing has a certain allure, to which I do not seem to be impervious. Note this well!

Social advancement here has too often been brought about by upheaval rather than sensible progress. When one considers the differing levels of development of various individuals, perhaps the surprising thing is not that society doesn’t operate better than it does, but rather that it works at all. Human beings might be well-advised to follow the example of some supposedly lower species, such as ants, which also have a high ratio of brain to body-size. They seem to realise that each individual forms a tiny fraction of a whole and their behaviour reflects this. There is a glimmer of hope for homo sapiens in this respect, but in my view they are proceeding too slowly. One reason is that humans in general have so far unlocked only a small fraction of their mental wherewithal – some say about 10% on average and perhaps 20% for the most advanced specimens. I suspect that these estimates are too high.

Within the countries I have studied most closely, there is a slight difference between the sexes in terms of longevity, the females usually surviving a little longer than the males. I think the reason is obvious. The female experiences great bodily stress when producing offspring, but this occurs typically – at least in the more developed areas – on only two or three occasions in a lifetime. By contrast, the males are in general subjected to more ongoing strain, for example by working in physically demanding jobs. As heavy industry becomes increasingly mechanised, so the life-length gap between the genders is likely to close. And now I must do the same – those damned batteries again. Just time to say that I was most amused to note that you have nicknamed me ‘Chatsworth’. That’s better than I had expected from such a po-faced lot as you. Oh, your offer to sell my house is appreciated. Please do this and see that there are no sticky fingers around when you bank the boodle. Don’t invest it in any long-term bonds. 

Stay cool – as if you could.

Dweedles

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*SCANDINAVIAN STALEMATE*​
It is unusual for Professor Ovis Jopp, the lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’ to turn his attention away from the deeper mysteries of physics. However, he did so recently when asked to try his hand at producing an infallible chess-playing machine. Announcing the result of his foray, the jovial giant was positively effervescent, reporting success commensurate with his expectations. Helping himself liberally from a jeroboam of his home-made greengage wine, he explained his project to a rapt audience, as follows: 

“I applied the same incisive reasoning to this problem as I do to genuine scientific ones, thus grasping quickly where others had erred. They had stuck strictly to chess, failing to widen their scope. I was able to improve upon their efforts by taking in mah-jong, the Japanese pastime of ‘go’ and some aspects of tai-chi and Zen. Superimposing these concepts upon the chess base, for which I used a book entitled ‘A Century of Master Chess’, I soon had the ingredients for a kind of intellectual soup, which I cooked, using a touch of what one might call Joppian inspiration.

“I was told that a computer company had produced a machine known as Deep Blue, which had shown promise by beating the leading human player. However, I have to say I consider that artifact virtually paleolithic, compared with my apparatus which I call Dark Green. For the proving process, I brought to bear my characteristic thoroughness. First, I tested my own strength and was gratified, though hardly surprised, to discover that I had a British Chess Federation (BCF) rating of 390. I understand that this is far higher than any level hitherto recorded.”

After prolonged applause, Jopp went on: “Armed with this knowledge, I pitted myself against my machine in a twenty-game match. I have to report that the outcome was a full score of draws, neither the device nor I ever looking like getting the upper hand. If I, with my phenomenal rating, cannot prevail, nobody else will, including the world champion, whatever his name is. I propose to add a few refinements, but it is already clear that I have succeeded in producing an invincible chess-playing appliance. This is far from being my first coup, but it is one of which I am particularly proud, as it represents a departure from my normal work.”

Disparagement came at once from Jopp’s most virulent attacker, the short bulbous pilgarlic ‘Swedish Savant,’ Dr Terps Dunderklap. Emerging from a topless bottomless Sundsvall women’s bowling alley, he grunted his ridicule. “Nothing in this world is perfect,” he said, “but as morons go, Jopp is close enough. This time, he made only two mistakes, which for such a maniac is good going. His first blunder was the book choice, which covers the wrong century, the nineteenth – a period noted for unsound sacrificial play. The second error was Jopp’s confusion of ratings. His score of 390 was on the internationally accepted Elo scale, where the numbers are about ten times those used by the BCF for any given playing strength. An Elo rating of 390 indicates the intellectual level of an amoeba. The reason for the twenty drawn games is that neither the man nor his ludicrous machine is capable of giving checkmate. Decades ago, I played ten games against him, winning all of them by one or other of the two most basic methods, fool’s mate and scholar’s mate. Naturally, the former predominated, as Jopp was always more of a fool than a scholar.”

The professor retorted: “Klaptrap’s memory is as weak as the rest of his mind. The ‘match’ he played was against my brother Ovar, who was an infant and did not even know how to move the pieces, while Dunderhead was twelve years of age. I would compliment him on his genius in chalking up that great victory, but he wouldn’t understand the sarcasm.”

A case for bated breath, it seems. Do we have a solution or just another argument?


* * *​


----------



## Courtjester

*HOTTING UP?
*​
Yet another of the great problems of our time was recently put before that consummate cogitator, Sir Bertram Utterside, former professor of social studies at one of Britain’s most prestigious universities. On this occasion, he was asked to address the intertwining subjects of global warming and carbon dioxide levels. He has dealt with several weighty issues, offering solutions which, though perhaps intellectually incontestable, have usually been controversial. As ever, his report was eagerly awaited. It is given below, in his typically mordant prose:

I was quite pleased to be charged with this task, as it is one of the few worthy of my attention. When the matter was referred to me, I felt obligated to interrupt a sojourn at my local abattoir, where I was attempting to confirm the correctness of my conversion to vegetarianism, which took place some time ago. I will not expand on this, beyond saying that there will be no more Sir Loin for Sir Bertram – a little pun for those who maintain that I have no sense of humour.

We are currently bombarded with information concerning the allegedly intolerable consequences of our actions. Rubbish! This stuff comes a bunch of cry-babies who always purport to know what is wrong, but are never able to tell us what is right. It has been noted that the carbon dioxide content of our air has risen from 280 to 380 parts per million (ppm) over the last century and a half, and that we cannot survive a level of more than 450ppm. I accept the figures, but the conclusion is nonsense. Over the ages, we have made great progress and have changed as required. Why should we not continue to do so? Those who think that we are Nature’s last word will find no comfort here.

There is no reason why we should not adapt as circumstances demand. When all is said and done, we are not well fitted to our current environment. If you doubt this, take off your clothes and go outside every day for a while. Most of you will soon find that a temperature outside the range of about 15 to 35 degrees Celsius will leave you feeling uncomfortable.

The late great Carl Sagan suggested that we could make the planet Venus habitable by shooting into its atmosphere a mass of blue-green algae, which have a high tolerance of temperature variations. His idea was that these organisms would, by consuming Co2, cool the surface of our next-door planet from its present hell-hole state to something more acceptable to us. We need not go all the way, but could reduce the heat on Venus while coping with some warming of the Earth, thus gradually getting the two bodies into thermal equilibrium and paving the way for us to colonise our neighbour. For those not familiar with the concept, the Venusian operation is called terraforming.

As for the supposedly impending cessation of the Gulf Stream which keeps us in the North passably warm in winter, this should be good news for the worriers. If they are ever pleased by anything, they should rejoice at the prospect of the North Atlantic Drift switching off, since that event will cool us at the same time as human activity does the opposite, the overall effect being neutral.

I must mention atomic energy, as its use is a factor in terms of air quality. If we manage to produce nuclear fusion on a commercial scale, we shall have power with very little pollution. If we fail in that area, fission will remain available. Let me note here that the doomsayers among us are exaggerating the problem of waste from current atomic power generation. If we do not find a way to neutralise the nasties, we shall develop better rocket propulsion, which will enable us to bundle up anything we don’t want and shoot it at the Sun, which will swallow it without any trace of indigestion. After all, our star is a colossal nuclear reactor, at present shedding mass at the rate of four million tonnes a second. It will simply recycle our garbage.

Finally, I would say that none of the above points matters much because any millennium now there will be another great freeze which will bury most of Europe, including the UK, under a vast sheet of ice. I recommend that you do not start reading any long books – another witticism for the people who say that I cannot see the funny side of things. That is all.


* * *​


----------



## Courtjester

*THE NODE BULLETINS : NUMBER SIX
*​
Terra incognita, 19 July. With apologies to Captain Scott, this is a terrible place. I am not clear as to whether we have left Afghanistan or not, but feel sure that we are on the harshest – and perhaps highest – pass in the world. I take this opportunity to write, since there may be no other. As if the terrain were not enough, the internecine wrangling continues. Thoroughbrace says that he is inappropriately labelled as Transport Officer, claiming that Flatpole has usurped most of his duties.

Ridley Gannett, trying desperately to eke out our rations, today fried up a revolting concoction of unidentifiable ingredients over a fire of dried animal droppings. I do not wish to seem ungrateful, but think he would have been better advised to reverse the functions of food and dung. Perhaps the rarified atmosphere is making me a little churlish. Should we manage to descend the eastern side of this ghastly col, I shall adopt a more forthright attitude to the matter of our daily bread.

Flatpole and Pugh continue to spend most of their time away from the rest of us. When they returned to camp this morning, our trailblazer was a sorry sight. Insofar as one can inspect his visage – difficult because of his ever more remarkable shape – he seems to have large bags under his eyes. If his bodily change continues, we might soon be able to form him into a hoop, which we could bowl away, thus eliminating some of our worries. Possibly it is a further influence of oxygen deficiency that causes me to fantasise in this manner. As Pugh weakens, so Flatpole strengthens. She now looks quite radiant. It is as though she is gaining the vigour that Pugh is losing. Today she trimmed her beard and, apart from a heavy stubble growth, looks quite feminine.

Despite our miseries, I feel that if we survive tonight, things might improve.

A further Node Bulletin coming soon.

* * *​


----------



## Courtjester

*OASIS
*​
It was hot, even for summer in the Southwest. The shimmering air was not conducive to comfort for anyone unfortunate enough to be outdoors – and someone was. A weary horseman headed at snail’s pace towards a huddle of buildings that made up the only settlement for many miles around. Coated with the ubiquitous dust, man and beast looked almost like a single creature – a moving statue.

On reaching the livery stable, the man arranged care for his mount, then crossed the baking street to the saloon, finding it occupied only by the owner, Sean O’Reilly, who paused in his work of cleaning the bartop to cast his eyes over the apparition before him. “Howdy,” he said with a nod. “Warm out there.”

The newcomer took off his hat and used it to batter the rest of his apparel, raising a storm that would later keep the fastidious host busy for half an hour. “Sure is,” he replied, “an’ I reckon I’ve had my share of it. You can give me the longest beer you have, then maybe a few more.”

Observing his visitor’s condition, O’Reilly summoned a look that managed to combine pain and embarrassment, then turned up his palms. “Sorry, I can’t oblige you right now.”

“What’s that?” said the fatigued stranger, his forearms resting on the bar.

O’Reilly shrugged resignedly. “Like to help you, friend, but we have a town ordinance against drinkin’ in public places before six o’clock an’ it’s only four forty.”

The stranger’s face took on a hostile look. “You tryin’ to make fool of me?” he snapped.

“Nope. We got a deputy sheriff here who’s mighty touchy about such things. If I sell you any liquor before time, he’ll likely close me down.”

“Beer ain’t liquor.”

“It is here.”

The stranger straightened sharply. “Mister,” he rasped, “I mean to have a beer, an’ if you won’t serve it, I’ll help myself.” He had no way of knowing that the saloon-keeper was the most formidable brawler in the county and never loath to demonstrate his pugilistic power.

O’Reilly stepped out from behind the bar, loosening his apron strings. “You’re out of line,” he said. “I guess I’ll have to put you right.” He cocked his fists in a reflex action, yet for once he didn’t really like the idea of doing what was in his mind. He saw that apart from being dead beat, the stranger was obviously well over a decade ahead of his own thirty-two years and, though matching him in height at five-eleven, was a stringy hundred and fifty pounds or so, facing a hard-packed two hundred and ten.

Having noted that O’Reilly was unarmed, the gaunt stranger might have chosen to enforce his will with the threat of lead, but he knew there was a code. He opened his gunbelt and tossed it onto a table. “Let’s get started,” he growled.

It was a memorable bout. For a man in his state and conceding so much else, the stranger gave an astonishing account of himself, drawing on a reserve of nervous energy that drove him beyond his apparent physical limits.

Wary circling was interspersed with toe-to-toe slogging and liberal use of thumbs, foreheads and elbows. Sometimes the two rolled over the floor until, slamming into the bar or a wall, they were shaken apart. Once, they tumbled out onto the boardwalk locked together, breaking by mutual consent to escape the furnace heat. The instant they were back inside, the stranger was thrown halfway across the room, sliding on his back until his head struck the base panel of the old piano with a resounding dong. He sprang up and resumed the contest.

At one point the saloon-keeper hurled his opponent clear over the bar and against the rear wall with a crash that brought down a dozen bottles from the shelves. Even that didn’t stop the stranger, who bounded back over the woodwork to dive upon his adversary. The local champion bruiser began to feel as though he was trying conclusions with a grizzly bear. But the stranger was weakening.

O’Reilly seemed to see his chance. He stepped forwards incautiously, straight into a cannonball right that put him down. He clambered to his feet and the tussle went on. Finally, the stranger’s flagging resources caused his arms to fall to his sides. O’Reilly leapt forwards and rammed a knee into his midriff. He jackknifed and O’Reilly, giving himself plenty of room, delivered a right uppercut. The stranger fell backwards and lay spreadeagled near the door. He was out.

Several minutes passed before the fallen warrior came to his senses, to find O’Reilly, now all solicitude, bending over him and wiping his face with a damp towel. “Glad to see you awake again,” said the saloon-keeper. “You’re a hell of a scrapper. I’ve licked ’em all around here, and not one lasted half as long as you did.”

The stranger levered himself upright. “Quite a battle,” he said, grinning wryly. “Pity you didn’t get me when I was fresh.”

O’Reilly chuckled. “I sure would hate to do that,” he said. “I’d as soon tackle a family o’ wildcats as try you again. Anyway, I ain’t too proud about how it ended. Some might call kneeing you like that a foul move.”

“Wasn’t the only one, either side,” the stranger answered, rubbing his jaws. “Anyway, nobody said it had to be a fair fight. Now, what time is it?”

“Five fifteen.”

“Later than I thought. Well, you made your point. You have rules an’ I suppose I’ll have to abide by them. When six o’clock comes, I’ll take that drink.”

“On the house,” said O’Reilly. “Would you like a beer while you’re waitin’?”

* * *​


----------



## Courtjester

*THIRD REPLY FROM PLANET X TO EMISSARY

*​Dear Dweedles

Your third rambling report received. No wonder your resources need frequent boosting. You use far too much power on pointless invective. We would have arranged extra facilities long ago, but you’d have frittered them away by sounding off. We know you are partial to equations, so please note that capacity for loquacity equals mendacity. Yes, we have been boning up – is that the right expression? – on English. In case you are as far adrift linguistically as psychologically, the observation implies that fibbers are inclined to smother their falsehoods under an avalanche of words. You will recall that your friend Dwinkles once went on a jaunt like yours and, in order to extend it, reported to us what we later learned was a tissue of lies. Though we are not suggesting that you are culpable of the same conduct at present, we advise frequent self-appraisal. Would it help if we were to dispatch a top shrink to give you a good going-over?

We were well aware of the dangers of sending you out alone, but couldn’t afford to support two voyagers at the time. We can now (even separately), so note that one way or another you must accept assistance. If you are not prepared to confront a psychiatrist, be aware that we have brought Dwolf out of retirement. You might well quail at the prospect of being hounded by the king of trackers, who – thanks to our new diversification plan – is also a partially qualified head doctor. Big D. will hardly need to put an ear to the ground in order to locate you. Did you really think that we would not have contingency plans for coping with a maverick? You are indeed irreplaceable (just as well), but you are not indispensable.

As for your allusion to treading on corns, the question of where you put your feet has caused disquiet here for some time. Permit us to suggest that one or other of them is usually in your mouth. We’re getting quite good at the funny stuff, don’t you think? Anyway, consider our point.

We have digested your comments concerning human beings. It seems that something must be done about these creatures, and you may rest assured that we are giving this matter the thought it deserves. Please don’t annihilate homo sapiens at this stage – the species might be useful to us.

Your appendices told us most of what we needed to know. However, we believe that the essential information could have been produced with far less toil on your part. Try to remember the old eighty-twenty business rule – 80% of the desired result is usually achieved with 20% of the available effort, while the residual 20% of a perfect outcome requires the remaining 80% of work. That game isn’t worth the candle.

Kindly send your next report soon, as our star has become very hot. It’s marginally comforting that we have no call for meat or fish, since every fridge on this planet is now on the blink. Do not lose sight of the fact that while we are largely in your hands, you are (thanks to Dwolf) more or less in ours. A stand-off.

Regards from your worried but still hopeful support group at Mission Control.


* * *​


----------



## Courtjester

*GOODBYE, SCI-FI
*
​Changing fantasy to fact is not a new experience for Professor Ovis Jopp, the lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’, but even the most hardened physicists were shaken yesterday, when the formidable fjordsman announced that he had become the first Earthling to negotiate spacewarps. Feeding his listeners with green pralines, made for the occasion by his wife, he divulged that his discovery was virtually accidental.

“Like other great thinkers, I believe in validating my ideas in more than one way,” he said. “As you know, I have already demonstrated that my scientific contemporaries have gone astray in their thinking on propulsion systems for interstellar travel. I was not satisfied with a single contrivance, such as the space centrifuge I built recently. This time, the principle was still ground-based powering. I realised that if I had done that by one method, I could do it by another. Therefore, I produced a second revolutionary machine, which I call the ultracoil.

After an eruption of applause, Jopp went on: “Thank you, but it is not the innovation, brilliant though it is, that takes centre-stage here. I just mention it in passing. So far, I have made only one small model, four feet long in repose mode, and vanishingly small in its opposite, or taut condition. The full-sized version will be vastly more powerful. However, even the prototype has produced an epoch-making, if to some extent inadvertent, result.”

With his audience enthralled, the professor described his apparatus. “I will not bore you with the finer details of the appliance,” he said. “Basically, it comprises a wire spring of immense length – or height – which must be compressed. This can be done horizontally, by sophisticated hydraulic ramming, so subtle that I shall have to invent it myself, or vertically, by upending the relaxed spring and hauling it groundwards by means of huge winches of such complexity that here again, the design will require supervision on my part.”

“I was pleased to note that the device performed even better than I had imagined it would. However, that was as nothing compared to my feelings when the nose probe returned four days later, covered in a strange whitish substance, which I subjected to spectroscopic analysis. Imagine my excitement when I discovered that the Fraunhofer lines indicated that this matter was identical solely with an element found in a galaxy eighty million light years from us. This could have come about only because my machine found its way through one or more of the spacewarps so beloved of those in the realms of fantasy, and – amazingly – returned. This is a sublime moment for the human race and a glorious one for me.”

Not everyone is overwhelmed. Perhaps least impressed is top anti-Joppist, the squat, convex, depilated ‘Swedish Savant’, Dr. Terps Dunderklap. Located at a go-go bar in Karlskrona, he was exceptionally trenchant. “Oh, the dolt,” he cried. “I noted his recent fatuous claim to have gone below the absolute zero level of temperature. Now he seems set to do the same with respect to intelligence. As it happened, one of my students was concealed at the site of Jopp’s preposterous experiment, and observed a total failure. The returning probe landed on the roof of Jopp’s own house and was doubtless later blown down by the wind. As for the spectroscopy, there is but one explanation other than that which Jopp mentions. The object shows the same Fraunhofer pattern as do pigeon droppings. Need I say more?”

Perhaps not, but he probably will.

* * *​


----------



## slightblasphemy

haha this stuff is good


----------



## Courtjester

*TOP MANAGEMENT
*
​“Now we present the first in a new series ‘Our Country Today’, in which we shall be discussing a range of issues affecting all of us. This week’s subject is modern senior management. Our interviewer is Mark Benche and our guest this evening is Sir Percival Stropes, Managing Director of United Vehicle Builders. So without further ado, over to the studio.”

Benche: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to our guest, Sir Percival Stropes.

Stropes: Hello, Mark.

Benche: You’ve been in charge at UVB for three years and were recently appointed chairman of the Association of Chief Executives.

Stropes: Yes.

Benche: So I suppose there could be nobody better qualified to tell us about the thinking of high-level management.

Stropes: Right.

Benche: I’d like to begin with your overview of the current position.

Stropes: Yes.

Benche: Well, perhaps you’d care to give us a start.

Stropes: Yes.

Benche: Er . . . now, if you will, Sir Percival.

Stropes: Oh, yes. Very well. What do you want me to say?

Benche: I was hoping you’d give us your take on the performance of the economy following the recent boardroom revolution.

Stropes: I’ll put it simply. We now have more hair on our chests than ever before. The gloves are off and we are punching our full weight. That’s in the heavy division. Nowadays, when we hit ‘em, they stay hit.

Benche: Quite. Now, if we could leave the boxing analogy, perhaps you would tell us just how things have changed. I’m thinking of the widely expressed feeling that we can’t sustain our position in the world without massive investment in education.

Stropes: Nonsense. There was a report to that effect as long ago as 1884.

Benche: Indeed there was, and some would say that it was accurate, as we have been sliding downhill ever since then. How can we hold our ground?

Stropes: Easily. We merely continue with our current process of downsimpling.

Benche: Well, I’ve heard of downsizing and downscaling, but you mention something new to me, and possibly to many of our listeners. Could you explain?

Stropes: Nothing to it. One merely needs to match the skills available to the work that can be found for them.

Benche: I see. But is that not the problem? As we fail to produce people with abilities appropriate to the new age, so we decline proportionately. Some would call this social regression.

Stropes: Killjoys, the lot of them. If the Weary Willies can’t stand the heat, they should leave the kitchen. Personally, I have no qualms about facing the future. Anyway, you have to consider the alternative to downsimpling.

Benche: And what is that?

Stropes: Upteching.

Benche: That’s raising skill-levels to match the work required, is it?

Stropes: You could say so. I’ve no time for such airy-fairy ideas. I’m a plain man and I like plain dealings. Let’s leave these things to the Japanese, Germans, French, Americans and any others who think, in my view mistakenly, that they can make a go of it.

Benche: Forthright comment. Now, if I may widen the scope, perhaps you’d tell us how you tackled the problems you found on taking over at UVB?

Stropes: Head-on, that’s how. It was a question of administration and cognisance. First, we adopted the ‘flat mountain’ system of management.

Benche: That’s intriguing. Would you elaborate?

Stropes: It’s common sense. When I took charge, we had an absurdly hierarchical set-up. There were shop-floor workers, section leaders, assistant departmental managers, departmental managers, function heads, general managers, executive directors and the Board. That was eight levels. Ridiculous.

Benche: Some people might think that was not unreasonable in a company with 68,000 employees.

Stropes: They would be wrong. I immediately engaged Barton, Burton, Barton. In my view they’re finest management consultants in the world.

Benche: It could be argued that your judgement was less than impartial, in view of the fact that you are a non-executive director of BBB.

Stropes: Rubbish. Three B’s is the best firm of its kind and well worth every penny it cost.

Benche: Which was £3 million – 50% more than any other tender.

Stropes: If you pay peanuts, you get monkeys. These people put us on course with their two-part rescue scheme – ‘flat mountain’ and ‘laser focus’.

Benche: Tell us what difference the first part made to you.

Stropes: It changed the system to one like ripples on pondwater, in reverse. Employees no longer had to climb a pyramid to reach me. Open door policy, you see.

Benche: But surely you couldn’t allow access to you by everyone?

Stropes: Obviously we needed a filtering process. Input from the periphery is now sieved through progressively senior, status-graded employees.

Benche: And how many grades are involved?

Stropes: Starting at the rim, there are nine. The highest number applies to me.

Benche: That gives you more strata than before, doesn’t it?

Stropes: I didn’t think you’d understand. Top management is a science.

Benche: Er, well, perhaps we could pass on to the second part – laser focus.

Stropes: Straightforward. The consultants clarified that along with so many companies, we were not truly centred upon what we were doing. We’d gone wrong in labouring under the delusion that we were in the business of providing passenger vehicles.

Benche: But you were in that business, weren’t you?

Stropes: Not really. Our task was to move people from place to place. Making the nuts and bolts was secondary. It’s a question of strategy versus tactics. You might say that conveying the public was the strategy, whereas producing the wherewithal was merely tactics. Simple military thinking.

Benche: Very incisive. And how does that translate into practice?

Stropes: Easily. We shifted our attention from manufacture to transport.

Benche: How did you do that?

Stropes: Child’s play. We located large numbers of people who wanted to be on the move, then changed emphasis. So, apart from a head office with a few irreplaceable top administrators, we’re closing down our operations, selling premises and plant and investing the proceeds in Chinese railways.

Benche: Don’t you feel that you owe your workforce, and maybe the rest of us, a more detailed explanation?

Stropes: Look, I didn’t come here to be pilloried. Anyway, I have an important meeting in half an hour, so good night to you.


* * *​


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## Courtjester

We don’t know when or how the tale below was submitted to us. The original bears no date, address or signature, and was found in a plain envelope. Editor 

*HOW ARE YOU?
*
​I imagine many of your readers share my view that queries about one’s wellbeing are usually rhetorical. People ask how one is faring, but most of them don’t really want to know. My old RAF mate Colin and I settled this point long ago by agreeing to contact one another at the same times of the same days each week, so we never bother with introductory banalities. Our conversations start with the recipient picking up the receiver and saying something like ‘Do you want to buy an ostrich?’ or ‘Look, nobody gives away fitted kitchens.’

This doesn’t work with other callers, who are usually discomfited by such overtures. There are exceptions, these including salespeople, who seem to have a prepared spiel from which they can be deflected only by drastic measures, and sometimes not even then. Almost invariably, they ring me between midday and one-thirty p.m., or at any time from five to seven-thirty in the evening. Nowadays, I ignore the phone in those periods, but there was a time when I enjoyed myself with the near-daily chats, usually explaining that the timing was inconvenient, as I was (a) hurrying to a funeral, (b) expecting news from the hospice where my father was confined – he died thirty-odd years ago – or (c) waiting for a fire engine to dowse the conflagration in my flat. Perhaps the high spot was when I announced myself as the sales manager for Maserati Fork-lift Trucks. My offer of our new Megalifta – with one twitch of its mighty prongs, it could handle four thousand house bricks – failed to derail the stout fellow at the other end.

Anyway, I’m getting off the point, or not getting onto it. The theme is acquaintances, in this case David, a former office colleague who has the mistaken impression that I am a fount of general knowledge. He is extraordinarily self-obsessed and calls only when he needs advice. For this reason I had decided to turn the table on him at some juncture. The opportunity arose when he rang two months ago. “How are you, Jack?” he bawled.

“Not so good,” I groaned. “I’ve just fallen onto a circular saw. Damned thing sliced through my right bicep. I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.”

“Hard luck,” he said. “Listen, I was wondering if you have any idea how to get engine oil out of asphalt. I’ve a great patch of gunge on my drive.”

Damn, he’d hit the Achilles heel. He was speaking to one of the very few people able to solve his problem. I was torn between brushing him off and telling him what to do. Decency prevailed, albeit briefly. “There’s a way,” I said. “Get some sand and tread it into the area for ten minutes, leave it for half an hour, sweep the residue away, then do the same again six or seven times and you’ll be okay.”

“What a man,” he replied. “I was sure you’d know. I’ll get right on – ”

“Wait a minute,” I broke in, cunning having displaced the wish to help. “There might be another possibility. I need to check something. Ring again in half an hour.”

I was motivated solely by the idea of giving him a dose of his own medicine, but wasn’t sure how to do that. I’m not proud of this confession, which tends to confirm my daughter’s view that I am a miserable git. I’ll consider her sentiments if I still have anything worth leaving next time I review the disposal of my estate. We old-stagers are crafty that way.

When David phoned again, I was still intent on paying him in his own coin, but no clearer about the method. Temporisation seemed appropriate. To ensure that I wasn’t about to deal with a telepest, I allowed eight rings before covering my mouth with a tissue and picking up. “General Sir Celery Fillock’s office,” I boomed.

“What’s that?” David answered, an octave or so above his usual tone. “Who’s speaking?”

“I am aide-de-camp to the general,” I said. “Can I do something for you?”


“Never mind. I’ve got the wrong number. Sorry.”

“It’s all right, Dave,” I said, then hung up.

Half a minute later, the phone rang again. I answered in normal mode. 

“What the hell’s going on,” yelped David.

“Nice start,” I said. “Is there a problem?”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” he snapped.

“Of course it is. Who else would it be?”

He was breathing heavily. “I rang a minute ago. Got a firm called General Capillary Hillocks or some such. Chap who called himself Ada. Queer business. I assumed I’d got a crossed line, but then this bloke called me Dave. How did he know my name?”

“Probably just a lucky guess,” I chuckled, not bothering to feign amazement. “If he’d said John, you’d hardly have noticed, but there must be nearly as many Daves as Johns around. Maybe you’re overwrought, old boy. Anyway, I had a brainwave but it came to nothing. Just stick with the sand. Believe me, it will work. Now, what’s the score at your end? I really would like to know.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Can’t say the same for the wife. She’s in a pretty bad state. The doctors give her three months at most.”

That was my real chance. “Hard luck,” I said, echoing his earlier words to me. “Speaking of bad states, I’d be grateful if you’d return that tin of saddle soap I lent you a while ago. My shoes look terrible. Look, I must go now and get a bandage on my arm. See you.” Without giving him a chance to say anything, I hung up, satisfied that I’d finally paid him in his own coin.


* * *​


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## Courtjester

*SCHOOLING : ONE WAY AHEAD*​
The state of our education has long occupied many minds, and was recently addressed by a leading think tank, the Institute for Profound Thought. On reaching the end of its tether, the IPT passed the matter to Sir Bertram Utterside, former professor of social studies at one of Britain’s leading universities. Arguably the country’s most prestigious academician, the great gownsman is well known for taking little account of sensitivities and has frequently infringed the tenets of political correctness. Those of delicate disposition are reminded that some of Sir Bertram’s ideas are not for the squeamish – what better way of ensuring that you read on? His observations are given verbatim below:

This is one of the less difficult questions with which I have been presented, so I am able to be brief, which is a good thing for me, as I charge a flat fee for my reports, so the rate per word for shorties is gratifying. A little while ago, I heard one of my old sparring partners, Sir Percival Stropes – he now runs some ramshackle automotive outfit – indicate that he was complacent about our position. I do not agree. We shall continue to decline, so long as our main competitors produce scientists, engineers and tradespeople, while we turn out historians, media students and estate agents. We cannot sustain ourselves on the basis of studying the past and present, and selling each other houses at increasingly absurd prices.

Whenever I think of learning, I am reminded of two observations. The first, made by W.B. Yeats, was that education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire. The second, by Mark Twain, was that he never let his schooling interfere with his education. I would like to add my small contribution, which is that society should not waste teaching resources on those who don’t want to learn. Anyone who wishes to join a sub-culture of ignoramuses should be allowed to do so. I have no more to say about that. 

My solution to the overall problem will probably prove controversial. First, I propose that we abandon the idea of universal compulsory free education. I believe that the only legal requirement should be for parents or guardians to be interviewed by the head of their local school, who would point out the advantages on offer, while stressing that good behaviour must be a prerequisite, any significant offences being punishable by expulsion, a step which should be left to the discretion of the principal of the school concerned. Pastoral care should not be any part of the teachers’ duties, nor should they seek to arrogate to themselves any such role. Any child failing to toe the line would have to be submitted to the care of a body outside the mainstream system. This takes care of the primary and secondary stages.

Now to my proposal for the tertiary level. I suggest that we dismantle our university system. Cry ‘horror’ if you will, but note that the institutions concerned are not doing a good job. The premises they occupy could be converted into thousands of dwellings, in an operation that would do much to alleviate our housing problem – lateral thinking, you see. There is a double benefit here, in that a vast number of houses and flats currently occupied by students would be made available to the general population because those in third-level education would get tuition close to their homes, so would not need other accommodation.

How is this to be achieved? Quite easily. It is merely a question of extending the hot-desking now practised in commerce and industry, whereby people work at different times in the same places. It is well known that many university students lie abed until early afternoon and are not ripe for learning until they have taken some bodily nourishment. There is no sound reason why they should not occupy the spaces vacated by the primary and secondary pupils, who could start earlier than at present and move on to other activities after, say, 2.00 p.m. This is simple shift work. As for the tutors, they live largely in a dream world, so it should not matter to them whether they are on duty in the mornings, afternoons or evenings, so long as their ‘ker-ching’ factor is not impaired – and with the arrangements I envisage, they would not lose in this respect. Also, this second shift would finish in time for night school to start at about 7.00 p.m.

It has been suggested that 50% of secondary scholars should proceed to university. Does anyone know how many of them are capable of absorbing a genuine tertiary curriculum? If the bar is to be ever-lower, the figure could be 100%. When I was a university student, it was less than 5%. Of course we can get to 50% – or any other level – if we adjust the standards commensurately. What good will that do?

I recommend that third-stage tuition be provided free in the subjects requiring a reasonable degree of rigour. By this I mean the sciences, broadly considered but excluding economics – a virtually useless pseudo-discipline – plus perhaps languages. I have no objection to arty types pursuing other courses, so long as they do so without making demands on the public purse. 

There can be little doubt that the implementation of my proposals would lead to a great improvement in our education. Being a broad-brush man, I have not covered every detail. Should a supplementary report be required, I would be happy to produce one – for a further charge.


* * *​


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## Courtjester

*STAR-STRUCK
*
News from a village in County Donegal, Ireland, seems likely to cause uproar in the astrological world. Mr Algon Quin claims to have revolutionised the ancient practice after his seventy years in the field. He dropped the usual second ‘n’ from his surname, in deference to his claimed Amerindian ancestry, saying that his soul hails from the Algonquin tribes and migrated during what he calls the ‘Diaspora of the Spirits’, which he asserts took place during the European Dark Ages. He maintains that his system will replace all earlier work of its kind.

Quin’s ideas have something in common with those of conventional astrologers, in that he accepts a zodiac comprising twelve signs and houses. However, he maintains that the signs correspond exactly with our calendar months, saying that this accords with ancient beliefs, which he has adapted to modern concepts. Quin is nothing if not eclectic, as his signs are named from a mixture of legend and recorded history. His six female signs are, with one (Arthurian) exception, culled from Greek mythology, while the six male ones draw upon real people.

Being aware that over two-thirds of the Earth’s surface consists of water, Quin attributes eight of his signs to aquatic creatures and four to those of terra firma, though two of the former are amphibious, as the great innovator contends that the oceans will shrink by ‘divine drainage’. The table of months, signs and creatures is as follows:

January

Copernicus

The newt

February 

Hecuba

The duck

March 

Galileo

The mule

April 

Cassandra

The prawn

May 

Ptolemy

The squid

June

Ariadne

The asp

July

Plato

The sole

August 

Diana

The whelk

September

Euclid

The ape

October

Guinevere

The eel

November

Socrates

The pike

December

Hera

The stoat




Quin’s notions are perhaps controversial. He claims that longitude is meaningless and that birth-date is a matter to be interpreted by him, while latitude must be known precisely. Further, he says that his system works only in the northern hemisphere, but reckons this does not matter much, as most of us live above the equator, and those below it must devise their own formula.

Findings are given only to those who appear at Quin’s base, where the centre of operations is the zodiac wheel, similar to those used in roulette. The rim is divided into twelve equal-sized segments and is fixed, while the inner disc, likewise sectioned, is free to rotate. Armed with the client’s birth latitude and sign, Quin makes subtle adjustments to the balance of his equipment, then sets the wheel so that each sign in the inner part is aligned with the same one on the rim. Finally, he spins the rotatable disc by hand. He has a ratchet system which ensures that when the wheel is stationary, the segments in the two sections are always sign-to-sign and never out of alignment. The inner disc comes to rest, he says, opposite the point in the rim that relates to the client’s real sign, so a person apparently born under Copernicus may have a true soul-birth under, say, Ariadne.

The master is clearly an alumnus of the ‘take no prisoners’ school of astrology, his appraisals being short and extremely pungent. Anyone seeking veiled comments may well be shocked. “Good or bad, I shoot from the hip,” says the 91-year-old guru. “Too many people don’t appreciate that they come into this world of their own volition and must engage positively with whatever happens to them.”

There is no set charge for Quin’s services, though each client is encouraged to make a minimum £1,000 contribution to further research. In fact, according to an unsubstantiated Sunday newspaper report, anyone not doing so is compelled to exit the premises by negotiating a terrifying series of potentially lethal booby-traps in the back garden. Quin refused to comment on this and denied your narrator access to the spot. He did, however, supply two examples of his readings, handed last week to clients whose identities he did not reveal. His findings are given below:

1. Oh, dear, you are a Copernican on both counts – earthly and soul. Frankly, it would be better for all concerned if you had not appeared at the time you did, as you are a real drag. Your winter emergence in the two respects means that you did not see much daylight, either physically or spiritually, in your earliest weeks. This gloomy start is virtually insuperable. You may try to throw it off, but you will always be returned to a state like your dismal beginning. It is as though you stretch your personal rubber band, which invariably hauls you back to base.

Do not blame anyone else for this. You asked for your life and you got it. And don’t appeal for a change because you might get that too, and a fat lot of good it would do you. Perhaps your only consolation is in one of the Good Books – The Talmud, I think – which says that the burden is equal to the horse’s strength. You can take it, and you must. It’s all for your own good.

2. You are a ray of sunshine. Regardless of when you came into this world, you’re symbolically a Platonian. Others may try to pull you down, but you will never succumb for long, as your buoyancy always quickly reasserts itself. Rejoice, for you are reaping what you have sown in past lifetimes. Do not feel guilty because you are having a fine time while some others are not. Let them stew in the juices they prepared in earlier incarnations. You have a right to all the good things that come your way.

Some people may regard you as frivolous. Never mind. This is merely your natural effervescence, aggregated through the ages. Many cannot match it, but they must solve their own problems. Humankind is burdened with these dreary types. They are like wasps, in that they may have a role, but not many people know what it is, other than to cause general irritation. You might be tempted to do high-minded things, like comforting the afflicted. Forget it. Just note that they won’t thank you for long – bear in mind that no good deed goes unpunished. Enjoy what you have earned.

It is no part of your deponent’s duties to offer a critique of Mr Quin’s methods. Anyone wishing to know more should contact him direct.

* * *​​


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## Courtjester

*PACKING THEM IN
*​
Professor Ovis Jopp, the lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’ left fellow scientists stupefied yesterday, when he revealed the result of his latest endeavour, a scheme for compacting the numerous bodies of the asteroid belt to make a planet. Never the retiring type, the bonhomous boffin described his work as a towering accomplishment and an intellectual and engineering feat of the highest order. It seems he got the idea from a belief that there are twelve planets in our solar system. Having rejected Pluto and discovered Ovisius and Joppius as ninth and tenth, he decided to take a hand in giving us number eleven.

“Even I cannot describe the process as simple,” the professor told his engrossed listeners. “I sensed that the key was to produce a magnetic casing, much as those involved in nuclear fusion try to contain plasma. As always, I employed the lowest workable technology, my scale model being a ring-shaped tube of green plastic, part-filled with fragments of rock and metal, to simulate the asteroids. I suspended this tube from an electric ceiling fan, substituting thin strands of wire for the blades, then rotated the apparatus to simulate the celestial objects.”

Following a long ovation, Jopp continued: “Next, I constructed a miniature solid-fuel rocket, which is effectively a sophisticated version of those made by the space pioneer Robert Goddard. My device was in the form of a bobbin, bent so as to achieve the necessarily circular path. Around this contrivance, I wound a length of magnetised wire. On ignition, the rocket behaved exactly as I had predicted, describing a spiral route, round and round the tube’s exterior, unwinding the wire as it went. Thus, I achieved confinement of the rock and metal oddments to a narrow pathway within the torus, clear of its internal surface.”

Silencing further applause with a raised hand, the professor went on: “I then cut the tube, sealing one end, after which I activated a pneumatic hinge, which straightened the bend in the rocket, then I directed the craft to the open end of the tube. Using a ram attachment which I had built into the rocket’s nose, I employed the engine thrust to force the fragments in upon each other, much as one would pen cattle or sheep. The result was a compact ball, jammed against the sealed end of the tube. The test was complete and demonstrated clearly that the principle, applied on a larger scale, would enable us to, as it were, wrap up the asteroids into a single tidy bundle, giving a planet which I shall name in due course. I can well understand how you must feel, for I am still overwhelmed by the enormity of my exploit.”

There was a sharp response from Jopp-knocker, Dr Terps Dunderklap, the short, round, alopecic ‘Swedish Savant’. Found outside a gynaecology clinic near Trelleborg, he was caustic. “Jopp is demented,” he stormed. “It is fitting that his newest idea involves going round in circles, for that exemplifies his approach to science. Had he consulted me, I would have dissuaded him from this inanity, as I proved long ago that his plan is impracticable. Perhaps he will now tell us how he intends to upscale his addle-pated experiment to the real thing, which would involve a rocket seventy-eight miles long, plus nine hundred million miles of wire. It is a pity that he will not succeed. Were he to do so, he would doubtless visit his dream planet, to find it inhabited by little green men, and presumably women of similar hue. As he is a big green man, he would become their leader, much as a one-eyed person assumes that position in the realm of the blind. Mercifully, we would then never see him again.

Will these two great Norsemen ever agree about anything?

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*FOURTH MESSAGE TO PLANET X
*​
Yours received – is that short enough? Regarding your fatuous efforts to engage someone to pursue me, I can only chuckle at the thought that you have wheeled in the big artillery by activating good old – and I really mean old – Dwolf. I’ve heard of tomb-robbing, but this must be the first case in which the occupant of a sarcophagus has been revitalised. A little ghoulish on your part, I suggest. Even when firing on all cylinders – which last happened ages ago – Dwolfie was never very bright. Are you sure the poor soul is sentient? You might just try checking with a cattle prod. Oh, you don’t have such things, do you? I must be getting confused. No wonder, when all my words and deeds are monitored by a horde of control freaks.

It might be mildly interesting to you to learn that my provisions are running out. Did anybody there ever consider how I would sustain myself in space with but one atom of matter per cubic metre? This isn’t exactly a walk in the park, you know. Only my ingenuity has kept me going. I had thought that human being were socially backward, but your latest communication makes me wonder. What a bunch of cheapskates you are. Notwithstanding the above, I appreciate that you are footing the inadequate bill for this escapade, so I feel an obligation to give you further details, though you may not like some of them. 

While humans are a queer crowd, I find them increasingly attractive. Why? Certainly not because of their technological standards. So far, they have lumbered off their own globe to reach the Earth’s satellite, a feat that, cumbersome though it was, extended their ability to its maximum, and made a fearsome racket to boot. Yet, barbarous and destructive as they are, they have something that most of our kind lack. I speak of heart. Yes, that’s a new one for you, isn’t it? I mean, look at yourselves. Your aim is aimlessness. All you’re concerned about is survival. To what end? Most of you aren’t doing much, apart from seeking to prolong your lives for hedonistic purposes. It’s Sodom and Gomorrah all over again if you ask me – but, you won’t, will you?

Human beings have among their number a sprinkling of philosophers, but I must say that the output from these people leaves much to be desired. Usually they choose to speak in terms inaccessible to their contemporaries, a practice which they appear to believe indicates their intellectual superiority. Pretentious rubbish! If they were really clever, they would realise that all great ideas are simple and can be expressed accordingly.

As I mentioned earlier, there are also warriors here. On the whole, they achieve nothing but to wrest from others things which in many cases are lost again through further strife. Idiotic. I mean, if somebody else has something you want, the obvious thing is to buy it or barter for it. Using force is surely not right.

I would say that the best hope here lies in the advancement of the common people, most of whom are, though woefully ill-informed, decent types and don’t care much who owns what, so long as they can live in peace and passable comfort and can enjoy their chosen diversions. In this respect sport, particularly association football (soccer), has a high profile. You wouldn’t believe how much feeling this engenders, especially among the fans, who get even more worked up than do the players, and who seem to think nothing of indulging in unseemly brawls, sometimes even before a match, when they have nothing to complain about. After the event, things often get worse – I attended one football game which was followed by a street-fight involving people stropping each other with broken bottles, bicycle chains and suchlike items.

Now, my egg-timer (a dinky little gizmo I purloined from a shop in Switzerland) tells me that I shall soon be obliged to ‘throw another log on the fire’ to beef up my batteries. Watch this space, and each time you think of sending a chaperone this way, remember that I have my hands on some costly machinery. To what extent are you prepared to antagonise me?

Your increasingly unwilling flunkey

Dweedles

* * *​


----------



## Courtjester

*INDEPENDENCE DAY

*​Greetings, my fellow Zubukians! I intended to address you today from the balcony of Government House. Unfortunately, current circumstances preclude that, so I must ask you to accept this television broadcast as a substitute. When I finish speaking here, I shall try to make my way to Revolution Square and review the annual parade of our magnificent Republican Guard, after the insurg . . . er . . . merrymakers now occupying that holiest of grounds have, entirely of their own free will, dispersed. I am informed that this will be within an hour.

For all of us, this is a solemn day, yet also a joyous one. Solemn because it gives us the opportunity to commune on a national basis, feeling ourselves at one with our ancestors, and joyous because it was exactly twenty years ago that we threw off the yoke of colonialism. Further, it is nineteen years to the day since the events took place which resulted in my becoming Prime Minister and, three weeks later, President of our beloved country.

I am deeply conscious of the heavy burdens placed upon me by the simultaneous holding of the two highest offices of our state, the more so as there is nobody who will, or can, lift them from me. I fear that I shall not be able to relinquish these duties this side of the grave. We live in troubled times. Everywhere in the world there is disorder, and we cannot insulate ourselves. There is no denying that we have our problems. Even in my own party, the National Alliance for Zubukian Integration, there has been unrest and, it must be admitted, corruption. Many of you will recall that only seventeen short years ago, I was obliged to dismiss the ministers of finance, home affairs, foreign relations and transport. Having no suitable replacements, I was forced to assume their portfolios myself- – yet more responsibilities that I shall, however reluctantly, be required to discharge for the rest of my days.

Why shall I not be able to cast off these millstones? I think you know. During the post-colonial disturbances, every party but my own in our hallowed land simply disintegrated, vanishing virtually overnight. It was left to us alone to carry the inextinguishable torch of democracy. True, there was an attempt made recently to form a viable opposition. To my deepest chagrin, that effort failed. I was greatly distressed by the collapse of the Alternative Progressive Enlightenment – the APE party.

Feelings ran high at the time, and the prevailing mood affected me as much as anyone. I cannot look back without a sense of deep sorrow at my last words to the leader of the aspirant rival organisation. I merely intended to convey my admiration of the man as, so to speak, the dominant male in his movement. It was regrettable that I referred to him as the chief ape. Also, my remark was ill-timed, coming as it did two hours before the untimely and, I emphasise, totally accidental demise of that fine young statesman. May his soul forgive me.

The unfortunate disappearance of the APE party was not the last of our troubles. Even now there are elements in our revered homeland intent upon fomenting strife. Indeed, it is for this reason that I speak now from the National Security Compound, surrounded by three – yes, three – concentric perimeter fences of four-metre-high electrified wire. I ask you to remember that fact, though the last thing I want is to be separated from you by the defences of a totally impregnable fortress. My dearest wish is to be among you, wringing your ... hands. Yes, my friends, your hands.

Our former colonial masters claimed to have left us with a working governmental system. I spit upon their assertion. If they had made adequate provision before their departure, why were we compelled to discard their arrangements? We even had to change the name of our country. The colonists left us with what? I will remind you. The stark and unimaginative Zubukia. With our modernisation plan, we changed that in less than two years to the People”s Democratic Republic of Zubukia, or PDRZ. Can anyone doubt that this is more appropriate to our status in the world?

My compatriots, we have recently been the target of unwarranted attention from various external bodies. The international team that visited us last year concluded that literacy standards here had declined since colonial days. I spit upon their report. They said that the level was formerly fifty-two per cent and that it had fallen to twenty-three per cent. Do these meddlers not realise that we have our own traditions, our storytellers, to meet our needs? Notwithstanding that, I strive ceaselessly for improvement. I aim to ensure that in under ten years, there will a book in every school and, where there is evening tuition, a candle in each classroom.

We have been told by another agency, whose name I cannot bear to utter, that we lag behind other democracies in terms of our degree of enfranchisement. I spit upon this supposed finding. Is it not true that every first-born male over the age of forty in our country now has the vote? How does that accord with the monstrous charge against us? Obviously it does not. Our advance has been exemplary and will continue at an appropriate pace.

I must now deal with the most unworthy of all the accusations hurled at us. I refer to a bulletin issued by the World Bank, saying that our ninety-billion-dollar finds of oil, gas, uranium, platinum, gold and copper should have been better used in the last nine years. We are told that a land of four million people should be reaping greater benefits from such bounty. At the risk of being censured for excessive expectoration, I spit upon that document. Such malice can have been engendered only by the fact that no interest has yet been paid on the loan of twelve billion dollars, made to us by the Bank eight years ago.

Who is at fault? These legalised loan sharks should have known better than to bury our poor country under such a mountain of money. Our financial structure could not cope. Inevitably, there was confusion, multipartite transactions and complex pecuniary allocations which I struggle unflaggingly to trace. I was, sorrowfully, obliged to seek the assistance of a certain European country, well-versed in these matters. The World Bank asks where the funds in question are now. I answer that that is m . . . our business. Further, if the masters of usury continue to badger us, I shall, on your behalf, repudiate the debt. Do you hear this, you Shylocks in Washington? Not one shavaster shall I pay.

Now, my friends, the cares of state demand that I leave you for the moment. I hear the clanking and rumbling of those tribulations closing in upon me. They are constantly at my gate. If you can still see or hear this transmission, I ask you to join me in singing our national anthem, Zubukia Forever. Let the rafters ring! 


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## Courtjester

*ON LONGEVITY
*​
Recent suggestions that the average human lifespan might be increased to at least 130 years sent various authorities scurrying to consult actuarial experts, and show other signs of concern. As seems almost inevitable in these confusing times, the question wound up on the desk of the man most widely thought able to give us sound advice. The decision-makers must have heaved a collective sigh of relief on learning that Sir Bertram Utterside, former professor of social studies at one of our foremost towers of tutelage, had a window in his hectic schedule. He lost no time in dealing with the matter and reported as follows:

As I recently addressed the issue of our ageing population in another paper, this new commission was hardly a three-pipe problem – one fill of strong dark flake sufficed. Frankly, I fail to understand the excitement, especially as there is no question of a solution here, but rather one of appreciation. My first impression on receiving this brief was to recall an interview in a film I once saw, when an insurance salesman, endowed equally with enthusiasm and incompetence, was trying to sell a life policy to the notorious Jesse James. As I remember it, the bandit (or hero, according to your view) listened patiently, then said something like: “Let me get this straight. Are you saying you want me to bet on how long I’ll live, and you’re willing to take the rough end by guessing that I’ll be around for a long time?” If that isn’t succinct, I don’t know what is.

In my earlier report, I alluded briefly to the aspirations of older people, and I would like to expand on this theme. A recent radio phone-in filled me with gloom. Listeners were invited to offer their views on the revelation that an American team claimed to have found a method by which we could on average live nearly twice as long as we do now. If I remember rightly, there were twelve respondents, one of them a scientist, who had a detached interest. Of the others, only one – a woman of fifty-seven and in good health – had no wish to exceed the biblical span. The rest wanted to reach the age suggested in the US report, in each case expressing a desire to fulfil some humdrum personal ambition – tap-dancing, mandolin playing and so on. Of course, travel was in first place. Nobody wished to be involved in generally beneficial activities, such as producing clean renewable energy, a panacea for ills, improved housing, or any of the other things that are important to all of us.

I asked myself whether I would like to spend my later years in the company of people regaling me with accounts of their holidays in an ever-decreasing number of exotic locations, or telling me how they had learned to pole-vault at the age of eighty, or describing their elation at being among the first group of centenarians to cycle from Lands End to John o’ Groats. The answer was a resounding negative.

My pondering on the implications of living to 130 or more led me to think also of the time I spent in the commercial and industrial spheres. In those days, I frequently found myself surrounded by elderly men, all too often venal and obsessed with maintaining their positions of authority and privilege, notwithstanding that they were provided for in ways that should have detached them from such base considerations. It did not seem to occur to most of them that they were removed from material scrabbling in order that they might concentrate on the common good, rather than their further personal advancement. Imagine spending many decades clambering beyond your contemporaries, thrusting and kicking your way to the heights, then clinging like a limpet to a leading position in your hierarchy, lest someone – probably better than you – should be a threat. For goodness’ sake, you people at the top, take the fruits of your selfish toil and hand over to the young ones before they become too disillusioned to care. Remember that the interplay between change and continuity requires that the former must not wreck the latter and the latter not stifle the former. I realise that some readers may consider this paragraph something of an aside, but I might not get another chance to air these comments.

As indicated above, in this case I am not being paid for a solution but an appraisal. The task is an easy one. In my view there is a limit to the number and variety of experiences and impressions a human being can digest in one visit to this plane of existence, and if they have not been acquired in about seventy years, a further six decades are not likely to help much. My message to the obtuse is that they should leave us and try again in a later lifetime. Those who reject the advice are welcome to be condemned to plod on. Though still in demand, I have toiled long and hard and am profoundly relieved at the prospect of my earthly demise. Proceed if you wish. I shall watch your progress from another level.


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## Courtjester

*BOTTLING IT UP
*​
An audience of leading international scientists was spellbound yesterday when Professor Ovis Jopp, the lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’ gave details of his latest – some say greatest – exercise in physics. The professor stated that he had become the first person to conduct a two-way experiment in which mass was converted into energy, which was then changed back into mass. Jopp said that he had in effect released the genie, then reconfined it.

“I rate this among the most satisfying of my many successes,” said the winsome wizard, admitting that his high spirits stemmed in part from a liberal intake of his greengage wine. “I grasped what others had failed to perceive, this being that what one needs is a miniature atomic explosion, one small enough to be reversed. The usual element, uranium 235, would not do, as the critical mass required to produce a chain reaction gives too drastic a result. What I needed was a very heavy fissionable substance. Learning from my experience in manufacturing ultra-light elements, I inverted my technique, to produce a massive transuranic one, which I call norwegium, in honour of my adoptive homeland.”

After much clapping and cheering, the professor went on: “The principle is the same as with uranium or plutonium, in that one must force together two sub-critical masses. However, with norwegium, the amount concerned is small, so a limited explosion results. I conducted the test in open land near Kirkenes, where I built a green chamber of lead-lined metal through which I passed a pipe, widened in the middle, with ends projecting beyond the container’s walls. I inserted a piece of norwegium into each end of the pipe and fastened powerful bellows to both extremities, then took one end, while a student manned the other. We generated an airflow, smashing together the sub-critical masses within the central bulge. The resulting denotation caused the pieces of norwegium to vanish temporarily. They had clearly been transformed into energy.

There was further wild acclaim before the professor was able to continue: “As I expected, the bubble almost burst. Now came the difficult part. To convert the energy back into mass, I had to contain it in an ever-decreasing space. I did this by lowering the roof of my chamber, as one sees in horror films, when someone is imprisoned in a room, the ceiling of which descends to crush the victim. My apparatus did the same, squeezing the energy into almost no space. Having allowed a brief stabilisation period, I raised the roof, entered the chamber and inspected the crushed pipe. I was gratified to find a number of small discs, which I analysed, finding that they were undoubtedly norwegium, and proving conclusively that I had turned mass into energy, then reversed the process. This is a masterly demonstration and a mighty landmark in scientific history.”

A swift riposte came from Jopp’s foremost foe, the shorn, stunted, ovoid ‘Swedish Savant’, Dr Terps Dunderklap. Found sitting on the gatepost of a Varberg maternity hospital, he was acerbic. “Jopp has assuredly gone too far this time,” he screeched. “I showed years ago that what he claims is impossible. I even produced a super-heavy element, similar to his norwegium. The problem, as I made clear to everyone but the fjordland fathead, lies in the fact that in order to fabricate an element heavy enough to have the requisite characteristics for low-mass fission, the substance itself would be too unstable to hold together, so would break up spontaneously. With regard to the supposed temporary disappearance of Jopp’s new element, he was the only observer, and I would remind him that there are none so blind as those who will not see. As for the recovered discs, my chief researcher acquired several and established that they were heads of hobnails, obviously from the boots worn by Jopp’s assistant. Incidentally, I note that Greenfly does not say what became of the poor fellow.”

Pressed on this point, Jopp promised to investigate. 


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## Courtjester

The staff cornered me this morning, saying that we were short of material for today. I was given a stark ultimatum – write or die! I thought it over and decided to go for the first option. Here is the result. Editor

*ASPECTS OF SPORT

*​During my many years in commerce, I often felt like a fish out of water when my colleagues debated sporting matters, which appeared to be of consuming interest to everyone but me. On one occasion, the fellow who worked at the desk next to mine remarked that I never offered an opinion on soccer, rugby, golf, or anything other than cricket. I agreed, then mystified him with an assertion that I did not consider our summer game as a sport. What was it then, he asked. I replied that I saw it as an aesthetic experience, a contrast of colours, styles and elegance – a ballet of sorts, the element of competition being incidental. I also ventured the apparently heretical view that cricketers do not normally over-exert themselves, so couldn’t really be regarded as sportsmen, admirable though their occupation may be.

My colleague demanded an explanation of what he clearly felt was an outrageous notion. I responded to the effect that I saw sport as an activity in which the participants gave their all for a short time, and that I could not put cricket in that category. Confining myself to the men’s game because I had never seen the ladies play, I cited the example of a fast bowler, perhaps the player most widely regarded as being subjected to physical stress.

As there was no argument from my workmate on that point, I proceeded to examine what a ‘quickie’ does. He approaches the wicket by running at most about thirty yards, the first few of which he negotiates at a modest pace. Therefore, he runs flat out for maybe fifteen yards before releasing the ball. That done, he rights himself and strolls back to his mark, taking forty or fifty seconds to do so, after which he repeats the process. If he avoids bowling no-balls or wides – his own fault – he bowls six balls to complete an over before retiring to a fielding position, in which his services are needed only intermittently. During his over, he has run barely a hundred yards in four or five minutes, with leisurely ambles between deliveries.

Notwithstanding this somewhat relaxed schedule, we often hear commentators speaking of how desperately tired old Whatshisname must be, having toiled through twenty overs in a day. Oh, come on. Twenty times a hundred yards is little over a mile, and that spread over six hours, interspersed with generous breaks for lunch and tea, plus three official stoppages for drinks all round and goodness knows how many individual pauses for imbibing. One’s heart bleeds.

A batsman, in the extreme case of his being at the crease all day, will probably score rather over a hundred runs, usually about half of them in boundaries, so will have dashed between the wickets maybe fifty times. Let us be generous, allowing him twenty-five yards per run, and further accepting that in addition to his own efforts, he covers the same ground in responding to his partners’ shots. He has then racked up a distance fairly close to that galloped by the fast bowler, and he also has had numerous rests between his bouts of work. He may be fatigued psychologically but surely not physically. After all, he is supposed to be an athlete of sorts, is he not?

The fielding is shared among eleven players. While one or other of them may have a short sprint on occasion, he will usually have plenty of time to recover before any possible repeat is necessary. I do spare a thought for the wicket-keeper, who must be on the alert for every ball, and who is the target of too many verbal brickbats. Anyone who opts for this job must be either astoundingly valiant, or of questionable sanity.

I finished my appraisal of cricket with a reference to the attitude of its organisers, officials and players toward spectators, who having paid up are often treated with disdain. Assuming that a game starts on time – always questionable because of rain or bad light – many ruses will be employed by those on the field to slow or interrupt play. A batsman declines to face a ball because someone moves behind the bowler’s arm. A bowler aborts his run-up, having got it wrong. Sunlight falls on a window, dazzling a batsman – that’s good for three or four minutes’ delay. The ball will be inspected repeatedly, following complaints about its shape. And so it goes on, with the gladiators and umpires apparently intent on ensuring that actual play is kept to a minimum.

Perceiving that the rant had ended, my colleague said I had given him food for thought, adding that since he had finally got me going on this subject, perhaps I might have something to say about other sports. This was a tricky one. I had nothing of a general nature in mind, but his prompting led me to wonder whether I should touch upon a point I had long thought of raising. The trouble was that we were in sensitive territory.

After a few seconds of inner debate I plunged, saying that I considered my interlocutor a kind of sportsman. He asked why. I remarked that three times a week, he spent part of his lunch break playing squash with the office mathematician, a young woman of formidable physique, possessed of venomous powers, both forehand and backhand – I once saw her in action. Invariably, she won and the pair would return to the office at two o’clock, she flushed and cheerful, he exhausted and morose, eyes protruding like organ stops and tongue lapping his knees.

I pointed out that he truly exerted himself, thus qualifying as a sporting type in my book. What I did not say (I chickened out) was that for the rest of the afternoons following his battles with our number-cruncher, not only was he an uncongenial companion, but he exuded an odour like a fat-rendering establishment – having lived close to one in earlier years, I knew. I also bit my tongue with respect to his habit of turning up late each day, owing to his seemingly persistent failure to judge the time required for a three-mile jog to the office. Further, I was quite diplomatic in overlooking the fact that though he was vociferous in advocating vegetarianism, he was always the first to fall prey to whatever bug was going round, in addition to which he had his own crop of obscure ailments, which caused me to spend much of my time taking his incoming phone calls.

All things considered, I felt I had legitimate grounds for protest, but made allowances, as Mr Nextdesk was a marketing man and therefore not entirely responsible for his conduct.

* * *​
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## Courtjester

*THE NODE BULLETINS : NUMBER SEVEN*
​
Kashmir, 26 July. My political knowledge is scanty, but I understand that we are now in the last of the ‘stans’, as I believe this area is under Pakistani administration. We emerged from our ordeal on the high pass minus our porters, who refused to go on. Now we are burdened with much equipment. However, Flatpole has been an example to the rest of us by carrying a hundredweight load on our twice-daily four-hour marches, without batting an eyelid. 

Thoroughbrace amazed us today with his first show of initiative for some time. He disappeared for eight hours, returning with a vast chunk of meat which he claimed to have hacked from a tusked creature he found entombed in a glacier to the north of us. I believe we may be pioneers of a kind by having probably tasted mastodon flesh. It was quite good and a welcome change from Gannett’s usual efforts, which normally plumb progressively greater depths. Yesterday, when he left us briefly during preparation of the evening meal, I enlivened the repast by tearing up the cardboard cartons in which our spices had been packed, and adding them to the pot. Nobody commented.

Pugh’s pathfinding becomes increasingly esoteric. He now reckons that we must proceed down this valley then – I quote him: “Bear right across the top end of Mount Rakaposhi, go downwards over the flat bit and we shall find our goal just this side of K2.” I am no geographer, but I had expected more technical jargon from Pugh, who has not once mentioned map references during our trek. I was obliged to correct him again this morning, when he marched us due west, over an apparently limitless expanse of scree. I suspect his heart is not really in this expedition, as he has repeatedly tried to head us back towards London. I am considering relieving him of his duties.

Though I try to keep up morale, the bickering is incessant. It is lonely at the top.

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## Courtjester

​
*FOURTH REPLY FROM PLANET X TO EMISSARY

*​Dear Dweedles

We have assimilated your latest wordathon. Let us say first that you should not underestimate Dwolf, who is fully limbered-up, tense as a bowstring and ready for the starter’s gun. We can hardly restrain the Great Hunter. Do you hear those gnashing teeth?

 Your cheapskate jibe is unwarranted. Dweedie, there is such a thing as economics – a point you would have understood, had you had a wider education. In fairness, you may be right about designation from birth. A more comprehensive curriculum is being implemented here, within the framework of a wider social study which would be more advanced but for the near-intolerable heat we are experiencing.

As for your provisions, we did our best with the resources we had to hand. It is unfortunate that you are having trouble in this respect but really, one atom per cubic metre seems adequate, bearing in mind that space is, as you will have noticed, quite voluminous. What has become of your self-professed ingenuity? If you still have that quality, now is the time to invoke it. Do what you can and be assured that we are applying ourselves to your predicament.

So, you assess us as control freaks, eh? Well, what else did you expect? For goodness’ sake, this is a control centre, you chump. We don’t know when you got this idea of individualism, but you must shed it. Think of yourself as a tiny part of the whole. Consider the terrestrial ants you mentioned earlier. They seem to have the right collective mindset.

Dwee, nobody questions your integrity – well, maybe some have doubts – but there is a general feeling here that you are out on a lake and that the boatmaster is saying “Come in, number whatever. Your time’s up.”

With regard to philosophers, don’t dwell on them. We know all about angels dancing on a pinhead. All the information we have gathered confirms that these ‘thinkers’ are as useless in one place as another. They seek vainly to influence their complanetaries. That’s a nice one, don’t you think? It’s a composite of ‘compatriots’ and ‘contemporaries’, extended to embrace all dwellers on a celestial orb. We’re becoming quite good at inventing words.

The concept of warriors is also familiar to us. No need for you to worry about them. They are invariably limited in terms of mental capacity and the most they can do is delay the inevitable.

Now, we have a couple of bones to pick with you – as if we hadn’t already had a few. First, regarding your comment concerning heart, we do not understand this notion, but will try to analyse it. For the moment, stay pragmatic. Second, you mention sport. What is this? It doesn’t appear in your unbearably long appendices, so why raise it now? Is your mind drifting – again?

Finally, we adjure you most earnestly to think hard about your entanglement with humankind. Mark our words, no good will come of this.

Regards from the extremely warm staff here at Mission Control

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## Courtjester

*FLAT EARTH*_*

*_​We are accustomed to sensational offerings from Professor Ovis Jopp, the lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’. Only the themes remain mind-boggling. Speaking today to an invited audience in his fjordside home, recently enlarged by the addition of a lecture hall for delivery of his famous talks, the jolly giant unveiled his latest scheme.

The listeners, all science journalists, sat enthralled as Jopp, sipping greengage wine, told all. “I got the idea by noticing that the Earth is not quite spherical,” he said. “The equatorial diameter is slightly greater than the polar one. Now, it is clear that the difference concerned arises from centrifugal force, caused by the speed of our planet’s rotation. For an intellect such as mine – of which there is admittedly only one – it was but a hop to realise that a higher rate of spin would produce a more pronounced effect. I took the notion to its logical conclusion. If the Earth were to rotate fast enough, it would change from a near-sphere to a disc.”

After an outbreak of gasps, the professor went on: “I immediately seized upon the beneficial implications for humankind if the required spin-speed could be achieved. Within an hour, I had the eureka moment. What we need – and I have designed it – is a series of thrusters, mostly land-based, but with a few at sea, placed around the equator. I considered jet engines, but rejected that idea as too crude. Securely anchored rockets would do better, their velocities being made incremental, according to the number of sites. They would be ignited serially rather than simultaneously and could impart speed to any desired level. If hydrogen and oxygen were to be used, the exhaust velocity would be, I believe, 17,000 feet per second, which could be repeated as each stage burned out. With appropriate fuelling arrangements, the potential is virtually boundless.”

The assembled experts showed their appreciation with prolonged applause, then Jopp continued: “We could flatten the Earth to any degree, my preference being a disc with only a nominal rim-thickness. The Earth’s surface area is about 197 million square miles, so omitting the trivial width of the final edge, the top and bottom would each be about half that figure. We could drive shafts through the disc, to bring what are now antipodean places to within a few miles of each other. A good analogy is Emmentaler cheese – wheels riddled with holes, though the perforations I have in mind would go all the way. Of course, land areas would be spread out. The equatorial circumference of 25,000 miles would be extended, everything being, so to speak, hammered out. That is a small price to pay for the huge benefits in terms of travel.”

Self-appointed leader of the jopposition, the broad-as-he-is-long ‘Swedish Savant’, Dr Terps Dunderklap, was dismissive. Located in an oak tree overlooking a Girl Guides’ encampment near Halmstad, he moaned: “I would like to say that words fail me, but I usually have a few when this clown’s name turns up. ‘Sage of Trondheim’ indeed. ‘Nutter of Norway’ would be a better title. Jopp doesn’t understand that his proposed whirligig would hurl into space everything within quite a distance of his new equator, scattering the Solar System with debris. Also, he has ignored the Earth’s molten outer core, which would squish out towards the perimeter. How is he going to drill through that lot? The holes in a Swiss cheese are as nothing compared to those in the head of this ignoramus. He should place all his rockets at sea, since that is where he is usually to be found. Will nobody put him into a straitjacket?”

Further vitriolic exchanges are anticipated.


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## Courtjester

*JUST ANOTHER TOWN*​
A battered sign, tilted twenty degrees from the perpendicular, read: ‘Bedrock. Straingers not welkum.’ Especially not if they’re literary folks, thought the Pinto Kid, noting that the population number below the hostile message had been crossed out and changed six times, reducing from 163 to 98. The Kid raced into town, bringing his green-tinted mare to a slithering, hock-wrenching halt outside the Lonesome Toad saloon. He dismounted with a leap, the operation marred only by his failure to extricate his left foot from its stirrup, a bungle that caused him to land rump-first in thick dust. It was an inauspicious entrance to an unpleasant community.

A cadaverous oldster who occupied a rickety chair on the porch, to the left of incomers, hawked hugely and directed a nine-foot squirt of tobacco juice at the Pinto Kid’s feet, getting it within an inch of the target. “Missed,” he snarled. He usually did.

In the street, immediately in front of the sidewalk and to the Kid’s right, stood what seemed like a dummy Indian brave, immobile, unblinking and ramrod straight. Approaching this figure, the Kid waved a hand before its unresponsive face. “Are you real?” he said.

“I am. Name’s Billy Two-Eyes.”

“Why do they call you that?”

“Because I have two eyes.”

“We all have. What’s different about you?”

“I didn’t say anything was. You’re the one with the questions.”

“Good point,” said the Kid, using the Indian’s leathery cheek to strike a match, which he applied to his own mouth before realising that he hadn’t inserted a smoke.

The saloon’s batwing doors swung open, revealing the owner, Ned Falselove, a tall bald monstrously obese man, sweat-beads bespangling his pasty visage. His small black eyes – two raisins in a pat of dough – fixed on the newcomer. “What’s wrong with your horse, mister? he said. “Queer colour. She sick or somethin’?”

“She’s a paint,” snapped the Kid. “You heard of a paint horse, ain’t you?”

“Sure, but I didn’t know they was hand-painted.”

“Mescalero,” the Kid responded enigmatically.

His interest exhausted, Falselove moved his mountain of lard back into its gloomy lair. The Pinto Kid pranced up the two steps to the sidewalk, snagging his troublesome left boot-heel on the overhanging plank. He recovered his balance with commendable agility. “Damned foot,” he muttered. The cud-chewing old-timer cackled maniacally, then lolled back in his chair, eyes closed, attention probably occupied by some idea making its lonely way around whatever served him as a mind.

The Kid inflated his chest to its full thirty-four inches, then flung open the swing doors before starting to step inside. Being controlled by unusually strong springs, the batwings returned sharply, striking him amidships. He tottered backwards and sideways, caught his posterior on the hitch rail and made a three-quarter turn which deposited him face-down in the street. “Damned doors,” he mumbled. Rising quickly, he bounded back onto the sidewalk and adroitly avoided another ejection of the once more wide awake old-timer’s tobacco juice. Negotiating the saloon doors, this time successfully, he swaggered to the bar, slapping his palms hard on the greasy splintered deal surface. It was a painful gesture, causing him to jam ringing hands into his armpits.

“What’s it to be, feller?” said Falselove. “Sarsaparilla or milk?” His heap of blubber shook as he enjoyed the witticism.

The Kid summoned a steely glint. “Look, mister,” he replied, “I don’t nohow and nowise take none o’ them sissy drinks. Not now, nor never. See?”

Ned chuckled. “You’re big on negatives. Why are you talkin’ so funny?”

“I have to. I’m the Pinto Kid.”

“Well, you sound like a loony to me.”

“Look here, Shorty,” said the Kid, staring up nine inches into the saloon-keeper’s eyes, “I don’t cotton to folks what don’t – ”

“Give it a rest,” Falselove interrupted. He produced a sawn-off shotgun, rammed the twin barrels under the Kid’s chin and twitched them upwards, stretching his visitor’s neck by three inches. “See here,” he grunted, his mirthless grin revealing an interesting mosaic of black and yellow teeth, “if you’ve come here to act mean, you’re in the wrong place.”

“Why?” said the Kid, squawking on account of his distorted vocal chords.

“I guess you don’t understand,” Falselove answered. “This is a tough town. I’m the softest man around, an’ even I’m givin’ you trouble. Now, if you was to meet some real rough company, like maybe Oxbow Duggan, you’d soon eat craw.”

“Eat what?”

“Craw.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just an expression we have in these parts.”

“Well, you must be mighty queer folks if you say things an’ don’t know what they mean. Anyway, as it happens, I’m lookin’ for Duggan.”

“Mister,” said Falselove, yanking the Kid’s face up another inch, “you act more like a head case than a hard case. An’ speakin’ of coincidence, here’s Oxbow hisself.”

At that moment, the doors were torn from their hinges and hurled across the room by a raging giant. Six-foot-eight and three hundred pounds, he was dressed in wolfskins and armed with a huge rifle, two sixguns and three knives. Crazed obsidian eyes glared out from his thicket of long head hair, beard and whiskers, all jet-black. “Redeye,” he yelled.

“Comin’ right up,” said the quivering saloon-keeper. “On the house, like always.” He produced a bottle of rotgut whiskey and tossed it to the colossus, who smashed off the neck on a table and downed two-thirds of the liquor at a single gulp. Falselove quaked on: “We just got through sayin’ how nice it would be if you was to call in, Oxbow. Young feller here’s lookin’ for you. He’s the Pinto Kid.”

Duggan’s face turned sheet-white as he dropped the bottle and his rifle. “Now wait a minute,” he said, voice and body trembling in unison. “Easy now, Kid. I heard about you. We got no quarrel. I was only callin’ in anyway. Didn’t aim to meet you. No offence meant. I’ll be goin’ on.” He turned and dashed through the doorway, vaulting onto a diminutive pony, hardly more than twice his own weight. “I gotta get myself a real hoss,” he growled, lashing the lilliputian beast into a brisk stagger down the street.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” gasped the barman.

“Probably,” the Kid replied, fingering his twin Colts as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, where his ill-fated left boot was finally struck by a jet of tobacco juice.

“Third time lucky,” screeched the oldster, instantly falling asleep.

The Kid strolled to his horse, pulled a large sack from his saddle-roll, enbagged the wizened fogey and with a show of amazing strength whirled him one-handed for half a minute before flinging him across the street, where he thudded against the adobe wall of a store. Mounting his horse, the Kid left Bedrock. “Just another town,” he soliloquised. “They’re all the same.”


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## Courtjester

*IMMOBILITY FOR THE MILLIONS**?*

​During the last couple of decades, there has been much ado about transport in the UK. So far, every proposal to alleviate the worrying situation seems to have attracted as much opprobrium as approbation. Perhaps few will be surprised to learn that this awkward question was recently referred to that icon of investigators, Sir Bertram Utterside, former professor at one of our finest academic institutes. Felicitously for everyone concerned, the Great Man returned from a holiday, spent largely in the reference library near his home, on the day he received this new commission. He cleared his desk at once and tackled the issue, reporting as follows:

What a coincidence that this matter should be referred to me only a couple of weeks after I had tinkered with one of its aspects. Heaven knows I am not a specialist in physics, though I believe I may qualify as one of the few genuine polymaths of our time. A former student of mine recently brought to my attention the parlous state of our railways. This induced me to devote a little time to that situation. I am not too proud to borrow from whatever sources are available, and in this case I leaned on US military advances, in particular the advent of the Stealth bomber, supposedly undetectable by defences. Harking back to my earlier interests, I addressed this issue for five hours, at the end of which I had devised a Stealth train, a conveyance which could pass through stations virtually unseen, thus reaching its destination on time. In due modesty, I must say that I did not get so far as to deal with the picking up of intermediate passengers at places between the two terminal points, but I shall deal with that in due course.

The above passage is merely an aside, included only because it demonstrates that my ability to grasp technological problems matches the intellectual rigour I apply when dealing with social ones. Now to the nub. Questions put before me normally meet at least one of two criteria, in that they are either urgent or important. Some have both characteristics. This matter is unusual, as it does not have either. I shall now explain why this is so. 

The UK is among the most crowded countries in the world. Consequently it is a perfect place for reliable cheap public transport – so many potential customers in such limited space. But what do we have? I do not travel much, but am given to understand that we are obliged to contend with unsatisfactory and ridiculously expensive rail travel, crowded, sweaty bus stations and air services which, if we are to believe the protestations of their operators, constantly gallop a hairsbreadth ahead of gridlock. For those seeking independent solutions, we have hopelessly overburdened roads. What is to be done?

I hear that the government recently charged some old duffer with the responsibility for ‘blue sky’ thinking, and that his suggestion was that we should have even more motorways. What nonsense! This is a time for fundamental reconsideration. I do not have the exact figures to hand, but don’t need them, as it is obvious that most journeys undertaken are discretionary, frivolous or both. I remember my time in business, when I was often told that people needed to take long trips, as there was no substitute for eye-contact. Poppycock! We have telephones, text and fax machines, e-mail and remote conference arrangements. The people I have just referred to simply wished to get away from their normal workplaces, enjoy a little unsupervised activity and run up costs they would never have incurred had they been paying from their own pockets. Would you fork out £120 or more per person for one overnight stay with breakfast, knowing that you would not be reimbursed? No? Nor would I. Only a month ago, I had B&B in a pleasant boarding house for £25. Business expenses are a huge swindle.

We do not need more transport and accommodation facilities, but less mindless pressure upon those we already have. There is capacity enough for what we need, as distinct from what we want – not my first reference to this syndrome. I suggest that instead of trying to cater for apparently limitless demand, we curtail our gallivanting to what is necessary. How many Britons go abroad each year in search of the beer and fish and chips available on their own doorsteps? It is bad enough that these drunken people are often such terrible ambassadors, but even worse that their movements cause massive pollution. Aeroplanes may fly _in_ thin air, but they do not fly _on_ it.

As with so many supposedly large questions, this matter is basically trivial, requiring as it does only a change of attitude. If you don’t need to go anywhere, stay at home. You will find this less stressful than getting around and you will help to save the planet. I repeat my above assertion that this issue does not have either of the criteria I mentioned early, the reason being that if my advice is taken, any currently perceived element of urgency or importance will vanish as a consequence. That is all.


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## Courtjester

*FIFTH MESSAGE TO PLANET X*
​
Notwithstanding the provocative tone of your latest missive, I intend to continue doing all I can to acquaint you with the situation on planet Earth. For a few minutes, I shall overlook your more contentious remarks. When last interrupted by technical shortcomings – where are our much-vaunted scientists? – I was about to go into theological matters.

Religion is a big thing here. This is mystifying, as it induces people to kill each other in large numbers, regardless of the fact that nobody can confirm or refute the existence of a supernatural agency. Christians, Jews and Muslims continue their long-established practice of reciprocal butchery, regardless of the fact that they are, as I understand it, branches of a common Abrahamic tradition. This goes further, in that the various adherents have subdivisions, which seem to be as hostile to others of their own kind as to those they consider adversaries in a wider sense. One could be excused for thinking that an omnipotent and omniscient being would have settled for imbuing sentient creatures with a single belief system. By the way, the three strands just mentioned do not represent the whole spectrum. Don’t ask me to explain this because I would not want to insult your intelligence by doing so or my own by trying.

As for governance, once again I cannot offer unequivocal clarification, as this seems to be intertwined with entertainment, both being aspects of show-business. I recently observed a congress of European Union heads of state and government – in some cases there is no distinction. It was hilarious. As far as I could make out, the leaders went back home afterwards, claiming that they had outmanoeuvred everyone else and achieved a triumph for their respective electorates. Growing pains, I’d say, but better than the warfare that ensued from piffling disagreements in bygone days.

The position in the USA – currently top dog in economo-military terms – is not much different, as some of the citizens there have genuine concerns about the world situation, while others don’t give a damn about it, so long as they are apprised of the latest baseball/basketball/football results. I find this a little depressing.

With regard to social organisation, the capitalist system described in Appendix 9 prevails in many of the more highly developed areas, the reason being that this arrangement is the most successful in creating wealth, though it does not really address the spread of material riches. There was – and to some extent still is – an alternative in the form of communism. Regrettably, this has usually proved itself to be more efficient in the distribution of poverty rather than wealth. Still, the socialist idea may well be sound, if a little ahead of its time. I am mindful of the fact that we had similar convulsions in our society long ago. Some compromise will be necessary here. Overall, movement is slow and sporadic, but mainly progressive.

Now, I must inform you of my personal position. Frankly, I am in a conflicted state. Androgyny no longer seems the right course for me. To put it bluntly, I have fallen in love. Snigger if you will, but I am attracted to a human female. She is of Mediterranean extraction and her name is Vulpina. I believe that has some associative meaning, but am not sure what it is. Anyway, she is voluptuous, in addition to which she is also a competent amateur harpist. In fact, I heard someone ask her if she was a virtuoso, to which she replied haughtily that she had ‘never been with a man’. I don’t know what that means.

As a result of her former occupation, Vulpina is financially independent. She worked nocturnally and it is common here for night-shift people to be well-rewarded for their inconvenience – remarkably so in her case. She has a number of videotapes which she says are very valuable, though they will remain so only for as long as they are secreted. I find this baffling, but she must know what she is doing. Anyway, a little light morphing has put me in her good books, and I can think of no place I would rather be.

I have just spent some time hovering around England, home of the mongrel language which, despite its manifest absurdities, or perhaps because of them, becomes increasingly the lingua franca for many of the Earth’s people. Superficially, this tongue would appear an unlikely candidate for its leading role, as (a) writing and pronunciation seem to have undergone divorce proceedings and (b) the rules of speech are pretty much what any given individual wants them to be, though I should say in fairness that the grammar is largely uniform, which means that most Anglophones recognise good style when they encounter it. The explanation is probably threefold. First, the Britons were remarkably active in colonial times. Second, the record of their cultural spread, albeit far from unblemished, was on the whole possibly less negatively charged than those of some other nations. Third, the Anglosphere is prominent in economic affairs and currently accounts for a large proportion of the Earth’s gross national product. This will change, but the unifying effect of English will, I think, endure for quite a while.

Earlier, I studied the second-largest continent, Africa, which I must say is not in good condition – though I believe that circumstances there are likely to improve. Europeans and North Americans often deplore the violent events that occur at times in what used to be called The Dark Continent. This is strange because during the last century, the people of the countries from which this censure emanates were involved in the greatest orgies of bloodletting that even the remarkably murderous human race has ever experienced. 

Much as I would like to continue, I am, as they say here, running on empty, so this is all for the moment. It would be nice to think of more backup from the place I am ever-less disposed to think of as home, but what chance is there?

Yours more in hope than expectation,

Dweedles

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## Courtjester

Press-ganged again! Those inky blighters who do the menial work around here have locked me in my office, demanding that I ransack my reminiscences for a real-life tale, to be published today. All right, you drudges, I’ll do it – on condition that you print these few words as a caption. If you trick me, heads shall roll. One true story coming up. Editor

*A MAN AND A PLAN *​
Shortly before the end of my working life in the commercial world, I was charged with an awesome responsibility. “You are now Corporate Planning Manager,” they said. “Go forth and produce a plan.” The initiative was a brainchild of my immediate boss, the Director of Administration. He had attended a seminar, returning with a mountain of literature emanating from an American business guru.

In a sizable organisation – we had over a thousand people at the head office and four times that number in our nationwide branch network – I was not left without help. In fact I was assisted to distraction. Dozens of colleagues were eager to participate, especially in the area of terminology. I soon found that the idea was to mix and match impressive words and present them in any order, without varying the ostensible meaning of the expression concerned. 

My chief thundered that we knew next to nothing about our affairs. This baffled me, as we and our predecessors had been running the business for about 140 years and were achieving better results than all but half a dozen of our hundred-odd competitors. Nevertheless, it became de rigueur for our leaders to stalk the corridors, wearing glazed Messianic looks and striving to outdo each other in admitting profound ignorance of our wider environment. To make any contrary claim was to court disaster.

Presentation of the plan was a big problem, revolving mainly around organisational shapes. Some preferred classical pyramids, others ziggurats, others concentric circles. The only general agreement was that whatever was offered to the non-executive directors should look nice. Many hours were spent in meetings convened to establish the relative values of the words ‘mission’, ‘aim’, ‘goal’, ‘objective’ and ‘strategy’. Invariably, the consensus was that all of them should be used, though their hierarchy was a matter of hot debate. If a mission was immutable, could a goal be changed? If an objective was quantifiable, could it be reached by a strategy which was not? Such considerations so impinged upon the daily round that for weeks it was almost impossible to find a manager who would deal with our firm’s normal day to day exigencies. 

In vain I pointed out that other companies in our field were repeatedly attaining excellent annual results without the benefit of formal corporate planning. For this and other heresies, I came close to losing my job. That I did not do so was probably attributable to the fact that I was the only one doing any actual work on the new scheme. My colleagues offered much advice, while remaining sufficiently ambivalent to guard themselves against any danger of adverse repercussions. Every one of the chieftains agreed that the old baronies had to go, but all maintained their fiefdoms, prudently adding extra strata, to be removed later in the event of rationalisation, in order to restore the status quo ante.

After labouring mightily for some months, we reached accord. The pinnacle of our plan was to be the Corporate Aim, though even this gave rise to dissent, as some people suggested ‘Mission Statement’. The former term prevailed. It was a ringing assertion of our values. I forget the text, but it was to the effect that we intended to be the best outfit of our kind. Since several of our major rivals made similar declarations, I could not see how this moved us forwards. Not being of top-brass calibre, I failed to grasp the true relevance of the development.

Now came the even knottier problem of achieving our desired result. As we had well-nigh exhausted our collective cerebral power in deciding what the plan was, how were we to muster the resources to implement it? The solution came from my still supercharged chief. In one of his visionary flashes, he realised that my shoulders were creaking. We needed management consultants.

Where does one go after proceeding from the sublime to the ridiculous? Let me just say that we went there. We interviewed four prestigious consultancy firms, each of which promised us salvation. The first three did so on the understanding that they would operate for a predetermined period, their charges being fixed at the outset. The fourth refused to commit to either timetable or costs. The executive directors chose that one.

It has been said that management consultants are people who borrow one’s watch to tell one the time. They do indeed have a wondrous technique, collecting vast fees, riding roughshod over clients, whose facilities they commandeer left, right and centre, while providing very few of their own tangible resources. They take no responsibility and guarantee nothing. There are three possible outcomes. First, one rejects the consultants’ advice, which exonerates them. Second, one goes along with their recommendations and comes to grief, in which case they will argue that their guidelines were not followed correctly. Third, one accepts their suggestions and succeeds, which covers them in glory. In any event, they prosper.

Thanks to our counsellors, we soon had flesh on the bones of our plan. Within a year, we had a magnificent document. The verbosity was intolerable, but the gist was that if we did as we were told, we would be a virile, powerful leader in our field, possessed of all the ingredients for a glowing future, surviving into the new millennium and acquiring minnows in our field as a sparrow picks up breadcrumbs.

We followed the advice and about five years later were gobbled up by a larger organisation in our own sphere. Shortly after the takeover, I met a Japanese businessman and asked him how his compatriots went about corporate planning. “Colpolate pranning,” he said. “What is that?”

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## Courtjester

*PUMPED UP*
​
There must be a limit to the number of superlatives that one person can attract in a lifetime, but it seems that boundary has not yet been reached in the case of Professor Ovis Jopp. The lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’ was positively incandescent when he addressed yet another invited audience in his fjordside home. Having circulated the contents of a firkin of his now famous greengage wine, the master explained his latest brainwave.

“It was a synthesis,” he said, “and one that only an intellect of cosmic proportions could conceive. For some time, I had been thinking about the crudity of our techniques for leaving the Earth’s gravitational influence. Purely by chance, I heard a joke about an incompetent hoodlum, who was asked how he fared when trying to blow up a rival’s car. He said that he had come to grief by burning his mouth on the exhaust pipe. Obviously he failed to distinguish between blowing up and inflating.”

Calming gales of laughter, Jopp continued: “Yes, it was funny, but I saw beyond the humour. It has long been clear that our attempts to break free from the Earth’s gravity by using absurdly large amounts of chemical propellants are unsatisfactory. Further, I concluded that such methods as plasma and nuclear pulse systems are inadequate. Happily, I found a solution within a week of first addressing the problem.”

Applause was stifled by professorial arm-waves. “It is quite simple,” said the luminous one. “The well-known inverse square law gives the clue. If the size of a body is increased while the mass remains constant, then the surface gravity decreases as the square of the change in radius. I merely applied this to the Earth, realising that if the planet were to double in diameter without significant addition to its mass, then the surface gravitational force would be only a quarter of its present level.”

The professor paused to ensure that his point had sunk in, then went on: “With this in mind, and using my engineering skill, which someone kindly described as legendary,” – more clapping – “I designed a giant pump, which we could insert into the Earth’s crust, then, using the air around us, we would be able to inflate our planet to the required size. This operation would reduce surface gravity to only twenty-five per cent of the current figure, so we would be in a position to undertake space flight with much less propulsive power than we now need. I don’t like repetition, but confess that the idea has a passing similarity to my earlier one for increasing the Earth’s spin rate by girdling the planet with anchored rockets. In that case, distances between some places would increase, while this proposal would affect all points.”

Audience response to Jopp’s scheme was tumultuous, but not everyone is captivated by it. A typically acidic retort came from the ultra-round, super-critical ‘Swedish Savant’, Dr Terps Dunderklap. Vacationing in Switzerland, he was found outside the ladies’ changing room of a ski chalet. Here, he is quoted verbatim. “Poor Jopp. He spends too much time fiddling with pieces of paper, which doubtless accounts for his inability to cope with the three-dimensional world familiar to most of us. He speaks of globes, but does not understand them. I would remind him that the formula for the volume of a sphere is pi times the radius cubed, times one and a third. To inflate the Earth as he envisages would require more air than there is in our atmosphere. Apart from that deficiency, how would we then breathe? As it happens, I recently perfected an anti-gravity device, but did not feel that the world was ready for it. I will give details in due course. Meantime, please ignore the Norse nitwit.”

We shall surely hear more of this.

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## Courtjester

*GENERATION GAP*

​There has been much talk lately about the supposedly privileged position of our older people, who it is often said are mortgaging the lives and prospects of their juniors. Particular concern has been expressed about the series of high budget deficits and the consequent increase in national debt, all to be paid off by younger people after their seniors have left this plane. Troubled authorities decided that such a Gordian knot needed the attention of a modern Alexander the Great. It can hardly surprise anyone that they turned to that incomparable unknotter, Sir Bertram Utterside, former professor of social studies at one of our leading universities. He applied his usual intense concentration to the problem and reported as follows:

I was pleased to receive the buck in this matter, as I am tired of hearing ill-informed references to it. Let me start by saying that those now well into their seventies lived through a world war and its aftermath, enduring severe deprivations of many kinds, including rationing of food, clothing, fuel, etc. They also had to contend with frequent power cuts, water obtained from standpipes, and other miseries which need not be mentioned here. Notwithstanding all that, they toiled on, building up most of the wealth we all now enjoy. They had to adapt to a bewildering variety of social changes, not all for the better from their point of view. In millions of cases, they inherited little or nothing of material value from their forebears. I will not say any more about this.

With regard to budget deficits, I agree that we could have avoided them by living within our means. I also grasp that the shortfall between government spending and income is currently something like £150billion a year and that this adds to the national debt, thus placing a burden on future taxpayers. However, that is not the main point. What we have to consider is that those paying whatever is required to clear the overall debt, which I understand is about £900billion, include the older people who are still paying taxes. It is also noteworthy that most of the debt we have as a nation is owed to ourselves, because our institutions, among them pension funds, buy government securities on behalf of many of us.

Now to the postulation that younger people will have to pick up the total bill for our national profligacy. I have just indicated that they will not do so, as their seniors will pay some of it. As we are dealing with a gradual process and cannot establish a clear dividing line in terms of age, nobody can say who will pay what proportion. I have consulted a prominent actuary who is also distinguished in the field of financial analysis. He estimates that people now under fifty will probably pick up about two thirds of the current bill, meaning that they will fork out £600billion or so. Even if he is wrong and the whole burden falls upon the rising generations, what would their net position be after everything else is taken into account?

These younger people will inherit bank balances and other monies to a vastly greater extent than their older compatriots do or did. That is only a start. What about dwellings? Our housing stock is close to 70% owner-occupied, which means there are roughly 17million units in this category. Taking the average price as £150,000 or so, this sector currently has a value of £2.55trillion. Nearly all of this housing wealth will in due course be inherited by the now allegedly disadvantaged young people. In most cases, the properties will be wholly or largely free from mortgage debt and the recipients of this bounty will, generally speaking, have done little or nothing to earn it. They will therefore receive several times more than whatever they pay to help clear the national debt, and should think themselves fortunate in getting such a high return on so modest an investment.

It is significant that the high deficits which led to the national debt have done something to alleviate unemployment, so if we had not overspent as we have, many people, especially younger ones, would be in a worse position than they are. In making these observations, I am not favouring one age group relative to others, but in terms of simple logic, the figures speak for themselves.

Though it is not strictly within my remit, I would like to mention that our financial position has to some extent been created by what is often referred to as reckless lending by various bodies. This would not have been possible without equally irresponsible borrowing by members of the public. It takes two to tango.

It is high time for us to stop bickering about generational matters and deal with the question of egress from our plight. Therefore, I say we should put our backs to the wall, best feet forward, shoulders to the wheel and noses to the grindstone. If enough of us can still move after performing these contortions, we shall go forward and get out of the mess the same way we got into it – together!

I have no more to say on the subject addressed here, but will take this opportunity to respond publicly to a vicious letter I received last week from a man who accuses me of speaking from an ivory tower, and states that I must have been born with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth. As this fellow is well known, I will not name and shame him, but would ask him to note that my parents spent their lives first in private rented accommodation, then in a council house, and that thirty years ago I was the sole heir to a fortune of £620. Humble enough, I think.

Note. In order to achieve the widest possible understanding of the above, I have used the words billion and trillion in their currently debased sense. The sooner we stop devaluing these terms and get back to correct usage, the better. There has long been a perfectly satisfactory word – milliard – for one thousand million. A true billion is a million million, and a true trillion is a million million million. If we had not trivialised our terminology in this respect, we might still have proper regard for large numbers.

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## Courtjester

*THE NODE BULLETINS : NUMBER EIGHT

*​Gilgit, 2 August. Wonder of wonders, we are approaching the Snow King. Miraculously, this is thanks to Pugh, though I believe more by accident than design. He insisted that we ignore a clear path with a sign bearing the legend ‘This way to K2’, leading us instead across hostile terrain for two days. I was about to tax him with this when we met some Japanese tourists. They assured us that we were on the right track. One of them took a fancy to Flatpole, who responded by throwing him off the edge of a precipice, with the hackneyed observation that there was a nip in the air. I shudder to think what might happen should we meet a Chinese party. If she were to find an admirer in its ranks, she would probably give him a thrashing, then make some fatuous remark about a chink in his armour.

As we must soon tackle serious mountaineering, I today arranged a practice session, involving the ascent and descent of a sheer rock face. After a good start, the exercise turned into a total farce when Gannett and Thoroughbrace, who are similar in size, tried out their abseiling techniques. They used a crude pulley of their own design and somehow got their ropes fastened together, winding up with one man rising while the other was falling, then vice versa, like a pair of opposed yoyos.

Finally, Gannett seized a large loose rock at the end of an upward trip. Thus weighted, he outscaled Thoroughbrace, so came down with a crash. This left his partner stuck at the top and creating a great fuss, while our quartermaster refused to relinquish his rock, for fear of soaring as abruptly as he had dropped. At length, by inducing Gannett to accept a smaller stone, I got the two into equilibrium near a ledge halfway up the face, from where we recovered them by rope ladder. Perhaps it would have been better to leave them dangling. Command is a trying role.


The final Node Bulletin coming soon.

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## Courtjester

The piece below was posted to us by a man who asks us not to reveal his name or address. Editor

*FROM TWO CELLARS*
​ 
I make my own wine, not because of any enjoyment this entails – it is rather tiresome – but on account of the fact that I am too cheap to buy the commercial stuff. In the course of oenological dabbling, I chummed up with a fellow who is also an amateur winemaker. The difference between us is that I make my plonk from any fresh fruit I can get, while he goes to great lengths to acquire specific grapes from various regions, labelling his products accordingly. We recently discussed our efforts, concluding that it would be interesting to call upon the services of a mutual acquaintance, who fancies himself as a connoisseur, the idea being that he should assess our respective outputs. Here is what he said:

Weitsteiner Kalbspinkel. (My friend’s.) Insipid is the word. I had expected something more incisive from a pressing which has, basically, Rhineland provenance. This flutters ineffectually around the palate, settling nowhere. Many German wines are produced from slaty soil and frankly, in this case I would have preferred to bite off a chunk from a Welsh quarry. By the way, Kalbspinkel means calf-pee – and Weitstein is not in my atlas.

Pear and rhubarb. (Mine.) Bowels in a bottle! I don’t wish to be indelicate, but the word ‘sewage’ comes to mind. Let me not dwell upon how the by-tastes of sulphur and ammonia were achieved. This beverage might have been less malignant had the perpetrator used overripe pears and natural, unforced West Yorkshire rhubarb. Clearly he didn’t, the result being that the kindest thing to say is ‘Ugh’.

Château Lyon. (My friend’s.) A brute! An assassin! More terror than terroir, this mean, vicious potion should not be sold off-prescription. Those with leather stomachs might just cope with what I instantly dubbed ‘The Villefranche Strangler’. If you can think of a blend of Chablis, Montrachet, Richebourg and Pommard les Epinots, perhaps you’d better not. This wine has all the restraint of a Pamplona bull. Among those who try it, some may survive, but basically the stuff is best regarded as lethal.

Grapefruit and Raisin. (Mine.) This liquid is so unpretentious that it must have an inferiority complex. Still, if you like the olfactory experience of a combination of roast chicken and lemon curd, you will not be disappointed. I don’t want to go into the effect on the innards, save to say that this offering is marginally less of an emetic than some others from the same stable.

Coonaburra Top Bin. (My friend’s.) This purports to simulate something from the Barossa Valley. If it really does so, I can only say trust the Aussies for originality. Imagine a mix of vynil silk-finish emulsion, ox-blood shoe polish and tartar sauce, and you will come close. Laced with (unless I am much mistaken) a distillation of dingo liver extract, Top Bin kicks like a mule. Frankly, I liked it, though after one glass, I spent three hours straightening my toes. Tie down your scalp and give it a go.

Apple and Mulberry. (Mine.) To be truthful, I’d rather not be truthful. If the maker could only rid his product of the overwhelming flavour of coal-tar soap, it might be almost drinkable. I understand this was created at a cost of 12p a bottle. It may be value for money if used for scouring doorsteps, but don’t imbibe it.

Readers may care to note that though I emerged somewhat tarnished from this event, I have had the courage to present the result. My friend has no comment.

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## Courtjester

*FIFTH REPLY FROM PLANET X TO EMISSARY
*
​ Dear Dweedles

We are upset by your latest missive, the general view here being that you may have been exposed to too much oxygen. Our boffins have studied the results of other trips like yours and are convinced that this kind of thing can cause flights of fancy.

 Regarding your involvement with the human female Vulpina, please note that the name does indeed have an associative meaning. Can this really have escaped you? Look up ‘vulpine’ in your dictionary. What do you see? Relating to or characteristic of the fox. Crafty, cunning, right? Be careful. Further, does it not occur to you that the lady’s former lifestyle has certain connotations? Nocturnal indeed! We could be more explicit. Incidentally, you describe her as of Mediterranean extraction. Do you mean that she is an offspring of a family from the shoreline concerned, or some kind of mermaid you dredged from the briny? We know you are given to meandering, but please try to be specific. Incidentally, when speaking of Vulpina’s musical ability and her retort to a question you asked her, you probably confused the words virtuoso and virtuous. No charge for these language lessons.

Dweedikins, you are infatuated. Do not weaken further. You must have noticed from your experiences elsewhere that this disease is common wherever there are two genders. Get a grip on yourself. Do your duty and try to avoid being more of a chump than nature made you – it did well enough. By the way, there is a limit to the morphing you can achieve. The object of your affection is sure to have, let us say, certain expectations. If you were to be so foolish as to prolong your liaison with her, she would probably anticipate delights which you could not offer. The ‘little light morphing’ you mention is a silly idea, even by your standards. You must learn to live with the fact that there is a limit to the extent to which you can adjust your anatomy. Watch out when the crockery starts flying.

Now, don’t underestimate Dwolf. Though somewhat long in the tooth, Big D is a veritable bloodhound, capable of finding you in any corner of the Cosmos. We have cautioned you before about getting above your station. Just remember your role as a tool of The Plan. You appear to have assessed yourself as something more than that. You are not.

Here is another point you might find awkward. Your assignment requires that you supply us with solutions, but you seem to be disposed to raise questions rather than give answers. Most of what your communications purport to reveal was clear to us from the appendices you sent before your first message. Dweedie, we had hoped to avoid getting into this situation, but we have no choice. You are to stay in situ and take no action until Dwolf gets there to relieve you. It has been decided that despite your recalcitrance, you are to be accorded a full public reception on your return here, and that suitable employment will be found for you in the civil service. You are to be an archivist, grade two, with no impediment to your reaching the top level (five), should your efforts so merit.

You might wish to note that the heat here is now nearly intolerable – a position which could have been avoided had you worked more swiftly. However, we shall do all within our power to cope.

Regards from your perspiring support team at Mission Control.

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## Courtjester

*SMALL WORLD
*
​ We have long known that custom does not stale the infinite variety of Professor Ovis Jopp, any more than it did that of Cleopatra. Further proof emerged yesterday, when the lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’ entranced members of the world’s scientific community by telling of his latest exploit, triggered when he heard a British government minister say: “Nanotechnology will be huge.”

“I suspected the fellow was trying to elicit laughter,” said Jopp, “but I took him literally, at once apprehending that what he spoke of is significant. However, it is trivial compared to what is possible. I refer to worlds far smaller than those he had in mind. You will know that nano is the prefix for ten to the minus ninth power. That is only a start. We descend in stages of a thousand a time. After nano come pico, femto, atto, zepto and yocto, the last being ten to the minus twenty-fourth power. Such an array would be far more than enough for most experts in tininess, but I hurdled the supposed obstacle in less time than it takes to tell, without working up a sweat.”

The eminent egghead allowed a moment for the inevitable gasps, then proceeded: “The main problem was seeing what was what. As there was no instrument of sufficient magnifying power, I had to invent one, which I call the jopposcope. By the way, I have some pride in this tool, as it makes sub-atomic viewing quite simple. Having no particular objective, I contented myself with producing a soccer pitch on the yoctometre scale. That led me to think of the players, the football and so on. Plunging downwards, I reached the level of ten to the minus twenty-seventh power, for which I could find no prefix. Assuming that there is none, and without wishing to be presumptuous, I suggest that ovio might be adopted as a new standard.”

Quickly subduing more expressions of astonishment, the professor continued: “I appreciate that there may be few at present capable of understanding what I have done, but the same could be said with respect to others who have vastly outpaced their contemporaries. Anyway, that does not matter now. After all, I speak of a world which I alone have seen. Let me just say that there seems to be no limit to what can be attained. As for the jopposcope, I need to introduce a few minor refinements and after I have done that, I shall be happy to invite anyone to inspect my latest work, which I believe matches anything I have done in the past.”

Though the immediate audience was rendered near-speechless, a sharp observation came within hours from Jopp’s premier castigator, the rotund, follically-challenged ‘Swedish Savant’, Dr Terps Dunderklap. Enjoying his first sojourn in the USA, he was found loitering on the campus of one of the country’s most illustrious institutions – Vassar.

Dr Dunderklap is usually acerbic, and on this occasion he excelled himself. “Hah,” he scoffed, “another proclamation from the Ass of Alkmaar. It saddens me to think that we were both born in that Dutch town, on the same day and in the same hospital. Just imagine two people appearing in the world, so close in time and space and so different in mentality. I calculate the IQ gap between us as 250 points. Jopp is, as usual, way behind me. I went beyond his primitive ovio level long ago, when I reduced smallness to what I call the dundo stage, which is ten to the minus thirtieth power, thus producing a polo ground, a vast number of which could be put into the torpid troll’s enormous megadrome. No matter how far he delves into the microscopic realm, Jopp will never find anything there as diminutive as his own brain.”

A major rumpus seems likely.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*GREY POWER
*
​ The piece below is a copy of a letter we received recently, addressed to our editor and accompanied by a note asking us to publish what the writer has to say. Stand aside, Mrs Malaprop.

Dear Sir,

I understand that like me, you have passed the age of seventy, so as one septicgeranium to another, I hope you will find it within you to relegate your readers with details of an enterprise undertaken in our village. We have formed an OAP group with the aim of achieving all-round cultural levitation by exchanging knowledge of the various facsimiles in which we have specialised. We call ourselves PILL – an antonym for Personal Improvement by Logical Learning – and I feel that our ideas may be a paradox for other isolated communities.

After a good deal of discussion, I was elected chairperson. There was some carping from several of our ladies, who claimed that I was assuming the role of alphabetic male and was guilty of misprogeny. I stepped around this hazard by invoking the soft answer that turneth away wrath, thus circumcising a potentially dangerous pitfall. The complainants certainly seemed to be largely emulsified. 

Our venue for weekly meetings is the village hall. Someone suggested that my house would be the appropriate place, but I replied that this would not be suitable, since I do not receive visitors, as I consider my home in violet. There are usually ten or twelve people at our get-togethers. Conversation is always lively, as we are all fond of company. Indeed, I never encountered a more egregious crowd. 

We have had problems, from which others might learn. It is all very well for those who live in large conflagrations, but things are different in rural areas. In our case, matters are exasperated by a shortage of transport. Happily, I managed to alliterate our position by offering all three of my family’s bicycles for the common good.

Our debates include a competitive element, in the form or a word game. As a former statistician, I was able to introduce a sophistical scoring system. Our progress has been most pleasing and has transgressed our highest aspersions. We have overcome obstacles to the extent that others in lower age-groups are getting the point. For example, one of my daughters, now thirty-nine and ten months, intends to form a forty-something society as soon as she becomes a quadrilateral.

The notion can be extended further downwards. We are concerned about the welfare of children here, and are at present in the process of forming a junior group, in which respect we are fortunate to have among us a highly qualified and experienced paedophile.

I would like to pass on two practical lessons we have learned. First, it is necessary to agree about financing. Initially, I paid for the hire of our premises. Happily, I was soon able to extort a promise that all members would pay equal shares, so we are inculcated against monetary problems. Second, it is as well to avoid high ambitions at the outset – disappointment follows lofty expectorations.

Sadly, I must regale upon my intention of inviting you to attend our next meeting. I was to be the main speaker, the proposed subject being my current particular interest, English language, in which field I think I may claim some degree of extinction. I also have not inconsiderate familiarity with French and German, so could be considered something of a polygon. Despite the protruberances of my friends, I have had to regurgitate that my vocal chords are inflamed by an attack of lyncanthropy. Perhaps we shall arrange something later. Now I must rush to catch the last post, as I am applying for a barometric passport.

Yours sincerely,

Alfred Threape 

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## Courtjester

*VALEDICTION
*
​ My friends, I have been asked to say a few words in memory of our departed colleague, Oswald Briddle. Some of you may be surprised that what most of us would consider more an honour than a duty has fallen upon me, since Ossie and I were once described as political Antipodeans. I suppose that was true at one time and in one sense, though it became increasingly hard to detect, as our exchanges in recent years were more in the form of persiflage than downright hostility.

Remembering Ossie’s devotion to the idea that brevity is the soul of wit, I will try to avoid verbal excess, but am bound to recall certain clashes. Only three months ago, Ossie demonstrated his pithiness when he described me as the Establishment’s bagman, to which comment my leader riposted that this was better than being organised labour’s swagman. A merry piece of give and take.

They say one should not speak ill of the dead. In some cases, that is easier said than done. Happily, there is no dilemma on this occasion, for there can be few people who could justifiably denigrate the name of Oswald Briddle, a man who embodied all that we have come to regard as the essence of democratic politics. There is no need here to damn with faint praise.

It is true that our late great friend and I were opposites in some ways, yet that never precluded mutual respect. We all had a good laugh last year, when Ossie disagreed with me over fish quotas, saying that a man in my position should have little time for such matters, on grounds of his having burdens enough with six hundred acres in the home counties and eighteen company directorships. Energised, if also slightly wounded, by Ossie’s forthrightness, I replied that such responsibilities were better shouldered by me than by an ill-bred upstart from one of the North’s bleakest housing estates – a remark that elicited the odd titter. There was no animosity involved. Those words were merely the cut and thrust of our much-envied system, and what a dull place this great debating chamber would be without a little banter.

We live in changing times and nobody could fairly accuse Oswald Briddle of failing to grasp that point. Was it not he who, twenty-seven years ago, resigned from the Communist ranks to found his own Far Right Party? Some might consider that a startling change, a volte-face, perhaps. Indeed, some of Ossie’s former colleagues, no doubt embittered, called him a turncoat. I do not concur with their view. A man should be true to his values, even when they are, let us say, less than immutable.

It came as a surprise to many of us when Ossie later ditch . . . ah . . . left his right-wing group to lead the Tudor Rose Republican Party. True, this coincided with his good fortune in securing top consultancy posts with several local governments in his area. What is wrong with that? Did we not learn from Shakespeare that there is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune? There is little doubt in my mind that a man of Oswald Briddle’s stature must have been well worth £276,542 a year in fees, plus an annual six-figure expense account.

There were those – including, sadly, several members of my own party – who sneared at Ossie for this action, saying that it represented a departure from his roots. I regard that charge as improper. Outstanding men are not always to be measured by the same yardstick as the rest of us, for they have great virtues and, no doubt understandably, commensurate . . . ah . . . let me say susceptibilities. Some may argue that by doing nothing other than sticking to one’s guns, one does not do wrong. Others opine that leaders who adjust their postures in the light of what they perceive as epiphanies are, though open to carping from lesser mortals, made of the right stuff. I would not wish to be an arbiter in that debate.

I’m sure we all remember Ossie’s last move, when he wound up his earlier activities to find his final political resting place with the new Extreme Centre Party – the last oscillation of the Briddle pendulum, as one wag put it. Certain unworthy minds construed this as meaning that Ossie had at last boxed the compass of party politics. I would rather say that if a man changes his spot . . . er, convictions from time to time, he must find the appropriate vehicle for his new aspirations. Not so very much wrong with that, you might agree.

Ossie was the most gregarious of men, forever stimulating his many friends in the House with hilarious anecdotes, together with something from that remarkable, apparently self-replenishing flask he always carried. It was a rare day when he did not entertain at least twenty people, separately. Often, the corridors reeked of . . . conviviality. Oswald Briddle was upright and sure-footed – attributes for which we were all thankful, especially at the end of each of his strenuous daily rounds. Not surprisingly, he faltered now and then, but I submit that a man who puts as much into life as he did might be excused for being a little over-stimulated at times.

Turning to the tales about Ossie’s supposed junketing, I say with some degree of confidence that they arose from false foundations, or at least rather questionable ones. If a man of some eminence needs to spend two or three months in the Bahamas to get a true feel for the social conditions in nearby Haiti, so be it. No-one can make the world a better place by selfishly sitting at home, whether the residence concerned be a local authority maisonette or a country mansion, of which Ossie had both.

Of course, the various political alignments of His Foxiness, as our late friend was dubbed – maliciously, I would say – by certain critics, entailed corresponding geographical changes, so we are today saying our last farewell to the member for, over the years, Sproatsley East, Leafbury-on-the-Wold, Udderham and Arkthorpe.

Finally, it would be remiss of me to neglect the opportunity to lay to rest a matter that has recently been uppermost in many minds. I refer to the rumours circulating during the last months of Ossie’s life. Allow me to say here and now, without too much fear of contradiction, that the tittle-tattle almost certainly exaggerated the facts. Each of us must have the right to a personal life, inviolate from general scrutiny. This applied to Ossie as much as to anyone else. Whatever his covert predilections – and who would argue that he was not entitled to any or all of them? – only the most uncharitable among us would still contend that Oswald Briddle dabbled in a field so repugnant that I cannot bring myself to speak of it. Rest in peace, Ossie.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*THE NODE BULLETINS : NUMBER NINE*
​
The Snow King, 9 August. It is all over, our expedition in ruins. We reached here to find the place a tourist resort, thronged by numerous parties. Admission for would-be summiteers is by turnstile only. Ahead of us was a group of Bolivian monks, intent on making the ascent clad in their habits. My companions were bitter, arguing that such frivolity would shame our more traditional approach. After much vituperation, our campaign disintegrated, leaving it to me to record the last throes.

Though no gossip columnist, I must report that Flatpole and Pugh are to wed. They left us two days ago, Pugh saying that he had long wished to grow coconuts, and that he and his betrothed were to proceed two thousand miles due north to realise his dream. I pointed out that this would place them in Siberia, not an area known for tropical produce. Pugh thanked me, but said that this was a mere technicality.

Gannett resigned yesterday, irate over complaints about his cooking. The last straw was his preparation of an ibex which Flatpole had throttled. Our quartermaster neglected to skin the creature before boiling a chunk of it. The result was disgusting. Gannett flounced off, festooned with clattering kitchenware. Unfortunately, his burden made a din which started an avalanche that buried him. I fear we shall not see him again.

Thoroughbrace then proposed a vote of no confidence in the leadership. Naturally, I abstained, so the motion was carried by the vote of my only remaining companion. He left, using the last of his money to buy a camel. I did not like the look of the beast. My fears were confirmed when it promptly collapsed, pitching my erstwhile comrade into a mile-deep abyss, from which he will surely not emerge.

I shall return home to plan an attack on the Dogtooth Peak in the Andes.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*TOPSY-TURVY
*
​ It is increasingly difficult for many of us to keep abreast of the work of Professor Ovis Jopp, the lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’. Speaking yesterday in his fjordside home, he informed an audience of science reporters that he had proved the validity of the theory of Earth crust displacement, adding that it was probably this, rather than meteorite impact, that overwhelmed the dinosaurs.

Supplying his listeners with wine made by his wife from Italian gooseberries and dubbed by him Vino Verdi (he is an opera lover), the wily warlock explained that he was inspired to investigate the conjecture in question while walking in his garden. He said that the theory in question had attracted Einstein, admitting that the father of Relativity, along with Archimedes and Newton, had ascended to within hailing distance of his own intellectual eminence. “For me, and doubtless only for me,” – he chuckled – “it was not too difficult. I took one of my spherical green cabbages, a sheet of polythene, a jar of my own recently developed super-lubricant, which I call Ovilube, and a wok. I sawed the last item through the middle, top to bottom, setting the two halves slightly apart and putting them upon separate supports, placed to match the curvature of the vegetable.”

Pausing only to imbibe half a litre of wine, the professor went on: “I coated the cabbage with Ovilube, shrink-wrapped it in the polythene and placed it in the split wok, the inner surfaces of which I had also smeared with the lubricant. The cabbage represented the Earth’s main mass and the polythene its crust, while the wok was merely a suitable stand. I added putty to the top of my apparatus, little by little in a narrow ridge, recording the amounts. As I had suspected, a final increment caused abrupt inversion, my poles sliding through 180 degrees, the ridge of putty passing the slit in the wok and stopping exactly opposite its initial position. My calculations indicate that there is at present almost a polar equilibrium, and that an additional 800 million tons of ice to the North Pole would cause a half-revolution, analogous to that in my experiment. As a result, we in the northern hemisphere would find ourselves down-under. Briefly discarding my usual humility, I submit that this is the most elegant demonstration of its kind yet devised, and I cannot imagine that there will ever be a more convincing one.”

Though the audience reeled, disapprobation was not long in coming. Leading the charge was Dr. Terps Dunderklap, himself verging on the globular. The hairless one was located at a fashion show in St. Petersburg. His guffaws must have been audible almost as far away as his homeland. “I believe I have finally established what is amiss with the fool of the fjords,” he said. “It is a question of height. A brain at such an altitude as his must be oxygen-deprived and therefore not working properly. If I did not dislike Jopp so much, I would pity him.”

After interrupting his comments to view a little stuff-strutting on the catwalk – a blinding red and yellow number – Dunderklap continued: “I confirmed eight months ago that the notion of crust-inversion is nonsense, but did not publicise my finding, which was merely one result of several amusing experiments I carried out during an evening I spent entertaining some friends. My equipment comprised a medicine ball, a basin, a length of Cellophane, six ounces of petroleum jelly and some modelling clay. The test proved conclusively that there never has been and never will be such a swivelling as Jopp suggests. Further, his statement that so much mass would have to be added to the northern ice cap is as profoundly erroneous as the rest of his assertions. Anyone accustomed to delicate weighing would tell you that if there were a near-perfect balance, a minuscule addition to either side of the scale would be decisive. Incidentally, the ice around the North Pole is melting. What about that lot, Greeno?”

This wrangle may well absorb many physicists for some time.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

Immediately after clocking in this morning I was given the hard word. Those thugs in the general office are to deny me tea and biscuits until I come up with another tale from my own experiences – some readers will know that I produced a couple earlier. This one is needed for today’s print run. I suppose we’re short of material, though nobody ever tells me anything. However, having reached my anecdotage, I can handle this task. Here we go. Editor

*IT’S THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTS
*
​ I was in the infirmary, breast bone and four ribs broken and the car written off. Nobody’s fault, unless you blame the local authority gritting crews and I don’t. They had their hands full dealing with the main roads and I’d been on a minor one. The culprit was a patch of ice which threw my tiny runabout into a skid. Being the only mishap of consequence I had experienced in many years of driving, it was a shock –  the sort of thing that happens to other, younger people. Of course, I have to admit that anyone under the age of fifty now seems to me a youthful tearaway.

In the afternoon of my third day of horizontality, my friend Bob called. He came minus both grapes and fruit juice, not that I take much notice of such things, and exhibited the classic symptoms of a hospital visitor – simulated bonhomie, fidgeting, eyes continually straying, not surreptitiously enough for my liking, to the wall clock, after the first ten minutes of his stay. The second of these manifestations was particularly evident, as it was exacerbated by Bob’s decision, taken a few months earlier, to stop smoking. I had noticed that since then he seemed to be afflicted by constant wriggling, scratching, rubbing of various body parts and bouncing from one buttock to the other, as though taking his daily exercise while chairbound. Not for the first time, I wished he would revert to the weed. I hadn’t liked the smell of his cigarettes, but found that less irritating than his non-stop squirming.

“Well now, what’s the full story?” he said, full of forced joviality. It was a fair opening, so I explained. There were the inevitable interruptions, obliging me to say that yes, my seat belt had been fastened, no, I hadn’t been drinking and yes, I really did try to get straightened out again but failed, mainly because the road was narrow, sinuous and half-blocked by a car belonging to a fellow who had come to grief a couple of minutes earlier, in the same way as I did. The location was, I learned later, an accident black spot. I wonder why it is that after such events one must submit, even to one’s friends, to an interrogation process that would be more appropriate following a major incident at a nuclear power station.

Finally, Bob was satisfied that I had not been overtaken by suicide mania. That clarified, he told me that I had been very lucky. I replied that having broken several bones and lost my trusty old car, I failed to perceive my good fortune. By this time, about twenty minutes of the allowed visiting hour had elapsed and I began to match Bob’s clock-watching, glance for glance – a long spell of mutually uncomfortable conversation is no trifling matter. “Well look,” said Bob after a particularly uneasy pause. “If there’s anything I can do, just tell me.”

I was well aware that the standard response in such circumstances is: “No, everything’s okay. I’ll be out soon.” Instead of saying words to that effect, I began to do a little chin-fingering. This clearly caused my pal some discomfiture, so I persevered with it for a while before answering: “As a matter of fact, there is.”

“Name it,” Bob whipped out smartly.

“Well,” I said, “I was just going to tidy the garden. That’s a fairish task. As you know, I have well over half an acre, and they reckon that although they’ll discharge me in a couple of days, I’ll be fairly weak for while. The trees have shed a veritable carpet of leaves on the lawn and paths and around the borders. It always takes me ages to gather them up. And I have a load of laundry waiting to be dealt with. Apart from that, there’s only the question of groceries. That’s a bit complicated, what with my vegetarianism and general faddishness. It means some running around health food places. Then I go for locally grown organic produce – one has to be so careful. Still, if you don’t mind.”

By this time, Bob was decidedly on edge. He hesitated for, by my casual reckoning, four seconds before unleashing a rapid, jerky response. “No problem at all. Only thing is we’re booked for a fortnight in Cornwall from tomorrow. Trying to get as far south as we can for the pre-winter break, and you know that the better half won’t go abroad. She doesn’t even have a passport – that’s always been a bone of contention between us. But look, as soon as we get back – ”

Realising that he was blathering, I broke in: “Don’t worry about it for a minute. It’s the thought that counts.”

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*FINAL MESSAGE TO PLANET X
*
​ It amazes me that you can still indulge in berating your cosmic standard-bearer when you have so little time left to save yourselves. Before addressing anything else, I would like to respond to your derisory offer of a clerical post. It is hereby rejected. I have no desire for a desk job, particularly not at the level you mention. Even making allowance for your fuddy-duddy mindset, I can’t believe that you maintain a straight face when replying to my reports. Anyway, kindly note that I do not wish to be a mere jobsworth – you’ll probably have to look that one up. If I had any such desire, I certainly would not wish in such an inferno as my original home planet seems to have become. 

I had intended to convey many other things, including a detailed description of sport, a form of warfare unknown to us but very popular here, and an appraisal of radio and television broadcasting. However, your censorious retorts to so many of my observations suggest that this would be a waste of effort on my part.

This is a time for straight talking, so I must tell you that I have long been teetering on the brink of a major decision, and have now made it. You may be unable to put yourselves in the position of one who has been separated from you for so long. Maybe the best thing I can say is that yesterday has gone and tomorrow has not yet arrived, so today is what matters. Just as an experiment, you might try to grasp the idea that the expression ‘long-term’ is relative. Though no biologist, I assume that a housefly here considers the period from dawn to dusk as near-enough a lifetime, but doesn’t get worked up about that fact. An American fellow once said that it is not the years in your life that count, but the life in your years. See what I mean?

To keep it short, I am throwing in my lot with that of humankind. Yes, they are savages, but they have embraced the notion of jesting in the face of adversity and even death. As individuals, we survive longer than homo sapiens, but they are ahead of us in appreciating that, as one of their scribes put it: “One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name.” These creatures know how to live. What do we do? Where are our creative writers, painters, poets and composers? We have not produced any genuinely new artistic work for centuries. I said in my fourth message and I now say again that your objective is mere survival. Why do you want to go on? After all, you’re not achieving anything of consequence, are you?

With regard to my own lot, I was shoe-horned into a career for which I had the talent, but not the desire. Now I am free to choose and intend to share my life with Vulpina – don’t try to contaminate my mind with aspersions about her past. If she was once culpable of indiscretions, she is all right now. And even if things were not quite tickety-boo with her, there is my American friend Polly, who will take anyone, anytime, on financially acceptable terms – and thanks to one of your rare bursts of technical wizardry, I can lay hands on any amount of boodle whenever I like. Long live free enterprise.

Send Dwolfus Geriatricus if you wish, but note that the great stalker will draw a blank, as I am about to destroy the spacecraft which has been my domicile these many weary years, so there will be nothing to find. I shall vanish among the teeming millions here. You will not hear anything more from me, and as things are warming up at your end, my advice to you is fly or fry.

Your erstwhile obedient servant

Dweedles
* * *​


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## Courtjester

*WHITHER LANGUAGE?*
​
 It seems to have become almost a matter of course that any subject of general interest will sooner or later be referred to the man now widely known as the UK’s Wrangler-in-Chief, Sir Bertram Utterside, whose credentials surely do not need to be restated here. The latest conundrum dropped onto his forty square feet of oak – a big mind requires a big desk, he says – was that of the alleged mangling of our language, brought about by the current state of literacy, plus the transmission of messages in abbreviated form by texting. Readers are reminded that Sir Bertram is not averse to embroiling himself in controversy. His observations are given below:

By coincidence, this matter was presented to me at the same time as I was immersed in a study of Linears A and B, the supposedly near-lost early Minoan tongue and its successor. It is fortunate that I am something of a linguist, so the question of whether or not English usage is deteriorating reached the right address.

Before getting down to brass tacks, I would like to doff my hat – not a common occurrence – to those pioneers who made noble efforts in this field. I think in particular of the originators of the Oxford English Dictionary, who grasped the need for their work to be descriptive rather than prescriptive. This explains why we find alternative recommendations with respect to spelling and pronunciation. C. K. Ogden made a useful contribution with his Basic English, comprising only 850 words. I also offer a nod to Zamenhof, the founder of Esperanto, who in my view should be considered a ‘totem Pole’ – another of those little quips I offer now and then to people who still doubt my inclination to jocularity.

Languages are always changing and their strengths and weaknesses vary according to the purpose for which they are used – literary, rhetorical, poetic or merely communicative. With respect to the first three categories, English has no advantage over many other tongues. In the last it is dominant, not because it is outstandingly good, but because it happened to be in the right places at the right times.

As to further progress, I am bound to chuckle at the fossils who contend that, owing to falling standards, all is lost. This is nonsense. I have examined the supposedly deleterious effect of texting and have found that, contrary to the claims of a number of philological backwoodsmen, this phenomenon should be welcomed because it leads to original thinking. I am well-placed to comment on this, as I have produced a hybrid language, based upon a mix of the Roman alphabet, Arabic numbers, quasi-Oriental ideographs, mathematical symbols and direction indicators. My system has the familiar twenty-six letters, ten numerals, the four computer keyboard arrows and sixty icons of my own design, making a total of one hundred characters. I submit that until we master telepathy – I have no doubt that we shall do so – this could replace all other ways of conveying information.

Though I have compiled a guidebook, I do not claim that all English words are encompassed by my technique. For the time being, some will remain as they are. However, let me offer examples based only on the letters and numbers familiar to all of us. ‘Foresee’ and ‘four hundred’ are rendered by 4c and 4C respectively, the upper case indicating that a number is involved. Likewise ‘fork’ and ‘four thousand’ would become 4k and 4K, while ‘form’ and ‘four million’ would be 4m and 4M. Now for something even simpler, using only letters. ‘I see you are too wise’ would become i c u r yy. 

Some much-used words are represented by simple symbols, for instance ‘the’ is a bisected circle. The senses of forwards, backwards, upwards and downwards and their connotations are given by the appropriate arrows, while mathematical signs for ‘more than’ and ‘less than’ are used. The proposed system precludes any possibility of misunderstanding. Admittedly, a single spread of a hundred items would be rather large, but any difficulty this presents could be overcome by alternative keyboards, accessed by a single stroke. Indeed, my own machine has a second array, which causes very little inconvenience. One simply has to get used to the idea.

Some filing away of rough edges is still required, but in the interest of giving readers a flavour of the advantages of the proposed method, I engaged a former student of mine to translate a novel from Standard English into my version, adjuring her to ensure that all nuances were preserved. The original book ran to 60,000 words, or about 340,000 characters. I was gratified to note that the young lady, using pencil and paper, did an excellent job in terms of impact and readability, and reduced the work’s volume by about a third. If that is not an improvement, I don’t know what is.

Some readers may think they detect possible flaws in the system outlined above. I  assure everyone that I am well aware of all potential anomalies and shall deal with them shortly. You will then hear more of my innovation. For the time being, I have nothing further to say about it.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*LIKE NOTHING ON EARTH

*​The apparently inexhaustible Professor Ovis Jopp has done it again. Speaking yesterday to a select gathering at his home, the lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’ dropped yet another blockbuster onto the scientific world, revealing that he had discovered a planet circling, or perhaps one should say ellipting, the Sun in the same orbit as ours.
 
“I must confess,” said Jopp, “that I got the idea while watching a film which purported to show that there was a ‘mirror’ Earth on the far side of the local star, but always out of our sight because it is constantly in precise opposition to us. Why not, I thought. You know that I am accustomed to discovering, even conceiving, planets, so this project was not a totally new experience for me. I worked on the Hardanger Plateau. My equipment comprised twenty skilfully arranged and ingeniously connected empty oil drums, painted green, a simple megaphone and an army surplus transmitter/receiver, in which I implanted the vital component, a piece of an isotope of my recently invented element joppium, which you may recall I used in an earlier experiment.”

Calming his excited audience, Jopp continued: “Realising that any other body in our orbit must be regarded as leading or chasing us, I worked backwards to achieve the swiftest possible connection. Imagine my joy when I picked up the first message. I will not tax your minds by explaining the linguistics involved, but I established that there is what one might call a shadow Earth, matching our planet in size but consisting mainly of gases, so having very low density and mass. This body would not be observable by any of our space cameras, as it is enveloped in an occlusion zone, which both prevents direct sightings and neutralises gravity. The latter characteristic explains why the planet is able to maintain its course, despite its low mass. Incidentally, I have not yet given it a permanent name. Until I do so, Earth 2 will suffice.”

Here, Jopp paused to light one of those mammoth green seaweed cigars which Captain Nemo might have envied. He then went on: “Our friends on the ‘other side’ are somewhat similar to us in appearance, though obviously rather less solid – ‘ethereal’ is the word. Happily they are not hostile. Also, I am delighted to say that they have among their number a scientist who is not so very far from being my equal, and who has perfected a method of sending messages in a direct line around our joint orbit, instead of spreading them in the usual electromagnetic way. I hope I am not being immodest in saying that the task of intercepting the transmissions seemed destined to fall to me. I feel sure you will understand why I have not indicated exactly how I used my apparatus. I do not believe the world is yet ready for mass extra terrestrial communication. These are early days and all will be revealed at the right time.”

A response to Jopp’s words came quickly from the ‘Swedish Savant’, Dr Terps Dunderklap, who was vacationing in London, close to Holloway Prison. He was as forthright as ever, saying: “So, the cerebral Cerberus that protects Jopp from reality is still in place. I do not enjoy carrying out a further demolition job on him, but feel bound to say that I can refute his arrant nonsense. I investigated this matter a year ago, using twelve empty casks of Limousin oak, cleverly arrayed, a trumpet and a transmitting and receiving device, similar to the one Jopp employed, the difference being that my vital addition was a sliver of the element dunderium, which I produced a short time ago. 

As I had predicted, the result was negative. My messages zipped around the allegedly shared orbit, returning home without having encountered any obstacle. Jopp’s supposed planet could exist only if it occupied one of the Lagrangian points, which are places of gravitational equilibrium, allowing a small body to hold its position because of a balance between two larger ones. There is no such spot at the location Jopp suggests. Take more water with it, Greenie.”

The professor riposted: “I have seen Twerpo’s figures which, if the champion chump could only see it, show that all of his communications took a fifteenth of a second longer than they would have done, had they not met Earth 2, which they were obliged to semi-circumnavigate. I’d like to know what Blunderklap makes of that.”

Another lengthy dispute seems inevitable.


* * *​


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## Courtjester

*LET’S PUT  IT THIS WAY*​ 
“Minor emergency, Miss Froop. Could you spare a moment?”

“Of course, Mr Notch. What is it?”

“I have to go out for the day shortly, but I must deal with this first. You’ve heard that Fenella Grossbeak died yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Well, old Tom Billingsworth phoned me a few minutes before you came in. He still edits the local rag, you know, and he wants us to produce a quick obituary. He needs it this afternoon. Now, am I right in thinking that you and Fenella were once good friends?”

“We were acquainted, but never close. In fact our paths haven’t crossed for eight years and eleven months.”

“Ah, yes. That would be since the . . . er . . . thing with that South American racing driver. I believe your three names were linked.”

“That’s something I no longer think about, Mr Notch.”

“No, of course not. Do forgive me. I didn’t mean to rush in where angels fear to tread.”

“Please don’t concern yourself, Mr Notch. It’s a thing of the past, long forgiven and forgotten. Just a dim memory. How can I help?”

“I’d like to whip out a few words, just as they come to me, and make use of that wonderful decoder in your mind to put it into sensible English. Sort of employ your facility for simultaneous translation, eh?”

“Certainly. If you’d like to dictate, I’ll take it down and do what is necessary.”

“Excellent. Let’s get going.”

Sprawling back in this chair and steepling his fingers, Notch speaks. Froop writes.

Notch: How shall I start? Yes, I think I have it. Fenella Grossbeak was a thoroughly modern socialite, at home in the smartest of sets, yet not too proud to show herself in some of the less fashionable spots.

Froop: She was a latter-day courtesan who would gatecrash anywhere, but was most comfortable in the demimonde of cheap fleshpots.

Notch: Although gregarious enough, even perhaps a trifle boisterous at times, Fenella didn’t seek the limelight and was, especially in recent years, reticent about exploiting her social connections.

Froop: Owing to her loud-mouthed vulgarity, she was gradually excluded by anyone who mattered, and became more accustomed to snakes than ladders.

Notch: Fenella was a warm, loving, even passionate person, comfortable in the company of both sexes. Her women friends often commented on her sparkling wit, while men seemed to see a more profound meaning in her repartee.

Froop: Promiscuity came as naturally to her as breathing. Women went in constant fear of her toxic tongue, while almost everything she said to any man amounted to a come-on.

Notch: Fame spreads quickly nowadays and Fenella’s name was familiar to many people in South America, largely through her intense interest in motorsports, which she did much to promote, as she was closely associated with morale-building of teams below the Tropic of Capricorn.

Froop: She was equally notorious on both sides of the Atlantic, having shacked up with at least half a dozen car-crazed men before she made the Hispanic continent too hot to hold her.

Notch: Shortly after returning from the southern hemisphere, she continued her family’s long association with the armed services – her grandfather was a naval officer, her father a long-term army man. She visited troops all over Britain, doing much to keep up their spirits.

Froop: On being kicked out of South America she came back to Britain. Always on the prowl for men, she presumed on her family background to invite herself to a number of army camps. She was particularly addicted to non-commissioned officers and quickly acquired the nickname ‘Sergeants’ Mess’. Her notoriety led to the armed forces barring her from all their establishments.

Notch: Following her all too brief spell in the newspaper industry, Fenella, through her astute grasp of the world around her, became a woman of independent means. After her tragically early experience of widowhood, borne with characteristic fortitude, she steadfastly rejected further matrimonial involvement.

Froop: After a six-month dabble in the press world, she looked over the field, snared a demented octogenarian, ‘exerted’ him to death, then lived off his estate for the rest of her life. No other man worth having would give her the time of day.

Notch: Despite the prominence that could have assured her of continual media attention, Fenella shunned the esteem that she might have sought by espousing public causes.

Froop: She was totally egocentric, invariably snubbing those who tried to get her to spend one penny or one minute on anyone but herself.

Notch: Up to the end, Fenella made public appearances, though understandably with decreasing frequency. Her stamina in maintaining a daunting round of commitments was astonishing. She was often on her feet for ten hours running, at a number of venues, sustaining herself with a glass or two of good cheer.

Froop: She was ejected nightly from one or other of her diminishing circle of haunts, her capacity for hard liquor earning her the title of ‘most expensive guest in town’. The long hours on her feet were balanced by even more protracted periods of horizontality, a small fraction of them devoted to sleep.

Notch: After a long, brave battle against an insidious organic malady, Fenella succumbed, her condition having been aggravated by her courageous refusal to seek a less strenuous lifestyle. Her passing will cause the colours to be lowered in more than one place.

Froop: As a result of her stubborn rejection of repeated medical advice to mend her dissolute ways, the organs she battered so relentlessly hit back. Her loss will be felt chiefly in Scotland, where the flags will fly at half mast over numerous distilleries.

“That’s about it, Miss Froop. Now, I must go. I’ll be away until tomorrow morning, so perhaps you’d get that ready and deliver it. I’m sure there’s no need for me to stay and read it through.”

“Very well, Mr Notch.”

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*FROM DOCTOR WATSON’S ARCHIVE*​ 
It was a dank November morning. The oily yellow fog which had enveloped London for two days dispersed by ten o’clock, giving way to a murky light. Rain seemed likely and as always in such weather, my old shoulder wound, a reminder of my part in the battle of Maiwand, was aching persistently.

As I looked out of the sitting-room window of the lodgings I shared with Mr Sherlock Holmes at 221B, Baker Street, I was far from enthusiastic about taking the air. However, dismal though the prospect was, it seemed marginally more agreeable than the continued society of my companion. Holmes was in one of his taciturn moods and had spoken little for almost a week. As I prepared myself for an outing, he sat by the fire, staring moodily at the flames, his profile presenting what some people referred as an aquiline aspect. To my mind, vulturine was more accurate.

I donned my overcoat and departed, with a few brusque words to Holmes, who merely nodded. My return was delayed because I had to take shelter from a shower, and it was five minutes after midday when I opened the door to find Holmes sitting exactly where he had been earlier. However, he was fully clothed, whereas he had been clad in dressing down and slippers when I had left. “Ah,” I said, “I see you emulated me in venturing out, and that you got back less than three minutes ago.”

Holmes smiled. “You are right,” he replied, “and the walk has refreshed me, but however did you deduce that I had returned so recently?”

“I have noticed several times that when you have been out in the rain, it takes fully three minutes for the drops to cease falling from the earflaps of your deerstalker, which they are still doing. Also, your boots are wet and there is water on the rim of that ridiculously large calabash pipe which you smoke largely for effect.”

“Bravo, Watson,” said my companion. “We shall make a detective of you yet. It is true that I have been back here for about the length of time you state. Mrs Hudson intercepted me downstairs and gave me a note sent by Inspector Stanley Hopkins of Scotland Yard, together with this brown paper bag and whatever it contains, which the inspector says is one of two clues in a robbery he is investigating. He does not indicate what the other one is. I shall examine this at once. Hopkins wants my opinion of it and he intends to call here as soon as possible.”

Settling down in a chair opposite my fellow-lodger, I immediately dozed off. When I opened my eyes, our clock showed half-past twelve. Holmes, magnifying glass in hand, was just finishing his clearly lengthy perusal of Hopkins’s offering. “Well, well, Watson,” he said. I fear this does not help us at all. What do you make of it? Not much, I predict.” Smirking, he tossed over to me a tweed flat cap, much used, stained, discoloured and exuding a variety of odours.

I spent two minutes looking closely at the grubby object, turning it this way and that and sniffing at it, then threw it back to Holmes. “Headwear is occasionally informative,” I said. “However, that item is less so than many I have seen. I cannot infer anything beyond the obvious facts that it appears to belong to a Norwegian seaman who wears spectacles, smokes Mather’s black shag tobacco in an uncommonly short clay pipe, has visited the Limehouse area in the last day or two and has recently been in contact with a number of spices.”

Holmes stared at me. “Astounding, Watson,” he said.

“Elementary, Holmes,” I replied.

He shook his head in wonderment. “You never cease to amaze me, old fellow,” he said. “Pray tell me how you drew your conclusions.”

I explained my train of thought. “That the man’s eyes are below par is clear from the two indentations on the cap’s brim, which were caused by the frame of his eyeglasses resting there when not on his nose. I deduce that he is Norwegian because the cap’s lining has been torn and repaired with a length of thin twine, tied off with a knot known as the Bergen hitch, which is a fastening peculiar to the sailors of that town on the west coast of Norway. As for the tobacco, I have made a study of this, as you have, though mine was exhaustive while yours was superficial. The traces of that product are most distinctive, as the Mather company is the only one that puts a large amount of shredded Latakia in black shag.”

Holmes’s eyes widened as I spoke. “Extraordinary,” he said. “Kindly continue.”

“The handling of a clay pipe when it is new leaves some of the substance on the fingers and this has been transferred to two points, back and front, where the cap is most often held. The brim tells me that the pipe is very short, as the tobacco residue is particularly pronounced there. As for the man’s recent whereabouts, I have extensive knowledge of the soils of this city, and am convinced that the small piece of earth adhering to the back of the cap has come from a new excavation at Limehouse Reach. The fact that the man has recently been in contact with spices is plain from the pungent smells which are detectable at various points on the fabric.”

I had barely concluded my analysis when a knock at the door heralded the arrival of Inspector Hopkins. As he joined us, his eyes went at once to the cap which Holmes was holding. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, “I see my little trophy arrived here safely.”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “Please be seated and tell us how your investigation is proceeding.”

Hopkins sat, sighing heavily. “It is an awkward case,” he said. “In my note to you I mentioned a second clue, and based on that I have arrested two men. I am sure that one and only one of them committed the crime, but they are both obdurate in their refusal to admit involvement. The cap you have there is the vital evidence, as a witness saw it fall from the culprit’s head when he leapt into a cart and made off.”

Holmes stood to fill his pipe. “I would advise you to concentrate on the Norwegian seafarer with the defective eyesight and the clay pipe,” he said.

The inspector gasped in astonishment. “What sorcery is this, Mr Holmes?” he said. “It is true that one of the men fits that description perfectly, but how do you come to know about him?”

“It is my business to know such things,” said Holmes, ever the charlatan. He gave Hopkins a supercilious grin. I had become more than a little irritated by his attitude of condescension toward the official force, and to some of his other pretentious  mannerisms, for which I had privately coined the word idiotsyncrasies.

“Well,” Hopkins replied, “with your permission I shall take the cap and get back to my duties. I’ll have a confession out of the man before nightfall.”

Holmes raised a forefinger. “One moment,” he said. “Would you kindly tell us exactly what the crime was and where it occurred?

“By all means. It was the theft of over a hundredweight of cinnamon, cloves and ginger, and it took place near the new building site at Limehouse Reach.”

The inspector left us and Holmes, resuming his seat, gazed at me. “Marvellous, Watson,” he said. “Whatever would my poor agency do without you?”

“Very little,” I retorted tartly.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

A snippet from the Courtjester’s file of favourite quotes:
​‘Your manuscript is both good and original, but the parts that are good are not original and the parts that are original are not good.’  :smile2: Samuel Johnson​


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## Courtjester

*LETTER FROM BEHIND THE BEYOND

*​To whom it may concern on Earth:​ 
If this reaches you, please note that it comes from the planet Zog. Yes, it is known here that you use that name for any celestial body with which you are not familiar, but this is the real thing. I am currently our designated correspondent for extra-planetary contacts. The incumbency changes once a year. I shall give my name below, though you will probably find it unpronounceable without clarification. We have only one language, the words of which comprise about ninety percent consonants and regardless of the order or number of letters are usually pronounced ‘Zhlykx’. In this respect, I believe our tongue is perhaps somewhat like one of yours, I think an East European one, though I may be wrong about this, as the information we received was severely garbled.

I will not weary you with details of how this missive is to be launched. Suffice it to say that it is the interstellar equivalent of a message in a bottle. I just hope that my primitive effort will succeed. My reason for writing is to let you know that an envoy we sent to you some time ago returned here recently. On his way back, the poor fellow passed through a belt of harmful radiation which, among other things, selectively destroyed his memory and caused his speech to be intermittently unintelligible.

Following touchdown at our space centre, the man lived for only a few days, during which time he told us that your planet is rather similar to ours in size, development and inhabitants. The main difference seems to be that we are much like you were 200 million years ago, in that we have only one continent, taking up nearly a third of our surface area. Sadly, that was about all our man had to say, except that for some reason he was most insistent that we should inform you about the means of communication here. I am trying to respect his wish.

For slow interchange of ideas, we have traditional books. Until recently, more rapid methods were radio, telephone, television, newspapers and something we called the Interweb, which allowed people to keep in touch by computer. Books are still produced, but the position with regard to faster channels has altered dramatically.

Television was suspended to save energy during a recent shortage. As the content was astoundingly banal, nobody wants it back. Telephone and computer systems were destroyed by aliens who dislike us, and we have no means of reinstating the networks. Newspapers are still produced, but not read. After printing, they are conveyed directly to various dumps, from where people recover them for producing paper mash articles, including furniture and even houses.

For instant dissemination of news and general entertainment, we are now left with radio. There is only one organisation of this kind and it operates planetwide. It is called the Big Broadcasting Corporation. Most of us refer to it only by its initials, though a few insist on the nickname, Uncle Beeb. There used to be four universal channels, two of them offering mostly popular music, one classical music and one mainly devoted to speech. The first three fell by the wayside when the above-mentioned energy problem arose, so there is now only the fourth. I cannot go into great detail about how it operates, but will give a few examples of its offerings.

There are certain flagship programmes. The first that comes to my mind is ‘Remote Island Records’. This is transmitted once a week and features a presenter asking a guest to select eight pieces of music he or she would like to take to a fictitious island. Generally speaking, the guests are narcissists who wish to speak about themselves for forty-five minutes, in most cases telling us about a difficult childhood at the hands of at least one overbearing or neglectful parent, a battle against some life-threatening illness, a struggle with alcohol, drugs or both and a long inner conflict leading finally to a revelation of their homosexuality. Hardly anyone cares about this last point, so why it should be brought up is a mystery to most of us.

There are chat shows, which in most cases are merely vehicles for three or four invitees to slip in plugs for their new books or forthcoming lectures. Whoever is in the chair feigns surprise when some comment induces them to say: “Oh, of course, you’ve written a book about this haven’t you?” This is too silly for words.

Another favourite is the weekly ‘Topical Questions’, in which four people – a different quartet on each occasion – are asked to give opinions on whatever is of interest to many members of the public. It is strange that these panellists - most of us call them rentamouths - not only have strong views, but if we are believe them care passionately about every subject that comes up. They must wear themselves out with such strong emotion. They often speak, or rather shout, two or three at a time - a bad situation which is exacerbated by a supposed moderator who not only fails to stop their cross-talk, but frequently outdoes them in excited jabbering

Six days a week - our weeks are the same length as yours - we have a three-hour programme of news and current affairs. This should be a showpiece, but is ruined by the two interviewers constantly interrupting their guests, whom they allow to speak for at most a few seconds between harangues. This ill-mannered conduct usually results in a most unedifying babble.

One recent development is the inclusion of inappropriate popular music into a variety of documentaries and other serious presentations. This mindless racket starts and finishes a large number of these programmes and is constantly faded in and out in the meantime. Though there has been a large number of complaints about this, the position seems to get progressively worse.

The Big Broadcasting Corporation offers each week its own forum, in which listeners air their grievances in writing. This is another farce, as the Corporation repeatedly wheels in executives who almost always stoutly defend whatever they have done. I have only ever heard one of these people admit to having got something wrong. It is amusing to note that many of the correspondents sign off as ‘disgusted’, usually giving their whereabouts as some town in the Southeast.

I cannot get anything more into this communication, but if you are able to reply, I would be very pleased to hear whether you have anything on your planet similar to what I have described above.

Yours sincerely,

Xzhlycxksz (pronounced Zhlykx)

  * * *​


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## Courtjester

The piece below is a copy of a note handed to us by a lady who does not wish her name or address to be published. Editor

*IT’S, YOU KNOW, SORT OF TAUTOLOGICAL

*​Assiduous as I am in trying to keep abreast of trends, I consider it one of my self-imposed duties to listen to radio broadcasts featuring the chattering classes. I used to get some nourishment from this pastime, but have noticed lately that the stimulus level is falling. Why? I think the reason is that I find myself paying more attention to presentation than to content. I am increasingly distracted by the frequent use of pleonasms and fashionable words and phrases. Instead of concentrating on the doubtless worthy thoughts put forward, I dwell ever more on the ways they are expressed. Consumed by the fear that this near-obsession might cause me to miss something important, I decided to try to purge myself of it by devoting a week to ignoring substance and paying attention to speech only.

The first thing that struck me was that if the words ‘incredible’ and ‘incredibly’ were to be expunged from the vocabularies of the professional talkers, nothing would be lost, and arguably not much left – joke! I heard of things that were ‘incredibly interesting’, ‘incredibly unique’ and ‘incredibly authentic’, so fell to wondering why, if everything is unbelievable, we need to consider accepting anything we hear or read.

Next, I noted the number of times that people would ‘never, ever’ do or say this, that or the other. There were twenty-three examples of this in the broadcasts I heard. If one would never do or say something, why does the ‘ever’ keep popping up? Then I was struck by the ‘you know’ and ‘sort of’ syndromes. In one splendid example, I timed a woman who was particularly addicted to the former. In two short bursts of speech, totalling three minutes and twenty-odd seconds, she said it thirty-seven times, which must make her a championship contender. Next in line was a man who racked up twenty-four ‘you knows’ in two minutes and fifty-five seconds. I will not dwell on the ‘sort of’ area, as it is too depressing.

The number of ‘and also’ appearances was striking. I lost count after forty-odd doses, but wondered why, if one ‘ands’ something, one must ‘also’ it too. In all of the  cases I noted, both words meant ‘in addition to’. Not being an expert in these matters, I may have missed a vital distinction.

I trawled up a nice collection of miscellaneous items. There were three instances of something or other providing a ‘positive benefit’, which caused me to ponder on why anyone might consider a benefit as negative. The same reasoning applied to another gem, ‘negative asset’. I had always thought that the opposite of asset was liability, but perhaps I am out of touch.

There was an impressive number of comments regarding ‘cheap’ or ‘dear’ prices. I was under the impression that prices were high or low, and that the goods or services in question were cheap or dear. Similarly, there were several cases of ‘cold’ or ‘warm’ temperatures. Are they not low or high, the weather being cold or warm? And what about ‘an attempt to try’ to do something? Is an attempt not a try?

Another type of expression used on several occasions concerned times of day. I noted ‘two/three/six a.m. in the morning’ and ‘eleven p.m. at night’. And let me not forget one little beauty delivered by a chap representing a charity. Speaking about the unfortunate victims of a mishap, he said that his organisation had offered them ‘help, aid and assistance’, but did not say which of these methods of support they chose.

There were some other oddities. First, a comment about ‘poisonous toxins’. Are there any non-poisonous ones? Second, a remark about a project which was running up a bill of ‘an annual £1.2bn a year’. Need one say more? Third, another enterprise was described as a ‘costly, expensive’ undertaking. Fourth, there were several references to ‘a few moments’. If a moment is a brief but undefined length of time, how does anybody distinguish between one and several? Fifth, I heard two observations relating to hot-water – or hot water – heaters. If the speakers intended to imply a hyphen, does one need to heat hot water? If no hyphen was intended, are we to assume that the heater itself was hot? We are surely concerned with the water, so should we not refer to a water heater?

I hope nobody reading this will mind too much if I slip in three items not directly related to my theme. First, I would like to see my television newscasters and commentators on current affairs doing a little less nodding while they speak. Perhaps they think this adds emphasis to what they have to say. Not to me. When I talk to people, I do not notice them behaving like demented donkeys.

Second, I do not care to have weather reporters flouncing around as though affected by Saint Vitus’ Dance, while saying that the ‘best’ temperatures – that thermometer again – will be in one place or another. Best for whom? That is surely a personal matter. Let me say in fairness that the weather people do notice criticism and often react by making adjustments. In that respect, they do better than many others. Good work!

Third, I am not happy with the offerings of certain disc jockeys in the classical music field. Until a short time ago, I listened regularly to a 24/7 programme featuring in the main pleasantly subdued presenters. There were the following glaring exceptions:

Number one was a man who introduced his next delight by what I believe is called plonking, saying things like “_Last_ week I was in _Milan_, I saw a _football_ match, _followed_ by a _visit_ to _La Scala_, where I heard the _fabulous_ . . .. ” Number two was an astoundingly bubbly woman who gave me the impression that she was repeatedly wheeled away from her perch while music was played, then returned after getting an injection of high spirits. Number three was a lady who seemed to have difficulty in getting to the end of any sentence. Her words kept dribbling out, reminding me of a tap with a faulty washer. For nearly half an hour I got some amusement from guessing when she had arrived at a full stop. I failed, the final score being 6:3 in her favour.

I have rambled here more than somewhat and would like to avoid leaving myself open to charges of excessive punctiliousness, as I am sure I have my faults in terms of usage of our language. However, I do think that we in the Anglosphere, having originated the world’s main method of communication, might be a little more careful about how we handle it. By the way, I wonder how long it will be before the media people succeed in eliminating the first ‘r’ from February – they seem to be intent on transferring it to law(r) and order, or draw(r)ing room.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*FACE TO FACE*​ 
It has happened at last. Professor Ovis Jopp, the lean, seven-foot-two, green-bearded ‘Sage of Trondheim’ and his foremost detractor, the five-foot-four tall, five-foot-four round, tressless ‘Swedish Savant’, Dr Terps Dunderklap have had their first meeting since childhood. What a battle! There was never much doubt that the two men so often described as the Northern Lights would put on a spectacular show, but probably few guessed correctly how events would unfold.

Long before it took place, the encounter was attended by problems, among which was the question of venue. Jopp was unwilling to visit Sweden, while Dunderklap was adamant about not appearing in Norway. Denmark came to the rescue by offering a space in Copenhagen’s Tivoli Gardens. Then there was the issue of a moderator. Jopp proposed his old friend Sir Dudley Stroan of Cambridge. Dunderklap countered by suggesting Dr Margaret Transpond of Harvard. It was finally agreed that, as both principals were born in Holland, a Dutch person would be appropriate. The job was accepted by the renowned palaeontologist, Ruud Djestiurs of Rotterdam.

A last-minute obstacle arose when the tee-total, non-smoking Dr Dunderklap objected to Professor Jopp’s insistence on availing himself of his well-known greengage wine and green seaweed cigars during the event. This was settled by an agreement that the gladiators would sit a minimum of four yards apart.

Those expecting a joust in the outer realms of science were doomed to disappointment, perhaps in part because a jarring note was struck at the outset by the master of ceremonies, who said he did not anticipate difficulties, as he was accustomed to dealing with fossils. That this attempt at light-heartedness discomfited the two behemoths of badinage was clear from their body language.

Owing to frequent audience participation, a totally accurate record of the verbal exchange that followed cannot be presented. Perhaps the best course is to recount what was audible, omitting interruptions. This is done below, as far as possible verbatim, beginning with the professor’s opening comments:

Jopp: The Sap of Stockholm and I have exchanged words only once since our formative years. That was when he phoned my secretary, demanding words with me. I gave him two, and there are no prizes for anyone guessing which ones they were. I suppose the reason why he persists in assaulting me is that he is resentful because, to use a stellar analogy, I outshine him by several orders of magnitude. Possibly the best comparison would be to think of us as featuring in the Hertzsprung-Russell star diagram, in which I would appear in the top right-hand quadrant – the supergiants – while Dundles would be at bottom-left, among the other dwarfs. Still, even such a body must have shone at some time, so maybe it is better to be a has-been than a never-was. As I recall it, the charmless cherub did once achieve fleeting notoriety by destroying his school classroom during one of his unfailingly catastrophic experiments. Pick the bones out of that, Your Hairlessness.

Dunderklap: This is a no-brainer, so will be about right for my supposed adversary – I cannot call him a genuine opponent, for to reach that state he would need to rise unimaginably from his present level. As for his invariably disastrous efforts in his laboratory, let me say that Jopp got the green tint in that silly beard as a result of his farcical dalliance with what he mistakenly regards as science. The visier of vacancy remains in denial, refusing to accept my superiority. Mercifully, I have to think of him only once in a while, and when doing so, I usually also call to mind the famous comment that genius involves 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration. Jopp has surely raised the latter figure to 100%, thus eliminating the former. By the way, I recall that his parents considered naming him Zeno, after the Greek gentleman famous for propounding paradoxes. That would have been fitting, as the riddle in this case is how Joppie managed to avail himself of the highest level of tuition, from which he emerged as a mental vacuum. My point, I think.

Jopp: The malignant microbe excels himself. He constantly snaps at the heels of his betters – how numerous they are – but never reaches their throats. Hardly surprising, as the poor fellow’s physique precludes him from eyeball contact with anyone of normal size. When called upon to refute the assertions of this querulous quack, I also call to mind the Arabian Empty Quarter. Compared with what takes place between the ears of the poisonous pygmy, that area is a hive of activity.

I am told that Dundie the Dismal has a laboratory. Pardon my sniggers, but he needs that like a Trappist needs a telephone. I don’t wish to make a habit of descending to his level, but as he has alluded to percentages, I can’t resist mentioning the recent findings suggesting that we humans share most of our DNA with chimpanzees. Klappers may well be unique in having chalked up the whole lot. Incidentally, he is wrong about my name. My parents were not thinking of Zeno of Elea – the paradox man – but Zeno of Citium, founder of the stoic school, and goodness knows I need all the stoicism I can muster when dealing with the puerile pest here. Also, if Dunno were right about my education and its outcome, that would be an irony, not a paradox. Another foul-up for the uncrowned king of the faux pas.

Dunderklap: Jopples is as arrogant as ever. He has more snot than a schoolboy’s coat sleeve. I don’t wish to go over old ground, but note that he recently spent some time addressing the vanishingly small. That seems appropriate, as it is a fair reflection of his mentality. Regarding the ridiculous jopposcope he claimed to have invented, I have proved to my satisfaction that ordinary electron microscopes, if connected cleverly enough – perhaps I am alone in being able to do this – produce perfect results, while avoiding the huge distortions inherent in Jopp’s absurd device. Incidentally, I find it quite amusing that he is always telling us that he needs to make further adjustments to his various gizmos and supposed findings. He reminds me – in that respect only – of Leonardo da Vinci, in that he has more unfinished work than a convention of builders. This is just a throwaway line, of which I have many. Are we now at forty-love to me? I am losing count.

Jopp: There is no need for the mobile misery to keep score, as the result was always a foregone conclusion. I don’t care to speak ill of the brain-dead, but if this mordant mole insists on exhuming our past differences, I cannot avoid thinking of his recent comment about the disparity between our IQs. I concede that he may be right about a difference of 250 points. If the scale goes up so far, I will accept a figure of 300 in my case. This would place Dr Dummkopf at 50, and considering that the norm is 100, that would make him a half-wit. This seems reasonable. He may have occasional synaptic flickers, but they are similar to the death throes of certain heavenly bodies, which usually shed a little light over a limited area. In case he fails to get the point, this is a compliment of sorts – goodness knows he could use one.

Dunderklap: The mindless mountebank is always offensive. However, as he has accorded me a little backhanded flattery, I will do the same for him. When he visited California a short time ago, I referred to him as the true San Andreas Fault. I now retract that remark, as it is clear that whatever may be produced by the geological feature concerned could not cause anything like so much damage as would result from the adoption of even the least maniacal of the jopperator’s demented ideas. I accept that he is a man of letters, the first ones that occur to me being d-o-p-e. Game, set and match, is it?

Jopp: Ah, all bitter and twisted, are we? I hardly need to defend myself against so feeble a foe, but the odd joppservation would not come amiss. It is strange to think that in his adolescence, the dunce of dunces had the makings of a physicist’s gofer, but he was deluded all along in considering himself a man of science. That was pure wishful thinking. When one considers the places where he is usually found by the media – I mean the precincts of exclusively female establishments – one cannot but regard him as an actual or a potential flasher. In fact I once sent him a dirty raincoat, but he didn’t get the message and never thanked me. I suspect that pipette is a word he associates with someone he might find in a dance hall. Frankly, I have lost patience with Dunderpate and any day now I shall drop-kick him into orbit.

Dunderklap: My self-appointed peer – surely no-one else could classify him as such – has an ego the size of all outdoors. It would save us all much trouble if he were to take on some mundane task. Just to protect everyone, I nominate him for the job of repointing the Great Wall of China. That would allow him to develop his crazy ideas without threat to the rest of us. He is bad enough with pencil and paper, so let us hope he never lays hands on a slide rule, let alone an electronic calculator.

Jopp: My less than learned friend – if I may corrupt the language of barristers – continues to disappoint us. He is a legend in his own mind. Having no taste for trading insults, I wonder why he abuses me so. Possibly the reason is his failure to match my feats. His first love was local astronomy. He should have stuck to that, as he has such a predilection for moonshine. Regarding his fatuous attacks on my work, I catch them like a ten-armed goalkeeper. By the way, Dumbcluck got his toy degree from one of those universities which bestow their accolades without requiring anything as inconvenient as study. I speak of Bachelors of Bunkum, Masters of Mendacity and Doctors of Dissimulation. A month’s national average income in these parts is about the going rate for the title of one’s choice.

Dunderklap: How sad that my antagonist cannot raise his game. As ever, his main handicap is lack of cerebral candlepower. I do not share his love of vilification, so with regard to our respective merits as scientists, I am content to let the public judge.

J: And so it shall, you imposter.

D: Humbug.

J: Cad.

D: Bounder.

J: Blockhead.

D: Ninny.

J: Dolt.

D: Booby.

J: Numbskull.

D: Jackass.

J: Loony.

At this point, the war of words and the attempts at mediation by the much-harried Ruud Djestiurs became unintelligible. A further confrontation seems unlikely, though the above-mentioned Ms Transpond has offered her services, on the basis that female intervention may impart a certain ameliorative influence.

These are dark days for science.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT
*​ A: You seem to be undecided, madam. Are you looking for somebody?

B: No, I was seeking an empty seat. This is the only one. May I join you?

A: Delighted. I always think it’s a little dreary to dine alone on long rail journeys, especially at the last sitting. Perfect timing, too. I was just about to order. Heard someone say the steak’s good, so I’ll try it. A rare one for me.

B: I’ll have the same. Remarkable enough that these people offer so varied a menu, but the inclusion of rarities is astonishing.

A: Er, perhaps so. Fairly comprehensive wine list, too. I suppose one should opt for burgundy, but I have a weakness for claret, so I’m going that way.

B: Claret, you say. I’m more inclined to Bordeaux, but I will accept your choice.

A: Excellent. One shouldn’t be too fussy. My name is Spond, Shane Spond. Let us dispense with formalities. Call me Shane.

B: Pleased to meet you, Mr Spond. Legova, Major. I agree that we should not stand on ceremony. My forename is Puttya. You may use it.

A: Puttya Le . . . yes. The pleasure is mutual, Major. An army officer, are you?

B: I was for some years, but not now. The title keeps slipping out. It’s a habit. Excuse my saying this, Mr Spond, but I have a strange feeling of having come across your name somewhere, and your face seems familiar, too. But then, one sees so many dossiers and photos. No doubt I am mistaken.

A: Most likely. I keep a low profile. Don’t believe I qualify for being on record anywhere. However, it’s funny you should say what you did. I have the oddest sensation that the same applies to both of us. It’s probably just one of those things, but somehow your appearance rings a bell, and as to names, yours has a vague resonance with me.

B: I cannot imagine how or why. I also fly below the radar. Perhaps we’re thinking of two other people. Forgive my curiosity, Mr Spond, but you give the impression of a businessman. What line are you in?

A: Nothing glamorous. I’m a kind of agent. Ordinary bricks and mortar stuff.

B: Ah, construction, is it?

A: Actually, it’s the reverse, but really quite mundane.

B: Demolition? Fascinating. I once saw a TV programme about that. All shaped charges and dropping of lofty buildings so that they cover only their own footprints. Is that what you do?

A: Well, you could say that I deal with bod . . . er . . . objects taller than they are wide and that covering footprints is important to me at times. However, my efforts are not very refined. You could call me an animated wrecking ball. I’m sure your work is more interesting than mine.

B: Hardly, though I too am an agent. I deal in metal products. High-velocity things, mainly steel and lead. It’s simply a question of knowing who has something to sell and who wishes to buy it. I’m sometimes jokingly referred to as a loose cannon.

A: Dear me. Wrecking balls and loose cannons, eh? A detached observer might regard us as a destructive pair, wouldn’t you say?

B: Possibly, but I’m sure neither of us has anything negative in mind at present.

A: I sincerely hope not. A laughable idea.

B: Pardon me again, but I must say you seem to be staring at me. Is something disturbing you, Mr Spond?

A: Shane. I am the one who should be begging forgiveness. It’s just that you have striking eyes. A man could get lost in them, Major.

B: Puttya, please. Yes, my eyes are said to be compelling. Look into them, Mr Spond. Take your time. Lose yourself. Eyes are magnetic. Eyes are entrancing. They’re rather like mirrors. What do you see in mine?

A: Right now, the reflection of a man with two knives coming up behind me. What do you say to that, Major Legova?

B: He also has forks and spoons, Mr Spond. He’s our waiter.

A: Ah, I see. May I inquire where you are going, Major?

B: Pest!

A: Sorry, I didn’t mean to be. Just making conversation.

B: You misunderstand me, Mr Spond. I was referring to Pest as in the second part of the Hungarian capital. Buda and Pest are really twin cities, you know.

A: Of course. Silly of me. Maybe I was still fixated with your eyes. Noir de noir is the phrase that occurs to me, though possibly I’m thinking of French chocolate, or is it Belgian?

B: I’m not sure, but let us pass on. Where are you going, Mr Spond?

A: Shane, to you. I’m heading for Munich. Come to think of it, I’d better get stuck into the groceries soon – we’ll probably be there any hour now. In fact we’re slowing down. I hope I haven’t ordered too late. Where are we, Major?

B: Puttya, Mr Spond. You’re all right for a while yet. We’re coming into a place called München. All built-up areas look the same, don’t they?

A: Indeed they do. Thank goodness I can relax. I hate bolting my food.

B: You can take it easy this time. May I ask what firm you are with?

A: Oh, only a small one. It’s called Emmeyesics.

B: Eyes again. You seem to have a thing about them.

A: Pure coincidence. The name was computer-generated. One day there’ll be a bungle and something resembling real life will crop up. How about you?

B: At present I’m contracted to an international charity named Sceptre – special counter-something or other. I have trouble remembering these long titles. Earlier, in my home country, I was with another bunch of do-gooders called the Konkordat for Gratuitous Benevolence. They dream up the silliest names, don’t they?

A: Embarrassing, isn’t it? Perhaps our masters employ consultants to devise acronyms, then find words to fit the letters. I often think the whole thing verges on skulduggery.

B: You know, it seems ridiculous, but I get the same idea now and then. An element of hocus-pocus, Mr Spond?

A: Shane, if you will. And you’re right. Anyway, let’s put work aside and consider ourselves strangers on a train. Do you like Tchaikowsky, Major?

B: Make it Puttya. You speak of one of my favourite compatriots. His sixth symphony is divine. And you are right, too. We’re ships that pass in the night.

A: My own number one is Flight of the Bumblebee. How are you disposed to Ripya-Korsetoff, Major?

B: Enthusiastically, but I think the composer you have in mind is Rimsky –

A: Yes, of course. Slip of the tongue – Freudian perhaps.

B: Possibly. However, I just melt at the very mention of his name, James.

A: It’s Shane. Let’s forget Munich and get stuck in – I mean to the food, Katya.

B: Puttya. Agreed. I’m insatiable – with regard to steak, that is. It gives strength, and who knows what the evening will hold. Bon voyage, so to speak.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

There will be a hiatus, we hope a brief one, in Madazine offerings. The fact is that we have quite a few more items to present, but I must confess that they were mislaid some days ago. Our reporter, Trixie Larkspur, has volunteered to ransack the building and is confident that she will bring home the bacon. Editor 
*

*


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## Courtjester

Sorry to report that we are still marking time here, as our gallant Trixie Larkspur has not yet found the mislaid items mentioned our last posting. Editor


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## Courtjester

​I'm pleased to report that our intrepid Trixie Larkspur has finally found the missing Madazine items. We shall start presenting them immediately, commencing with the next posting, Kleptomania. Editor.


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## Courtjester

*KLEPTOMANIA
* 
​“Excuse me, sir. I wonder if you’d care to accompany me to my office at the rear of the store?


“Why?”

“Please, sir. We don’t want to make a fuss outside the premises, do we?

“I didn’t realise we were outside them.”

“We are. Furthermore, if you turn round, you will note that the store manager and his assistant are blocking your geta . . . er . . . proposed departure. If you’ll follow me, I’m sure this matter can be settled without undue unpleasantness. Please?”

“ Proposed departure, eh? Nice one. All right. Obviously I can’t get out. Lead on.”

“Here we are. Do take a seat, sir. Good. Now, perhaps you would hand me the book in the left-hand pocket of your anorak . . .. Thank you.”

“What’s all this about?”

“I don’t think it’s new to either of us, sir. I have reason to believe that you attempted to take this item without paying for it.”

“Nonsense. It belongs to me. Has done for years.”

“Then perhaps you could explain why it bears the stamp of this shop.”

“Of course I can. I bought it here, ages ago. I’ve read it umpteen times.”

“So, you’re familiar with its contents?”

“Certainly. By the way, I got it from your second-hand shelf. That’s why you can see the pencilled note on the title page – ninety pence.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, that could have been written by anybody at any time. However, supposing I accept your explanation, I assume you won’t mind a little test?”

“I don’t seem to be in a position to mind. What kind of test?”

“Well, let me ask you first whose face appears on the front cover?”

“That’s Albert Einstein.”

“Very well. Now I’ll dip in and we’ll see what happens. Here we are on page forty-three. There’s a sub-heading in italics. Can you tell me what it says.”

“Er, forty-three. Yes. Its ‘The Great Dilemma’.”

“Hmn. A little hesitant, but correct. Do you have a photographic memory, sir?”

“No, I just know the book. Can’t you grasp that simple fact?”

“No need to get excited, sir. Now, page one hundred and twenty-one. What can you tell me about this?”

“One twenty-one eh? It’s all diagrams. No text as such. Does that get me through my A-levels?”

“Facetiousness won’t help you, sir. Now, how about page one hundred and fifty-seven?”

“There isn’t one. The book has a hundred and forty-two pages.”

“Good. Now, page eighty-seven. There’s a formula. Can you recite it?”

“No. That’s the very thing I’m wrestling with.”

“Ah, having a little trouble with our numeracy, are we? Or is the total recall slipping? Now look, son, this isn’t my first case and probably not yours. You stole this book, right?”

“Oh, first it’s the steely glare and ‘sir’, then it’s the wheedling tone and ‘son’. Good cop, bad cop, eh? Must be awkward, as there’s only one of you. Do you practise in a mirror?

“Very flippant. However, this will go better if I ask the questions.”

“Sorry, Sergeant – I’m assuming you did get beyond point duty.”

“My past is of no concern to you, but I’ll admit to having felt a few collars in my time. However, if you intend to pursue this line, I would appreciate your avoiding references to ‘plod’ or ‘flatfoot’.”

“I’ll try, but your provenance sticks out a mile.”

“Now see here, son  . . . er  . . .  sir, your attitude is doing you no good. As security manager of this store, I have wide discretionary powers to – ”

“Hang on a minute. Manager, you say. How many staff do you have?

“None. I’m the department.”

“Well, well, a manager with no subordinates. Seems just a bit highfaluting, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you and audacity won’t improve your position. Anyway, you’re not threatening enough to be cheeky. Five-seven and ten stone, I’d say.”

“About that, but I’m agile. And you seem to be going astray. I mean, your words appear to imply possible violence. Not very PC for an ex-PC. I thought you left duffing up suspects to the Special Branch or some other murky crowd.”

 “Never mind that. Let’s consider the way you acquire your reading material. Does that extend to your groceries? Nick a few goodies here and there, do we?”

“For goodness sake, I didn’t steal the wretched book. What’s amiss with you? No, don’t tell me. You’re on piecework, right? Need to get a minimum number in a given period, irrespective of guilt or innocence? Yes, that must be it.”

“Calm down. Look, we’re not in the Dark Ages. We know that kleptomania is a disease. You’re not facing a stretch in the pokey. Well, maybe not. Just confess and we can move on.”

“Not a chance, Sarge. Even if you start on my fingernai . . . hey, what’s that din?”

“It’s a fire alarm. Well, this seems to be your lucky day. I’m not allowed to detain you in these circumstances. Get going, quick . . . that’s right. Oh, before you close the door, just satisfy my curiosity – no strings attached. You did it, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Pinched it last year. Forgot it was still in my pocket. ’Bye.”
​
* * *​


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## Courtjester

Merry Christmas and a happy and prosperous New Year
From the Madazine Team:

Will Rider-Hawes, Editor
Tom Bola, Sub-editor
Trixie Larkspur, Reporter
Meya Culper, Proof-reader
Phyllis Tyne, Typesetter
Bella Donner, PR Officer
Rick O’Shea, General Admin
Sherry Tipple, Cleaner
Axel Griess, Occasional Contributor

* * *​


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## Courtjester

Our boss is away for a couple of days. He has a habit of noting down little episodes from his personal life and I’ve just found one of them atop the filing cabinet in his office. As I’m doing locum duty for him, I’ll slip it in here. Tom Bola, Madazine sub-editor

*RUBBER DUCK

*​My wife and I normally have an almost entirely vegetarian diet, but we depart from this on Christmas Eve. For three years we had cooked chicken from the local supermarket. This time we fancied something different. There are several Chinese and Indian restaurants and take-away places within easy walking distance of us, so I picked up a menu from each of them and we drooled over the offerings, finally deciding on one of the most expensive dishes from the largest Indian establishment – £11.45 a head. 

It was a memorable occasion. Panting with anticipation, we laid out the repast, described as a Chefs Special – succulent pieces of prime duck, cooked in a delicious sauce, with rice and a selection of vegetables. The rice passed muster, but the vegetables comprised five large chunks of boiled potato, plus about an ounce of grated onion and a tomato, both raw, per portion. However, it was the duck that gave us the most entertainment.

We sawed and tore quietly at our few bits of this alleged fowl for a few minutes before I broke the silence by remarking that it seemed like something left over from the Indian Mutiny, and that it might well have been called Gandhi’s Revenge. I also ventured the suggestion that it had possibly been supplied by the Worshipful Society of Cordwainers, or in view of the price, perhaps by Lobb of London. Picking up on the leather analogy, my better half, glumly stirring the brown sludge in which our web-footed acquaintance had been presented, countered with observations featuring the names Gucci and Prada.

At length I concluded that we were on the wrong track with regard to texture. The only similar thing I had ever previously encountered came into my life about sixty-five years ago, when my father bought me a tiny plate of whelks from a stall in Scarborough. There were four of the creatures. The three small ones I coped with passably well, but the fourth was a monster. I chomped on it for half an hour as we walked from North Marine Drive to the south shore, then for a further hour as we sat through a brass band concert. At last I dropped it, scarcely reduced in size, into a drain. I’ve never tried to eat a whelk since then.

Now back to our meal. Battling on, my wife asked whether we were attacking Bombay duck. I pointed out that that delicacy is a fish, and that there was nothing piscatorial about our treat, save that the description was more than slightly fishy. After about twenty minutes of gallant effort, we gave up and dumped everything we had left -most of what we started with * into the brown bin. As we are not in the habit of wasting food, this went down badly, but I think we avoided a touch of Delhi belly.

I’m not normally a griper, but I phoned the restaurant to voice displeasure. “Goodness gracious me (or words to that effect),” said the manager. We have been selling that dish for eight years and have never had a complaint until now.” 

“I’m not surprised,” I snapped. “We’re probably the first survivors. Where do you get your duck?”

“From the very best sources,” he said.

“I’ll bet,” I retorted. “My guess is that you’re speaking of Goodyear or Pirelli.” That was lost on him. “I do not understand,” he replied, then the line went dead.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*TEST MATCH EXTRA SPECIAL

*​We’re now able to return to Lord’s, where a resumption of play in the test match between England and Australia is imminent. Your commentators are Andrew Kipp, Tim Winter, David Smith and John Knackton. So, over to Kippers, Winters, Smithers and . . . John Knackton.

Welcome to our BBC long wave audience. We expect a re-start in ten minutes, and perhaps it is appropriate that we have that period available to us, as we were just discussing a letter we have received from a listener in Sri Lanka. I think the best thing I can do is pass on this short, fascinating communication in full. It reads:

Dear Gentletators

I am a British expatriate, long resident here in Colombo and an avid follower of Test Match Special. Your recent comments concerning unusual events in cricket reminded me that I have in my files a note handed to me by my local garage owner and mechanic, Mr Roshan Bhattericharga, who received it many years ago from a mariner in Trincomalee. This document describes a number of oddities, beginning with strange dismissals. I am aware that there are various ways in which a batsman may be returned to the pavilion. However, the above-mentioned paper relates a few weird ones, not included in the standard list. First, there is the case of one Percy Whelkin of Hove, who in 1891 threw a large net over the slips and was adjudged out ‘enmeshing the field’. Second, a certain Norman Gung of Market Drayton – the non-striker at the time – was sent packing in circumstances I would prefer not to relate, the verdict being ‘handled the umpire’.

Another case involved Yorkshireman Tom Longpiece, who scored eight runs by wedging a ball under his chin, from where it finally spilled out ahead of him to hit the stumps, producing a self-run-out. There are other odd cases, but I will note only that of Thomas Spoon of Middlesex, who in 1902 used his bat to smite the wicket-keeper in the groin, then on the head, and was deemed to have ‘hit fielder twice’.

The fragment in my possession also refers to remarkable bowlers. One of these was Somerset paceman Alfred Twinge, whose method was to approach the bowling crease at a right-angle to the batsman, releasing the ball sideways across his chest at the last instant. Apparently, this action failed to deceive the opposition, as ‘Sidearm’ Twinge took no wickets during a one-match career in which he bowled twelve overs, conceding two-hundred and eight runs. It seems that another practitioner of the bizarre was William ‘Donkey’ Broat of Derbyshire, whose technique was to lob the ball skywards (he bowled only when the Sun was high behind him) hoping to land it on the bails. According to the note, his ‘success’ was limited to incapacitating four batsmen, all of them receiving head injuries from balls while rearing backwards in attempts to execute hooks over long leg.

I would like to know whether any of these cases can be authenticated.

Yours sincerely

Malcolm Softwick

Many thanks to our correspondent for giving us much to discuss. We shall look into this contribution as time permits, but now to more imminent matters. Play is about to continue.


* * *
​


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## Courtjester

This is just a note to inform anyone who may be interested that I have opened a new thread, ‘Solomon Had It Easier’, comprising stories about octogenarian Embert Wimple who was coaxed out of retirement to lighten the workload of his fellow judges. You will hear about some of the cases heard by him in his last year on the bench. He was facing a formidable array of barristers in an assortment of bizarre contests. For example, you will encounter a man who was building an atom bomb at home, the operator of a tower crane using his machine to play skittles with his workmates, and a woman assaulting her husband with a frozen chicken. If that sounds interesting to you, please follow this link:

http://www.writingforums.com/humour/127205-solomon-had-easier.html

 Courtjester

:champagne:
​


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## qwertyman

Sorry, could you repeat that?


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## Courtjester

qwertyman said:


> Sorry, could you repeat that?



What please?​


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## qwertyman

I have read a few of these and I can see you are an original thinker and a talented humourous writer.

Hats off to you.

I assumed you decided to post them as you did as a showcase and weren’t particularly interested in comments.  But then I saw your ‘join-date’ coincided with the ‘post-date’ and now I’m not sure. So I jogged your elbow.

Would you do it the same way again?

I have not been around WF for a while and I'm catching up. If this has been covered elsewhere etc.etc.


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## Courtjester

Q: I have read a few of these and I can see you are an original thinker and a talented humorous writer. Hats off to you.
C: Thank you.

Q: I assumed you decided to post them as you did as a showcase and weren’t particularly interested in comments. But then I saw your ‘join-date’ coincided with the ‘post-date’ and now I’m not sure. So I jogged your elbow.
C: Feedback is always welcome and appreciated. 

Q: Would you do it the same way again?
C: Do you mean if I newly joined the forum, would I present Madazine in the same way? If so, the answer is yes. I felt that was the best way of joining the various items into one single format, i.e. as a magazine with the title ‘Madazine’.

Q: I have not been around WF for a while and I'm catching up. If this has been covered elsewhere etc.etc
C: I don’t think it has. Welcome in our midst again.


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## Courtjester

*IMPARTING THE SPIN
*​As so much has been said about government departments putting their own slants on various matters, it was decided recently that the public should be offered a way of evaluating objectively what is said by politicians. How could this be done? In view of the prevailing high level of mistrust, a feeling emerged that a universally respected observer should be engaged. Perhaps nobody fills that role to perfection, but few would argue against the appointment of Sir Bertram Utterside, sometimes described as Britain’s Logician Laureate. The renowned nit-picker was given the job and his recommendation is given below:

I regret to say that my work on other and more substantial matters was interrupted by the request to deal with this commonplace one. However, I have given it the thought it deserves. There is no point in my going on at length, as the solution is obvious. We are dealing here with the question of political leaders purveying their ideas. Well, they have their axes to grind, but how are we to interpret what we hear?

It is clear that politicians are a necessary evil. An advanced society should not need them, as its members would be aware of their rights and responsibilities. For the time being, our country, like all others, needs people to look after the shop while most citizens go about their business.

We must think of the offices of prime minister, chancellor of the exchequer, foreign secretary and home secretary as the most influential ones, exercising control over lesser lights. Defence, education and health are bottomless pits, into which the whole national budget could be thrown, perhaps without significant improvement to the results produced. Clearly, they must be restrained by more senior departments.

At the highest levels, let us take the job of home secretary. The incumbent is on a hiding to nothing, being no more able to pander to the ‘string ’em up’ lobby than to the high-minded liberal one. Such sympathy as I have with our leaders goes in no small part to the holder of this office.

With regard to the position of foreign secretary, it has been said that diplomats are people sent abroad to lie for their countries. If this is so, the head of foreign affairs must function as the chief dissimulator. Small wonder that the person concerned often seems to act like a cat on hot bricks, executing a delicate tap-dance around the truth.

The chancellor of the exchequer always has much to answer for. Whoever is in that position often recycles figures in ways that can be made to demonstrate almost anything, for example that we somehow manage to remain a global titan, active everywhere abroad while simultaneously achieving great improvements in our own public services. All this without any increase in taxes as a proportion of our gross domestic product. Some trick!

I will not dwell on the duties of the prime minister, who has to pull everything together and speak about whatever is topical. This is an onerous position, demanding that the holder has a view on each one of a vast range of subjects. And no allowance is made by the public for lack of awareness of anything on the PM’s part. The masses do not permit ignorance in those they believe should be omniscient.

What we need is a department charged with the duty of assessing the pronouncements emanating from other offices of state, in much the same way as I once suggested that auditors should be rated by an independent agency. My proposal is that we set up a Ministry of Credibility, the remit of its chief being to rank other ministers as to the soundness of their statements. The scale would be on the star basis, ranging from five for top performers to one for the duffers. Obviously this new body would be detached from political parties, not changing with their fluctuating fortunes. The credibility minister would have the job for a long period and would need to have unimpeachable credentials with regard to impartiality. It is not for me to suggest who might best fill the role for the first time.

Though the new ministry might well have the information it needed to bestow its ratings on those actually in office at any given time, the awarding of stars would be on a retrospective basis. The idea here is to encourage ministers to be as candid as possible while in parliament. They would then be sure of recognition of their good work, after the event, for example when they treat us to their memoirs – price £16.99 in hardback. A former holder of high office receiving a five-star accolade would be sure of peddling a large number of copies, while a one-star performer could hardly expect anything but a resounding failure.

To anyone who feels that I have been a little harsh on politicians, let me say that I am profoundly glad that we have people willing to enter parliament. Some of them get saddled with tasks that most of us wouldn’t take on. Who would like to weigh the merits of, say, selling a vast quantity of arms to a dodgy foreign country against not doing so, the second option putting thousands of people here out of work? And what about the financial mess we are all in? The politicos may have allowed that to happen but they didn’t cause it, and it is small wonder that they have trouble dealing with it. The only people who might know how to get us out of this pickle are the money-jugglers who got us into it, and even if they do know, they won’t tell us, will they? I have no more to say on this subject.


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## Courtjester

If  you have been enjoying Madazine, perhaps you would like to try  my latest offering, Pondhopper, starting with Footwear, the first of  twenty adventures of a Briton working as a private eye in the USA. You can reach the thread by following the link below:

http://www.writingforums.com/humour/129436-pondhopper.html#post1520576​


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## Courtjester

It occurs to me that some readers who have liked Madazine might care to know I have just begun a new thread in the Crime forum. The first item is a tale entitled ‘Banking On It’. I hope there will quite a few more in this series of Westerns, which I am calling 'Sunset Stories'. If you wish to try it, you can do so by following the link below:

http://www.writingforums.com/crime-thriller-general-fiction/131220-sunset-stories-banking-others.html#post1541557

 Courtjester
​


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## Courtjester

*
A MEMORABLE ENCOUNTER*​ 
It was a big day for the town’s chess club. All but one of the forty-seven members were present, together with about twenty interested people from the general public, including a reporter from the local newspaper. The great attraction was to be a simultaneous exhibition given by the grandmaster Leonid Gronik, paying his first visit to Britain and fresh from his triumph in taking first place in a major tournament on the Continent.

Ten of the club’s best players were ready to do battle with the great man. The tables had been set up in two facing rows of five, separated by a wide aisle to allow Gronik to move from game to game. As usual in such events, he was to play white against all opponents. In accordance with common practice, the use of chess clocks had been rejected. Everyone knew that the master would set a brisk pace and his opponents were expected to react in a timely manner. Play was scheduled to start at 2.00 p.m. Gronik arrived at the last minute. He was a commanding presence, six-foot-two and hefty, with a mop of black hair and hypnotic eyes of the same colour. Most of those present expected that he would stick to his preferred queen’s pawn openings, but he surprised them by varying his approach, making king’s pawn starts in the even-numbered games.

Casualties were not long in coming and by the end of the first hour, four of the locals had resigned, all having made early blunders from which they had no chance of recovering. Others offered slightly sterner resistance, but none survived far into the second hour and the last one capitulated at 3.25.

Almost total silence had reigned during the games. As soon as the last one ended, spirited conversations began. At a sign from club president Jackman, a group of hotel staff members entered the room and unveiled a buffet-style afternoon tea. The president circulated, keen to chat with as many of the non-members as possible. In doing this, he encountered a middle-aged man of medium height, with close-cropped hair the colour of iron filings and a sallow complexion, perhaps, Jackman thought, indicative of much time spent indoors. It was with this man that the president had a startling talk. On being asked what he thought of the proceedings, the man replied that Gronik had taken too long to dispose of several of his opponents, having missed a number of opportunities to make shorter work of them. “That’s quite a statement,” said Jackman. “Would you have done better?”

The man nodded. “Yes, I would. I noted that the average length of those games was nearly thirty-two moves. If Gronik had seized every chance he was given, that figure would have been well under thirty moves.”

“Remarkable,” the president replied. “So, if you were to take on the same opposition, you would produce a more emphatic result than our stellar visitor, right?” “I believe so.”

Jackman was a quick thinker. He asked the man to stay where he was for a little while, then bustled away. Twenty minutes later he was back. He had spoken with every one of the grandmaster’s vanquished opponents. “Right,” he said to the stranger, “you can have your chance. It’s only quarter past four and the tables are still in place. All of those ten players are prepared to try again. If you’re willing, we’ll start in twenty minutes. By the way, what is your name?”

“I am willing, and the name’s Simpson.”

Jackman announced the unexpected supplementary event, which caused much excitement.

Simpson was as good as his word. By 5.40 he had disposed of all the locals. On average, they lasted just under twenty-seven moves.

Gronik had stayed to watch the extraordinary performance. He was about to leave when the president, having had another brainwave, asked him to wait a few minutes. Everyone wanted to speak to Simpson, but all made way for Jackman, who took the amazing guest’s arm and sought a relatively quiet spot to speak with him. “Truly astonishing, sir,” said the president. We should all have heard of a man who can play as you can, but none of us has. What is your tournament record, if I may ask?”

“No record,” was the answer. I’ve never played in a tournament.”

“What about man to man matches then?”

“I haven’t played any of them, either.”

The president shook his head. “Astounding. So how did you learn to play?”

“I was in prison for a long time. The warden took an interest in me and at one point he lent me a chess computer. I was supposed to give it back, but he died. Nobody asked for the thing, so I kept it.”

“This gets weirder as it goes on,” said Jackman. “Have you ever played against another person at all?”

“No.”

“Well, look, I’ve had an idea. I just put it to Gronik and he’s happy with it. There’s still plenty of evening left, so I’m suggesting the two of you have a game, on the same fairly informal basis that you’ve both played against our members. It might mean a delayed dinner for all of us, but how about it?”

For a moment, Simpson seemed uncertain, then he agreed.

The two gladiators started their game at 6.45. It was a fiasco. From the beginning, Simpson was fidgeting and sweating. He made three big mistakes in his first fifteen moves, the last one catastrophic, causing him to concede the game upon Gronik’s prompt and crushing response. Play ended well before eight o’clock

The anticlimax was not all that emerged from the clash. It so happened that one of the spectators was a bookmaker. When the two titans were matched, he had scuttled around, taking bets left, right and centre, most of them on Simpson. After that dismal performance, there were those who thought that something fishy was going on. A group of suspicious attendees accosted the president, asking him to look into the matter. He took Simpson aside. “How do you account for what just happened?” he said. “I mean, forgive my forthrightness, but you played like a beginner.”

Simpson gave a rueful smile. “I should have mentioned this,” he answered, “but I got carried away. When the prison warder lent me that chess computer, he said he’d lost the handbook that came with it. I knew how to make the moves, but had no idea about the subtleties. I worked them out as I went along. The thing is these machines are usually set so that the owners play white unless they decide otherwise. Without instructions, I didn’t realise it was possible to switch colours. So when we tossed that coin and Gronik got the white pieces, I knew what was coming. You see, all my one-sided practice made me a wizard with white, but I’m useless with black.”

* * *

Happy Easter to everyone from the Madazine Team:

Will Rider-Hawes, Editor
Tom Bola, Sub-editor
Trixie Larkspur, Reporter
Meya Culper, Proof-reader
Phyllis Tyne, Typesetter
Bella Donner, PR Officer
Rick O’Shea, General Admin
Sherry Tipple, Cleaner
Axel Griess, Occasional Contributor

* * *
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## Courtjester

*
THE REVEREND SPEAKS*​ 
And now, without further ado, I would like to introduce our main speaker for today, the Reverend Bernard Railing, who I believe is better known to some parishioners as the Railing Reverend. Take it away, Bernie.

Thank you, Canon Fodd . . . er . . . Hodder. I had heard that you can always be relied on for a snappy intro. Good morning everyone. It surprises me to think that although I have long been a resident of our fair community, I have never before addressed you here. I know that you have often heard from within these walls and others like them, speeches laden with words of fire and brimstone. You will not get that from me. Instead, you will hear a message of comfort. My theme is thanksgiving – and not of the kind most often expressed in this place. I am thinking of how much we owe to so many groups who have been instrumental in making our much-admired society what it is today. Let me mention some of them.

We give thanks to the politicians, reckless spendthrifts on the left and frothing misanthropes on the right, for in the fullness of time they shall meet in the middle and all shall be well. We are particularly grateful that their deeds do not match their words, for if  they were ever to succeed in that respect, our leaders would always be _doing something_ and we would never have a moment’s peace. I think it was Will Rogers who said that we should be thankful that we are not getting all the government we are paying for. We are vastly indebted to the foremost statespeople, past and present, who have exalted patriotism and persuaded their populations that foreigners are a devious lot and not to be trusted an inch. Without such cautions, ordinary folk of various countries might have mingled more freely in times gone by, and possibly have become friendly. Perish the thought!

We give thanks to the bankers, for their tireless efforts have satisfied so many of our material requirements. Through the exertions of those in the financial sector, we have, among other things, been able to continue selling our houses to each other at ever-higher prices until recently. That is no small achievement, since it fosters within us a sense of wellbeing. There are those who say that as a result of this phenomenon we are buried under a mountain of debt. But is this not a question of attitude? One might argue that rather than considering our position from under that mountain, we should think of ourselves as seeing the world from its summit, with the magnificent vista such a vantage point offers. Is that not a better way to view the matter? We need only preserve our equanimity to see the merit of this perspective.

We give thanks to the economists, for they remind us that we are negotiating treacherous waters. We are grateful also that every expert in this field is cautious enough to predict all imaginable outcomes, thus ensuring that one or other forecast is likely to be right, whatever happens. I recall hearing somewhere that if all the economists in the world were laid end to end, they would not reach a conclusion. That is clearly not so, for taken collectively – and sometimes even individually – they reach all possible conclusions. I would rather accept the other well-known remark, to the effect that if all economists were laid end to end, nobody would be in the least surprised.

We give thanks to the rating agencies, whose combination of assiduousness and wizardry  led those in charge of monetary affairs to accept that bundles of sub-prime mortgages were first-class securities, almost as good as gold. Without the assurances given by the agencies, we might have thought of the bonds as well-nigh worthless. How sad that would have been. And how beneficial it is to us that these rating people have long been able to do their work unhampered by a credible supervisory body to rate_ them._ I think of the Romans who two thousand years ago pondered on the question of who should guard the guards.

We give thanks to the lawyers, whose serpentine casuistry enables us to resolve our differences by resorting to convoluted legal procedures, rather than dealing with them by the barbarously primitive method which we used to call common sense, but which, thanks to litigation, is no longer necessary. Were we not foolish to trust each other for so long, when we could have availed ourselves of more sophisticated channels?

We give thanks to those engaged in sport, especially the professionals, for they give us joy in more than one way. We marvel  not only at their prowess but also their peripheral antics, such as shouting, swearing, grunting, spitting, tantrums, biting of opponents and various kinds of cheating. In the last month or so, I have heard of impropriety in association football, cycling, athletics, horse racing and even cricket. I am also appalled by the continuing stories about people who take drugs to enhance their performances. This whole area has reached the position at which I feel it appropriate to make a suggestion. I propose that in each field of sporting endeavour there should be two strands of competition, one for those who play by the traditional rules and one for the dishonest types. I even envisage that when a season ends in whatever field, the champions of the two strands should have decisive encounters to see which method prevails.      

We give thanks to the journalists, for whom good news is no news. Without their unflagging efforts to acquaint us with every detail of every mishap and misdeed throughout the world, we might find ourselves dwelling upon the fact that probably ninety-nine percent of us usually go about our daily business quietly and uneventfully. Perhaps we should ask ourselves whether we would be happier not  allowing ourselves to be distracted by the many sensational and salacious occurrences presented to us by the media.

We give thanks to the broadcasters, whose daily quota of syntactical and grammatical gaffes offers us so much entertainment. Without their contribution to our lives, we would be deprived of a great deal laughter. Only yesterday I heard a presenter, speaking of a task on which he had been engaged, say that he had made an effort to attempt to try and do the job. While no lexicologist, I would say that, at least in the case I have cited, the words effort, attempt and try should be regarded as synonymous. Perhaps the fellow had been struggling to swallow a thesaurus. I also wondered why one would  try _and_ do something. Surely one tries _to _do it. 

We give thanks to a large number of those in my own line of work, for verily many representatives of the clergy – I hope I may exclude myself here – have sought and still seek to keep us close to the straight and narrow path by constantly reminding us for centuries of how evil we are.  Were it not for this continual castigation, some of us might well have felt that we were not too bad. That just wouldn’t do, would it?  I am reminded of the observation that puritanism is the haunting fear that someone, somewhere might be having fun.

We in our town give thanks to the tourists, for we live in a seaside resort and are largely dependent upon these worthy people for our wellbeing. However, I am sure that we would appreciate the day-trippers bearing with them coin of the realm for procurement of their sustenance while among us, instead of bringing their own food and drink.

I could go on, my friends, but I begin to suspect that you have heard enough for the moment. I am also aware that we have reached the time of day at which most of our splendid hostelries are beginning to open their doors, and I can offer you no wiser counsel than to follow my example, for I shall proceed to the nearest tavern and take unto myself a sinful skinful. Make haste!

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*A QUESTION OF NATIONALITY*
​ 
Much has been said recently about national and regional identity. This issue is topical in the UK and elsewhere. So concerned have many people become that experts decided to solicit an independent opinion. Few will be surprised that they chose that intellectual giant Sir Bertram Utterside to offer it. Never one to pull his punches, the one-man think-tank tackled this matter in his familiar forthright way. His views are given below.

When this task was handed to me, I was told that it was widely thought of as a Herculean one. Perhaps most people would have found it so but I have not. Indeed, I hardly needed to move from my study to reach an irrefutable conclusion. Still, I picked up a nice little earner here and we all have to eat.

A short while ago some fellow said to me that he was a Londoner, born and bred, and proud of it. I asked him why the pride and he seemed to be puzzled. I pointed out that he is a resident of our capital city as a result of his birth and I saw no reason why he should give himself airs on that ground.

I am a Yorkshireman but am neither proud nor ashamed of this. It is simply a fact. I am also an Englishman, to which the same comment applies, as it does to my being a European. Above all, I am citizen of the world, and I fail to see why I should have any particular emotion about that.

There is no contradiction concerned with being, say, a Glaswegian, who is a Scot, a Briton, a European and a dweller on the Earth, nor is there any reason for pride or shame in that identity. It simply happens to some people. Why should we take upon ourselves any aura attributable to where our forebears lived or what they did or did not do?

It is as well for us to remember that great minds have cropped up at random all over the world for many millennia. Why should I be proud because Isaac Newton was an Englishman? I had nothing to do with his achievements. And why should a friend of mine who is a native of Leipzig be proud because Newton’s contemporary Leibnitz came from that city, or another acquaintance in France rejoice in the fact that, say, Voltaire shared his nationality? Nonsense.

If there had been any human beings on the Earth many millions of years ago, they would at a certain point have been either Laurasians or Gondwanalanders, since there were only two continents and no countries. At another time, had humans been around, they would all have been Pangaeans, as there was just one great land mass.

Further tectonic shifts and continental drifting will make nonsense of the national borders we recognise at present. This comment leads me to an amusing thought. I have a Canadian colleague and am having a vision of him starting to read ‘War and Peace’ in Vancouver and finishing it in Vladivostok, without having moved from his chair. No doubt one could regard that as the ultimate in armchair travel. Just my little joke.

It is increasingly obvious that many people are reaching across the boundaries of nation states because they have more in common with those of like mind in other countries than they have with most of their own compatriots. In that respect, the English language has been as much a blessing to contemporary communicators as Latin once was to the most highly educated people in Europe and some other parts of the world. I am not suggesting that English is superior to other advanced languages. As a polyglot, I believe I may assert confidently that it isn’t. Despite its numerous absurdities, it has prevailed because of a mixture of geographical, economic and general cultural factors. Any other major modern tongue would serve us well enough.

If we are ever to have any peace in human society, nationalism is one of the three things we shall need to discard. Another is organised religion, which I would say has not much to do with genuine faith or belief and never did have, except perhaps in a tangential way at times. I am aware that this remark will upset some people. My response to anyone who finds it offensive is that I am not in the habit of offering anodyne comments when addressing potentially controversial subjects. I do not advocate banning religion because I am no great friend of proscription in general. In saying this, I am mindful of Ronald Reagan’s remark that one cannot roll tanks over an idea. However, I predict that religious indoctrination will wither away as people increasingly take responsibility for conducting their lives, instead of allowing preachers of whatever ilk to tell them how to behave.

The third thing we must abandon is too obvious to need much comment from me. It is the aggressive and confrontational mindset that has dominated virtually all of our recorded history. I will note merely that it is bad enough that we have to contend with what nature throws at us. We surely do not need to augment our troubles by slaughtering each other. I realise that it will take quite a while for the less evolved among us to grasp this point, so my advice is that they should start trying to do so now.

Returning to the main point of this report, national identity, I say do not be either happy or sad that you appeared in a particular part of the world at the time you did. After all, you might have been here in an earlier incarnation and may come again in another. If so, who knows what or where you were, or could be? Take me for example. It is quite possible that in contrast to my current eminence, I was in some previous existence a humble hod-carrier on life’s great building site.

This supposedly problematical issue is in fact very simple and I have no further observations to make about it.

* * *
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## Courtjester

*YOURS WRATHFULLY*
​
We give below a letter received here a day or two ago, together with my responding note, which will presumably be read by our correspondent. Editor

For the attention of Mr W. Rider-Hawes, Editor of Madazine

Dear Sir,

Having tried unsuccessfully to get my views published by any one of the quality newspapers or periodicals, I am reduced to contacting you, more in hope than expectation that my comments will reach at least a few readers. No doubt some of them will share my exasperation at the fact that so much has gone wrong in Britain. I give below some examples: 

•    We have quangos and regulatory bodies headed by people who avoid responsibility by asserting that they cannot comment on individual cases. The obvious reason is that they were put in place on the 'jobs for boys' basis and never had any intention of being taken to task in respect of their supposed duties. 

•    What is amiss with our education system? Why are we repeatedly found at or near the bottom of the table of broadly comparable countries when it comes to literacy and numeracy? And why are we permitting vast numbers of people to study totally pointless subjects at our universities? No wonder so many of them can’t find work. 

•    Why are we allowing apparently unlimited net immigration at the same time as our indigenous people are breeding like rabbits, with the result that we are now close to having standing room only in the land? This is intolerable and something should be done about it.

•    We are often told by our politicians that we are among the richest countries in the world. This is rubbish. Our national debt is already sky high and is increasing by leaps and bounds, thanks to the government’s failure to get the promised grip on our annual deficit. And why is it that this ‘rich’ country of ours seems to exist in a state of permanent crisis? During the last week I have heard that the National Health Service is on its last legs, that the lights are likely to go out very soon and that virtually every other country in Europe has, in terms of daily consumption, at least twenty times as much gas in stock as we have.

•    Clearly the less well informed among us are being misled – and not only by politicos. The media play their part. I will not go into what is heaped upon us by television and newspapers. Radio alone will illustrate my point. The broadcasters concerned tolerate very sloppy standards. In the last couple of weeks I have heard a plethora of grammatical, syntactical and statistical errors while listening to what is widely regarded as a flagship radio station. 

•    Radio transmissions are also responsible for a great deal of illness in the land. Why? Because they are constantly talking about diseases. If one were to listen to the station I referred to above for a day, one would hear the most dreaded medical conditions mentioned time and again. I maintain that listening to Radio X can seriously damage one’s health.

•    Why, in this supposedly enlightened age, are we choking in traffic? When trying to get around my hometown on foot, I cannot cross the narrowest alley without having to wait for at least one car to drive into or out of it. We should be getting masses of people onto the existing railway system instead of contemplating an absurdly expensive high-speed line which will benefit only a handful of expense-account junketers.

•    Still on the subject of walking, I recently decided to take my daily stroll in a small woodland glade near my home. It took me only three weeks to abandon the minor pleasure of that outing. Why? Because I tired of the need to take with me a shopping bag which I filled with litter each day. Incidentally, many of my other walks are ruined by people bawling into mobile phones. 

•    The last item above brings me to noise in general. Why do so many people seem to revel in it? For example, some of my neighbours have visitors who leave late at night, spend about ten minutes shouting their goodbyes, then add to the cacophony by tooting car horns as they finally depart. And why do people insist on making such a din with their car doors? If one puts any door of almost any vehicle within an inch or two of closing then presses it gently, it shuts with a click. So why the proprietorial slam that seems to state ‘this is my car’, as though the owner has some reason to be proud of possessing what millions of other people have?

The points I have raised here do not cover everything I have in mind with respect to what is amiss in our country, but I am conscious of the need to be brief.

In conclusion let me say that if I were able to take charge of our affairs for a while, I believe they would be conducted in a more orderly and efficient way.

Yours truly,

Abimelech Jones


Editor’s note. Well, Abimelech, or as I have already come to think of you ‘Bimi’, you must have a very large chest because you’re getting a lot off it. I haven’t seen or heard such a barrage of complaints since a day in 1947 when I pinched my sister’s skipping rope to get in some practice for a boxing bout. So nice of you to put us on your list of possible outlets for your bile, though we seem to be quite a way from the top. Well, we are nothing if not eclectic here at Madazine, so as you see, we are airing your social critique. 

I note that you addressed your letter to me personally but did not ask for my response. You are going to get it anyway. Look, Bimbo – hope you don’t mind the further familiarity – most of us know what’s wrong with the world in general and our benighted land in particular. However, we are short of people with ideas for putting things right, and you don’t offer many proposals. That’s hardly constructive. Incidentally, your broadside omits some of our institutions. You don’t mention the legal professions or the police service. Looks like sloppy work, Bim.

My wife rates me highly as a moaner, but I consider myself merely a talented amateur, whereas you are clearly a consummate professional. I note that your last paragraph seems to indicate your desire to take control of our country. This suggests to me that your forename is appropriate, as I seem to recall that the original Abimelech was a power-hungry lad.

We have discussed your letter here and have concluded that you need something to lighten your life. With this in mind, we have had a whip-round and are sending you a parcel. It contains a smoked carp, a roast grouse, a packet of whinger biscuits, a roll of whine gums, a bottle of gripe water and a little flask of herbal medicine for your apoplexy. Calm down, Bimmers. Editor
* * *​


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## Courtjester

*FIGURING IT OUT*
​ 
Monday morning:

Bob: Welcome, Jane and John. You’re the latest recruits to our sales team and I just need to say a few words to you before you start, which you’ll do in about ten minutes. You'll spend your first four days out in the country. Your two areas are near enough identical in size and numbers of potential customers. Friday is your day for operating in town, where you’re likely to make more calls than on any other day, but your success rate will probably be relatively low because the townies are fairly resistant to salespeople. As you know, we have only one product, the Goodypak, and owing to production problems, we must for the time being limit sales to one per customer.

Each week we give a prize to our most successful newcomer, so on this occasion that will obviously go to one of you. You need to know that the main criterion is not the number of calls you make, but the rate of conversion to sales. The reason is that you get generous travel expenses, so as far as we’re concerned, the less motoring you do, the better. For example, four weeks ago we had two fellows in contention. One made only fifty calls in the week, but he got thirty sales. His rival made ninety calls and thirty-four sales. The first chap got the prize because he'd clocked up barely half the mileage that the second one did. That’s all I have to say. Now, off you go. We’ll meet here again after you finish work on Thursday.

Thursday evening:

Bob. Hello, Jane and John. Nice to see you. Now, we have a most interesting situation here. You’ve each recorded sixty calls and twenty-eight sales. Good work. As you’re running neck and neck I’m really looking forward to what you achieve tomorrow. We’ll get together when you’ve finished your day’s work. Good luck.

Friday evening:

Bob: Here we are again, Jane and John. You’ve got through your first week and both of you have performed well. You’ll remember that you were level-pegging when we met yesterday and I now have to deal with your figures for today. John, you made thirty-six calls and got four sales. Jane, you made twenty-seven calls and got only one sale. So, the prize must go to you, John. Step forward and –

Jane: Hang on a minute, Bob. You said on Monday that the main criterion was the conversion rate from calls to sales. Now, I admit that John and I were level yesterday evening and that he did better than me today. But that’s not the point. If you add his thirty-six calls and four sales today to his earlier score, you get ninety-six calls and thirty-two sales, which amounts to exactly one sale per three calls. If you add my twenty-seven calls and one sale today to my previous score, you get eighty-seven calls and twenty-nine sales, which also works out at precisely one sale per three calls, so there’s nothing in it.

Bob: That can’t be right. Wait a moment . . . Oh, it is right. Well, that’s baffling. Seems ridiculous but there we are. Funny things, statistics. Well, we don’t have anything in the rules about overall sales, so although John’s were slightly higher, I’ll divide the prize equally between you.

Jane: I still think it should go to me.

Bob: Why?

Jane: Well, you said on Monday that you liked us to keep travel to a minimum, on account of the expenses. You also pointed out that John and I had areas of the same size, with the same customer potentials. We compared notes just before this meeting. If you look at our two itineraries, you’ll see that I planned mine quite carefully, whereas John criss-crossed his tracks a number of times, so I drove three hundred and fifteen miles and he did four hundred and eighty-seven. I’ve cost you far less for my travel, made nearly as many sales as John has and equalled his conversion rate. I think I’ve been the more effective worker.

Bob: Good argument, Jane. I have to admit that you’ve floored me on two counts. I’ll give you the prize and I have to say I think you’ll go far in this organisation. Sorry, John. Close but no cigar, as they say.
* * *​


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## Courtjester

*THERE IT WAS, GONE*
​
The letter below was among the items temporarily lost and recently recovered. As it is undated, we don’t know exactly how long it's been hanging around. We hope that the writer is still a Madazine reader and will digest the response, which was written by our occasional contributor, Axel Griess. Among his many talents he is, when not inebriated, a competent astrophysicist. Here we go:

To the editor of Madazine

Dear Sir,

I feel you might be interested to learn of an astonishing experience I have had. My reason for contacting your organ rather than any other is that I have had much pleasure from reading Madazine. Not only that but my astounding adventure was made possible by my conflating two things I found in your pages, namely certain technical aspects of the work of Professor Jopp and a comment made by the galactonaut, Dweedles. The former inspired me to produce a spaceship able to achieve Earth escape velocity with minimum effort, while the latter steered me towards the concept of tachyons, which until my exploit were regarded as only theoretical particles, moving at exclusively superluminary speeds.

Working with a range of simple everyday materials, I constructed a spaceship which I call the Tachycraft. I launched the vessel in secret and quickly got away from the Earth’s gravitational pull. After adroitly adjusting my controls, I found to my gratification that I was in the tachyonic world, where I discovered that one can travel any speed one likes, so long as it is faster than light. There is no need to resort to the spacewarps so beloved of science-fiction writers.

My objective was to visit a star I had spotted in a galaxy 5 billion* light-years from us. I calculated that this body was about six times as massive as the Sun. I got to my destination in what seemed like no time but was astonished to note that the star I sought wasn’t there, nor was the rest of the galaxy in which I had first seen it. I returned to the Earth very disappointed.

I am not prepared to divulge any technical details, either about the Tachycraft or my navigational methods, but I do feel that the world needs to know that our so-called cosmologists are clearly wrong in telling us where celestial bodies are located. It is high time for these supposed experts to return to their drawing boards and make greater efforts to get their figures right, in order to avoid more pointless journeys like the one I undertook. I feel that publication of this letter in Madazine might be helpful to other pioneers in the field of space travel.

Yours sincerely,

Hanno Magellan

* Please note that in the interests of wide understanding, I am employing this term in its currently most widely used sense, meaning one thousand million. I do not approve of this, but accept that I am now in a minority. I believe the point has been touched on elsewhere in Madazine.


Response from Axel Griess: Oh, dear, what are we to say to you, Hanno? Well, quite a bit. First, your clearly contrived identity gives the game away. I remember that Hanno made an epic trip along the coast of Africa about two thousand four hundred years ago, and most of us know about the great Magellan voyage. Having tried to deceive us with an obviously spurious name, you then give us a tale full of holes.

First, there is no evidence that tachyons exist. They are found only in the fevered imagination of some fantasists. If such particles were real, I’m sure they would not have, as claimed in your letter, a seemingly infinite range of speeds beyond that of light. I think your Tachycraft is inappropriately named and I would rather think of it as the Tacky Craft.

Second, neither I nor anyone else will believe that you picked out a single star so far away. Even with the best equipment, you would have had a hard time trying to observe anything smaller than a whole galaxy at that distance. But let us suppose for argument’s sake that you defied all known technology and did what you claim to have done. You say the star in question was six times as massive as the Sun. Well, didn’t that give you a clue as to the futility of the preposterous journey you had in mind? It should have.

If an object of six times the Sun’s mass emitted light five billion years ago, it would have burned out far in the past, so you wouldn’t have found it. Also, a star of that kind would, in coming to the end of its life, have collapsed and become a black hole. In that case, had you reached its location, it would have gobbled you up – which would have spared the rest of us your load of bunkum.

Finally, you appear to have completely failed to take into account the expansion of the Universe. By the time you got to the spot where you say the star was situated, it would have moved billions of light-years further from us, so you wouldn’t have found it anyway.

Hanno, or whatever your real name is, if you wish to perpetrate the hoax of the century, you will need to pay attention to details. However, I suggest you abandon any ideas you have about exploits in outer space and attempt something relatively unambitious, such as a totally unaided flight from a very tall building. AG 

* * *
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## Courtjester

*HOME IMPROVEMENTS*
​ 
Harold:  Hello.

Muriel:  Hello. Is that you, Harold?

Harold:  Of course it is.

Muriel:  I just wanted to know.

Harold:  You phone me at this time every day, Muriel. Anyway, what’s new?

Muriel:  I had a visitor this morning and I need your advice about what he said.

Harold:  Fire away.

Muriel:  Well, he offered to do a lot of work on my house at no cost to me.

Harold:  Sounds too good to be true, Muriel. What does he want to do?

Muriel:  He says he’d start with cavity wall double glazing.

Harold:  What? I’ve never heard of anybody putting double glazing into a wall cavity.

Muriel:  He claims it’s a new system that works by injecting glass and PVC into the wall then, as he put it, reconfiguring the mix in situ.

Harold:  Astonishing. What else does he have in mind?

Muriel:  He suggested coating my windows with expanded polystyrene.

Harold: Muriel, if he does that, you won’t be able to see anything outside.

Muriel:  I can’t see much now. I’m almost eighty-four and my eyes have been failing for years.

Harold:  I don’t believe this. Is that all?

Muriel:  No. He wants to insulate my loft.

Harold:  I hardly dare ask this, but how?

Muriel:  He intends to put a six-inch layer of concrete on top of the joists.

Harold:  But that will come . . . oh, never mind. Tell me that’s the lot.

Muriel:  No. There’s one more point. He wants to supply me with solar panels.

Harold:  They won’t do you much good. You live in an inside back-to-back row house and the only bit of roof you have faces north. There’s very little sense in having solar panels up there.

Muriel:  Oh, he doesn’t want to put them on the roof. He says the best place is my cellar.

Harold:  And did he explain how the Sun is going to shine down there?

Muriel:  I’m leaving that to him. He seems quite sure he can do what he has in mind.

Harold:  So, to sum it up, he proposes to inject double glazing into your cavity wall, cover your windows with expanded polystyrene, lay six inches of concrete on top of your wooden loft joists and fit solar panels in your cellar. Have I got everything right?

Muriel:  Yes.

Harold:  And there’s no charge for this work?

Muriel:  No. He says it’s done through government subsidies. All he wants from me is five hundred pounds for the survey, which he’ll do this evening if I want to go ahead. There’s just one small thing. He says he’s in the process of changing his banking affairs, so it would simplify matters for him if I'd pay in cash before he leaves, about ten o’clock tonight. 

Harold: Do you have five hundred pounds in the house?

Muriel:  Yes. Now, would you say I should let this man do the work?

Harold:  Muriel, you already have secondary double glazing, which is old but good enough, so reject the idea of having your windows coated. Now, as a retired builder I can tell you that it took many years for the industry to perfect cavity walls, so I don’t see why anyone would want to have them filled. Therefore, say no to that one. As for the proposed loft job, six inches of concrete would fall straight through your bedroom ceiling and probably the living room one as well. You’d most likely be squashed as flat as a pancake, so I’d refuse that too. And I’ve already covered the solar panel thing.

Muriel:  So you’re saying I shouldn’t have any of these things done?

Harold: I am.

Muriel: All right. I’ll take your advice. I suppose he’ll be disappointed, and he seems such a charming young man and so confident.

Harold: When you say charming, I think you mean ingratiating, although I’d rather think of him as smarmy. And as for his being confident, the word itself gives you a clue. He’s a confidence trickster, Muriel. As for the five hundred pounds, I think you should lock it up somewhere safe – before this chap gets back.

Muriel: I’ll do that. Thank you, Harold. I’ll call you again tomorrow.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*GETTING RIGHT DOWN TO IT*
​
A startling new project has begun in the north of England. It is the brainchild of Kevin Spout, who invited Madazine’s occasional science contributor, Axel Griess, to examine progress in the undertaking. “This will change the world for all of us,” says the enthusiastic Mr Spout. The site is the back garden of a small house in a suburb of Sheffield, where Kevin (43) lives with his wife and two children.

So far, the only thing to be seen is a square of freshly turned soil, in the middle of which is a hole, one inch in diameter. “This is my second go,” said Kevin. “I had to abort the first attempt when I hit a water main shortly after I started work. I sealed the puncture with parcel tape, which I think will hold – not that it matters much because the water people lose a lot through leaks anyway.” 

Kevin explained that his new hole had reached a depth of eight feet, after a week of drilling. He then revealed the extent of his ambition, saying that he intends to bore down to the Earth’s centre. He expressed surprise that what he has in mind is not obvious to most of us. “I’ve done my research,” he says. “People who’ve studied these things reckon that our planet has a huge core of solid iron, surrounded by an outer layer of the same stuff in molten state. Now, it stands to reason that this is because such a weighty metal has worked its way down by gravity. What I realised is that iron is not the only thing that’s got there. Obviously, even denser elements must have plunged right to the middle.”

Asked to expand, Kevin chuckled. “It’s plain enough,” he said. “I’m going to get right through the iron and locate the really heavy substances. I mean gold, platinum, uranium, osmium and so on.” He went on gleefully: “Talk about the mother lode. My results will make that Klondike affair seem like somebody finding a penny in the street.”

Pressed for further information, Kevin said that when he gets to his goal, he will extract the valuable metals by a process he has devised. He will not publicise the details but says that the method is somewhat like fracking. His timetable is flexible, though he hopes to be producing on a commercial basis in the very near future.

Some interest has been shown by three US entrepreneurs, Hank Wellcap, Bob Gusher and Tom Derrick, all with long experience in the oil exploration business. “I guess you can put me down for a couple of dollars,” says Gusher, by which he doubtless means two million. Wellcap also seems willing to put a toe into the water. “I’ll need to speak with my partner, Jack Rigg,” he says, “but I reckon he’ll go along with me for a buck or two.”

Not everyone is convinced. The Spouts’ next-door neighbour, Alice Neutron (94) hopes to sell her house and move away before, as she puts it: “Kevin blights the area with his silly idea.” She may be too late to up stakes.

Eminent Swiss geologist Heinz Bienz – yes, he gets a lot of ribbing from his anglophone colleagues – is worried. “I fear the worst,” he groans. “This man has no idea what he is facing. He appears to have immense faith in his tungsten drill, but I would remind him of two things. First, this metal melts at about 3,400 degrees Celsius, whereas it is estimated that the temperature at the Earth’s core is between 4,000 and 7,000 degrees, so Mr Spout’s equipment could not reach his target. However, that is irrelevant because the second thing is that the pressure down there is well over three million times the level at the planet’s surface, so even if the apparatus were the most robust ever devised by human ingenuity, it would be crushed long before getting a chance to liquefy.”

London-based engineer Horace Mandrill agrees and adds: “Apart from everything else, I am horrified by the thought that if he were to succeed, Spout might well haul up a less desirable heavy element. I refer to plutonium. Should he somehow release a pound or two of that into the atmosphere, it would be goodbye to Britain? I shudder to think of what other lethal cocktails he might spew over us if by some freak chance he were to succeed. Incidentally, at a rate of eight feet a week, it would take him nearly two years to drill through a mile – and it is 3,963 times that distance to the Earth’s centre. This fellow should be locked up in a very secure place.”

Reaction from leading Australian mineralogist Bruce Spruce was dismissive and scathing. Interviewed at his home, a converted lighthouse near Alice Springs – don’t ask – he vented his bile. “When I heard what this Pom is up to, I could hardly contain my indifference,” he sneered. “Boring is a word that   makes me think of either holes or yawns. In the case of Spout’s effort it’s the latter. This caper is about as interesting as a koala's armpit. The poor daffydil hasn't a chance. I won't dignify his scheme with a detailed appraisal. Just wake me up after he's bungled it.”

The ebullient Kevin is undismayed by these observations. He retorts: “Like another man who said recently that he was inspired to a great adventure by reading Madazine’s accounts of the great Professor Jopp’s work, I got my impetus from the exploits of the Green Giant from Norway. I shall be as triumphant as he has been in his enterprises.”

Our reporter advises caution. “Keep your heads down,” he says. “As sure as my name is Axel Griess, something will go wrong here.”

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*IF IT AIN’T BROKE . . .*
​
The topic of subsidiarity has become so hot that the decision was taken to commission an authoritative report on this sometimes controversial subject. Who would be capable of tackling such a difficult theme? None other than Sir Bertram Utterside, former professor of social studies at one of the UK’s most prestigious seats of learning, and recently dubbed the country’s Thinker-in-Chief. Fortunately he was available, so he cleared the decks and gave the task his full attention, reporting as follows:

This silly little matter is not worth much of my time, but dealing with it brings in some of the folding stuff, which is always welcome. I am almost tempted to present my conclusions without explaining the reasoning, much in the way that Sherlock Holmes initially offered his solutions. However, I recall that he did divulge his trains of thought, at least to Watson, so it would be remiss of me to deprive readers of similar courtesy.

It has taken a long time for our world to coalesce into the array of nation states we have today. Most of them are fairly stable, so it is interesting to note that there is in some quarters a desire to tamper with the present position. Doing this may have limited justification in a few cases, but there is no convincing argument for widespread upheaval, and I shall now indicate why that is so.

Subsidiarity, most often encountered in its political application, is a fancy way of expressing devolution, i.e. some affairs controlled centrally, others regionally. This has been much discussed, especially in the European Union. It is sometimes invoked by those who see the prospect of being big fish in small ponds. I would advise everyone to exercise caution when listening to these people because it is likely that if they reach positions of leadership, their practice will be in inverse proportion to their earlier preaching. In short, beware of dictatorial ambitions.

Let me go through this matter of ever-greater devolution. It will start with countries being split, the main consequence being that the resulting  components will have, even in total, less influence in the world than the original entity had, i.e., the sum of the subsequent parts will amount to less than the previous whole. This is clearly contrary to common sense and is a very unsatisfactory outcome.

The next step would be splintering of the successor bodies, let us say to about the size of UK counties. Local bigwigs won’t stop there. The process would descend to cities and towns, then to areas no larger than the current British council wards, finally going down to single streets and in some cases large individual properties, such as mine. I will not divulge where that is, as I don't wish to be besieged by admirers. Finally, every house, street, ward, town, city, county or whatever region would have its own prime minister, finance minister, etc. These people would have impressive titles, but no influence in the wider world. They may well be nominally similar to Pooh-Bah – The Lord High Everything Else in Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado – but they might have a hard time matching that gentleman’s power.

Another development of the fragmenting might be that people in certain streets would emerge as more aggressive than those in neighbouring ones. It does not stretch the imagination to envisage the bellicose types preying on gentler folk, motivating the victims to band together to resist unwelcome attention. This idea would spread, leading to areas the size of whole wards making common cause against ruffians. Then it would go further, encompassing towns and cities. There could be only one logical culmination to this process. In the interests of security and of having a voice in the world, the once-devolved mini-states would form unions, taking us back to where we were before the dismantling began.

It has been noted many times throughout history that humankind has a tendency to make the right choices – after trying all the wrong ones. Need we experience this yet again? I think not. My conclusion is that subsidiarity is all very well, provided that it is it properly understood and implemented. By this I mean that decisions should be taken at appropriate levels – big ones by the authorities best placed to deal with them. And what are those bodies? The nation states we now have, of course.

I recommend that we leave things largely as they are, rather than take our administrations to pieces then rebuild them in what would most likely be ‘new improved versions’. We all know what that means. Many years ago, a perspicacious American fellow remarked: “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” I suggest that our current position is not in need of repair by indiscriminate decentralisation. Though not totally happy about having choices made for me by a government far from my home, I am not foolish enough to think that my own options would invariably be better than those selected on my behalf, and I am glad to be relieved of the necessity to make up my mind about an endless list of issues. That is all. 



* * *​


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## Courtjester

*TELLING IT LIKE IT IS*
​
Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beeeep.

It’s ten o’clock here on BBC Radio 4. Well, it’s ten o’clock everywhere else in the UK too, so why we inform you several times a day that we’re in line with the rest of the country, I don't know. Maybe it’s an attempt to boost the popularity of our station. Whatever the reason, this is the news, read by me, Ronald Futterworth. And here’s another thing. It’s a mystery to me why our masters at the Beeb insist that we newsreaders tell you who we are. I mean, you don’t really care, do you? You know that we’re merely announcers, continuity people, humble toilers. We just do as we’re told and take our pay. Anyway, here we go: 

There was violence in the Middle East today. What a surprise. I can hardly remember the last time there wasn’t some mayhem going on in that part of the world. Bombings, shootings, rockets. They don’t learn, do they? However, we Europeans are hardly in a position to look down our noses at anybody, right? In the last century we caused the two greatest wars of all time, so we’d be best advised to refrain from lecturing other people about their shenanigans.

The House of Commons was even more raucous than usual today. Insofar as it was possible to understand anything amid the bawling, the main subject was our economy. The government claims to be steering us into sunlit uplands, while the opposition says we’re so deep in the mire that we’ll never get out of it without a change of administration. If I may   paraphrase a comment made long ago, the more one listens to politicians, the more one feels that each party is worse than all the others. If you want my opinion, we’ll never extricate ourselves from this mess, no matter who holds the reins. The slanging match was largely devoted to how much red ink we’ve accrued. Well, I can tell you that. Think of our national debt as Mount Everest and consider that we’re adding a Matterhorn-sized chunk to it every year. We’re a nation of credit junkies. It makes me sick.  

Now to business news. It seems that another of our most prestigious companies is about to be gobbled up by some slavering foreign predator in another hostile takeover. So, we appear to be selling off a bit more of the family silver, eh? It’s amazing that we have any left. If there’s much more of this, we shan’t own the clothes we stand up in. It’s a tragedy if you ask me – but you won’t, will you? And why should you? After all, I’m a non-entity. I . . . oh, there goes my mobile phone. Back with you in a jiffy. . . Here I am again. Sorry about that. I swear I'll deposit this wretched instrument in the Thames one of these days. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, I understand that the boss of the firm that’s about to disappear will pocket a barrowful of loot as compensation for his skill in running the concern into the ground before it’s peddled off. He did the same with his previous company. What a character! He’s a self-made man who worships his creator.

The main UK stock market went up quite a bit today. As a casino, it puts anything in Las Vegas into the shade, doesn’t it?  And don’t get me going about the currency exchange thing. That’s even worse. Most of the wheeler-dealing in that field has nothing to do with genuine demand for foreign money. Talk about snouts in the trough – and they’re all as bent as hairpins. But enough of that. 

I suppose you’d like to hear something about sport. First, football. What a farce that is. A bunch of overpaid louts kicking and biting each other and spitting all over the pitches. It’s disgusting. Well, there are no UK teams left in any competition of significance, so I won’t dwell on that activity. For the fancypants types among you there’s a big tennis tournament going on. I forget where it’s taking place but here again, all our people have been knocked out, so let’s not detain ourselves with that. There’s also a cricket test match in progress. I’ve mislaid the score, but never mind. I mean, you’d hardly call that a sport, would you? I see it more as a mildly competitive ballet, in which the participants find any excuse they can to waste time and do as little as they can get away with. 

Now, since this is what is often called the silly season, we at Broadcasting House usually sign off with some trivial filler. We drop that when there’s anything interesting going on, especially something nasty. It would be exciting to finish by reporting one or two juicy disasters, but having scoured the world for such items, we’ve drawn a blank, so I’ll end with one of those daft things about a fire brigade rescuing a cat from a tree, this time in the Midlands. Sadly, our army of reporters can’t come up with anything better. Ah, well, that’s my lot for today, and a good thing too. To be frank with you, I’ve been reading out all kinds of twaddle here with a sober voice and a straight face for over fifteen years and there’s a limit to what a chap will tolerate. I can’t take any more, do you hear? I’ve had enough, enough – 


“This is the producer of Radio 4 news broadcasting. Please accept my   apologies for what you have just heard. I’m afraid Mr Futterworth is unwell. The next full, authentic news bulletin will be read at midnight by another member of our staff.” 

Off microphone: “Hey, you in the white coats. Get that man out of here.”

* * *
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## Courtjester

*THE REFERENCE*
​
From: Parkwood Brickworks
Old Lane
Lower Otterby
20 August

To: Smith & Company
12 New Street
Upper Otterby

For the attention of Ms Hortense Topplewell

Dear Ms Topplewell

Thank you for your letter of 18 August, in which you request a reference for Paul Drooplock, who I understand has applied to you for a position as a night watchman/security officer.

Mr Drooplock joined this company on 6 May and left us two weeks ago. He was employed first as a shot-firer in our quarry and later as a general labourer. His first day here was marked by the collapse of our production office. He had called there to speak with the yard foreman, who was not there at the time. While waiting for him, Mr Drooplock lit a pipe – he was unaware that smoking is not allowed here. Regrettably, he did this while standing over a bowl containing several machine parts which the foreman had immersed in petrol for the purpose of removing grime. Burning tobacco fell into the bowl, causing a fierce blaze. Mr Drooplock rushed from the office, emerging unscathed. The building was wrecked. However, it was old and scheduled for replacement, so we merely expedited our plans. 

Two weeks after the accident described above, Mr Drooplock was taking a short cut to the quarry by way of our kibbler shed, where large clods of clay are reduced to small pieces. On that day we had run out of dynamite and Mr Drooplock’s senior colleague had given him permission to use his initiative. He absented himself for an hour and returned with a basinful of nitro-glycerine. On entering the shed he tripped over a shovel and inadvertently deposited the basin onto a conveyor belt, which shook considerably as it passed over rollers. As you may know, the substance Mr Drooplock was carrying is notoriously unstable. It exploded, demolishing the structure and severely damaging the kibbling machine. Once again Mr Drooplock was able to hurry from the scene and escape without injury. Happily, the kibbler operator had left the building to take a tea break at the time, so he was also unhurt.

Immediately after the mishap with the nitro-glycerine, we transferred Mr Drooplock to general yard work. Two weeks later he had occasion to call at the milling house, where the kibbled clay is crushed to powder, which is later stamped into raw bricks. Unfortunately, during Mr Drooplock’s visit, the miller had a fit of hiccups. He pointed to his back, indicating the need for a firm pat, which he was unable to administer himself. Mr Drooplock obliged, with considerable vigour. This resulted in the miller rolling over the guard rail and meeting his death under the two six-ton grinding wheels. We concluded that Mr Drooplock had been doing his best to help his workmate and that he was not to blame for what happened.

A month later there was a further occurrence. We operate the traditional way by placing unfired bricks in kiln chambers. This is done manually by setters, who work in pairs. When a chamber is full, its mouth is closed  with finished bricks, whereupon firing is done by coal, shovelled in from above. Shortly after one of the chambers in our number two kiln had been sealed, someone noticed that a setter was missing. It was assumed that he had left for home, and no further thought was given to the matter until the following morning, when he did not report for work. As he lived alone, we were unable to establish what had happened to him. We became concerned, opened the chamber and found that the poor fellow had been immured and had perished in the heat. It was rumoured that shortly before he bricked up the chamber, Mr Drooplock had been involved in an argument with the deceased employee. However, this was hearsay and nobody was prepared to testify to it. 

Apart from his being present at the scene of each of the four above-mentioned incidents, Mr Drooplock’s three-month spell of employment with us was largely uneventful. On the whole, he did the work assigned to him to the best of his satisfaction. 

We hope that the above information will be helpful to you. 

Yours sincerely

Artemius Poskin
Personnel Manager

P.S. As you have invited Mr Drooplock for an interview, perhaps you would do us a small favour by asking him if he knows what became of twelve sticks of gelignite which vanished from here on the day he left us. 

* * *​


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## offtrack

I may sound old fashioned, but I wish this was on actual paper (very thin tree pulp - barbaric, I know). I loved reading it - brilliant fun. I love how you Brits use the English language, it's almost as though it were your native tongue, but I hate reading long works on the computer. I will have to return from time to time to keep topped up on your droll and seemingly effortless humor. It is quite funny - laugh out loud funny - so thank you.


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## Courtjester

Dear offtrack,

I'm delighted to learn that you've been enjoying Madazine. Perhaps you will get some further nourishment from 'Solomon Had It Easier', 'Pondhopper' and 'Man In Debt'. I was very amused by your 'as though it were your native tongue' comment. A lovely touch. 

If you really want hard copy, you are welcome to download anything you like, free of charge, from my website, http://www.courtjester.uk.com/. Incidentally, much of my favourite humour has come from west of the Atlantic. For most of my seventy-seven years, I have been particularly enthralled by the work of Damon Runyon.

Best wishes, Cj


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## Courtjester

*TRANSPORT FOR THE HIGH-MINDED*
​
He’s at it again. Kevin Spout, inventor extraordinary, is working on a remarkable new project. No doubt some Madazine readers will recall Mr Spout’s last venture, which was an attempt to bore to the Earth’s centre and bring up a variety of high-value metals. The scheme was aborted after two weeks, when Kevin drilled through his own foot. Discouraged by this setback, he turned his fertile and restless mind to an endeavour he had been thinking about for some time. As with his last exploit, the venue is the Spout family’s home in the suburbs of Sheffield, Yorkshire, England. However, on this occasion that is merely the headquarters, as Kevin’s plan is all about mobility. Once again, our occasional science reporter, Axel Griess, was invited to see how the work is progressing. 

The intention is to get more people travelling by bus and to this end Kevin has come up with the revolutionary notion of a triple-decker vehicle. “I’ve always been good at lateral thinking,” he said, “and I got this idea by fusing together two apparently unconnected things. First, I was watching a film which had a clip about one of those huge road trains – a truck and a couple of trailers – crossing the Northern Territory in Australia. Not long after that, while driving through town here I happened to look at the window of a restaurant. I saw a picture that seemed to be an artist’s impression of a triple-decker sandwich – four slices of bread interspersed with one layer of salad, one of cheese and one of beef. It dawned on me that the road train comprised three things in horizontal format while the sandwich was the same in a vertical layout.

“I spent the rest of that day seeking what proved to be an elusive connection, finally making it just before midnight. Once one has grasped something like this, it seems so simple. My brainwave was to envision a triple-section horizontal object as vertical and apply the result to the field of public transport, hence my idea for a bus with three decks. This will enable us to make much better use of our limited road space.”

After pausing to take a swig of his homebrewed beer, Kevin went on: “I believe that people have toyed with this notion from time to time, but nothing has come of it until now. My finances didn’t permit me to make the vehicle from scratch, so I bought two old double-decker buses, removed the upper deck from one of them, placed it atop the other and added an extra flight of stairs. I shall soon apply for a licence to run my bus on the public highway, and while dealing with the paperwork I shall also seek permission to get an exceptional concession allowing people on the top deck to smoke tobacco. That will calm their nerves, which I suppose might be a bit jangled in the early journeys.”

Reservations have been expressed by some experts, notably Oleg Ostrogoth, former advisor to the Moscow public transport authority. He said: “Having studied Mr Spout’s project, I foresee difficulties. I am most concerned about the stability of his bus, as it is twenty-one feet in height and its sides have flat surfaces of over five hundred square feet. I mention in passing that anyone occupying the third deck of the bus will need something more soothing than tobacco to retain their equanimity. However, this man seems resolved to proceed, so we shall see what happens.”

The Spout family’s long-suffering next-door neighbour, widow Alice Neutron (94), was alarmed. “Kevin’s last escapade was foolish enough,” she wailed, “but this seems even sillier. My late sister once said that as an innovator, he was deft. I think she got the wrong vowel in that last word.”

Kevin is undismayed by adverse comments. “Most advanced concepts are sneered at when they’re introduced,” he said. “They almost always catch on and mine will be no exception. I have given a lot of thought to this scheme and carried out a variety of rigorous tests on my bus. I have no doubt that it will emerge from its road trials with flying colours.”

Madazine’s Axel Griess is not a happy man. “I don’t normally think of myself as the downbeat type,” he said, “but on this occasion I feel very apprehensive. If I’m any judge, this idea will fly like a brick. The inaugural trip is scheduled for tomorrow, Wednesday, so we haven’t long to wait.”


Excerpt from the South Yorkshire Evening Gleaner, Wednesday: Local inventor Kevin Spout today drove his revolutionary triple-decker bus on its maiden outing, starting at his home in a narrow side street. The only passengers were six representatives of the local media, including a reporter from our paper, all of them on the third deck. Thirty yards into its journey, the vehicle brought down eight telephone lines radiating from a roadside pole to nearby houses. Turning into the next street, it did the same to two lines of bunting, strung up for a local celebration.

Out on the open road, Mr Spout proceeded uneventfully for two miles before encountering a bridge, which sliced off the top four feet of the bus, causing the passengers to hurl themselves to the floor. Mr Spout did not stop for any of the incidents just described. The bus came to a halt only when it was buffeted by a crosswind which blew it over onto its left side. It demolished part of the perimeter fence of an artificial insemination centre, allowing six bulls to escape, four of them still free at the time of this report. Fortunately for the top-deck occupants, the vehicle’s fall was slowed to a gentle topple by the ten-foot-high fence, so nobody suffered anything worse than an assortment of cuts and bruises.

When interviewed by the police, Mr Spout said that he was disappointed at having achieved what he described as only a partial success. He was very surprised by his vehicle’s failure to withstand the wind, as he had tested its resistance by tying together two brooms, resting the brush end of one of them against the side of the bus at the highest point he could reach, and pushing hard. “I couldn’t move it an inch,” he said. On being asked to give his reaction to the discomfiture of his passengers, he replied: “Of course I’m sorry that they had a little scare at that bridge but after all, these news hounds don’t rank high in our social order. Maybe the experience will induce some of them to take up more useful occupations. By the way, I know some scaremongers were forecasting that I would hit the odd lamp-post. I didn’t, so I hope they are eating their words.”

We shall follow the aftermath of this strange incident and report again in due course.


Madazine’s Axel Griess, who followed the bus from a safe distance in his car, is still speechless. 

* * *
​


----------



## Courtjester

*A VIEW FROM AFAR*
​
Dear Earthlings,

As readers of Madazine, we who are composing this letter know that you have already received a message from Planet Zog. Here is one from Planet Goz. You may wonder why we are choosing to communicate with you via what is usually considered a humorous organ. We shall explain this below.

You have been under scrutiny for some time and we can no longer refrain from imparting a few comments to you, starting with the point that there is a particular cosmic society to which you do not belong. We refer to celestial bodies where the technique of mental image projection (MIP) has been developed, allowing members of the participating civilisations to communicate with each other by thought alone. As you must realise, this means that they can pass information across the Universe instantaneously, thus avoiding the untidy processes of grappling with the speed of light, finding the space warps so beloved of your science fiction writers, and other such nonsense.

There are MIP member planets throughout the Cosmos, some of them in your vicinity, monitoring your activities and transmitting details to the rest of us. Others are of course far away from you, the distance in our case being nearly two thousand light-years. In addition to this, there are extraterrestrial beings with this projection power – among you now incognito, so any planet in our ‘club’ is able to keep abreast of what you are doing and could contact you in this way. For no special reason, we have been asked to be the first to do so.

A further technique which you have not yet mastered is the interception of light beams on their way through space and the viewing of their content, much in the way that you watch television. This means that the Earth’s whole past is visible at various points in the Universe and that this history is transmitted from place to place and observed by beings using MIP. We are aware of your former supercontinents, the dinosaur period and so on. By the way, your geologists have done quite well in their efforts to explain the evolution of life on Earth.

The most important point we have to convey to you is the one that concerns your behaviour. An example of this is the pictures we are seeing now on Goz. Among other things, we are looking at the Roman invasion of Britain. We could, so to speak, go into fast forward or backward mode by contacting other MIP members, but are content to take our time on this occasion. In several parts of the Milky Way, your second world war can be seen. The latest incident passed to us here involved a convoy of supply ships heading for Murmansk. Thirty-six of them set out and two thirds were sunk in transit. Sheer madness.

Those of us who have viewed your past alternately smile and despair at your conduct. The whole of human history is dominated by almost ceaseless conflict. It seldom seems to occur to you to discuss whatever differences you may have and to share what you jointly possess, instead of thinking in terms of competition or battle. Even now, after all your bitter experiences, you appear to be engaging in a race to explore outer space, with several countries vying for leadership. Really, it’s like watching an institution for the profoundly disturbed. What a shame that you don’t try more cooperation and less rivalry.

It is not really for us to interfere with your activities, but we cannot resist stating that you could stop the nonsense at once. How? Well, our assessment is that nearly all of you, wherever you live, are peaceful and friendly unless stirred up by demagogues. We recommend that you isolate those of your leaders disposed to bellicosity, equip them with all the instruments of mayhem they want and place them in confined areas, permitting them to do as much slaughtering and maiming as they like among themselves, while leaving the rest of you to get on with your lives – and each other. 

Incidentally, we note that you are trying to spot interplanetary rocks floating around in your area. There are more of these than you have yet detected. One big chunk is very close to the Earth and seems likely to give you a severe blow in the near future. This could kill half the human race. Of course that would not trouble you too much, as you are breeding like rabbits – more foolishness – so you would doubtless repopulate quite quickly. Anyway, we suggest you increase your efforts to find these bits of debris.

If you will accept a further cautionary word, we would advise you to take better care of your planet, or it will tire of you and shrug you off. Remember that your own naturalists have concluded that over ninety-nine per cent of the species ever to live on the Earth have already come and gone. Even if you do mend your ways, you will probably follow that trend. If you don’t behave more responsibly, your demise is almost certain. And please forget any ideas you have about colonising another planet. The care and maintenance of heavenly bodies needs far more skill than you have shown to date. Get your present habitat right before you venture elsewhere. 

Having offered you some guidance, we shall now note your progress. If you proceed in the right direction, you might eventually be offered admission to the MIP society, but be warned that this would require you to move far ahead of where you are at present. Now, we promised to indicate why this message comes to you via a predominantly amusing channel. In case it hasn’t already dawned on you, the reason is that you are the laughing (and crying) stock of the Universe. Shape up!

Yours sincerely,
The Council of Planet Goz – and all other Gozlings
* * *​


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## Courtjester

*I QUIT*
​ 
To Nigel Gloater-Hogg: Head Of Human Resources

From Walter Grobble: Section Leader, Arrears Department

Dear Pigface

This is the letter I have been longing to write for ten of the eleven years I’ve sweated in the Dickensian hell-hole we call General Property Maintenance Ltd. Having looked long and hard for another job in such a difficult labour market, I’m delighted to tell you that I have secured a position with our rival, Smith & Sons.

Over the years, I have repeatedly seen my most innovative efforts nullified by toadies, some of whom now sit in judgement on me. Not being a sycophant myself, I do not understand the lickspittle mentality, but I won’t labour that theme, as I have no wish to indulge in bitterness or recrimination.

You may have noticed from our annual parties that I am not normally much of a drinking man, but today I have brought a dimpled bottle to the office and shall be indulging. As you know, I have a slight defect in my right leg, so with that and a few shots inside me, I’ll probably leave here with an unusually pronounced list to starboard.

I am well aware that the practice of working a period of notice is outdated, so I shall depart with immediate effect, by which I mean at five o’clock this evening. I am writing this immediately before I start work at 8.30 a.m. No doubt it would give you great delight to have a couple of your security goons frog-march me to the exit, then send out an office junior with my jacket and the few personal effects in my cubicle – I shall have a proper office in my new employment – but you will not get that pleasure. The items in question are already outside in my car, being looked after by my wife and four children, who will do some shopping, then call for me when I bolt from this ghastly treadmill.

As both we and Smith & Sons are in the same town and engaged in the same kind of work, I rejoice to say that I shall soon be instrumental in putting GPM Ltd. out of business. What fun that will be. However, I am mindful of the fact that you once, long ago, did me a risibly small favour and I am not one to forget such things, nor am I the type to bear grudges. Therefore, when you are at a loose end, as a man of your limited abilities is certain to be after becoming unemployed, you may contact me at Smith & Sons, where I am sure that I shall be able to find an opening for you – in the mail room!

Yours exultantly,
Walter Grobble


From Nigel Gloater-Hogg: Head Of Human Resources

To Walter Grobble: Section Leader, Arrears Department, to be delivered by hand before 5.00 p. m.

Dear Walter

Thank you for your letter of resignation, which I received this morning. You are certainly forthright, a quality much valued by this company. Your intention to leave us at five o’clock today is noted, as is your observation regarding our security staff. You need not have had any concern with regard to the second point, as only those departing employees who have occupied senior and sensitive positions are escorted to the exit by the officers in question.

I have no recollection of having done you the favour you mention, but I have tried to be helpful to many of our workers over the years, so one good turn more or less might easily be forgotten. Anyway, it’s nice to know I was able to carry out that act of kindness, whatever it was.

Now I must address a very significant point. No doubt you will have had your nose to the grindstone since writing your letter, so you may well not have heard a rather distressing news item which came to our ears today. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that there was a terrible accident at the premises of Smith & Sons shortly before nine this morning, so apparently less than an hour after your letter was completed. I understand that the incident was something to do with a gas main, though that may be just a rumour. Irrespective of the reason, Smiths’ premises were totally destroyed. Fortunately, nobody had started work, so there were no personnel casualties.

The blast caused all operations to cease, and on hearing the tragic tidings, the directors of Smith & Sons called an emergency board meeting, the upshot of which was that no attempt will be made to rescue the business. It is now defunct.

Walt (I hope you will forgive the familiarity), having accepted your resignation, we must of course see the matter through, so we appreciate that you will part company with us this evening. With this in mind, I feel it incumbent upon me to mention that you have no formal qualifications of any kind and that you came to us direct from a four-year spell of detention at her Majesty’s pleasure. What was it? Oh, yes, fraud – multiple charges if I remember rightly. Still, you served your time. In fact you did so without remission for good behaviour. Something to do with attacking another inmate, wasn’t it? But we have no wish to dwell on the past.

In view of today’s events, I imagine that you may find yourself in an awkward position after you leave us. We are a humanitarian company – you will perhaps recall that we overlooked that little matter of the petty cash discrepancy that occurred two years and eleven weeks ago. Should you wish to contact me at your leisure, which I feel sure you will have, I think we might be able to find an opening for you – in the mail room.

 Best wishes,
Nigel


* * *​


----------



## Courtjester

*HORTICULTURAL MATTERS*
​
Announcer: I’m sure we are all grateful to Fred Green for enlightening us about so many aspects of gardening. Now, we have a few minutes left for listeners to phone in with their queries. You may have gathered that Fred does not take prisoners, so be prepared for some forthright responses. Let’s have our first question, please.

Caller: Hello. I’m Edith Loambarrow and I’m from Longacre in Somerset.

Green: Well, we all have our troubles, but what’s your question?

Edith: I have a problem with my agoraphobius. I keep it in the back garden, which faces south and the poor thing just doesn’t seem to like the Sun. What am I doing wrong?

Green: Everything! The clue is in the name, as anyone with a grain of sense would realise. You must have heard of agoraphobia. The plant’s yearning for a confined space, preferably a dark one. You should do something similar to what I did with my agoraphobias. I put them in a windowless cellar.

Edith: Oh, thank you. Did they flourish?

Green: How would I know? They’ve been locked in there for nine years. Does anybody have a more interesting question?

Caller: Good morning, Fred. My name is Shrubs and I live in Birmingham.

Green: You have my sympathy on both counts. What’s your difficulty?

Shrubs: I’m having a tough time with a patch of carnivorias. I was advised to dose them with bone meal, but they don’t seem to like it. What food would you suggest?

Green: Dead simple. Carnivorias love meat. Give them rare steak, but just watch out how you approach them. If they haven’t been fed for a while, toss the stuff to them from a safe distance. If you get too close, they’ll have your arm off as soon as look at you. Next!

Caller: G’day, Greeno. I’m Bruce Dongle, from Western ’Stralia.

Green: Oh, come off it. Nobody rings a UK gardening programme from Oz. What’s your game?

Bruce: Straight up, mate. I live near Eighty Mile Beach. That’s a good way – 

Green: I know where it is. Up beyond Perth and a bit to the right.

Bruce: Close enough.

Green: Well, I’m passably fluent it Strine, so you may speak freely. What’s eating you?

Bruce: I have a real headache with delirium tremens in my front garden.

Green: I can see how that would affect your head but this kind of thing is usually best dealt with indoors.

Bruce: Not sure what you’re driving at there. My worry is that they’re getting out of control. I’m up to the hips in them. Have you any ideas?

Green: Yes. The problem is your geographical location in the Southern Hemisphere. The best thing you can do is dig up your DTs and replant them with the heads down. That way, the blistering heat out your way will shrivel the exposed roots at the same time as the tops are fighting a losing battle in trying to flower underground.

Bruce: Great. I’ll do it. Good on yer. I’ll get right – 

Green: Just a minute, haven’t you forgotten something?

Bruce: What?

Green: You said ‘Good on yer,’ but you didn’t say ‘cobber.’

Bruce: Hey, I’m not that much of stereotype.

Green: You could have fooled me. Anyway, make sure your DTs don’t fight back. They can sometimes make a last stand by emerging from the soil, or even coming through your walls, in the form of green and yellow lizards and giant insects. If that happens, leave the plants alone and lay off the booze.

Bruce: Okay, cob . . . er . . . Greeno, I’ll do what you say. 

Green: Goodbye and good luck, Bruce. Now, it seems I’ve time for one more question, if we can keep it short, so get a move on, whoever you are.

Caller: Hello, Mr Green. My name is Daisy Meadowbloom and I’m from – 

Green: Never mind where you live. Nobody cares. What’s up?

Daisy: I’ve been having a great deal of trouble trying to get a bed of amnesias to flourish. I’m doing everything my local garden centre manager tells me to do, but I just don’t have any success. Can you tell me what to do?

Green: You’re in the same position as the first questioner, in that the name tells you everything you need to know. Amnesias, right? Just forget them and they’ll do as much for you. That’s all for today. 

* * * ​


----------



## Courtjester

*NO SPACE IN SPACE*
​
Another product of the astonishingly creative mind of Yorkshire inventor Kevin Spout was displayed today. This time the venue was a football field a mile or so from the Spout family home in Sheffield. Madazine’s science reporter Axel Griess was invited to view the proceedings.

Kevin explained that his latest idea had come to him while he was listening to a radio programme concerning the possibility of astronauts landing on Mars and returning safely to the Earth. “The speakers chose to ignore the main problem,” said Kevin. “As matters stand, we shall be unable to leave this planet until we have got rid of the junk we have sent up to encircle it. We are quarantined by our own trash. I know I am not the first to notice this, but I intend to take the lead in doing something about it.”

Armed with this notion, Kevin constructed a rocket which he says is the forerunner of a much bigger version, soon to be produced. Both are two-stage machines, fuelled by a combination of refined petroleum (RP - 1), oxygen and hydrogen, both liquefied, plus a secret ingredient which will be revealed later.

As with other rockets of this kind, the task of the large first stage is to hurl the craft up to a certain height, then the smaller second stage takes over to place the payload into an orbit that can be varied as required. The final operation in this case is the deployment of a funnel-shaped scoop, intended to emerge from the nose cone and expand, then gather up any space debris it encounters. When it is full, a membrane closes over its mouth and the apparatus falls back into the atmosphere and burns up. The objective of today’s test was to reach a sub-orbital position and establish that all the parts worked as planned.

Blast-off was at ten o’clock this morning. The launch pad was an array of pallets, borrowed from a local warehouse. About two hundred spectators watched as Kevin strode to the base of the rocket and started the first-stage ignition by lighting a short fuse. He then retreated swiftly.

The craft ascended at a much slower rate than predicted and ran out of fuel when well short of the altitude its designer had in mind for the first phase of the operation. As it came to a halt, two of its four tail fins, intended to act as in-flight stabilisers, fell from the housing. This unbalanced the rocket, which immediately swung through one hundred and eighty degrees and began to fall, retracing exactly the path of its climb.

A further and more alarming development came almost immediately after the rocket had begun its descent. The second stage was activated and the craft hurtled down at tremendous speed. Though the scoop deployed, it inverted at once in the updraught, like an umbrella in a high wind, so had little or no braking effect. The crowd, having moved in from the football field’s touchlines, scattered back. The rocket, with its engine still roaring, plunged through the middle of what remained of the launch pad and burrowed into the ground to a depth yet to be ascertained, but certainly great.

An inquiry began at once. It emerged that Kevin’s assistant, his cousin Donald, had run out of super glue when fixing the tail fins. In order to meet the tight schedule, he had resorted to using the only material he had to hand – wallpaper paste. When taken to task by Kevin, he pointed out that the rocket’s base was slightly squared off, so the four fins could be regarded as two pairs, on what he called the port and starboard sides. He said that if numbers one and three, or two and four had failed, all might have been well. As it was, numbers three and four, both on the same side, had become detached and this caused the imbalance.

Having remonstrated with his assistant for the use of an inappropriate bonding agent, Kevin learned that he had made an even greater error himself. This came to light when he tried to find out why the rocket had performed so sluggishly in its climb from the launch site. He discovered that after assembling the craft correctly, he had then wired up the two engines in the wrong sequence, so the second-stage unit had tried to do what had been expected of the much more powerful first-stage one. Seconds after the fins failed and the rocket upended, the larger engine took over and caused the rapid descent. 

Kevin was philosophical, claiming that the operation had not been entirely fruitless. “You have to admit,” he said, “that the original first stage was very robust, as it survived the downthrust of the second engine. I take a lot of comfort from that as I return to the drawing board.”

Axel Griess commented only that if Kevin had used this technique in his earlier attempt to bore through to the Earth’s core, he might have come closer to success than he did on that occasion. 

* * *
​


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## randyveach

My deceased Mother was English, from Birmingham England, it was fun reading this as I could her reading it to me.  The way you set up your sentences is completely different then the way I was taught (I know, I was taught wrong - LOL).  Again THANKS for submitting this because it was not only good, but it reminded me of my Mother. 
Randy
PS  My Mom's madden name was Rose Elizabeth Phillips.


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## Courtjester

Dear Randyveach

Glad you liked the read. Hope you will enjoy more of my little inanities. C j


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## Courtjester

*SO YOU WANT TO BE A MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT*
​
Harry: Nice to see you again, Dave. Have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.

David: Well, Harry, I’d like to talk with you in your capacity of chairman of the party’s local constituency. I’ve decided to explore the possibility of going into politics.

Harry: My dear fellow, I’m sure your motives are noble, but if you don’t mind my being frank, you’ve never struck me as the type. Are you sure about this?

David: Yes. It’s occurred to me that there aren’t enough of the right people in the House of Commons. I suspect the reason is that there is simply a shortage of applicants for the openings that arise.

Harry:  You’re way off the mark there. Countrywide, we have umpteen of them for every seat that becomes available. You’ve no idea how many people want to get their noses into the trough.

David: Trough? I don’t understand. My idea is to do something to improve the state of this country. I’d like to make a difference.

Harry: We all would, old boy, but most of us don’t manage it, and if you’re hoping to do it in the Westminster madhouse, I think you’ll be disappointed. If you were to get in, you’d have hardly any influence unless you were to climb a fair way up the greasy pole, and even then you’d never be able to do anything of which the civil service Mandarins didn’t approve – and they’re rarely enthusiastic about endorsing whatever the politicians wish to do.

David: Well, that’s a pity. I had visions of myself getting to the front bench and glaring across at the enemy.

Harry: Such innocence, Dave. Let me acquaint you with the famous conversation that took place some time ago between a new arrival in the bear pit and a senior backbencher. The newcomer used the very words you just did and the experienced chap said: “Wrong, my friend. The people facing you form the opposition. The enemy is behind you.”

David: Behind?

Harry: Of course. That’s the only location from which they can stab you in the back.

David: You’re beginning to depress me, Harry. I had thought that with my background as an economist – 

Harry: Stop! I don’t want to stick the knife in, but we already have six economics experts in the list of applicants for our upcoming vacancy, and you know what they say about such people.

David: No, I don’t. Would you like to tell me?

Harry: Well, you asked for this. The word is that if all the economists in the world were laid end to end, they wouldn’t reach a conclusion. I mean, you have to admit that people in your line have a tendency to predict every possible future scenario, then when one of those forecasts comes true they say: “There, I told you so.” Of course they draw a veil over all the wrong outcomes they foretold.

Davis: I’m so glad you said you didn’t want to stick the knife in. I shudder to think of what you’d say if you did.

Harry: I’m sorry, Dave, but you have to face it. In public esteem, economists rank at about the same level as estate agents.

David: That’s a low one, Harry. Anyway, economics is not the only arrow in my quiver. I’ve written quite a few articles for various national newspapers.

Harry: Even worse, Dave. Journalists are rated lower than the two lots I just mentioned. I think you should consider not considering what you are considering. 

David: That’s quite a bit of consideration, Harry. Frankness seems to be your middle name. 

Harry: I’m only telling you these things for your own good.

David: Well, I’m not discouraged. I believe I could be useful in bringing the left and right sides of our party towards the centre.

Harry: If you were to try that, you’d acquire the most damning description in your colleagues’ vocabulary.

David: What’s that?

Harry: They’d classify you as extreme middle. That’s a good way to make yourself unpopular. The factions love their infighting. It keeps them going. Anyway, I have another appointment shortly, so you’ll have to excuse me. However, if you don’t mind my being blunt – 

David: I don’t see how you could be more so than you have been.

Harry: Look, Dave, I have to be brutally honest here. You’re simply not wily enough for what you have in mind. The biggest problem you’d have would be your credulousness. In fact, you’re just about the most gullible fellow I know.

David: I don’t understand you. Give me an example of what you’re saying.

Harry: All right, but remember you’ve brought this upon yourself. I’m thinking of the incident last year when I told you I’d been digging the garden over and had found a Roman coin, clearly stamped 49 B.C. and that I’d sent if off to get an assessment. You offered me a hundred pounds for the thing, without seeing it.

David: Yes, and even if you were given a lower valuation, my offer stands.

Harry: And you _still _don’t see what I mean?

* * *
​


----------



## Courtjester

*CUSTOMER RELATIONS*
​
To: The Manager
Supreme Appliances
34 High Street

Dear Sir

I tried to call on you this evening, only to find your premises closed at five minutes before the usual time, so I returned home to write this letter, which I shall deliver to you personally in a few minutes.

Last Saturday, I bought one of your Flatline 40 machines and I must say it is giving me a lot of trouble. As far as I can make out, the main difficulty is with the base unit, housing the thingummy at the left-hand side. This connects, or is supposed to connect, with the whatsit, immediately to its right. I don’t know whether both parts are faulty, or whether the first is failing to activate the second. Anyway, this is most unsatisfactory. That fact that I bought the item with a 25% price reduction does nothing to comfort me.

I have tried repeatedly to contact what you call, somewhat amusingly in my view, your 24-hour hotline, but it appears to be as cold as a creditor’s heart. On three occasions I was asked to wait for attention, which I did for fifteen minutes each time. When I made a final attempt to get through, there was no reply at all.

As this contraption fails to perform in the way it should, I insist on a refund of the £150 I paid. I suspect you might try to fob me off with a verbal message, so to forestall this I would like you to call at my home – 12, The Avenue – today, bring the money (cash, please) and take the machine away.

Yours disgruntledly,
Arthur Sprocket (Mr)


To: Arthur Sprocket
12 The Avenue

Dear Arthur Sprocket (Mr) – nice to see that you’re abreast of things, genderwise

I would like to say thank you for your letter, but am reluctant do so because I can hardly be expected to express pleasure when receiving a complaint – they’re quite tiresome, you know. When I finish writing this, I’ll bring it to your home and put it in the letterbox. I shan’t be able to stop for a chat, as I shall be on my way to a posh dinner. Honestly, the things I do for this business.

Your whining does not surprise me, as the Flatline 40 was never one of the best products of its kind. The earlier models in the same range, F-10, F-20 and F-30 were all verging on passable quality, as is the F-50, which replaced the 40.

It was perceptive of you to note that the problem lies with the two parts you correctly identified as the thingummy and the whatsit. The latter is dependent on the former, but as it happens, both are defective. The first three Flatlines were not fitted with these two parts, so they did not give us any trouble of the kind you mention, though Heaven knows we had numerous other headaches with them.

The F-10, F-20 and F-30 had the thingummy’s precursor, a German part, known in its country of origin as the Dingsbums, while in the F-50, the functions of both thingummy and whatsit are performed by a single device, the doodah, usually referred to in the US as the doodad or doohickey, among other names. Even this will soon be superseded when the F-50 is improved by the incorporation of two new gadgets, the gizmo and the whatyamacallit.

Let me take a moment to respond to your comment about our hotline. To be honest, that facility is a bit of a joke. The phone is manned day and night on an unpaid basis by an octogenarian insomniac who thinks he’s doing his bit for society – we’re not nasty enough to disabuse him of the idea. He tends to get close to dozing at times, but when he feels himself drifting off, he usually manages to activate the soothing ‘wait’ music – nice tune, don’t you think? He doesn’t know a thing about any of our merchandise, but he’s quite good at coming up with temporising remarks which put people off until the shop opens. We call him the procrastinator-general. That’s a real thigh-slapper, isn’t it?

As to your current situation, I must say I am rather surprised that you, a local man, did not spot something amiss when you bought your Flatline 40. I can hardly believe you were unaware of the fact that we are not known for making special offers. When you saw that ‘25% off’ ticket, you should have smelt a rat. Caveat emptor is the expression, old boy. Our policy here is to get products onto the market and allow customers to discover and report faults. One might say that our motto is ‘let the mugs find the bugs’. Hey, I just thought that up. Good, eh?

Arthur, get real. There is no chance that we’ll give you a refund, and we are not prepared to take back your machine. You purchased it as seen, so this is a case of ‘buyers, keepers’.  You will have to either retain your F-40 or scrap it. I mean, you’ll hardly find anyone who will take it off your hands. However, we at Supreme Appliances are not heartless. Fairness is my middle name, so I’m prepared to do a deal. If you act quickly, you can have an F-50 for the full current price – it’s going up quite bit at close of business tomorrow and is already eye-wateringly more expensive than the F-40. This arrangement would require you to cough up – wait for it –  a further £430, in addition to the £150 you paid for that piece of . . . machinery you have now. Yes, I know, life stinks.

I realise that we live in an increasingly litigious society and it occurs to me that you might wish to take us to court, but we would then be involved in a small claims matter and you know how those things drag on. You could be embattled for years and most likely wouldn’t get anywhere in the end, as we at Supreme Appliances are pretty slippery types and know most of the dodges. I’d say your best course is the one I suggest. If you reject it, you’ll be stuck with that wretched F-40, which will annoy you no end until you ditch it. I’ll keep my proposal on the table until six o’clock tomorrow evening. If you haven’t accepted it by then, you’ll be out of luck.

Have a nice day,
Mike Fiddler, Manager 

* * *
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## Courtjester

*A NOD TO R.W. SERVICE*

​The great Robert Service wrote some stirring poems about the Yukon in general and the gold rush there in particular. We at Madazine like to think that if he had managed another piece, it might have been similar to the one composed recently by our sub-editor, Tom Bola. It is given below: 

*A LOSER’S LAMENT*

When the cry of ‘Gold’ went up, it rang out loud and clear.
We answered it in legions, with neither doubt nor fear.
I was in the fevered throng and barely gave a thought,
To obstacles ahead of us, or battles to be fought.

My job as an accountant was secure and quite well paid.
Yet off I went without a qualm, exchanging pen for spade.
‘Cobbler, stick to your last,’ how oft I heard those words.
 And each time my prompt retort was: ‘Tell that to the birds.’

It takes all sorts to make a world, and most of them were there.
Young and old, short and tall, the cheaters and the fair.
Some were the intrepid types, surmounting every hitch.
Then there were the predators, with hearts as black as pitch.

A hundred thousand started out and only one third finished.
No wonder that on such a trek, the multitude diminished.
Of those who made it to the end, about an eighth found gold. 
And some had problems keeping it, for that stuff’s hard to hold. 

It wasn’t such a great surprise that many lost their all, 
For pride is not the only thing that comes before a fall.
There’s pestilence or thieves or hooch, plus lots of other threats,
To move a man from sudden wealth to piling up the debts. 

A ton of food at least they said, was what a man must take,
When heading for that fearsome pass that led to Bennett Lake.
The overseer weighed my sacks and found I’d come up short.
‘You’d better hop around,’ he said ‘and see what’s to be bought.’

The grocer was a canny chap, not interested in gold,  
But he made a bumper profit on everything he sold.
At last with larder empty, he declared his business ceased.
Then hired a guard to escort him, and hurried off back east.

When we reached the Yukon River, we still had far to go,
And nearly every mile of it meant further toil and woe.
We built skiffs, canoes and kayaks, near any kind of craft.
I opted for the simple course and made a little raft.

I’d always seen myself as smart, not one of Nature’s fools,
But I was none too handy with a set of borrowed tools.
At length with task accomplished, I floated all the way,
Arriving at the diggings on a wet and windy day.

The waterway was tricky and the trip was long and tough.
Hundreds simply balked at it, and said they’d had enough.
Some lost their lives in rapids, while others fell to floods,
And I heard a number vanished, when foraging in woods.

I staked my claim and slaved away and had no wish to shirk.
But oh, how I got tired of that unrelenting work.
I have this flimsy cabin which I put up in a rush.
If you wanted to demolish it, you’d only have to push.

For near a year I laboured, from dawn to dusk each day,
Though nothing I experienced encouraged me to stay.
I didn’t see a speck or flake of what I’d come to find.
That well-nigh wrecked my body, and discomposed my mind. 

I wound up slightly crazy and I got a taste for booze.
They say that happens frequently to men marked down to lose.
And destiny included me among the ones who fail.
Well, never mind, it’s over and I don’t intend to wail.

I’m weaker than a kitten and I’ve neither food nor drink.
Twelve months ago my mind was full of dinner suits and mink.
My roof leaks and the fire’s out and I can’t get foot to floor.
And hungry creatures lurk outside, a few feet from my door.

On top of other troubles, there’s this paralysing cold.
Minus forty-odd at times, or that’s what I was told.
I’m scrawling out this poem with a little pencil stub,
But I’d swap my paltry verses for an ounce or two of grub.

I’ve simply been unlucky and it’s senseless to complain,
But I’d like a dose of something strong, to ease this awful pain.
I’ve no more paper now to write a fitting epitaph,
So I guess I’ll just peg out, not with a curse but with a laugh.

* * *

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## Courtjester

*BRIDGING THE GAPS*
​ 
There was a remarkable occurrence in the suburbs of Sheffield this morning, when local inventor Kevin Spout treated members of the media and public to the first trial of his latest invention in the engineering field. Spout’s supporters recently dubbed him Yorkshire’s answer to Leonardo da Vinci because he emulates that renowned Tuscan gentleman by embarking on a great number and range of ventures. His detractors retort that he also shares the Renaissance polymath’s tendency to leave jobs unfinished.

The result of Kevin’s current brainwave was displayed at a boating lake not far from his home. Before giving the demonstration, he explained what led to it. “I’ve always been good at lateral thinking,” he said. “For some years it has seemed to me that bridges are a colossal waste of materials and human resources. Just consider the miles of cable, the roadways and the vast amount of rock used for anchorages. It’s absurd. I was returning from a visit to the castle at Warwick, where I had seen the world’s largest trebuchet in action. As you probably know, these machines were used in medieval times as siege engines, usually to batter the walls of strongholds.

“When I conflated my two ideas concerning trebuchets and bridging gaps, I realised that the former could be adapted to deal with the latter, thus obviating a great deal of construction work. Clearly people need to go both ways when crossing stretches of water or chasms of whatever kind. Therefore, to avoid queuing, it is advisable to have two sets of apparatus, one for sending an object and one for receiving it, on each side. For today I have produced only one sender and one receiver. I now invite you to look at them.”

The sender was a huge trebuchet, built by members of the Spout family and modified for today’s purpose by Kevin himself. It stood a few yards from the lake’s edge, on the east side. The receiver was a long ramp, its high end about the same distance from the water on the west side. Kevin’s father, a garage mechanic, had fitted it with a braking system to ensure a safe and smooth descent for the propelled object. The two structures were about a hundred and fifty yards apart.

For those who know nothing of warfare in times gone by, a trebuchet can perhaps best visualised as a kind of gigantic catapult. A beam is fixed asymmetrically between two uprights, in such a way that its long end is nearly four times the length of the short one. A massive counterweight is attached to the short end, while the long one holds the weapon, or in this case the conveyance.

In order to enhance the force of projection, Kevin had fixed special   tensioning cables to the beam, linking them with a mechanism of his own design. His plan was to release them in such a way that the counterweight would be yanked down and the opposite end of the beam whipped up. No details of the weight at either end of the beam, the degree of cable tautness or the concealed linking device were disclosed, as Kevin fears industrial espionage for copycat schemes.

With the traditional trebuchet, a missile, usually a very heavy rock, was fixed to the outer end of the beam’s longer section. For today’s experiment, instead of a weapon there was a capsule about six feet long, designed to allow two people to travel in tandem. Kevin has much bigger versions in mind for the future. On this occasion, the passenger seats were occupied by dummies. Several people had volunteered for the trip, but their offers were declined.

The operation began when Kevin, assisted by his cousin Donald, who had   helped him with his recent work on a rocket, freed the cables from their restraining wires. As the counterweight dropped, the capsule soared. Unfortunately, instead of describing the expected graceful arc and touching down on the receiver, it executed unintended moves in all three aerial axes, lateral, longitudinal and vertical, pitching, rolling and yawing wildly. After turning base over apex twice, it plunged into the lake just short of the west shore and forty yards south of the receiver, destroying two rowing boats. While the capsule was making its brief journey, the trebuchet, overtaxed by the strain imposed upon it, collapsed.

A two-man recovery team, Kevin’s uncles, hauled the capsule from the water, and on inspecting the dummies found that both had been decapitated and had lost their arms and legs. When they were reassembled, it was noted that they bore no marks consistent with serious injury to human passengers. “Maybe they were just scared to bits,” was how one wag put it.

When asked to explain the mishap, Kevin said: “I must confess that, as in the case of my earlier experiment with a spacecraft, I gave my assistant Donald too much responsibility when I allowed him to position the receiver. He did not mention until a moment ago that he has a problem with macular pucker in his right eye. As anyone with this complaint will know, it causes apparent shifts in the locations of distant objects. This accounts for the receiver being in the wrong place. I was too busy to notice this when arranging the launch.

“The somewhat uncontrolled nature of the flight was caused by two factors. First, the extra energy induced by release of the restraining cables was not quite at the right level. Second, I decided late in the day that I would not equip the capsule with the pair of stubby wings I had constructed in order to maximise stability. Although I have learned a great deal from the test, I cannot regard it as a complete success. I shall fare much better with the second one.”

Before today’s incident, no engineering experts had publicly expressed opinions about the project. It emerged afterwards that the event had been attended by Jim Popadomescu of Bucharest, a specialist in trebuchets. He said that he could have predicted the outcome but that nobody had asked him to offer his views and he did not want to make unsolicited observations before the event. However, he made the retrospective suggestion that a more satisfactory result would have been achieved by use of his propulsion system. This is based on the plaiting together of rubber bands, which he buys by the crateful from his local stationer.

Madazine’s Axel Griess had viewed the proceedings. When he was located taking a stiff brandy in a pub near the lake, he said that he did not wish to add much to the high level of exposure likely to be given to the trial. He did disclose that immediately after the crash, Kevin had found a moment to ask him if he might be interested in booking a passage for the next outing. “I refused,” he said. “While I yield to no-one in my admiration of Kevin’s ingenuity, I prefer terra firma, on the ground that it provides more ‘firmer’ and less terror.”

A date for the next test has yet to be fixed.

* * *
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## Courtjester

*A COUNTRY PRACTICE*
​ 
Midhampton, England, 1898

Jenkins: Ah, there goes the new doorbell. Two rings. That means it is for us. These modern devices are most helpful. I deduce from the pressure applied and the obviously peremptory note that our caller is a large, muscular man, probably of the labouring classes. We mustn’t keep the poor fellow waiting. He is probably already somewhat apprehensive at the prospect of meeting a person of my status. Be so good as to trot along the corridor and show him in, Watson.

Porter: For Heaven’s sake, pull yourself together. You must rid yourself of this delusion that you are Sherlock Holmes, that I am Dr Watson and that this is Baker Street in the great metropolis. We are in a small country town, your name is Jenkins, you are an architect – of sorts – and for my numerous sins, I am your assistant, Porter. If you persist with this woolgathering, we shall lose yet another opportunity for a commission. You might also dispense with that ridiculous calabash pipe. You insist on displaying and handling the thing, though your respiratory condition precludes your smoking it. Actors would call it a stage property.

Jenkins: Never mind all that now. Bring the poor man to me and I shall soon get to the bottom of whatever is disturbing him.

_One minute later._

Porter: Here is your visitor. If you need me, I shall be in my office.

Jenkins (to visitor): Good morning. You are a woman, I see.

Visitor: I am indeed.

Jenkins: And not very large.

Visitor: No, I am two inches under five feet in height and am frequently  described as petite, though I do not normally use that word myself. You seem to be surprised. Were you expecting someone else? Perhaps a big man?

Jenkins: I never expect anything, madam. That enables me to deal with what arises, without my being misled by preconceptions. Now, do take a seat and try to feel at ease. I am accustomed to assisting and comforting ladies in distress, so please tell me what is worrying you.

Visitor: I assure you that I am perfectly at ease and not in the least distressed or worried. My name is Mrs Fieldhouse and I have called upon you to ask about the drawing up of plans.

Jenkins: Ah yes, plans. Well, I have many. The Bruce-Partington ones come to mind at once.

Fieldhouse: The name is not familiar to me.

Jenkins: That is understandable. The whole affair was kept quiet. It went to very highest levels of society. My brother Mycroft was involved in it before I was. He asked me to help and I tracked down and apprehended the culprit.

Fieldhouse: The culprit? Well, be that as it may, my position is that I have bought a plot of land and –

Jenkins: In the countryside, due north of here, I perceive.

Fieldhouse: Whatever makes you say that?

Jenkins: Elementary. I merely observed the heel of your left shoe, which bears traces of the reddish soil found nowhere else in this vicinity. When a man has been in this business as long as I have, not much escapes him, Mrs Fielding.

Fieldhouse: Fieldhouse!

Jenkins: I beg your pardon.

Fieldhouse: I have not left this town in the past ten years. My shoes are new, purchased last week. The plot of land is only five minutes’ walk from here. I acquired it a short time ago, when I became a widow.

Jenkins: Yes, yes. I see the sorrow in your eyes. I hope you are coping with your grief.

Fieldhouse: I am not troubled by either sorrow or grief. My husband was a brute and I am relieved that he has passed on. The first happiness I had since our wedding was gained by attending his funeral. You appear to set great store by your power of inference, but it is clearly faulty. First, you seemed to have it fixed in your mind that you were about to receive a male caller, so you were wrong there. Second, you assumed erroneously that I had been out in the countryside. Third, you perceived sorrow where there is none. You were mistaken in all respects.

Jenkins: Bear with me, Mrs Fieldmouse.

Fieldhouse: Fieldhouse!

Jenkins: Yes, of course. I was about to say that I have my methods, which may seem a little out of the ordinary. However, I have usually been  successful in solving the cases referred to me.

Fieldhouse: Solving cases? Your use of language puzzles me.

Jenkins: I have baffled many people, yet clients almost invariably find my results satisfactory. The gentleman who showed you in has recorded some of my little exploits as short stories. One might say that he regards himself as my biographer.

Fieldhouse: You appear to lead an adventurous life. That is not quite what I would expect of a man in your occupation.

Jenkins: I have my moments of drama. However, let us deal with your problem. I need details. They are the very essence of any investigation. Please tell me everything that you consider possibly pertinent, however trivial. Great issues may hang on the most mundane points. I recall an incident, superficially trivial, involving parsley and butter on a hot day –

Porter (entering and addressing Jenkins): Excuse the interruption. You asked me to remind you about your other appointment.

Jenkins: Oh, yes. Thank you. Well, Mrs Porterhouse –

Fieldhouse: Fieldhouse!

Jenkins: Yes, quite so. I apologise for terminating our discussion, but I must catch a train. I am engaged in a most serious matter involving a church up in Derbyshire. Dark things are occurring there and it is necessary that I proceed to the place at once. If you will permit me to resort to metaphor, I suspect rats in the wainscoting.

Fieldhouse: Really? If I also may be somewhat figurative, are you sure that you are not contending with bats in the belfry?

Jenkins: A remote contingency, but I will take it into account. As I have often told my colleague here, when one has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Now I must go, so I will leave you in my friend’s capable hands. Rest assured that I shall give your case my full attention when I return. (To Porter) Kindly look after the lady, Watson.

Porter: Very well. I hope you enjoy your journey and solve the mystery. I have everything in hand here, so please do not hurry back.

Jenkins: Au revoir, Mrs Moorhouse.

Fieldhouse: Fieldhouse!! Goodbye, Mr Holm . . . er . . . Jenkins.

* * *
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## Courtjester

*LIFE IN THE DARK AGES*
​ 
It has been said that much of the Anglo-Saxon period in England is not very well documented. Be that as it may, we are now able to gain a little insight into the daily lives of common people, albeit some rather unusual ones. A short while ago, Historian Oswin Twonk was handed a fragment of writing found by a spelunker in a Cheshire cave.

Having made a particular study of the period after the Romans departed from our land and the Normans arrived, Mr Twonk was able to translate the text into modern English and he has now released his initial result. Nobody knows who wrote the original manuscript or when it first appeared, though it may be reasonable to infer that it was penned in the   early 800s, as there is some mention of the Norse invaders, but none of Alfred the Great.

The document deals mainly with ordinary people and makes only limited reference to prominent ones. It is incomplete and does not have an obvious beginning or end. Still, it gives us some absorbing information about a few interesting characters. Mr Twonk has provided Madazine with an extract which he hopes our readers will find intriguing. It is given below:

One of the characters to whom we are introduced is Egbreath the Horrible, noted for his huge consumption of raw garlic – and the fact that he apparently had few close friends. He lived in a typical one-roomed cottage of wattle and daub. His wife was also noteworthy. Her name was Illwinda and she was widely known for her malodorous flatulence, and was usually avoided by neighbours. Some people might wonder whether she perhaps inspired the phrase ‘it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good’. The origin of this expression seems to be unclear, though it seems to have been well known early in the sixteenth century, when it was already described as a proverb.

We are told that while out walking one day, Egbreath met a village elder and the following conversation ensued:

Elder: Good morning, Egbreath. I understand that you have come into an inheritance.

Egbreath: I have. My late aunt bequeathed me a billy goat.

Elder: How nice for you. Where is the creature now?

Egbreath: He is in my cottage, sprawled out by the fire.

Elder: But Egbreath, what about the smell?

Egbreath: Oh, never mind him. He will get used to it.

Another remarkable character was Thithelthroth the Unvigilant, who claimed to be part Viking. He contrasted sharply with Hereward the Wake, who came along much later. When it became known that marauders were seeking food in the vicinity of Thithelthroth’s village, he distinguished himself in a most egregious manner. Assigned to nocturnal lookout duty for the first and only time, he became bored, consumed a gallon of mead and fell into a drunker stupor.

While the incompetent watchman snored the night away, the roving miscreants made off with a dozen head of cattle, twenty goats and thirty sheep. To add insult to injury, they also picked an acre of peas, quietly dug up a patch of four hundred square yards of cabbages and onions, and raided the collective dairy, stealing all of the villagers’ butter and cheese. The record does not say what price Thithelthroth paid for his behaviour.

We are also introduced to Hogsgirth the Vast, a man described as of astounding circumference, as broad as he was long. This fellow had a gargantuan appetite and fed himself to such a bulk that in the final year of his life he was unable to leave his home, as the doorway would not have been wide enough to permit his egress, even if he had been able to attempt it, which he was not. He perished immediately after tackling his last meal, a whole roast ox. (Well, that would probably be the last meal of anyone who tried it.)

In addition to giving us an overview of the lives of common folk, the work enlightens us briefly about several striking people among the nobility, including Ethelspread, Etheldread, Ethelthread and Ethelbreeda. The first of these was noted for giving lavish banquets, the second distinguished himself by his cruelty, the third got his name because he was reputedly thin enough to be passed through the eye of a needle, and the fourth was a lady of astounding fecundity, who it was said gave birth to children to numerous to count.

I, your informant, am working on a book based on the four pages of parchment passed to me by the cave explorer. So far I have produced 200,000 words and am close to the end. I hope for a high level of sales.​Editor’s note. I am puzzled by the fact that Mr Twonk does not comment on the inclusion of ‘a’ in the names of the three male ‘Ethels’ he mentions in his penultimate paragraph. I do not believe that spelling was used in the period concerned, as may be gathered from two undoubtedly real Ethelreds (or Aethelreds). To my mind, the extra letter in the third syllable of the names in the manuscript casts doubt on its authenticity. I suspect this supposed find might be another ‘Piltdown Man’ type hoax.

* * *
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## Courtjester

*HOW TO BE SUPERIOR*
​ 
Having been asked numerous times to offer tips on how to be superior, I feel that I must finally accede to these requests, so here are some remarks which I hope may be useful to those who need help in the matter of social climbing. Let me say at the outset that I am not seeking to rival the work of the great Stephen Potter, whose School of Lifemanship at Yeovil gave so much to so many. The eminent founder and principal of that wonderful institution had a wider remit than mine, in that he taught his pupils how to be ‘one up’ on other people in a variety of situations.

I must point out that my observations are aimed at men only. The ladies have their own etiquette in these matters and their procedures are a closed book to me. The advice given below is mainly for those who wish to move in loftier social circles than the ones to which they are accustomed. One could write a book about this, but there is no need for anybody to do so because the whole thing is much simpler than is commonly thought. A fellow can get by very nicely by bearing in mind only a small number of simple rules.

The would-be upstart must first consider his name. An unusual one is a great advantage, and if you do not have one, you would do well to consider a change. In my case that was not necessary, for it would be hard to improve on Theseus Naseby-Goatwrangler. The male forenames in my family have long been taken from Greek mythology, my two uncles being Ajax and Achilles, while my late father was Agamemnon. Dad was known to his intimates as Aga until alcohol completed his mental decline, when the prefix ‘G’ was added to his sobriquet. If you do decide to take a new name, be imaginative. For Heaven’s sake don’t go from Smith to Smythe. That is simply too transparent.

To jump ahead for a moment, once you have joined your chosen group, you will find that other aspiring parvenus try to ingratiate themselves with you. They can be importunate, so you will have to demonstrate that you are a cut above them, without overtly insulting them. Your best course is to refer to all of them as John, even if you know their real names. This is a clear indication that you are somehow so distant from them that their true identities are of no interest to you. I have said that these comments are aimed at men. However, in this matter of address, you will need to deal with women at times. Refer to all of them as Jane. This is a nice name, faintly upmarket and perhaps slightly redolent of the ‘county’ types, so you will not cause offence. That is all on the subject of names.

Apparel is very important, but you will doubtless be pleased to learn that it is far less problematical than you might imagine. You must have a Harris Tweed jacket and it needs to be quite shapeless. I have two, purchased forty-odd years ago. They were totally amorphous when I got them and are exactly the same now. Do not take one that has a discernible form or design. I suggest a light base colour, vaguely beige/fawn/taupe or similar, with an unidentifiable reddish/brown pattern. On no account should you have leather elbow patches or cuff trims. They may be all very well for academics, but not for you. A tweed flat cap is also essential, and for goodness sake, don’t get one with a button on the top. For foul weather get a hip-length waxed mid-green coat.

You have some latitude in the matter of trousers. Thick, tough ones are best and here again I recommend a light colour. You can’t really improve on   cavalry twill. Do not even think of corduroy – quirkiness can be taken too far. Your shirt should also be light – ivory is good – with a criss-cross motif of thin black, brown or dark-grey lines, to make roughly quarter-inch squares.

You should have a tie with a regimental look. It need not be the real thing, for nobody in your circle will be so uncouth as to ask you about it. Should some boorish intruder do so, your response will be to allude vaguely and dismissively to a military background, conveying the impression that you have moved on and don’t wish to wallow in the past. This presupposes that you are of sufficiently mature years. If you aren’t, just invent an excuse to leave your interlocutor and try to ensure that the two of you don’t meet again. That won’t be difficult, as the lout concerned is not likely to get a further chance to mix with those around you.

Now to footwear.  A pair of stout brogues is essential. They should be light tan and must be treated with saddle soap rather than wax polish. Your aim is a dullish sheen, not a high shine. Opt for something from a top maker. These shoes are uncompromising beasts, usually referred to as bench-made, and for quite a while you will get the impression that the bench is still attached to them, or that you are lifting concrete blocks. Wearing the things is excruciating because they will make no effort to fit you, so you will have to fit them. However, the experience, painful though it may be, is necessary.

There is nothing more to be said about dress, and I will explain why. You can do well enough in almost any circumstances with the kind of outfit described above. For example, if you are required to appear at a tie and tails affair, by all means turn up in your casual attire. On such occasions you should rush in late and explain that you were detained on the moors, strangling a recalcitrant gillie, or beating beaters who didn’t come up to scratch. Your sartorial incongruity may lead to your being regarded as mildly eccentric, but you will not be ostracised because most of the others present are likely to have had similar experiences and will understand.

I must touch upon the subjects of alcohol and tobacco. The former is easy. Try to avoid beer. You may give as your excuse the fact that the volumes involved give you digestive problems, even though your innards may be able to cope with barbed wire and bleach. You can do the same with respect to most spirits, but you really should take brandy because at many gatherings, the men will insist on a post-prandial session with that beverage and smokes, and you must join them. By all means indulge in wine, but don’t get too involved in discussions about it, as this area can be a minefield.

The noxious weed is a delicate matter nowadays. You should eschew cigarettes, which are widely frowned upon. A pipe is permissible, if you can get one that stays alight for more than two minutes at a time. However, the right choice is cigars, and here I can give you some useful guidance. You are sure to find that a number of your companions favour top Havanas, and if you are not yet initiated here, prepare yourself for a shock. Naturally, you wish to be considered ‘one of the chaps’, and you will discover that the best that Cuba has to offer costs about a pound per minute of burning time.

Now here is a vital pointer. You will notice that some of your chums will leave their cigar bands in or around ashtrays. Find a reason to stay behind after the others have gone, then pick up the discarded bands, take them home and put them on much cheaper cigars. This will help you to create an impression of affluence. A chap in one of my clubs got away with that for a long time, using Cuban bands on cheap smokes, which were all he could afford. But be warned. His behaviour was noticed. He was an insensitive man, his pachydermic hide seemingly impervious to the thickening atmosphere of opprobrium that built up around him. In the end, a quiet word from the club secretary persuaded him to resign.

A further point you should bear in mind is that intellectual pretensions are not welcome in the social stratum you have selected. Each of those around you will have had an education and some of them may even remember bits of theirs. If you have some special knowledge or talent, don’t labour it, or you will soon be deafened by snores.

The subject of music is likely to arise in your get-togethers. You may be asked for your views on, say, Shustakovsky’s forty-ninth symphony, often referred to as ‘The Interminable’ because no orchestra can, with any decency, get through it in less than two hours. If you have an opinion, by all means give it, but should you be out of your depth, say that a childhood accident rendered you tone-deaf, so you cannot comment.

I could go on, but Madazine’s editor, Will Rider-Hawes, who is an old friend of mine, has limited the length of my observations. “Don’t give me a wordfest,” he said. Still, with the above counsel as your lodestone, you will not find it difficult to navigate your way into the company you wish to keep. Good luck.

* * *
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## Courtjester

Editor’s note. Some Madazine readers will know that we don’t usually deal with highly topical matters. However, exceptions are made on occasion and the item below is one of them. Our mail today included a letter which intrigued all of us here, and I hope it will be of general interest. One reason for publishing it is that the writer is of the same vintage as yours truly, so I’m showing oldster solidarity. Here we go:

*BREXIT BULLETIN*​ 
To the editor of Madazine.

Dear Sir,

It occurs to me that your readers may be interested to learn that I have started a new career – in my eightieth year at that. Allow me to explain. There has been much talk of late concerning a possible British exit (Brexit) from the European Union. Having decided to specialise in this subject, I am gathering as much socioeconomic data as possible, in order to become the world’s first, perhaps only, brexitologist. Admittedly this may be a short-lived occupation, possibly as brief as four months, but I have already made a dramatic discovery, as follows:

According to rules devised by an anonymous group of officials, only six of the EU’s twenty-eight countries will be able to depart in the way Britain is considering. The reason is that any land wishing to pull out needs to coin a snappy word for its intended action. This must be limited to two syllables, which are to include ‘exit’ plus the first two letters, in English, of the country’s name. The ‘exit’ part must be enunciated distinctly, so where the second letter of the name is ‘e’, this cannot be counted as part of ‘exit’, meaning that Germany, Netherlands, Belgium and Denmark are disqualified. For example, Belgium would be ‘Be-exit’ which is three syllables.

Under the regulations described above, the only members allowed to leave the Union will be Britain (Brexit), Croatia (Crexit), France (Frexit), Greece (Grexit) Spain (Spexit) and Sweden (Swexit). There can be no question of a Slexit, as this could apply to either Slovakia or Slovenia, so both are barred on the ground that there is already more than enough confusion in Brussels.

The Czech Republic is a special case. It cannot qualify by starting its name with ‘The’, as no country is permitted to use the definite article in its name for the purpose of this exercise. However, the Czechs might be accepted as potential departees by opting for the ‘Cz’ start. This could be controversial because it may cause argument about pronunciation. On seeing it at the beginning of ‘Czexit’, most Anglophones would regard it as ‘Cexit’, with an initial ‘s’ sound, thus failing to identify clearly the country concerned. A case – albeit a weak one – has been made for ‘Chexit’, with an initial ‘Ch’, as in chug, in conformity with English articulation. This has so far proved troublesome because (a) it does not use the correct two opening letters, as widely recognised and (b) even the ‘Ch’ might be interpreted by some people as having a ‘k’ sound, as in Charisma.

The Czech problem is being discussed by the European Commission but a directive on it will not be produced for at least two years. It must take its place behind the knotty questions of cuboid tomatoes (for optimum packing), harmonisation of the shapes and sizes of carrots and – most contentious of all – the proposed straightening, on health and safety grounds, of all boomerangs sold in the EU. With respect to the last point, advice is to be sought from a specialist. Rumour has it that the job might go to a certain dinkum Aussie who is an expert on the ancient weapon. He now heads a large organisation in the world of writing forums and is known to his twenty or thirty thousand closest friends as The Admiral. This grizzled tar is reputedly the world’s most decorated naval man, so bemedalled that when in full dress uniform he lists to port. According to a usually reliable source, he has indicated that he will be available as soon as he has replaced the crumbling corks on his bush hat.

Undoubtedly my researches will unearth other important points, but I submit that the above will do for a start. Incidentally, it has not escaped my notice that in international parlance, our country is more correctly defined as the UK, which includes Northern Ireland. For the purpose of the study described above, that point will be ignored.

I shall keep you informed of further developments.

Yours sincerely,

A. Spleen-Venter
Founder and Principal, Institute of Brexitology

* * *
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## Jack of all trades

Hey, CJ! Good to see you! I still enjoy your writing.


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## Courtjester

Nice to hear from you again and glad to know that you're still getting nourishment from the deathless prose. Good luck with your own work. Cj


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## Courtjester

*RULING THE WAVES*
​ 
The East Yorkshire seaside resort of Bridlington was today the scene of the latest experiment conducted by the redoubtable Sheffield engineer and inventor, Kevin Spout. This time he has turned his attention to seafaring matters, hence the coastal venue. Once again, a number of representatives of the media had been invited, among them Madazine’s science reporter, Axel Griess. Many local people also attended, hopeful of seeing something spectacular.

Before carrying out the trial, Kevin explained the train of thought that led to it. He said that he had been wondering for some time why it takes so long for ships to get from one place to another. In particular, he had been thinking of the time, some years ago, when he crossed the North Sea from Hull to Rotterdam. “It took ages,” he groaned. “I embarked at about six o’clock one evening and reached my destination at eight the following morning. I found that ridiculous then and I still do, but I’ve only recently been able to deal with the matter.”

Spectators were then asked to examine the result of Kevin’s work. This took the form of an open sailing boat, fifteen feet long. The mast and rigging had been removed and Kevin had fitted to the flat stern two rocket engines, designed and manufactured by  himself. They were mounted in parallel, port and starboard, above the rudder. He has plans for much larger vessels, including freighters of several thousand tons, and he claims that there is no obvious limit in terms of size.

When he first announced what he proposed to do, Kevin attracted some scepticism from several marine engineers, perhaps foremost among them being leading German expert Hans Poopdecker. “I cringe in anticipation,” he said. “Mr Spout declares that he wishes to demonstrate that Britain still rules the waves. He is more likely to show that it waives the rules. How is one of his contraptions going to cope with forty-foot Atlantic rollers?” Kevin dismissed this pessimism, saying that he has studied oceanic conditions and that the ships he intends to produce will cut through the billows like knives through butter.

After the public inspection, Kevin continued his address, saying that one of the biggest problems confronting rocket engineers is throttling. Traditionally, their machines were either on at full power or off completely. He added that some progress had been made by large companies in recent years, but that he was far ahead of the field, in that he had perfected a system by which his engines can be controlled to any desired level of output, from very low up to maximum.

With regard to fuel, Kevin said he had opted to use a liquid oxygen/methane combination favoured by some experts for a Mars mission, but had added ‘a touch of Spout magic’ which ensured that his engines greatly outstripped the performance achieved by anyone else. He claimed that he had demonstrated this to his own satisfaction with extensive bench testing. When asked to disclose details concerning the nozzle exhaust velocity his method had attained, he declined, saying that such information is vital and might be helpful to anyone wishing to emulate his results.

For the maiden voyage of his craft, Kevin had decided to travel alone. The boat was towed to a spot just outside the harbour mouth. Having satisfied himself that his course was set for the European mainland, Kevin opened the propellant and oxidant feed lines and, with a cry of “Holland, here I come,” he pressed the starter buttons for the two engines.

What happened next will long be remembered by those who witnessed it. The boat zoomed off – in circles. Close observers noticed that the starboard engine had blazed into life, but that the port one had not. After the craft had, so to speak, chased its own tail for about a dozen rotations, Kevin got the recalcitrant unit going, albeit at far less than full thrust. This resulted in the boat moving in a tight arc. It hurtled towards Sewerby Head, a mile or so from the harbour, with Kevin trying to get control. He failed, and with the vessel heading for disaster, he leapt into the sea. The boat sped on, hitting the foot of a cliff and disintegrating into what one onlooker described as pieces the size of confetti.

As soon he had been hauled ashore and changed his clothes, Kevin conducted an inquiry. Within minutes, he was able give a summary of what had occurred. “There were two problems,” he said. “First, I gave my cousin Donald the task of ensuring that the feed lines to the engines were clear. I had devised a special tool for this operation, but Donald mislaid it after using it on the starboard side. He concluded that he would have to improvise and as he is a smoker, he tied together a number of the cleaners with which he rods out his pipes. After using them, he forgot to pull them out of the port fuel tube. When the propellant began to flow, it caused the cleaners, which are of cotton-covered wire, to wad up and block the flow. Eventually there was a partial clearance, which explains why the port engine operated at reduced power.

“The second point was that pressure and downdraught from the starboard engine forced the rudder leftwards, so the boat’s motion was circular until the port engine began to fire. When that happened, there was still a strong bias from the starboard side, so the course changed to a curve, as you saw. I was unable to correct the snag in the short time available. Overall, having established what went wrong, I regard the test as a qualified success.”

Madazine’s Axel Griess gave his brief and scathing opinion of the proceedings, saying: “I was not surprised to see Kevin going round in circles, nor was I taken aback by his being completely at sea.”

A date for the next trial has not yet been fixed.  

* * *
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## Shirl the Whirl

Thank you Courtjester,

I thoroughly enjoyed this, and snorted loudly whilst reading the part quoted - to the bewilderment of the other occupants of the room!



> Under the regulations described above, the only members allowed to leave the Union will be Britain (Brexit), Croatia (Crexit), France (Frexit), Greece (Grexit) Spain (Spexit) and Sweden (Swexit). There can be no question of a Slexit, as this could apply to either Slovakia or Slovenia, so both are barred on the ground that there is already more than enough confusion in Brussels.
> 
> I look forward to reading more of your work!


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## Courtjester

Dear Shirl The Whirl,

Thank you for your comments. I'm delighted to learn that you liked the Brexit piece and hope you will get some pleasure from the earlier Madazine articles. As it happens, I posted another item yesterday. This was the latest exploit of the redoubtable Yorkshire inventor, Kevin Spout. If you are into humour, you might want to try my 'Pondhopper' and 'Solomon Had It Easier' stories, which are now most readily accessible in the Multi-Chapter and Collected works sub-forum. Happy reading and good luck to you with your own work. Cj


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## Jack of all trades

Loved this part : 



> Madazine’s Axel Griess gave his brief and scathing opinion of the proceedings, saying: “I was not surprised to see Kevin going round in circles, nor was I taken aback by his being completely at sea.”


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## Courtjester

Hello, Jack. Glad you liked Axel's squirt of vitriol. Poor Kevin doesn't seem to fare too well with his experiments to enrich our lives. He'll be regaling us again soon. Cj


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## Courtjester

*FUNNY THINGS, NUMBERS*
​ 
Tom: Good morning, Jim and Dan. We all know why we’re here. You’re  relative newcomers to rifle shooting and you’ve asked me to set up a little contest for the two of you. I’m happy to do that. I want you to fire for two fifteen-minute periods, with a break of half an hour between them. You can each fire as many rounds as you wish on both occasions. The only thing that matters is your total number of shots, divided by the bulls you score, giving you an average of shots per bull. The decisive factor will be your scores over the two rounds, taken in total.

You have one target each for the first round and I’ll put up fresh ones for the second. Bear in mind your inexperience and don’t be surprised if you get very few bulls. They’re quite a long way off and those circles in the middle are pretty small. To put things in perspective, I had a short session yesterday, using an identical target to the ones you have, at the same distance. I’m considered a pretty fair shot but I got only ten bulls with thirty-five rounds.

Your magazines hold five bullets, so you’ll most likely need to reload a few times. For that purpose you each have a box of replacements. You’ll also see that I’m providing you with a spare rifle apiece, in case of jamming or overheating.

I’d like you to take up your positions, Jim facing the right-hand target for the first round, then you’ll swap places for the second. When both of you have called out that you’re ready, you’ll hear a buzzer to give you the start and finish signals. I’ll keep score. Let me remind you that the prize is a bottle of brandy.

One hour later.

Tom: Well, here we are. It’s all over and I have your scores. Jim, in the first round, you fired sixty-four shots and got four bulls. Dan, you went rather slower. You fired thirty-six shots and got two bulls. So the first round went to Jim, with an average of one bull per sixteen shots against Dan’s one per eighteen.

Now to the second round. Jim, you slowed down quite a bit, presumably trying for greater accuracy. Well, you got it, with thirty-two shots, including four more bulls. Dan, you went a good deal faster than you did in the first round, with sixty-three shots, seven of which were bulls. So that round went to Jim too, with an average of one bull per eight shots against Dan’s one per nine shots.

Jim: Good. Hand over the bottle, Tom.

Dan: Wait a minute. That’s not right.

Jim: Hey, don’t be a sore loser, Dan. You heard what the man said. I won both rounds, so where’s the argument?

Dan: I’ll tell you where it is. Tom, you said that the prize was to go to the man who did best in total.

Tom: That’s right.

Dan: Well, there’s no dispute about Jim having won the two rounds taken separately, but overall he fired ninety-six shots and scored eight bulls. That’s one bull per twelve shots. I fired ninety-nine times and got nine bulls. That’s one bull per eleven shots. I win.

Tom: He’s right, Jim. It seems crazy, but you won both rounds and lost the contest. Funny things, numbers. Here’s your bottle, Dan.

* * *
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## Courtjester

*WEATHER
*(Sunday evening)
​
Come tomorrow’s morn, there shall be storms the like of which ye have ne’er seen, nay, the like of which humankind itself in all its history hath ne’er known. There shall be rain in torrents, thunder and lightning, hurricanes that shall blast the land and lay waste to your forests, tempests which shall carry all before them and leave scarce a living crop in their wake.

Swollen, raging rivers shall o’erwhelm your feeble defences and hurl your habitations and all within them away to roiling, boiling seas. Nary an inch of your soil shall be left unscathed, nor shall any scrap of it remain above the floods. Tornados shall wreak havoc north to south and east to west and none shall escape them. Devastation shall be nigh absolute.

Tuesday will be a much better day, with light showers and sunny intervals. That’s the weather forecast. In a moment we’ll have the time signal, followed by the news.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*PERPETUAL MOTION*
​ 
The Yorkshire inventor and engineer Kevin Spout has been in action once more. On this occasion the venue was meadow, two miles from the Spout family’s Sheffield home. As was the case with public showings of his earlier innovations, Kevin had invited a number of journalists specialising in scientific matters. Madazine’s Axel Griess was present. About two hundred interested local people had gathered to watch the proceedings, which began at noon. In the middle of the field stood a flat-roofed wooden hut, eight feet high, twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide, with a floor of paving stones. It had a ceiling light and two mains power points.  Both field and hut had been made available by a farmer.

Kevin gained the crowd’s attention with a shout, introduced himself, then went on: “In a few minutes I intend to prove that those who have long contended that perpetual motion is impossible have been wrong. I know that many attempts have been made and all have failed. To make my point, I went into the area of electricity generation. I have built a simple turbine, consisting of only one hub and a single set of blades. I am aware that in commercial applications, many of these units are fixed together. However, such complexity is not necessary for my purpose today. I now request representatives of the media to accompany me to the hut and view the machine. There is not enough room inside to accommodate anyone else, so I ask members of the lay public to disperse around the perimeter of this field.”

The reporters followed Kevin into the cabin. Standing in the middle of the floor was the test equipment. It comprised a metal wheel, three inches wide and about two and a half feet in diameter. Attached to the rim were thirty-six steel blades, each eighteen inches long. They were evenly spaced, slightly over two and a half inches apart. The assembly rested on two steel stanchions fixed to an iron platform which was fastened to the floor. The whole construction was covered by a housing of clear Perspex which, as Kevin explained, was there to protect onlookers from air turbulence. At one side of the apparatus, a hole in the Perspex sheet allowed the hub to be connected to an electric motor by means of a hexagonal shaft. Protruding from the other side was a handle, attached to the hub in the same way.

Kevin explained the essence of his scheme. “The secret here is the positioning of the blades,” he said. “In a conventional turbine, they are all aligned at the same angle to each other. You will see that in my array, they are all at slightly different angles. It took me quite a while to find the correct configuration. The result is that I need only apply a modest initial impetus from the motor here, then I switch it off and it is not required again. When the blades begin to turn, the way in which they are set agitates the air between them, setting up eddies, which are self-maintaining. The machine spins faster, up to a certain number of revolutions, at which point it levels off, thus achieving perpetual motion. The handle you see at the side opposite the motor is a brake, which I shall apply manually to stop the test. If I were not to do so, the appliance would rotate at a steady speed forever, barring external interference.”

Kevin asked the dozen or so viewers to separate into two small groups of about equal size and move to the ends of the cabin, so that they were as far from the assembly as possible. When they had complied, he bent over the motor, cried: “Here’s to cheap power for all time,” and pressed the starter button.

Shortly after the blades began to turn, Kevin pressed the stop button, stated that the apparatus was running under its own power, and stood back. As he had predicted, the wheel revolved at increasing speed. This went on for about five minutes, then one of the blades became detached from the rim, burst out of the housing and sped on to go through the cabin’s side wall and hurtle across the field. The other blades followed at intervals varying from about five to twenty seconds, all behaving in much the same way as the first had done.

As blades’ initial trajectories were largely determined by their velocities, their varying angles on leaving the wheel, and to some extent by the sides of the cage, their combined exits from the premises described a semi-circular path, up one wall, across the ceiling and down the opposite wall. The result was that when all of them had vanished, the cabin had been cut into two halves.

One of the onlookers then noticed that the electric motor was still running. He drew this to the attention of Kevin, who repeatedly jabbed the stop button, to no avail. The device ran until another spectator pulled out the lead connecting it to the mains power supply.

Kevin immediately instituted an inquiry. He asked the shaken journalists to step outside the hut and remain there until he could report his findings. In less than half an hour he gave an account of what he had discovered, saying: “I’m happy to tell you that the mishap was caused by two minor technical hitches. The first was that the stop button on the motor had a faulty connection. The second occurred because, as in earlier projects, I delegated some work to my cousin, Donald. I regret to say that he used his initiative. My specification called for the blades to be fixed in the usual engineering manner, by which I mean that when each of them was pushed through its designated hole in the rim, it was to be fastened by two nuts, one to secure it in position, one to serve as a lock.

“Unfortunately, Donald had equipped himself with only the securing nuts. When it came to locking, he had no spares and no means of getting any. He had the inspired idea of hurrying to a local store, where he bought a packet of small latex pads, sticky on one side. He cut holes in them and pushed one over each of the threads so that the adhesive surfaces fitted snugly against the securing nuts. Had he asked me, I would have told him that his plan was not workable. Unfortunately, he said nothing, as he feared being rebuked for his failure to procure enough components.

“I realise that you must be disappointed, but the good news is that I shall be able to build a new machine within two weeks and as soon as that is done I shall conduct another test. You will all be invited again. Thank you.”

Madazine’s Axel Griess, speaking from a nearby park bench, two empty three-litre cider bottles by his side, gave his verdict, his speech slurred. “Kevin began with one hut and finished it with two. Maybe he intends to start breeding the things. I’ll be around for the next trial but shall monitor it as well as I can from safe distance, probably Manchester.”

* * *
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## Courtjester

*WHERE THE TOUGH GET GOING*
​ 
Madazine’s roving reporter, Trixie Larkspur, has just visited one of our more unusual seats of learning. Her report is given below:

It is no common occurrence for an outsider to be invited to Hardknock School, so I was pleased to be one of the few. Situated on the North Yorkshire Moors, this establishment was once a Victorian workhouse. The building, of grey stone and forbidding appearance, is referred to by its few neighbours as The Pile. It is just about as remote as a habitation could be in our crowded country.

I was a little disconcerted on arriving at the main gate and seeing above it a wrought iron arch bearing the legend ‘Enter Not, Ye Faint Of Heart’. The words had obviously been repainted recently, as if to emphasise their import. I was greeted by the caretaker, Grampus, so dubbed because of his tendency to snort and wheeze prodigiously. I did not ascertain his real name. With a stream of unintelligible mumbling, he led me along a maze of gloomy corridors – no paint or even plaster in evidence here – to the study of the owner and headmaster, Desmond Bullymore.

Dismissing Grampus with an admonition to smarten his appearance, Dr Bullymore motioned me to sit on a straight–backed, uncushioned chair that would have delighted Frank Lloyd Wright. As many Madazine readers will doubtless know, that great architect was given to equipping his splendid houses with pain-inducing furniture of his own design.

The head of Hardknock School cuts an impressive figure. A former wrestler, he is six- foot-four, massively built, clean shaven and the possessor of piercing light-blue eyes. Though I understand he is close to sixty years of age, there is no trace of grey in his luxuriant black hair. He was standing behind his desk, and after giving me a chance to look him over, he took a seat in a huge swivel chair of studded red leather which nicely complemented the impressive and totally clear acreage of mahogany that separated us.

Before arriving at the school, I was given some details to help shorten the interview – the head is a busy man. I’d learned that Dr Bullymore founded Hardknock three years ago, and that the emphasis there is on physical rigour, with academic achievement decidedly in second place. My questions about the latter were subtly deflected, though I did later manage to sneak a word with one of the senior boys, who told me that as far as general education is concerned, the school has what he called a blank sheet in terms of passes. I have not yet been able to check this. The head has two degrees, a doctorate in Life Appreciation, awarded by the University of the Pacific Isles, and a master’s in Observing International Affairs, conferred by the Polytechnic Institute of Equatorial Guinea Dependencies, Southwest Division. My enquiries into the status of these bodies have so far elicited no information.

The school caters for a hundred and twenty boys, aged from eleven to eighteen, the only female on the premises being the matron, Mrs Broadbody, a stout lady of about the same age as the chief. Each day begins with the pre-breakfast ‘throw-in’, when half of the boys the toss the other half into the school lake, then those who have been immersed get out and do the same for the others, ensuring that everyone gets a dunking.

There are ostensibly formal lessons in the mornings from ten to twelve and afternoons from one to three. These take place in two huge classrooms and attendance is compulsory. However, the boys study whatever appeals to them, or nothing at all, if they wish to remain idle. Apart from the principal, there is only one teacher, the physical training instructor, Malcolm ‘Knuckles’ Magee. Before leaving, I met this shambling mountain of muscle and immediately ceased wondering how he got his nickname. During our very brief conversation, he said that he doubles – or it seemed to me dabbles – in the sciences.

The objective of Hardknock is to turn out tough, independent-minded young men, regardless of their scholastic prowess. Twice a year, once in winter and once in summer, the head arranges what he calls field exercises, each lasting five days. No notice is given of these, the idea being to hold them during particularly vicious heat waves or cold snaps. The boys are required to move at the double around the moors, carrying sixty-pound rucksacks and sleeping in the open air, regardless of weather conditions.

Dr Bullymore suggested that we walk around outside for a while. As we strolled towards the sports fields, he told me that soccer is not played at Hardknock because it is considered too tame. The main sporting activities are rugby and cricket and in neither game is any protective equipment allowed. Not surprisingly, injuries are common. In rugby, damages to various parts of the boys’ anatomies occur almost daily. When we passed a set of goalposts, I saw what was clearly a cartoonlike outline of a spreadeagled human body imprinted in the turf. My host said that this was the result of several boys piling atop a lad who was trying to dive over their last line of defence. Cricket also produces many casualties, especially broken shins and cracked skulls, almost all attributable to the absence of leg pads and headgear. This is part of what Dr Bullymore refers to as the hardening process.

I asked about the diet, assuming that it would be commensurate with the strenuous regimen. The head replied that this was indeed the case, informing me that breakfast is always gruel with a sprinkling of raisins. Lunch is invariably lard sandwiches. There is some variety in the case of the main meal. Mondays to Fridays, this is tripe and onions, weekends barley soup, with whatever roadkill the boys have gathered during the week. When possible, added flavour is provided by fungi from the nearby woods, though this is a chancy matter as the most common ones there are amanita phalloides and amanita virosa. On hearing this I remarked that these are perhaps the two most toxic things of their kind. The head quoted from The Book of Common Prayer, saying that in the midst of life we are in death, adding that the school had indeed had two fatalities resulting from fungal poisoning, but that this kind of experience was helpful in keeping the boys on their toes in such matters.

While walking back to the main building, we encountered a lad coming the opposite way. Dr Bullymore cuffed him around the right ear, telling him to proceed more purposefully. The boy pointed at a plaster cast on his leg. “Sorry, sir,” he replied. “I’m trying. Really I am.” This brought him a clip on the other ear and the rejoinder that his best wasn’t good enough. The head told me that the lad had caught his leg in a gin trap in the school grounds, where the boys try to catch anything that might add to their food intake. That mishap was the second of its kind, the first one resulting in a leg being amputated.

I had hoped to stay longer at Hardknock but after an hour or so there I was dismissed rather brusquely by the principal, who had to deal with a report that a gorilla had been sighted in the orchard. “It’s probably one of the boys,” he said. “Most of them are indistinguishable from the great apes.” He asked me to see myself out, then strode off, bellowing for ‘Knuckles’ Magee to join him.

* * *
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## Courtjester

*THE LAMPWICK LETTERS : NUMBER ONE*
​ 
Dear Mr Amplegirth,

Thank you for sending me a copy of your essay about the Native Americans and their interactions with newcomers over the years. I accept your name for the people in question. They have at times been given various other titles but as far as I know, the one you use is now considered politically correct and I have no wish to risk getting my head in my hands by contesting this point.

In your covering letter you ask me let you have my opinion of the work and to confine my observations to its substance and to refrain from commenting on your style. That is just as well, as if you had given me a fuller remit, I would have had the odd bone to pick with you regarding certain aspects of your presentation, particularly the fact that you seem to have declared war on pronouns.

I am flattered that you have requested me to offer a critique, as I am by no means an expert in your subject matter. It is true that I have some modest reputation as an observer of the literary world, but my knowledge of your theme is no greater than that of the average passably well-formed lay person. However, I will try to do justice to the confidence you evidently have in me. You say that you intend to submit your dissertation to the writing forum of which you are a member and that you hope to receive an award for the best historical article offered this year.

Let me start by saying that I am somewhat at sea with your description of the contacts between the early voyagers from England and the folk they met. You refer to what were once called The Five Civilised Tribes. I do not like this term, as civilisation is in my view sometimes a subjective matter. Be that as it may, the point that causes me most concern is the names you give to those groups and others you refer to later in your paper.

Your note states that you employed a reputable man to do virtually all the research involved in the project, that you paid him a substantial fee for this, and that you are indebted to him for the portrayal of the various indigenous peoples identified in the text and for details of most of the incidents described. When you get to the end of this reply, you may wonder how well your money was spent.

You speak of the abovementioned five tribes as Cherripikkas, Chickpees, Sagoes, Tapiocas and Semolinas. Perhaps my education in this area has been neglected, but I have never heard of any such folks. Later in the manuscript you refer to other tribes, the names of which are new to me. It is a pity that you do not always state where they lived. I would love to know the locations of the Comandas, who you say were superb equestrians, and of the Peccadilloes and Companeros. Then you mention the Bluefeet. This is the first time I have seen any reference to them. You say they inhabited the far north and went barefoot, so possibly those two factors account for their name.

The section devoted to the Lewis and Clark expedition is replete with details about people the explorers allegedly met during their journey. I will not deal with all of the occurrences you relate, but I am bound to wonder exactly where Messrs L & C came across the Mandolins, another group of which I had not previously heard. A further surprise to me is your allusion the voyagers having met many Iraqis. I suspect you mean Iroquois. They inhabited a region far to the northeast of that covered during the famous journey, so I doubt that the encounters you report really occurred.

In a later passage you recount the supposed meeting between the two renowned men and a hunting party of Sombrero Apaches. I am very dubious about this. It is well known that there were several sub-groups of Apaches – from memory I think at least six of them – but I feel sure that Sombreros were not included. In any case, as far as I know, the Apaches did not normally roam around the area covered by Lewis and Clark. By the way, I recall that the young woman who was so helpful to them was known as Sacagawea, whereas you give her name as Titicaca, which is a lake in South America. I also point out in passing that the lady was a Shoshone, not a Shoeshiner.

I find your account of matters in the Southwest most intriguing, in particular the part in which you narrate the long pursuit of the Apache leader Gerontius by the men under the command of General Nathan Millpond. Here I did a little digging to satisfy myself. Nowhere could I find any allusion to the officer you describe as a brilliant strategist and master tactician. As for his quarry, please note that the only Gerontius I know of was a Roman fellow who died sixteen centuries ago. He was for a time Commander-in-Chief of a large army, so I imagine he would have given your military man a run for his money, had the two ever been adversaries.

If I may paraphrase a snippet from the old Native American lexicon, you seem to have chosen an unhappy hunting ground for your treatise. (Perhaps that remark is neither witty nor apposite, but the temptation to put it in is irresistible.) I could go on but hope I have said enough to persuade you that a further discussion with your informant might be helpful, especially if you feel you can wring a refund from him for what seems to me a highly questionable effort. I would further suggest that as your piece, though refreshingly original, appears to have no factual basis, you may wish to consider submitting it to the _fiction_ category of your forum.

Yours sincerely,
Norman Lampwick, D.Litt.

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## Courtjester

*LET BATTLE COMMENCE*
​ 
Note: The item below is a letter we have received from a gentleman who has what we believe is an original idea in the field of sport. We suspect he may have been inspired by his own name.

To the editor of Madazine.

Dear Sir,

I write in the hope that you might find space in your pages to publicise a proposal I have for enhancing our sporting scene. I have thought of a way in which the game of soccer could be made much more attractive than it is at present, though I have to admit that my idea also has within it the seeds of the game’s destruction.

What I have in mind is that football hooliganism is currently more often than not disorganised, frequently being spontaneous rather than planned. That could be changed with great benefit all round. My suggestion is that instead of trying to discourage this behaviour, the authorities should promote it by asking thugs to be fully prepared when attending matches, so that they could set about their work in a more systematic manner than they do now.

My scheme requires the ruffians to appear armed with their usual weapons, knowing in advance that that they will be welcomed. However, should any of them be so remiss as to forget or lose the tools of their trade, they would not need to despair. The system I am advocating includes provision for each turnstile to have its own boutique supplying a wide variety of instruments of mayhem, such as knives, blackjacks, knuckledusters, knobkerries, bicycle chains, shields, daggers, swords, helmets, net and trident sets, bows and arrows etc. This would have the added advantage of enabling soccer clubs to increase their incomes.

Though the emporia at the admission points would be excellent sources of revenue, their takings could not approach the funds brought in by the most lucrative idea in my scheme. This would arise from the clubs getting two sets of gate receipts, the first tranche paid by the thugs to allow them to occupy the playing area and put on their performances, the second by appreciative crowds encouraging them.

There would of course be a transition period. At first, the footballers would remain on the field and do whatever they could, though they would obviously be hampered by the competing roughnecks. Eventually, those who now play the game would disappear altogether, as their behaviour, atrocious though it is at times, could hardly compete with the shows put on by the new entertainers described here. I mean, tripping, ankle-tapping, shirt-pulling, lavish spitting and cursing are really tame offerings compared with what genuine brawlers could do.

I foresee a situation in which every stadium currently used for soccer becomes a latter-day Amphitheatrum Flavium,* where the foremost louts could acquire reputations similar to those achieved by the leading gladiators of old. Some might become professionals, receiving payments matching the outrageous sums now paid to professional soccer players. After all, if in addition to paying their own admission fees, then attracting vast numbers of spectators to view their antics, the hoodlums would be worth a great deal of money to organisers.

In conclusion I would like to stress that my proposal is limited to association football and that I have no notion of extending it to any other sport. Indeed, I laughed loud and long when I outlined my idea to a friend and he asked me why I did not include rugby. That’s a non-starter because those who fancy themselves as toughs could hardly equal the violence already displayed in that branch of sport. Incidentally, I believe we should give the new game an appropriate name and here I think that submissions from the public might be the best way to get a satisfactory result. I am happy to start the ball rolling with my favourite – turmoil. (I did think of pandemonium but dropped this because I felt that most of the participants wouldn’t be able to spell such a long word.)

I hope that what I have put forward here will find favour with the soccer administrators.

Yours sincerely,
Spartacus Flint

* Please note that I have used this medieval term to describe the famous Roman arena because I have no intention of being dragged into the tiresome spelling debate about the words Colosseum and coliseum. My preferred source tells me that the first should be used to describe the original stadium and the second for any later one resembling it. That will do for me.

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## Courtjester

The item below is a letter posted to us few days ago. As readers know, we don’t normally publish material related to current news, but we can’t resist offering this one. Editor
*
WANDERING WEAPONS
*​Dear Madazine,

I am a fan of your publication and am writing in the hope that you will find space in a forthcoming issue to present an idea that has occurred to me. In my opinion it provides an unusual view of a recent incident. I refer to the alleged straying of a missile fired by one of our UK submarines, and to the failure of official sources to give a prompt and clear explanation about what happened. Most people seem to be troubled by this affair, but my assessment is different. It is outlined below:

The Earth has an area of about 197 million square miles, of which a little over 57 million (about 29%) is land. The UK occupies 94,000 square miles of terra firma, which is roughly a sixth of one per cent of the land, and obviously only about a quarter of that proportion in terms of the planet’s total surface.

As I see it, the important point is that if the trajectories of our missiles were entirely unpredictable, the chance of one of them landing on UK soil would be almost vanishingly small. The big countries would be less well placed, particularly Russia, which has far more territory than any other state and therefore a much greater risk of being struck.

The upside here is that should it become widely known that some of our most powerful weapons were likely to behave in a totally erratic way, both our potential enemies and our allies would be very circumspect in their dealings with us, as neither friend nor possible foe would know what places might be obliterated by our projectiles – assuming we could get the warheads to detonate.

We could take this notion further by ensuring that in the case of any attack on us, or even our suspicion of one, we would _intentionally_ dispatch all of our nukes on random courses. I am reminded of the amusing Tom Lehrer song about the man who was prominent in American spacecraft propulsion, following his wartime work in a similar field in Germany. To my mind, the most striking bit of Lehrer’s ditty goes as follows:

“When rockets go up, who cares where they come down?
That’s not my department,” says Wernher von Braun.*​ 
I suggest that if we were to broadcast the plan described above, one result would be the formation of a hitherto improbable coalition of nuclear powers (excluding the UK), which would establish a policy of leaving us well alone, for fear that our response to any aggression might be a totally indiscriminate one that could destroy anybody or anything. There might even be a case for the other nuclear-armed countries to follow our example. The high level of apprehension thus engendered could lead to some statesperson repeating the words of the late Neville Chamberlain: “I believe it is peace for our time.”

Yours sincerely,
Hubert Spindle

*Pronounced Brown.

Note. Our science correspondent Axel Griess, fresh from rehab (again), opines: “I don’t know what effect the implementation of Mr Spindle’s idea concerning haphazard blast-offs would have on the world’s movers and shakers, but it’s put the wind up me. Still, advanced technology is sometimes a trial and error affair, so maybe we could give the scheme a go and see what happens. If you want me from now on, I’ll be on a very small island in the Outer Hebrides.”

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## Courtjester

*DON’T MESS WITH THE LAW*

​The closing stage of a court case.​ 
Judge: Now, you have admitted that on the tenth of last month, you attacked the plaintiff, Mr Splutterworth, in his fish and chip shop,* The Plaice Place. However, you have so far said very little in your defence, so before I decide on your punishment, have you anything to add?

Defendant: Yes. I did it all right, but I was provoked beyond endurance.

Judge: In what way?

Defendant: I was short-changed.

Judge: How?

Defendant: I always buy plaice and chips from Splutterworth’s shop on Mondays and Fridays. When I got my parcel home that day I emptied it onto a plate, checked the fish for size and counted the chips.

Judge: Do you always do that?

Defendant: Yes. I like to be sure I get value for money. Fish and chips are expensive these days.

Judge: And what did you find on that occasion?

Defendant: The fish was up to standard, but I didn’t get the usual portion of chips.

Judge: Explain, please.

Defendant: A serving of chips from The Plaice Place is normally at least thirty chips. Sometimes there’s a bonus of two or three, but in that lot I got only twenty-six.

Judge: I understand. However my impression has always been that someone serving chips usually puts a scoopful into a bag. Surely there must be some give and take here. I mean, perhaps some of the chips were bigger than usual.

Defendant: No they weren’t. Splutterworth’s chips are on average two point four inches long, as they were that evening, and they’re always the same thickness because of the way he cuts them.

Judge: I see. Aren’t they a little on the short side?

Defendant: They are. I think he uses smaller potatoes than I find in some of the other shops. Still, that doesn’t matter. The point is that thirty chips, averaging that length give me seventy-two inches of chips per portion.

Judge: I understand. So if you were to connect them all together, end to end, you would have a six-foot chip.

Defendant: That’s correct.

Judge: What does Mr Splutterworth charge for a portion of chips?

Defendant: One pound twenty.

Judge: Hmn. Twenty pence per foot of chip. That sounds reasonable. However, on the occasion in question you were four chips short, or to put it another way, the deficiency was . . . let me see . . . nine point six inches.

Defendant: Right.

Judge: You appear to have reacted rather sharply. Allow me to refresh my memory. You put the chips back into the bag, which you took to the shop and hurled at Mr Splutterworth, causing him to leap backwards, strike his hand against the deep fryer and burn his palm.

Defendant: Well, unless you like fish and chips as much as I do, you couldn’t have any idea of the mental anguish I suffered.

Judge: I don’t eat them any more. I wish that were possible but my digestion can’t cope with such things these days.

Defendant: Oh, I can put you right there. What you need to do is take peppermint oil before you tackle them.

Judge: Really? Are you sure that will work?

Defendant: Certain. You can get high-strength capsules from the health food shop in Middle Street.

Judge: Thank you. I’m much obliged for the tip. It would be a pleasure to eat fish and chips again. But we’re getting off the point here. Your conduct was disproportionate to what you saw as Mr Splutterworth’s offence and I am minded to make an example of you to discourage anyone else from such behaviour. The sentence is seven days in jail.

Defendant: Well, there’s gratitude for you. I put your guts right and you send me to the slammer for a week. They say the law’s an ass. It is, and so are you.

Judge: Ah, contempt of court now, is it? Well, I’ll give you seven days for that as well.

Defendant: Seven days, eh? That’s too short to match my contempt for this court.

Judge: Oh, is it? How about fourteen days?

Defendant: Better, but not good enough.

Judge: My word, you’re a hard man to please. How would twenty-eight days suit you?

D: Still a bit light.

Judge: All right. I’ll let you decide. Pick a number.

Defendant: Well, you catch me a bit off guard, but I once read a book where it said that the answer to the meaning of life, the Universe and everything is forty-two. Is that okay?

Judge: It is, and I will let the seven days for the offence run concurrently with it, meaning that you are to serve forty-two days in total. You’re about to learn that we have suitable accommodation for the likes of you. Just step out of the dock and the bailiff will escort you to your hell.

Defendant: Don’t you mean cell?

Judge: You haven’t seen it yet.


*For those unfamiliar with UK dietary habits, fish and chip shops have existed in Britain for over 150 years. They provide a deep-fried meal comprising a piece of fish and a portion of chipped potatoes (known in some countries as French fries). The food is usually, though not necessarily, supplied on a takeaway basis.

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## Courtjester

*ADVANCED ECONOMICS*
​ 
Announcer: Good evening and welcome to Money Matters. This week we are fortunate to have with us Antony Trite. If his party wins the next election, he will be in charge of the country’s finances. Our interviewer is, as usual, Linda Bobbins. Over to you, Linda.

Bobbins: Thank you. Hello, Mr Trite. It’s good of you find the time to be with us.

Trite: My pleasure, Linda. I was delighted when I got the invitation to join you.

Bobbins: I’d like to start by asking you to comment on your reputation for answering any question with a question.

Trite: Wherever did you hear that?

Bobbins: My case rests. Now, let’s get right down to it. You hope to be holding our collective purse strings in the near future, and you’ve been very critical of the present government, in particular what you see as its failure to get a grip on the annual budget deficits and the associated national debt. Many of us are very concerned about these matters, so how would you go about putting our affairs in order?

Trite: Ah, I’m glad you asked me that, Linda.

Bobbins: Good. Would you care to respond to it?

Trite: I will, but first let me say –

Bobbins: No, Mr Trite. Please answer the question.

Trite: Very well. I’ll come straight to the point. The government has totally failed to do what it said it would do – clear our debts.

Bobbins: Be that as it may, I’d like us to concentrate not on what you believe those now in office have got wrong, but what you would get right.

Trite: I’ll tell you. If elected, we shall tackle the fiscal problems with all our energy.

Bobbins: But you haven’t yet spelled out what measures you would take. This is your chance to do so.

Trite: We have fully costed schemes which will get the budget into balance during the course of our first term in office.

Bobbins: Will you give us the details.

Trite: Certainly. First, we shall not pander to those urging us to soak the wealthy. You don’t make the poor richer by making the rich poorer. The well-off people are contributing massively to our coffers, so we shall see that they are protected.

Bobbins: What about the poor?

Trite: We have always been a compassionate society and that will continue. The less affluent people must be looked after, so we would not take anything from them.

Bobbins: I see. That leaves those in the middle.

Trite: Precisely, and they are the backbone of our great nation. They work hard and pay their taxes, so we wouldn’t do anything inimical to their interests.

Bobbins: Remarkable. You seem to have ring-fenced everyone, so who will pay to get us out of the hole we’re in?

Trite: As I said, we have worked it all out and our figures have been verified independently. There are savings to be made. For example, we can gather much more money than we do now by adjusting the levels of property tax. That will bring in four hundred million. Then we can withdraw benefits from those who don’t need them. There we have another eight hundred and fifty million. You see?

Bobbins: I do see, but what you’ve mentioned amounts to a tiny fraction of one year’s budget deficit. What about the rest?

Trite: Well, we shall need to look at the books when we take over.

Bobbins: The books, at least in broad outline, are available to all of us at any time. I was looking at them only today.

Trite: Yes, but the devil is in the detail.

Bobbins: Some detail!

Trite: That’s true. Let me say that we wouldn’t burden the groups I’ve mentioned with heavier taxation. They already pay enough. Therefore we do not envisage any increases in income tax, national insurance, value added tax, corporation tax or excise duties.

Bobbins: But I’ve just said that you have indicated your intention to protect everyone, yet somebody must pay something to clear our enormous debts. The areas of taxation you’ve just said you won’t increase cover about eighty per cent of government revenue. If you aren’t going to raise the necessary money by taxation, presumably you have plans to curb public spending.

Trite: Ah, I thought you’d say that. Now let me make this perfectly clear.

Bobbins: I _do_ hope you will.

Trite: We shall not be tampering with spending on health, education or social security, including pensions, nor do we intend to reduce the defence outlay, and of course we cannot avoid paying interest on our debts.

Bobbins: There you go again. Those items account for over eighty per cent of public spending, which leaves you hardly any room for cuts. That simply doesn’t stack up, Mr Trite. Having as I said ring-fenced practically everyone with respect to income, you’ve now pretty well done the same in terms of expenditure. You can’t go back on all your recent comments by engaging in a borrowing spree, can you?

Trite: Certainly not. You’re overlooking one thing, Linda. Under our stewardship, the economy will forge ahead, unemployment will plummet, consumer spending will soar and the revenues will come rolling in, so there will more for everybody. Now do you see?

Bobbins: What I see most clearly, Mr Trite, is what most other people see, which is that you have just given us a number of hackneyed political platitudes, a lot of pie in the sky and none of your party’s much-vaunted solutions to our problems. I’m bound to wonder why you are here.

Trite: Steady on, Linda. That’s a bit strong.

Bobbins: I had a mental list of things I imagined you might say, and you’ve said them all, yet I suggest that nobody is any the wiser for hearing them. The public is seeking clarity and you are providing opacity. This is extremely exasperating.

Trite: That’s just not fair, Linda. You have to leave me a little wiggle room. You don’t underst . . . hey, what are you doing? Where did you get that frying pan? That thing’s cast iron. It could do a lot of dama . . . ooh! ouch! Stop it. Somebody get her away from me.
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## Courtjester

The item below is another of those messages received occasionally at Madazine from one of the locations we have come to think of as Behind the Beyond.
*STRAIGHTEN UP, EARTHLINGS*​ 
To the editor of Madazine

Dear Sir,

This comes to you from the Andromeda Galaxy – you don’t need to know exactly where, as no reply is required. I have noticed that your planet has an axial tilt, probably caused by a collision with another celestial body at some point. This is not uncommon but it does cause you to have variations in daylight and weather and I think you would be well advised to correct this, thereby eliminating your seasons. We had the same situation some time ago and we put it right by simple engineering. I hope you will accept my advice on how to do this.

The area you call Antarctica will do nicely for the job. You need to locate a rocky spot there to which you can anchor an array of powerful propulsive machines, placed so that when they are switched on, the force they exert would drive them towards the South Pole if they were free to move.  No doubt you will grasp that the idea is to exert sufficient thrust to push the axis to an upright position. You should start the units in sequence with a day between ignitions. If you were to get them going simultaneously, the shock to the Earth would be too great.

Assuming that you calculate correctly, the power your devices generate  will push against the Antarctic land mass and will shove your South Pole towards the perpendicular, with of course a corresponding movement of the North Pole. When the axis is vertical, turn off the machines. You will be delighted with the outcome of this operation.

I realise that with your current technology and intellectual resources, you may think this a formidable challenge. However, having observed you for quite a while, I have noted that you have two people who might be up to the task. I refer to that eminent scientist, Professor Jopp, who I understand is widely known as The Sage of Trondheim. If he is still in action, perhaps he could be persuaded to handle the project. Failing that, I suggest, you approach the English engineer and inventor Kevin Spout of Sheffield, who I believe has been dubbed Yorkshire’s own Leonardo da Vinci.

Incidentally, I understand that there is some apprehension in the Milky Way concerning the fact that our two galaxies are on a collision course. That is true but please don’t do anything about it. We have the matter in hand and shall take the necessary evasive action. At the very last millennium (your time) we shall trigger the appropriate mechanism. It will then be merely a case of ‘right hand down a bit’, allowing us to pass each other like ships in the night.

I hope you will do as I suggest with respect to your axis and I shall keep an eye on you and see how things develop.

Yours sincerely,
A Distant Wellwisher


Editor’s note. We contacted Professor Jopp (don’t forget it’s pronounced Yopp), who said: “If this idea were practicable, I would have done the job long ago. I don’t doubt that the operation was successful on Wellwisher’s planet, probably because that body is of uniform consistency, not having a crust, a mantle and a core. The same thing could not be done here because machines of sufficient power would, when switched on, crumple our tectonic plates and displace the Earth’s crust without moving the axis. This would cause colossal earthquakes. There would be other results but I need not go into them.”

Our science correspondent, Axel Griess, is not available to comment on this at present, as he in rehab, following a series of episodes best not publicised. Kevin Spout is said to be quite keen to have a go at implementing the scheme, but there is sure to be some apprehension about this, as all of his projects to date have ended in failure, often with associated danger and sometimes with actual injury to a number of the people most closely involved.

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## Courtjester

I have been told by the staff in our general office that it’s high time for me to make another contribution to Madazine’s pages. This request – well, it was really a demand – took me by surprise, but as it happens I did jot down what I considered an interesting note last week. It was written as a memory aid for me but my colleagues insist that it should be published, so here it is. Editor

*COINAGE*​ 
A German friend visited me recently and among other things we talked about currencies. He touched upon our pre-decimal coins, saying that they were cumbersome and numerous. I sprang to our defence, pointing out that we managed quite well with six of them, whereas there were eight in the Deutsche Mark system. He seemed surprised by this, so I enumerated them. Our old half-penny had been demonetised well before decimalisation, so immediately prior to the change we had the one, three and sixpenny pieces, the shilling (twelve pence), the florin (two shillings) and the half-crown (thirty pence). There was also a crown, but it was a rarity, not in general circulation. At that time the Germans had in common use pieces of one, two, five, ten and fifty pfennigs and one, two and five marks.

We wandered off to other topics, but after my friend left I gave more thought to the subject of our coins in general. I was aware that we once had a plethora of them simultaneously and felt that the peak must have been reached in the second half of the nineteenth century. On looking into the matter I found that at about the time I had in mind there was an abundance of sterling coins circulating contemporaneously. I came up with what I think is a full list, comprising quarter-farthing, one-third-farthing, half-farthing, half-penny, penny, three half-pence, three pence, four pence (the groat), six pence, shilling, two shillings (florin), half-crown, double-florin, crown, half-sovereign and sovereign. That is a total of sixteen, though the first two and the sixth were minted only for certain colonies. Still, that left thirteen in the UK at the same time.

Because I like tangible currency, I am no fan of a cashless society and was pleased to see the new dodecagonal pound coin. This inspires me to speculate on what further developments may occur in the same field. If it is not too late, I would like to make a few recommendations, my first being that we should have a replacement for the two-pounder. I think should be a hendecagon, though I have no particular reason for favouring eleven sides. Of course, it would need to be distinctly larger than the one-pounder. Next, I advocate a still bigger piece as a fiver. My choice here would be a decagon, each side representing fifty pence of value.

Bearing in mind that our currency has recently fallen internationally, I suggest we anticipate the future by minting still higher denominations and that in doing so we show an innovative spirit. I propose that within three or four years we produce a triangular tenner. Naturally it should be equilateral. I would like it to have sides of well over two inches, to be tapered so that the thick edge could stand upright on a flat surface, and designed to ensure that when so placed, our monarch’s head would be the right way up.

If my initial plans are accepted, I would like to go further, the next step being the introduction of a twenty-pound coin. This would be an icosagon – one side per pound – and a good deal bigger than the tenner, say about three inches across. I can imagine tossing such a thing onto a pub bar and informing mine host of my intention to either drink my way through it or render myself horizontal in the attempt, though I appreciate that inflation may obviate any chance of the second outcome.

My final submission may be somewhat more controversial. I believe we shall eventually need a fifty-pounder in daily use, and here I would say that a really ground-breaking approach is indicated. My idea is that we might return to a smooth edge and, reflecting the high worth involved, make it about thirty inches in diameter – yes, you read that right. The main advantage of this is that an object of this size and shape could be bowled along to a store, deposited in a secure rack and retrieved at checkout time. Some people may argue that the presence of such an artefact could tend to increase street crime, but since that activity seems to be declining, I consider any potential risk worth taking.

Anyone who regards the above observations as eccentric might care to consider that the UK currency already has seven-sided coins of two different values. When the first of these equilateral-curve heptagons was introduced, it attracted some ridicule, but the basic design has since been copied by a number of other countries. With this in mind, I claim that those who think of the British attitude to novel coinage as eccentric might be well advised to wait and see how things work out.

*  *  *
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## jenthepen

haha, Coutjester, I love the image of a cartwheel fifty pound coin. The super rich would, of course, have these fitted to their upmarket cars to flaunt their wealth.  In a way it's heartening to see that the good old British eccentricity is still alive and kicking in the shape of all these misshapen coins of the realm. Thanks for an enjoyable read.

jen


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## Courtjester

So glad you liked it. I hope to come up with a few more.

Best wishes, Cj.


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## Courtjester

*EDUCATING JANE*
​ 
John: Hello, Jane. Come in and make yourself comfortable.

Jane: Thank you. That’s a nice piece of music you’re listening to.

John: It’s one of Marlowe’s best.

Jane: Don’t you mean Mahler?

John: No.

Jane: I could have sworn it was by the Austrian, Gustav Mahler.

John: Wrong. It’s by the American, Philip Marlowe.

Jane: Really? The only American I ever heard of by that name was fictional. You know, Raymond Chandler’s famous detective.

John: I assure you that piece is Marlowe’s fifth symphony.

Jane: Well, I stand corrected. I believe that bit’s the adagietto.

John: Wrong again. It’s the slow movement.

Jane: But I thought . . . well, never mind.

John: By the way, Philip Marlowe was a direct descendant of Christopher Marlowe.

Jane: Oh, yes. The Restoration playwright. I seem to recall that he wrote ‘The Rivals’, among other things.

John: Well, actually, some of those other things you dismiss so glibly emerged as far better known than the one you mention.

Jane: What other things do you have in mind?

John: Oh, trifles like ‘Romeo and Juliet’, ‘Hamlet’ and ‘King Lear’, to mention a fraction of his output.

Jane: Fancy that. I thought Shakespeare was responsible for them.

John: Dear me, Jane. I can see that you need to brush up on your literature as well as your music. I shall have to take you in hand.

Jane: Possibly. Anyway, I called to let you know I’m off on holiday tomorrow.

John: Where to?

Jane: Benidorm. I should be all right there because I speak a little Spanish.

John: Spanish? Whatever makes you think you’ll need that in Benidorm?

Jane: Well, it’s in Spain, right?

John: No. It’s in Italy. I imagine you’re thinking of Benelux. That’s in Spain.

Jane: But I thought that word meant Belg – 

John: Thinking can be dangerous, Jane. I assure you that when you touch down in Benidorm, Spanish will be no use to you. Better brush up your Italian, pretty quickly.

Jane: Oh well, at least I’ll be okay for currency. I’ve got my euros.

John: Have you indeed? What kind of euros, may I ask?

Jane: I’ve always thought they were all the same and interchangeable.

John: Not at all. They’re issued by the different countries using the currency. It’s easy to identify the source of euro coins and notes and you can spend them only in the country of issue. You need to check that you have Italian ones, or you’ll be in trouble.

Jane: Oh, dear. I suppose I should have called on you earlier.

John: Yes, you should. Still, better late than never. You may still be able to rescue yourself. And in future it might be a good idea for you to get my advice before you embark on any important venture. By the way, did you finish that history course you were taking?

Jane: Yes, and I feel better informed now than I was before I took it.

John: Well, you may be all right with that correspondence college, but you really should have gone to a proper institution, or better still, you could have come to me for individual coaching. I’m always willing to make time for you. The course was limited to the old Roman ascendancy, wasn’t it?

Jane: Yes, and I enjoyed it, though the part about Caligula was pretty distressing. Clearly he was a very unpleasant fellow.

John: Fellow? I fear you’re right off the mark again, Jane. Caligula was a woman. The clue is in her name. All the Roman ones ending with an ‘a’ were females.

Jane: But I could have sworn my instructor said several times that Caligula was a man.

John: Well, most night school teachers leave much to be desired. The poor ignoramus probably got that information from a colleague. It’s the blind leading the blind, Jane. There should be more stringent checks on these people before they’re let loose to offer what passes for education nowadays. If they get their hands on you again, you’ll wind up as weak on history as you are on music, geography and currencies. Look, I’ve had an idea. While you’re away, I’ll work out a course for you. We’ll get together a couple of evenings a week and I’ll soon have you up to scratch on all the subjects that matter.

Jane: Thank you, John. It’s an exciting prospect, but I hope you don’t mind if we delay it a bit. I’m going to be pressed for time until I catch up with a few things. Anyway, I need to be off now, so I’ll be in touch.

John: Okay. Have a good holiday, and with regard to time pressure, I’ll include in the course a few tips on managing it. See yourself out – I’m swamped with things do and haven’t a clue how to make a start. Au revoir, Jane.

Jane: Goodbye, John. 
* * *
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## Courtjester

The item below is a letter received recently at our office.

*A COSMOLOGICAL COUP*
​ 
To the editor of Madazine

Dear Sir,

I write in the hope that you will publish my letter, as I am sure your readers will be interested in what I have to say. This concerns my observation of a remarkable event which will shake the world in general and the cosmological field in particular. In addition to contacting you, I have sent a note to the Royal Society, where what I have imparted will surely cause quite a stir.

For some time I have been immersed in astrology and a while ago I added astronomy to my interests, the idea being to fuse the two fields, in order to get a clearer view of matters in the Universe. I bought a ten-inch telescope and have been using it every night for several months at my home in Cornwall.

It may well be beginner’s luck, but I ask you to imagine my astonishment when I started by focusing my attention on the spiral galaxy Europia, where within half an hour I made a momentous discovery. Moving rapidly outward from near the end of one of the galactic arms was the star Brexitor. When I first saw the body, it was of moderate brightness. However, the astonishing thing was that after a very short period of watching, I saw Brexitor speed completely out of its galaxy and head towards the nearby and much bigger one, Globus. As it did so, it increased markedly in luminosity, almost as though it was uncomfortable in Europia and had been straining to find a home in a larger area.

I have long been aware that celestial bodies influence one another, even at great distances. Armed with this knowledge, I have been trying to think of an earthbound analogy to what I have observed, but have so far been unsuccessful. My wife Cassiopeia also applied herself to this but has fared no better than myself. It occurs to me that you have occasionally published articles about the Universe, so perhaps some of your readers will find my comments interesting. In that hope, I will close.

Yours sincerely,
Leo Cepheus

Editor’s note. We passed this letter to our science correspondent Axel Griess, recently released after detox and as near compos mentis as we ever expect him to be. He says: “Oh, come on. Look at how this fellow identifies himself and his wife. All three names he uses for the two of them are also those of constellations. I have some knowledge of the heavens but have never heard of galaxies named Europia or Globus, or a star called Brexitor. As for a terrestrial correlation, Mr Cepheus and his spouse must be about the only two people in the UK who cannot think of one. All one has to do is consider current social-economic developments and put together the words Brexitor (surely self-explanatory), Europia (Europe) and Globus (Global). If this man is not trying to fool us, he will do until a real hoaxer comes along.”

* * *
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## Courtjester

*THE MODERN WAY OF DEBATING*
​ 
The item below is a transcript of a conversation between George, the chairman of a political constituency party, and Adrian, his deputy. The discussion concerns which aspirant they should choose to stand for Parliament when the incumbent member retires at the forthcoming general election.

George: I think what we have to keep in mind here is that this country has an adversarial culture. It thrives on ideological disputes. You can see that in the way that we are usually divided roughly down the middle with so many issues. My wife’s into astrology and she reckons that it’s all attributable to the UK being under the influence of Gemini, the twins, which she says explains our split personalities, individual and national. Funny thing is that with regard to politics, we seem to insist on having pronounced left and right, though there is plenty of evidence suggesting that we dislike extremes. That’s a paradox.

Adrian: It certainly is, George. However, we don’t have much time to reach a conclusion. Anyway, we both know the state of play. There are threee candidates we and we must pick one of them.

George: Do you have a preference?

Adrian: I’m not sure what to say, George. Let’s take the men first. I’m thinking of the latest uproar in the house, when that pair from the same party got stuck into one another. Some say it was just a scuffle and others reckon it was good enough to grace a boxing ring. It seems to me we should learn from that. I mean, if this is the way we’re going to settle things in future, I’d say we need a lad who can handle himself in a battle. No softies need apply, right?

George: I agree. Now, we have these two chaps, John Black and Bill White, but this is far from a black and white issue. Black’s a hefty one. He outweighs White by some margin and he’s a fair bit taller – and then there’s that dark, craggy face. I don’t mind admitting that it scares me. Also, they say he has some experience of fisticuffs, so I imagine he’d come out better in a scrap.

Adrian: I’m not so sure. There’s no doubt he has it for avoirdupois but I saw him in action once. His problem is ring craft. He’s a southpaw, so he should lead with the right and save his left to hand out the Sunday punch. He does the opposite, so when it comes to the knockout blow, his left might be too weary to deliver it. Not very intelligent, I’d say.

George: All right. What’s your assessment of White?

Adrian: I don’t know how good he is at handing out punishment, but he can certainly take it. He called on me at home a while ago and left in a hurry to see someone else. He swung round and banged his head against the edge of my kitchen door with an impact I can still hear. Burst his nose and went into the bathroom bleeding like a stuck pig. Came out a couple of minutes later with tissue wadded in his nostrils and an ugly red stripe down his forehead from hairline to eyebrows. When I got solicitous, he told me to stop fussing. Head like a rock, that man. He’s pretty agile too, so I wouldn’t rule him out.

George: Okay, so much for the men. What about the woman, Ms Brown?

Adrian: She’s an economist.

George: Well, we all have our faults. What I mean is how would she shape up in a mano a mano?

Adrian: Well, she’s much lighter than either of the men, but very nimble. Sort of floats like a butterfly, stings like a bee, if you see what I mean.

George: Thank you, Muhammad Ali. Can she take a punch?

Adrian: She might not need to. I’ve never seen her in a brawl, but I have watched her on a dance floor and believe me she can gyrate. Whirls like a Dervish. If she were to try conclusions with our two blokes, I doubt that either of them would lay a finger on her. And she can wield a rolled up brolly to good effect.

George: I see. This isn’t going to be as simple as I’d thought. I was convinced that John Black would be our first choice, with his bulk and that terrifying visage. Now I’m doubtful. Look, you know all three applicants better than I do, so I think the best thing is for you to get them together. Dream up some spurious reason for them to visit you in a spot where there’s plenty of room, then try to goad them into combat and we’ll see what happens.

Adrian: I’ll do my best. See you a week today and let you know how things are going.

 * * *
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## Courtjester

*HOMECOMING*
​
Newlyweds Brian and Janet moved into a flat on the ground floor of a recently completed two-storey block. The following day Brian was walking home from work when he received a text from Janet, asking him to hurry as they had an emergency on their hands. He ran the remaining half-mile and found his wife outside the building, wringing her hands. Their conversation went as follows:

Janet: Thank goodness you’re here. We have a big problem.

Brian: What’s up?

Janet: Come in with me and see for yourself.

They enter the flat

Brian: The place is completely empty.

Janet: That’s right. Someone’s been here while we were at work and cleaned us out. They even took our curtains, the temporary carpets we laid in the living room and bedroom, and the light bulbs. We’ve nothing to eat or drink, and nothing to wear except what we have on now. How could they do such a thing? (She burst into tears.)

Brian: Calm down. We’re unhurt. So we’ve lost all our belongings, but we still have some ready cash, our bank cards and pretty healthy savings and current accounts. We only need to spend a few nights in a hotel while we replace everything. Come to think of it, in our enthusiasm to equip the home we bought some stuff we might never have needed. This could be a good chance to think again about a few things. (He hugged his wife.)

Janet: I must say you’re taking this remarkably well. I’ve never been so distressed. What about the personal things – photos, wedding presents and suchlike?

Brian: Bagatelles. We’ll soon put everything right.

Janet: Great. What a comfort it is to have you by my side. I’m beginning to feel less shattered already. You’re an absolute rock.

Brian: Told you before I’m good in a crisis. Chin up and we’ll . . . oh, I’ve just of something that’s going to delight you.

Janet: What’s that?

Brian: Well, no wonder this situation shook us both. I was taken aback as much as you were until it dawned on me that this place hasn’t been locked up since we arrived. You may remember that when we were moving in, we happened to see the selling agent and I had a little chat with him. He told me he’d lost the key. Anyway, that doesn’t concern us much because these downstairs flats are all laid out the same way and – ta ta ta taa – we live next door! 

* * * ​


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## Courtjester

*AN INTRODUCTION TO CRICKET*
​ 
Bill: Well, Joe, you said you wanted to see a game of cricket, so that you could compare it with your own national game of baseball. Here we are at a test match, England versus Australia at Lord’s. It doesn’t get bigger than this.

Joe: I’m looking forward to it. Now, they seem to be ready to start. Why is that umpire holding his arm out like that? Some kind of delay, is it?

Bill: We can’t begin until exactly eleven o’clock, so we have a few seconds to go. Ah, the arm’s gone down. Now we’re off . . . Oh, I say, the bowler’s lost his run-up. He’ll have to go back and try again.

Joe: Why? He appears to be running at least thirty yards. Doesn’t he have enough time to shuffle his feet or something to get it right?

Bill: No. Look at the disc he put down. That’s his marker. When he’s getting into his stride, he has to land his forward foot at that spot, or his approach will be all awry. Now, here he goes. Oh, dear, he’s had to abort again.

Joe: Now what?

Bill: The batsman isn’t satisfied. Yes, I see what it is. He wants the sightscreen moved.

Joe: Sightscreen? Ah, got it. You mean the big board over there on the boundary. It serves the same purpose as the batter’s eye screen in our game.

Bill: That’s right. It has to be behind the bowler’s arm, so the batsman doesn’t lose sight of the ball in the background.

Joe: Gee, this game takes quite a while to get underway, doesn’t it?

Bill: Sometimes. Here we go again. Third time lucky, Joe. Oh, the batsman still isn’t happy. Ah, I see. He has a wasp or something buzzing around him. Look at the way he’s wafting at it.

Joe: I wish he’d quit waving his arm and start swinging the bat.

Bill: Oh, he’ll get round to it any minute now. See, he’s all set. Oh, my goodness. There’s a spectator walking along the edge of the field, right behind the bowler. Silly man should know better than that. We can’t have the batsman distracted. Ah, the fellow’s sat down. Away we go. Well, actually, we don’t.

Joe: What’s amiss this time?

Bill: The bowler’s just decided to make a couple of changes. I see. Now he wants to operate with a fine long leg and a short square leg.

Joe: His legs look okay right now. And anyway, how’s he going to bowl in that condition?

Bill: Oh, it’s not to do with his anatomy. It concerns fielding positions on the leg side. It’ll be all right in a minute. There, you see. The bowler’s ready to come hurtling in. Oh, not quite.

Joe: Would you care to enlighten me as to his latest problem?

Bill: A bootlace is undone. He must have been failed to fasten it properly  in the dressing room. Most likely in too much of a hurry to get out there and start the battle.

Joe: He doesn’t seem to have been in any rush since he ambled onto the field. This is amazing. The spectators have paid a lot of money to come here. Don’t they get exasperated with so many hold-ups? 

Bill: Well, most of them understand these little sideshows, but some do become a bit restless at times. Anyway, we’re all set now. Oh no, we’re not. The bowler’s not satisfied about the state of the ball. He’s showing it to the umpires. If they agree with him they might have to produce another. That could take two or three minutes. Ah, it’s okay. The complaint’s been rejected. Now we can get going. Oh, hang on a moment. Now silly mid-on isn’t happy.

Joe: Who or what is silly mid-on?

Bill: It’s that fielder who’s very close to the batsman. I think the position gets its name from the fact that it’s potentially hazardous, so some people think that a foolish man is needed to occupy it. He’s called for a protective helmet to be brought out. It won’t take long.

Joe: Tell you what, Bill. I’ll go and spend a little time in the bar. I have my cell phone. If play starts at some point, call me.

* * *
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## topcol

Thanks, I enjoyed this piece but I hope Health Minister Jeremy Hunt doesn't read it as I fear he would find a way of adapting the system to the NHS.
topcol


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## Courtjester

Hello and welcome, topcol. Glad you liked the piece. Writing these oddments is good fun.

Best wishes for your own work. Cj


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## topcol

Yes, I agree, Courtjester, it is fun especially writing humorous pieces. I do so in the hope that what makes me laugh will have the same effect on my readers.


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## Courtjester

*FAST TRACK TO IMMORTALITY*
​ 
The item below is a letter we received a few days ago.

For the attention of the editor of Madazine.

Dear Sir,

I write to ask if you would be so kind as to acquaint your readers with a procedure I have perfected, which can confer immortality upon anyone other than those who die suddenly – I cannot resuscitate them. People in good health or who are ailing, know roughly the extent to which their days are numbered and wish to avoid the Grim Reaper will need only to contact my organisation when I have everything in place. I will do the rest.

To put it briefly, the position is that I have found a way of moving matter, including human beings, to distant places at far beyond the speed of light. This is done by use of the space-time warps which I am told have so far eluded everyone else who has sought them. My work has enabled me to discover planets much like the Earth and eminently suitable for habitation by humankind. For the initial stage, I have selected a body orbiting a star one hundred light years from here. Anyone with even a slight knowledge of astrophysics will understand that events, including lives and imminent or expected deaths, on the Earth will not in effect occur at the spot in question for a century, so my customers will be whisked off there, thus extending their lifespans by that length of time in earthly terms. 

Anybody wishing to use my services will need to make a non-refundable advance payment. I work only in Bitcoin and am putting the figure for one transfer at whatever the equivalent of £25,000 may be when I am requested to act. I specify a single operation because the process can be repeated indefinitely. For example if a user of my system has undergone an initial transfer, he or she may wish to do the same again at some later time. In due course I shall offer an unlimited number of relocations for whatever Bitcoin sum equals £200,000. Thus those taking advantage of my offer will be able to stay ahead of the man with the scythe for as long as they wish.

You will appreciate that for the moment I must be circumspect with regard to my whereabouts because I dare not leave myself open to being overwhelmed by prospective clients. However, all will be revealed in due course. In the meantime, I am happy to accept deposits of 50% of the single transfer figure given above and to facilitate this I shall soon advertise under box numbers in various newspapers providing that facility.

Yours sincerely,

Charles Attanne

P. S. Please note that although as British as they come, I am of Huguenot extraction and the names of my family members are still pronounced the French way, so in my case the ‘s’ is silent. I just like to see such little proprieties observed.


Editor’s note. Very ingenious of our correspondent to have found those mysterious distortions of space and time which have so long evaded other researchers. Everyone in our office is wondering how this wizard intends to whisk his clients away from the Earth’s gravity. Perhaps he will demonstrate the same level of ingenuity as he proposes to use in depleting their finances. I note with interest the comment about his family background. The silent ‘s’ he refers to seems to indicate that we should refer to him as Charl-attanne, for which I read _Charlatan._ That seems about right to me.

* * *
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## Courtjester

*TAKING TO THE AIR*
​
Rodney: Make yourself comfortable, Charles. You moved those chocks away from the main wheels, right?

Charles: Yes.

Rodney: Good. Now let me get familiar with these controls.

Charles: What do you mean, Rodney? I thought we were just supposed to get into the plane to conceal ourselves from those fellows who are chasing us. Surely you aren’t contemplating flying this thing?

Rodney: Certainly. I have no intention of being here when those hoodlums arrive, and if you look off to our right, you’ll see that they’re approaching us at quite a speed. That car can’t be much more than a mile away and they must have seen the motorcycle we abandoned back down the road. They’ll guess we headed for this airstrip because it’s the only spot for miles around that offers a chance for anyone to hide.

Charles: Never mind that, Rodney. Have you flown an aircraft before?

Rodney: No, but I’ve read about how it’s done.

Charles: Read about it? Where?

Rodney: In two books. One was called How Things Work and the other was the Oxford-Duden Pictorial Dictionary. The procedure seems to be simple enough.

Charles: Most reassuring. On the strength of that, you intend to try it yourself, with no experience at all?

Rodney: It will be fairly straightforward, once we get airborne.

Charles: Airborne! Are you really serious about this, or just trying to scare me?

Rodney: I’m a serious as a terminal disease, Charles. Need I remind you that the four goons in that vehicle approaching are not pleasant people and that the bag you have there contains a great deal of money we stole from them. If they catch us, they’ll tear us limb from li –  

Charles: All right. You don’t have to paint a picture for me. Anyway, you appear to be leading us to suicide, and that might be better than our getting into the hands of those chaps.

Rodney: Oh, Charles, must you make a drama of this? We are not going to commit suicide. What we have here is a very small high-wing two-seat monoplane. In some ways, flying it should be easier than driving a car. I think I can remember everything that matters. First, we start the engine with the ignition key here.

Charles: It’s news to me that aircraft have such keys.

Rodney: The big ones don’t but quite a lot of the small ones do. Anyway, this one does. However, that wouldn’t matter much. We could start manually by swinging the propeller. That was the original way. Now, I seem to remember that as soon as one gets the engine going, one needs the throttle out and the fuel mixture in. Those are the two things down there.

Charles: I see them. Then what do we do?

Rodney: Strictly speaking, we should taxi to the end of the take-off strip, but we’re nearly there now, so I don’t think we’ll bother. The whole airfield is no more than a level grass surface, so we’re as well off here as anywhere. We’ll just trundle forwards a few yards, then straighten up and be on our way.

Charles: Oh, Rodney, why did I throw in my lot with you? You’re totally irresponsible at times.

Rodney: Look, Charles, we are supposed to be gentlemen thieves, so please try to act the part. There are times when I think you don’t have requisite raffish air for our kind of work. Top-drawer people may lose their fortunes, or even their lives, but never their equanimity. Think of Sidney Carton at the guillotine.

Charles: That’s really comforting. If you don’t mind, I will paraphrase. “It is a far, far crazier thing I do than I have ever done. It is a far, far -” 

Rodney: Shut up and get a grip on yourself. As soon as we’re aloft, I’ll explain things as we go along.

Charles: Well, we’d better get going now. I’ve just seen why that ignition key is in place.

Rodney: What do you mean?

Charles: I’m referring to those two men who’ve emerged from that control tower, or whatever that building is called. They’re coming this way. I imagine we are occupying their aeroplane. Perhaps they’ve simply had a tea break or something and now want to fly again.

Rodney: Yes, I see them and I’d say they’re too far away to catch us. Now, engine on, throttle out and brakes applied while we rev up.

Charles: Brakes?

Rodney: I seem to recall that they are the little fellows at the ends of the rudder pedals. I believe I have to press on them until we get up enough steam, so to speak, then I’ll release them and we’ll shoot off.

Charles: Heaven help us. I don’t think anything else can.

Rodney: There you go again with your histrionics. Strap yourself in and we’ll be on our way in a jiffy.

Charles: I hope to goodness you’re right, Rodney. I never came across another man with so much confidence based on so little knowledge. Oh, we’re rolling.

Rodney: Of course we are. The trouble with you is that you’re an incorrigible worrier. Now settle down and we’ll get up as much speed as we can, then try to take off. Here we go. . . . . . . You see, we’re climbing. I knew it would work.

Charles: Congratulations, but do you know how to manage this beast through the air?

Rodney: Small aircraft work very simply, Charles. Once they’re aloft, they have three axes of movement: lateral, longitudinal and vertical. The first relates to pitching, the second to rolling and the third to yawing. Two controls cover all three axes. The rudder pedals allow turning and this semi-wheel or joystick, call it what you will, copes with both height and banking. If I pull it back from the neutral position, as I’m doing now, the elevators go up and so do we. If instead I push it forwards from neutral, the elevators go down and we do likewise. If I twist it or push it right or left, that enables us to bank, assuming we have ailerons.

Charles: And do we have these ailerons, and what happens if we don’t have them?

Rodney: I’m not sure whether a little crate like this has them or not, but that isn’t very important. If there aren’t any, we can use the rudder alone. As I understand it, that makes turning somewhat less smooth than it would be if we could bank too, but we needn’t concern ourselves with that because we aren’t going to be flying far.

Charles: Oh, I’m so pleased to hear those words. Where and how are we going to land?

Rodney: Well, we’ll get far enough from here to ensure that we’re safe from pursuit, then find a spot long enough and flat enough to touch down. You must have noticed that this a rural area, so I feel sure there’ll be such a place. We’ll use a fairly traffic-free road if we have to.

Charles: Fairly traffic-free! I’d like it to be entirely in that state.

Rodney: Moan, moan, moan. You really do pile it on, Charles. You’d be sensational as a ham actor. When you turned to crime, the underworld gained what the stage lost. Let us proceed and see what crops up.

Ten minutes later.

Rodney: That field over yonder looks about right, and it’s straight ahead, so we don’t have to turn at all. The landing may be a bit bumpy, but I doubt there’ll be a better chance. We’ll give it a go. Right, down with the elevators. . . . . . . . Oops, that mound ahead isn’t exactly welcome, but we can’t have everything . . . . . . . Ouch! . . . . . . . Are you all in one piece?

Charles: I think so, but I’d feel better if we hadn’t ended upside down.

Rodney: Oh, you’re such a fusspot, Charles. I got us up, away and down. Now, put one hand on the roof, or rather the floor as it is now, undo your seatbelt and wiggle out backwards, then we’ll leg it until we can pinch a vehicle.

Charles: That seems to be the best course of action. I must say that associating with you is one long laugh.

* * *
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## Courtjester

*MAKING IT CLEAR*
​
You’re listening to Our Country Today with Sue Eager and me Jonathan Hustler. It’s ten past eight. There’s been much talk about our inland transport network, particularly since Monday’s statement by Desmond Strange, the man currently responsible for tackling the country’s road and rail problems. We have him here to flesh out his proposals. Now, Mr Strange, you have the prime morning slot to tell us what your plan entails, so please go ahead.

Strange: I’m pleased to have the chance to –

Hustler: And do bear in mind that our time is limited, so it would be helpful if you could stick to your specific brief and avoid advertising your government’s policy in more general matters, or denigrating the opposition’s ideas.

Strange: I will certainly oblige you in that respect, so – 

Hustler: You’ll probably never get another opening to speak to so many people at such prime time, and you must be aware that our listeners are astute enough to notice any ambivalence on your part. Let’s get on with it.

Strange: That is precisely what I am attempting to do and my first point is that – 

Hustler: Strange by name and strange by nature is how some people are referring to you. Here’s your opportunity to respond to their comments.

Strange: I’ll ignore the non sequitur and do my best to – 

Hustler: Attempting, eh? Well, I think most of us would like your attempt to be successful. A good try won’t quite cut it, and I must point out that we have other guests waiting to be interviewed, so as I indicated earlier an element of brevity would be appreciated. Please proceed.

Strange: I’m doing my best to give our audience the most important details, but so far I’ve not been able to do that, thanks to your persistent interrup –

Hustler: Oh, petulance now, is it? Well, I don’t think that will gain you many friends.

Strange: I’d hardly describe my attitude as petulant, considering that I’ve barely been able to get a word in edg – 

Hustler: There he goes again. Sadly, we usually have this kind of trouble with politicians. I mean, you all say you want to make things clear, but when put to the test, you’re nearly always found wanting.

Strange: Oh, this is intolerable, and I’ve a good mind to – 

Hustler: A good mind, you say. Well, there are those who have expressed doubts about the state of your mind, and you’ve said nothing here to . . . Hey, what are doing? Get your hands off my throat. Ah . . . aagghh . . . aaarrrggghhh . . .. 

* * *
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## Courtjester

The item below is a scribble our boss did recently. He probably didn’t mean to have it included in Madazine, but he’s away for a couple of days, so I’m slipping it in. He’ll be cross when he gets back, but in the meantime I’m in charge so there’s nothing he can do about it. Tom Bola, Subeditor. 

*GOLDEN THOUGHTS*​
Some time ago, I noted with interest that the UK had sold a sizable part of its gold reserves. I had nothing against the move, but found myself thinking about this metal in general. Though no expert, I understand that it has certain useful qualities – the immutability of which Charles de Gaulle spoke with such emotion, the ductility and goodness knows what else. However, I have long been puzzled by the ‘use’ to which so much of it is put.

It seems that I am not the first person to express bafflement here. I once read a short story in which, purely as an aside, the main character remarked that he could not comprehend why gold was extracted, mostly from deep holes in the ground, at not inconsiderable human and environmental cost, only for a very large part of it to be processed at further great expense, then buried in other underground locations around the world. The man commented in much the same manner about diamonds.

While dwelling on this matter, my train of thought drifted to humanly contrived items. Possibly this musing was inspired by the fact that just before reading the above-mentioned story, I had watched an antique show in which I saw a number of bits of old junk sold for astounding sums of money, merely because they were rare. Nobody seemed to consider whether they were desirable in any other way. 

My ruminations went on to postage stamps, which I imagine must, relative to size and weight, be the most prized of all objects. I understand that there are instances of a single one being sold at auction for millions of pounds, merely because of a belief that it is unique. Imagine the reaction of a collector who pays a vast sum for such an item, then hears of somebody unearthing a long-lost cache of identical ones.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, I then thought about why people pay staggering prices for old paintings. About a month ago, I strolled through a local shopping precinct, noting an exhibition of the brushwork of our contemporaries living within twenty miles of me. Now, while hoping to avoid being labelled a philistine, I thought the offerings I saw were far preferable to the efforts of the old masters. Those chaps did wonders with what they had to hand in their day but things move on, right? If I wished to add to the few pictures hanging in my home, I would take the new ones every time. 

 Notwithstanding the above comments about things limited in number or quantity, I am no more averse than the next person to cashing in on human peccadilloes. With this in mind I intend to proceed to Mauritius, where I hope to find a limited quantity of dodo droppings. Naturalists tell us that these birds flourished only on the island in question and became extinct over three hundred years ago. Therefore, if there is any residue of their deposits, it must have great rarity value. I am prepared to accept provisional offers of £50,000 an ounce.

They say that a competent strategist always has an alternative scheme ready in case the preferred one seems unworkable, so should my effort to locate the faeces of extinct birds come a cropper, my Plan B is to return home and put myself up for auction. After all, I am over eighty years of age, and it seems to me that an antique of six-foot-two and seventy-odd kilos must be worth quite a bit. Watch this space.

* * *​


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## Courtjester

*SPEED LIMIT*
​
After a spell of inactivity, described by some of his critics as merciful, the Yorkshire engineer and inventor Kevin Spout has once more attracted a good deal of attention by carrying out another of his spectacular experiments. It took place at three o’clock yesterday afternoon in a church hall close to Kevin’s Sheffield home. This time, the redoubtable pioneer was dealing with an aspect of Albert Einstein’s work.

Addressing an invited audience of scientists and technical experts from the press, Kevin explained his thinking. “I have long been convinced,” he said, “that the father of relativity was in error in one particular way. Most of his equations were correct, but I take issue with him about the way he maintained that no material object can reach the speed of light because as it moves towards that velocity its mass increases, as does the force required to propel it, to the extent that both would need to be infinite in order for the object to get to the limit.

“My purpose today is to demonstrate that the assertion concerned is unsound. The machine you see here is designed to prove this point.” Here Kevin waved at his apparatus, which comprised a tube, three inches in diameter, formed into a circular shape, known to the cognoscenti as a torus, about six feet from side to side, set atop a tripod. On the floor, close to this structure was a metal cube with sides of three feet, to the top of which was attached a corrugated hose with a two-inch bore.

Kevin held aloft a spherical object, slightly less in diameter than the tube. He continued: “My experiment is simple and will take only a few minutes. This ball and the torus are made of an alloy I produced recently. It is totally resistant to heat and pressure. I hope I am not being immodest in calling it kevinite. You will note that the torus has a raised seam at one side and a cap at the opposite one, and that there is a meter fitted to the cap. The seam is hinged to allow me to insert the ball into the torus, while removing the cap will enable me to connect this cube on my right to the torus, by means of the hose, which is also impervious to temperature and any other type of stress. Both hinge and cap are designed to withstand all phases of the operation.

“The meter is graduated in rising percentages of the letter ‘c’, which as you know denotes the velocity of light. The torus is coated inside with another special material I have developed over the last few months. The cube is merely a housing for a device of my own design. It works in a similar way to compressed air but is vastly more efficient and powerful than any appliance of that kind.”

Kevin placed his ball in the torus and refastened the hinge. He then connected the cube. “Now,” he said, “we are ready to start. I shall switch on the thruster and the ball will be forced to follow a circular path, continuously gathering speed, thanks to the unique lubricating properties of the substance with which I have, as I said, coated the inside of the torus, and to the immense power of the super-propellant released from the tank. Now, off we go to a speed in excess of ‘c’.”

Kevin pressed the starter and the experts watched with bated breath as a combination of whirring and rumbling indicated that the test was proceeding. The prediction that it would not take long proved to be correct. After about three minutes the torus started vibrating and the hinged seam began to take on a red glow. A further minute passed, then there came what sounded like a thunderclap, the tripod collapsed, the torus fell unevenly, the seam burst open and the ball was emitted on a rising trajectory with a force that hurled it through one of the hall’s windows. It continued onwards and upwards, smashing straight through the church tower, breaking the east and west clock faces and narrowly missing the timekeeping mechanism. A collision with the headstone of a grave in the churchyard finally halted it.

As is his custom when his experiments fail – and so far they have always done so – Kevin immediately held an inquest. This time he was able to report his findings within half an hour. The shaken spectators were still present. “Happily the explanation for this mishap is very simple,” he said. “I was assisted by my cousin Donald, who has hamp . . . er . . . helped me on several earlier occasions. The problem arose at the raised seam, which was supposed to be sealed to the torus by use of a quick-setting liquid variant of kevinite. I supplied Donald with a tube of this, in order for him to complete the construction. When it came to the sealing operation, he reached into his toolbag and instead of drawing from it the kevinite, he selected a tube of ordinary household glue, which of course was inadequate for the purpose in question. This a mere technicality that can be rectified easily.

“I was not able to take an accurate reading of the ball’s speed when it left the torus, but it is quite clear from the way it went through the clock that it was moving at a high percentage of the velocity of light. I shall overhaul and reassemble my equipment and if you would care to reconvene here at the same time tomorrow, I am sure you will witness what you should have seen today. Meantime I shall, among other things, make restitution to the church.”

Madazine editor’s note: Our science correspondent, Axel Griess, once more back from rehab after another lengthy bottle battle, was among the onlookers, though he had recently sworn that he would not attend any more of Kevin’s demonstrations. His verdict, given to reporters in pub near the church, was scathing. “The affair went much as I had expected,” he said. “I imagine all the other observers are as grateful as I am to have survived another of Mr Spout’s attempts at mass homicide. As between him and his assistant, it is hard to say who is the greater fool. Donald’s involvement keeps wrecking his cousin’s experiments, yet Spout continues to employ this dangerous buffoon. I suppose we cannot prevent a further fiasco tomorrow, but wild horses would not drag me back to that place to see it. I am consoled by the thought that making good the damage he has caused to the church will probably deplete the resources of this menace to society sufficiently for him to refrain for a while from endangering anyone with further displays of his ineptitude.” 

* * *
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## Courtjester

We have just received the following letter, suggesting a novel way of increasing our gross national product. Editor

*PRODUCTIVITY*​Dear Madazine,

I write in the hope that you will put before your readers my solution to the problem of relatively low productivity in the UK. I am tired of hearing alleged experts harping on this theme. Sooner or later all countries in our world will have to stop agonising about constantly increasing their gross domestic products (GDPs). There must be a limit to population growth and the demand for both goods and services, so we might as well get used to these related facts. For anyone who cannot yet do so, I offer a stopgap method of raising the level of output per person.

It has often been said that economists are people who know the price of everything and the value of nothing. If that is so, they should be satisfied with my answer to their moaning about UK production. As far as they are concerned, anything that requires increased efforts and rewards must be good for the economy, so obviously that includes destructive activities which necessitate remedial work. This kind of thing happens frequently, for instance where industry causes blight, which then has to be rectified by other exertions.

Most of us could make our contributions by indulging in whatever we feel best able to do. As indicated above, whether that be positive or negative does not matter in terms of boosting the economy. I could make many suggestions, but would prefer to leave the field open to other people who are interested in my notion, as they will doubtless be as inventive as I am in this respect. However, I like to think of myself as a pioneer, so I’m prepared to make a start by giving a practical demonstration of my method, and lest anyone should think that I have any inhibitions about putting my money where my mouth is, the one I have in mind is sure to involve me in some suffering. Allow me to explain.

Having studied the traffic patterns of the borough in which I live, I have established that, as in most urban areas, our roads are very busy at certain times. In this town (I am not prepared to divulge my address at present) there is usually a steady stream of vehicles in the main street on weekdays from about eight in the morning until six in the evening. I propose to avoid that period because for my purpose, whatever is on the road needs to be moving at close to the maximum speed allowed in a built-up area.

I will now set the scene by explaining that from about six-thirty p.m. onwards, very little traffic passes along the street in question, though several buses do so, and at shortly after seven o’clock a double-decker goes past a row of shops, including one occupied by a jeweller. There is no stop nearby, so the driver is usually proceeding as fast as the law permits, and is on the same side as the shop. Parking is prohibited on that side, but not on the opposite one, where one can always find some stationary cars, including at least two or three luxury ones. This is the picture and now let me disclose my intention.

On an evening of my choosing, I shall get into one of the expensive cars (I know how to do this). As the bus approaches, I shall cross the road and swerve in front of it, timing my action so that the bus driver will be unable to avoid a collision. I am going to ensure that the blow my vehicle receives is a hard sideswipe. I shall be injured, but not severely enough to make me lose control, so I will steer the car straight into the jeweller’s shop window, smashing the metal grille that protects the items behind it. They will be scattered around the shop’s interior and the adjacent pavement, or footway as I prefer to call the pedestrians’ space.

The consequences of my noble act of self-sacrifice will be considerable and I am giving here only those that occur to me immediately, though there may well be others.

First, as it will be easy to pick up the jeweller’s wares, people will appear like magic. Some of them are likely to make a genuine effort to help me and anyone else who may need assistance, while others, though ostensibly doing the same, will take the opportunity to pocket a few valuable objects. They will probably sell them for whatever cash they can get and then spend it.

Second, the medical people will need to do some work for me and perhaps for others, as I cannot guarantee that no nobody else will be hurt. After I have been patched up, I shall complain of mysterious side effects that will require further attention, possibly for some time because I have every intention of being an ‘interesting’ patient. The bus driver will be badly shaken and some of his passengers will probably also be affected in some way. Knowing how the compensation culture has taken hold here, it is certain that a number of these people will exploit the incident, demanding recompense for any physical effects and for ‘acute mental anguish’ endured as a result of the experience.

Third, there will be extensive work for builders, in restoring the shop to its normal condition, and for motor repair workers, who attend to the car and the bus. Both parties will seize the opportunity for making as much profit as they can, knowing that they are dealing with insurance claims.

Fourth, lawyers are sure to be involved, and they will have a fine time sorting out who should get what out of the event. Among other things, there will almost certainly be at least one court case, with all that implies.

It should be obvious to anyone who has read the above that my act of seeming irresponsibility will be quite the opposite and I shall become a great public benefactor because my deed will keep lots of people busy. All of them will have to be paid, so this will ensure a great deal of money coming into circulation that might otherwise have been tied up doing nothing. Since the gross national product and the national income are usually regarded as more or less synonymous, I envisage economists being enraptured at the thought that someone has finally worked out how to bring about a really substantial increase in our nation’s productivity. I commend my proposal to public and government alike and am hopeful that many may wish to follow my lead in their own unique way.

Yours sincerely,

Mr Anonymous – I do not wish to reveal my identity at present.

* * *
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## Courtjester

*LEADERSHIP*
​
Donald: Take a seat, William. I imagine you know why I asked you to call in.

William: No, Donald. I’ve no idea what’s on your mind.

Donald: Really? It’s the same thing that’s giving all of us some sleepless nights. To put it bluntly, we need a change of leader. You know as well as I do that every time the present incumbent makes a speech, we probably lose another few hundred thousand votes. With the election coming up we can’t afford to experience many more of our gaffer’s gaffes, if you’ll pardon the touch of alliteration. It’s been put to me that I should sound out potential replacements. What are your views?

William: I can’t say I’ve given the matter much thought. You know I’m fully occupied with my own brief. Now that you raise the point, I’m not sure what to say.

Donald: Well, what do think of Tom for the job?

William: Oh, no. The man’s an idiot. As far as our game is concerned, he doesn’t know his base from his apex. He’d get us into a dreadful mess.

Donald: That’s unequivocal enough. How about Harold?

William: We can’t have him. The public might learn of his shenanigans with those three women – all at the same time, if what I heard is true.

Donald: Ah, there’s a point, and it’s sure to get out. His friends will see to that. The other thing I’ve been pondering on is the gender matter. What’s your opinion of Winifred?

William: A ghastly woman. A wicked witch if ever I met one. All claws and spite and totally without political nous.

Donald: So there’s another bleak assessment. Unfortunately she’s the most senior woman in our ranks. In that respect our opponents are better placed than we are. Who else can we discuss?

William: I’m stumped, Donald.

Donald: What do you make of Bob?

William: He wouldn’t do at all. He can certainly box the compass in terms of changing his stance at five-minute intervals, but he can’t do it with with any degree of sophistication or panache.

Donald: Hmn, I’d have to go along with you there. My goodness, we seem to be scraping the barrel. How do you rate Frank?

William: A roughneck. A knuckle-dragger. The mystery to me is that he doesn’t live in a cave and carry a club. I mean you only have to look at the way he walks around this building, growling and scratching his armpits.

Donald: Well, yes. I grant you he isn’t the most prepossessing of men. So I suppose we can rule him out. That brings me to our number two female, Amanda. Do you think she might do?

William: Definitely not. For one thing she’s offended too many of us on her way up. There must be a score of people in our ranks who’d love to see her go back down, and they’d put the boot in to accelerate the process. It’s hard to tell which part of her anatomy is sharper, elbows or tongue.

Donald: You’re doing a pretty comprehensive job of character assassination, William. I’m becoming desperate.

William: We’re certainly in an awkward position. Frankly, I can’t see a really satisfactory way forward.

Donald: We need a candidate too colourless to upset anybody. A person with no distinctive qualities or firm opinions, someone who’ll bend with the wind, a weathervane, a potential turncoat, a chap or chapess who vacillates and equivocates about every issue. Above all, whoever we choose must be malleable, susceptible to colleagues’ suggestions, ready to shift ground with changing public moods and have the ability to speak with apparent firmness while being in reality completely non-committal. Vigour without direction is what I mean.

William: I know exactly what you’re driving at, Donald. We’re looking for a pretty rare bird.

Donald: Indeed we are. Tell me, William, have you considered accepting – 

William: Me? This is rather sudden, Donald. I mean, I’ve never for one moment contemplated a step of such magnit – 

Donald: Hang on. I was about to ask if you’d considered accepting that we might have to comb through – 

William: However, if certain circumstances were to arise, if a sufficient number of my colleagues were to be of one mind, if there seemed to be no likelihood of a serious challen – 

Donald: My intention was to ask if you feel that we might look at a few of the backbench – 

William: I was going to say that if there were no heavyweight challenger, I hope I would not fail to do my dut – 

Donald: Hey, what I meant was that we might root around among the lesser light – 

William: I had in mind my duty to the country. After all, there comes a time when a man or woman must put aside personal wishes, think in terms of what our great nation requires, hearken to the cries of comrades and other compatriots, and it would remiss of me to – 

Donald: You’re not expressing quite what I was thinking, but it occurs to me that you may have hit upon the solution to this problem. Let’s forget about backbenchers for the moment and look at what’s right under our noses. Would you care to have a go at the job yourself?

William: I thought you’d never a – that is to say I’m immensely flattered by the trust you clearly have in me, and if the call were to come – 

Donald: Let’s not go through all that again. I’ll put your name forward at tomorrow’s meeting and I think you’ll be unopposed.

William: It will be a great honour to step into the breach and – 

Donald: Yes, yes, of course it will, but I have another commitment now. I’ll see you just before the gathering at nine in the morning. 

* * *
​


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## Courtjester

*PREPOSITIONS AND OTHER THINGS*
​
Conversation between two passengers, A and B, during a train journey.

A. Excuse me, but now that you seem to have finished using your mobile telephone, perhaps we could have a word.

B. About what?

A. Your use of language.

B. So you’ve been earwigging, have you?

A. I think eavesdropping expresses your meaning less colloquially, but I could hardly avoid hearing what you said. You were speaking loudly enough to obviate the need for a telephone on your part.

B. Never mind that. What’s wrong with the way I talk?

A. Among other things, I think you should consider the way you deal with prepositions.

B . Explain.

A. You mentioned to your contact that you were on the train, that you would later be on the bus, and that you had been working on your laptop. At another point you asked him to slow up a bit.

B. So?

A. It would have been more accurate to say that you were in the train, that you would later be in the bus and that you had been working at your laptop, or perhaps with it. As for the speed, one slows down, not up.

B. Would you care to go through all that again, and make it a bit clearer?

A. Certainly. You could hardly be on the train, bus or laptop. It would be very difficult for you to get onto the train or bus unless you had a ladder. You would get into those vehicles. Also you could not use your laptop if you were on it. Finally, you would never speak of speeding down, so slowing up should be avoided.

B. That’s just the way most people talk.

A. No doubt, but it is careless.

B. What about the Internet. Will you allow me to be on that?

A. Yes.

B. Why?

A. Because it can be regarded as somewhat analogous to other infrastructure systems, such as roads or railways. It’s perfectly all right to be on them.

B. Very kind of you to give permission. Anything else?

A. Yes. At one stage in your discussion, you said that you had met up with Simon.

B. That’s right. Something you don’t like about that as well, is there?

A. I was disturbed by the pleonasm.

B. Meaning what?

A. Redundancy of words. It would have been sufficient to say that you met Simon. The ‘up’ and ‘with’ are unnecessary.

A. Have you finished?

A. Not quite. You also said that on hearing the result of a football match, you were literally over the Moon.

B. And you find something amiss with that too, right?

A. Yes. Unless you were a NASA astronaut involved in the Apollo missions, which your accent and apparent age indicate is unlikely, you could not have been literally over the Moon.

B. Pardon me, Mr Faultfinder, but I happen to know that the Oxford English Dictionary accepts that word in the sense in which I used it. I believe the term is figurative.

A. I’m aware of that, and I think the OED has something to answer for the manner in which it embraces that kind of usage. It all started when the compliers began work on it in 1857.

B. You look as though you might have been around at the time. What did they do that displeases you?

A. They decided at the outset that their dictionary would be descriptive, not prescriptive.

B. Would you like to enlarge on that?

A. By all means. The lexicographers concerned agreed that they would not instruct people in the use of the language, but would instead record how it was used. They did not wish to emulate certain other countries by setting up an academy. The rot set in there and then and it has led to a great deal of confusion and sloppiness.

B. That gets up your nose, does it?

A. A colourful expression, but appropriate. We in the Anglosphere have given the rest of our world an excellent method of communication, namely the English language. I think we must accept that we are custodians of it and that we should act accordingly.

B. Look, I agree that we’ve provided the world with a great tool, but we can’t give other people orders about the way they handle it. They’ll do as they like, and there’s nothing a busybody like you can do to change that. You’ve just said that the original OED experts didn’t aim to make rules, so don’t set yourself above them. You’re just a  fogey, completely out of touch with modern practice.

A. Perhaps you’re right. If so, that is regrettable It’s depressing to live through a period of declining standards. However, I’m sorry to say that we can’t continue this conversation.

B. You mean your lecture. You’re a funny old buzzard. Anyway, why can’t we keep talking?

A. Because the train is slowing down and I live near the next stop, so I must get off.

B. Hah, gotcha!

A. How?        

B. You gave me an earful about my being in the train, not on it. Well, you’re in it too, so you’ll have to get out of it, not off it, or you could alight from it. And you reckon you’re an expert on prepositions?

A. Drat! Hoist with my own petard.

B. I probably shouldn’t ask, but where did you dig that one up and could you put it in plain English?

A. It’s from Hamlet and it means blown up by one’s own bomb. To use a more modern expression, I’ve shot myself in the foot, and perhaps undone some of the good work I did during our brief exchange, but now I must go.

B. Not a moment too soon. By the way, what’s the name of this place we’re approaching? Nitpickingham, is it?

A. Oh, well guessed. You came very close. It’s Punctiliousford. Goodbye, whippersnapper.

B. Toodle-oo, fossil. 

* * *
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## Introvertrme

Really enjoyed the wit and style this piece was written in. "Human nature is disgusting", really made me laugh as well as the bricks of course!

The article has clearly had some work put into it, the style is clear and reporter like as you'ld expect but it reads incredibly well and I like the way you have organised the piece. Even though it introduces some quite complicated notions, the way in which you have written this piece means no headaches at all for the readers as it is very easy to follow.

Excellent quality article; love its wit, professional standard: well done!


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## Courtjester

Dear Introvertrme,

Many thanks for the kind words. I try to entertain and it's nice to know that the effort succeeds at times. Good luck with your own work.

Best wishes, Cj


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## Courtjester

*CRUNCH MEETING*
​
A country seeking to leave a large trading block with a substantial degree of social integration has had a number of high-level discussions, in an effort to agree proposals for the terms of separation. Following several failures to reach a unified position to present to the block’s negotiators, the prospective departing country’s head of government arranged a gathering of the most senior cabinet members, the aim being to establish a consensus.

Present at the conference were the Premier, regarded as the Primus Inter Pares (PIP), the Minister of Finance (MOF), the Minister of the Interior (MOI), the Minister of the Exterior (MOE), the Minister of Defence (MOD) and the Minister of Trade (MOT). In the absence of the Cabinet Secretary, minutes were taken by Pip, who added a post-meeting note. A full transcript was inadvertently leaked. It is reproduced below:


PIP: Good morning everyone. We all know why we are here, so to open our debate I will say only that we must devise a policy, which I will then convey to the other side.

MOT: Sounds as though you are about to depart this life, Pip:

PIP: I don’t think we have time to waste on facetiousness, Mot: Let me stress that we are holding a crunch meeting.

MOD: Oh, Pip, we’ve held so many crunch meetings that it’s a wonder we haven’t already been reduced to powder.

PIP: More frivolity. As usual, you are witty and unhelpful in equal measure. If you need further emphasis, we must regard this as the crunch-crunch meeting – the crunch of crunches. I am not prepared to let anyone leave here until we get a result that satisfies me.

MOI: Then you’d better start wheeling in the beer and sandwiches. I missed breakfast to get here and I’m ravenous.

PIP: Excellent, Moi: Fasting sharpens the mind, so I expect a major contribution from you. And kindly forget the victuals for an hour or two. You’ve had a lot to say to the public recently. This is your chance to sound off to your colleagues – and do try for once to avoid putting your foot where your mouth is.

MOE: Just a moment, PIP: I’d like to make a point here. I’m in charge of foreign affairs, which makes me the country’s top diplomat. You spoke of the other side. I would prefer to call a spade a spade and give it its real name – the enemy.

PIP: What a diplomat you are. More like a bull in a china shop. Heaven knows why I appointed you, but just remember that what the Pip giveth, the Pip taketh away – maybe. Watch your step.

MOE: Don’t threaten me. Bear in mind that primus inter pares means first among equals. The pecking order can change.

PIP: No doubt, but not in favour of a twit like you. I doubt that you could find your face with both hands.

MOE: That’s rich coming from a perfidious backstabber and turncoat. We all know you as Janus, but I don’t think you could find your hands with both faces. 

PIP: Clearly you have nothing of importance to say, so shut up. I’d like to hear some constructive observations. You haven’t said anything yet, Mof.

MOF: I’m keeping my cards close to my chest.

MOI: Some cards. Some chest. You haven’t got a hand worth playing. A pair of deuces at most, I’d say.

MOF: Well, you’d be wrong, as always. If you must know, I have a full house.

MOI: That’s not good enough. It can be beaten by four of a kind, let alone a straight flush, which is even better, especially an ace-high one.

PIP: If you two have finished airing your knowledge of poker, perhaps you would address our problem and let us see whether you have anything other than card games in your heads, not that I have much hope in that respect.

MOD: Hey, Pip, you’re supposed to be in charge here. What about some leadership from the top? At least give us guidance.

PIP: That’s what you lot are here to give me, dimwit. The idea is that you provide me with your respective visions of the way ahead and I try to fuse them into a whole.

MOE: Pardon my use of homophones, assuming you know what they are, but the only whole you’ll fuse them into is a black hole. For months now you’ve been vacillating, procrastinating, prevaricating – 

PIP: That’s enough ‘ings’ for the moment. I’ve already told you to dry up, so be quiet unless I invite you to speak again. We haven’t heard from you for a while, Mot: Say something!

MOT: I’m getting flak from businesses large and small. Trouble is they’re in conflict. The big ones want us to stay in the block to avoid disruption, while the little ones are keen to get out because they’re bogged down trying to meet what they see as irrelevant standards imposed on them by bureaucrats from the block’s centre, who don’t seem to be accountable to anybody. My suggestion is that we should temporise.

PIP: How?

MOT: Well, we’re not going to satisfy all demands, no matter what we come up with here, so I think we should drag this affair on until everybody is fed up with it, we get some half-baked offer from the block and arrange another public vote. We could specify turnout and majority conditions that aren’t likely to be met because the result will probably be as close as the original plebiscite, so that would lead to a third try, and so on. What one might call a neverendum.

PIP: Rubbish! Look, I don’t think I’ll get a sensible suggestion from any of you, which means we shan’t come to an accord here, so – hey, who threw that shoe at me? Ah, you, is it, Moe? Hmn, handsome footwear. Top brand. Indicates that you’re being paid too much. Anyway, you’ve slipped up. I’m keeping your size ten and you’re fired, with immediate effect. You may now leave the room, limp along the drive and see if you can hail a taxi because as from this moment, you don’t have a ministerial limo. That’ll teach you to hurl brogues at your boss. Bye-bye. Anyone else minded to throw things? No? Good. Well, I’m going to tell the public that we’ve had a frank and productive talk, then I’ll do what I see fit.

MOT: You can’t dismiss my neverendum notion just like that.

PIP: Yes I can. It’s nonsense and I didn’t expect anything better from you. You’re a dolt, Mot and I’ve had enough of you. Will you write your letter of resignation or shall I do it for you? Either way, you’re going. If you hurry you might catch up with the former Moe. He’s sure to be making slow progress with only one shoe or in his socks. Maybe the two of you could share a cab.

MOF: You’re going too far, Pip. Next thing we know you’ll be firing all of us, then what will you do?

PIP: Much better than I’m doing now. You’ve given me the only good idea I’ve heard since this meeting started. With Moe and Mot gone, that leaves me with three of you, Mof, Moi and Mod. Consider yourselves sacked. If you get a move on, you’ll probably be able to overtake the other two nincompoops and squeeze into the same taxi, although that’s not really important because I anticipated this outcome and ordered one for each of you. Hop it.


Footnote. Pip’s thoughts after the meeting: I am reminded of Tom Lehrer’s song about a nuclear war ‘We will all go together when we go’. Well, everyone has gone – apart from me. What a relief to ditch that bunch of dunderheads. Now I’d like to get on with implementing the plan I had all along. Pity I can’t remember it.

* * *​


----------



## Courtjester

*BROADCASTING WITH A DIFFERENCE
*​
Alan: Take a seat, Tony. You’d better make yourself comfortable because you’ve some explaining to do.

Tony: I don’t know what you mean, Alan. I thought everything was going nicely.

Alan: Oh, you did, did you? Well, let me tell you what I want to know. Three weeks ago, I took a hard-earned and overdue holiday. I returned today and found a totally unsatisfactory state of affairs here. Kindly tell me how this came about.

Tony: What’s wrong?

Alan: Where do I start? Perhaps by reminding you that we are a local commercial radio station, much like many others but admittedly smaller than most. We rely on advertising to keep us going. In case you’ve overlooked the point, adverts are supposed to be legal, decent, honest and truthful.

Tony: Truthful, shmoothful. What does it matter so long as the mazuma rolls in?

Alan: Mazuma?

Tony: Right. Mazuma, cabbage, spondulicks, moolah, frogskins, the folding. You do speak English, don’t you?

Alan: Yes. It’s getting through to me that you mean money, but the important thing is how we come by it. We’re supposed to do so ethically – and if you say: ‘Ethically, shmethically,’ I’ll brain you.

Tony: This is strong stuff, Alan. Where do you reckon I’ve gone wrong?

Alan: Everywhere would be a good start. Where did you find these characters you’ve hauled in during my absence?

Tony: I didn’t. They were recommended to come here.

Alan: By whom? Crime International? The ‘Mob’? The ‘Syndicate’? Just look at the identities of these companies you’ve allowed to pollute the airwaves in our name.

Tony: What about them?

Alan: Let us first consider this firm of lawyers. I know such people are into advertising nowadays, but there are limits. For one thing, look at the name.

Tony: Is there something wrong with it?

Alan: Oiler & Wheeling did not fill me with confidence, so I did a little checking. The company was set up two weeks ago and it does not employ anyone with either of the names its title suggests. By the way, I imagine you are unaware of the fact that this firm is the UK subsidiary of an American outfit rejoicing in the name Arty & Dodge.

Tony: So what?

Alan: That’s a play on words, you oaf. It’s a barely veiled twist on the Artful Dodger, who was a character in Oliver Twist, and a most unsavoury fellow. Incidentally that company too was formed a fortnight ago and nobody named Arty or Dodge works there. But let’s put that aside and consider the wording of their presentation. I’ll read you as much of it as I can stomach. Here we go: ‘If you’ve ever been distressed by anything, you can bet that there’s money in it for you. Somebody must have been at fault and we can find out who it was and make them pay through the nose. Your best bet is to opt for our premium rate Strawclutchers’ offer. That way, you can be sure that no matter how tenuous the link between what upset you and whoever caused it, we’ll dig up the dirt and get you a wad of compensation.’ There’s more of the same but I think that will do.

Tony: You’re not happy, right?

Alan: Very perceptive of you to notice that. I was also intrigued by the deal this Goldplate Finance company is offering. You may recall the patter, but I’ll remind you anyway. The extract I have here reads: ‘Yes, you heard that right. We are actually giving you a chance to invest with us at a guaranteed annual interest rate of twelve percent. And you won’t have to wait a year to find out that our offer is genuine. No, at the expiry of each month from the day your account is set up, we post to you a payment of one percent of your investment. So if you start with a modest ten thousand pounds, you get back one hundred pounds a month until you want us to return your capital. You can’t beat that anywhere. But hurry, as this offer will close very shortly.’ 

Tony: Sounds great. I’ve been thinking of taking a piece of it.

Alan: You dolt. This is an era of rock-bottom interest rates. Nobody can keep paying you twelve percent a year. This is obviously the old Ponzi swindle all over again.

Tony: What’s that?

Alan: It gets its name from Charles Ponzi, who worked the scam in the nineteen-twenties, but it wasn’t new even then. The idea is to tempt gullible types like you to send money to these rogues and they make the promised monthly payments for a short time. They do that by using some of the money they receive from the early plungers and from others who invest after those first victims have let it be known that they’re receiving the advertised returns. When the scoundrels have grabbed enough to satisfy themselves they close down and vanish with all the loot, except what little they’ve paid out each month for a short time. The first dupes get back only a tiny fraction of their capital by way of so-called interest, and most later takers lose everything. 

Tony: Hey, that’s cheating. 

Alan: Ah, a further flash of brightness on your part. Now to another of the people to whom you’ve so enterprisingly granted our facilities. I refer to this auto sales firm, Plentycars. It claims to be offering a vehicle with many remarkable features, one of which is that it can be parked in a kerb space less than its own length.

Tony: Yeah, clever isn’t it?

Alan: Most ingenious. However it appears to have escaped your attention that the photo these rascals supplied shows the car in question parked by a roadside. It certainly occupies less than its own length at the kerb. That’s because it’s parked nose-in, you imbecile. Any car takes up less than its own length in kerb space if it’s placed that way, unless you can point me to one that’s at least as broad as it is long, and I’m sure you can’t. However, we’ll move on to the last of your carefully chosen weirdoes. I’m speaking of this charity organisation, LiftaLord.

Tony: Is there something amiss there, too?

Alan: You might say that. In case you failed to vet their script, let me just read an extract from what you permitted them to say to our listeners. It goes like this: ‘We are appealing on behalf of distressed nobility. There are many members of our upper classes who have fallen on evil times and are bewildered and directionless, barely knowing where their next plate of caviar is coming from. You can help. A donation of a little as a hundred pounds will enable one of these afflicted people to enjoy a bottle of decent wine, perhaps for the first time in years. A thousand pounds will allow a deserving couple to spend three days in the kind of country manor they once occupied as a matter of course. Please send us all the money you can spare and we’ll make everything all right for these unfortunate toffs.’ 

Tony: Well, I don’t think there’s anything exactly out of line there. I just assumed it would be okay.

Alan: I don’t care what you assumed. It’s utterly tasteless. Now look, I’m soon going to be up to my ears in lawsuits, while you are about to seek an alternative way to make a living.

Tony: You mean you don’t want me here any longer.

Alan: Yet another of your bursts of luminosity. Yes, young man. The last thing I have to say to you is that you’re fired, with immediate effect. Get thee hence.

* * *
​


----------



## Courtjester

*CALCULUS*
​
Newton: Ah, Leibniz. So you’ve finally made contact. Took you long enough. On a bad line too. I suppose you rang to apologise for your atrocious behaviour in trying to scoop me about the technique I invented. Too late to curry favour now.

Leibniz: My my, aren’t we excitable? Calm down, Isaac.

Newton: Don’t you Isaac me, you plagiarist. And anyway, it’ll soon be Sir Isaac, so show a little respect to your elders and betters. I beat you to it and you could clear the air by admitting that you nicked my fluxions.

Leibniz: Nicked your fluxions, eh? Well, I hope that wasn’t too painful. I could tell you how to heal the wound, but being such a cantankerous old buffer, you probably wouldn’t take advice from anyone.

Newton: I certainly would not take it from a thief like you. Tell me, do you steal horses as well as mathematical notions?

Leibniz: Now now, my dear fellow, don’t take on so. I’m no copycat. I worked independently of you.

Newton: Liar! You sneaked a look at my notes and everybody knows it. By the way, what’s all this nonsense about your surname. There seems to be some debate about whether it’s supposed to end with ‘tz’, or just ‘z’. I know you’re a fool, but surely you know how to spell your own name.

Leibniz: You can do it either way but don’t waste my time with trivia. I want to know why you kept your alleged system secret for so long. In the highly improbable event that you really cracked it in 1665, you’ve set a new record for anal retention. It’s now 1704. Are you seriously suggesting that you deliberately left us all in the dark for thirty-nine years?

Newton: You haven’t done too badly on that score either. You reckon you got the answer in 1673 but you didn’t let on until 1684. Anyway, the time lags have nothing to do with it. I was there first and that’s what matters. If you’re now crawling to me with a request for cooperation, you’ve come to the wrong address.

Leibniz: As it happens, I’m not suggesting that we work together. Who’d want to do that with you when it’s well known that you can’t stand anybody? I doubt that you can tolerate yourself. If you’d get out into the world, you might find it useful to consult your peers from time to time.

Newton: Rubbish! I have no peers. The only one fit to lick my boots in the field we’re discussing was good old Archimedes. He knew his stuff about integrals and if he hadn’t been killed by that stupid Roman soldier, he’d have solved differentials too.

Leibniz: No argument there. At times I wonder why it took a further nineteen centuries for me to produce the goods.

Newton: There you go again. How many more times do I have to tell you that I was the first to make the breakthrough? My word, you’re a sore loser.

Leibniz: Garbage! I didn’t lose. Your problem, or one of the many you have, is that the apple that fell onto your head may have helped you with the gravity thing, but it clearly caused some collateral damage to your brain, which I suspect was addled enough before the impact. Eventually you’ll admit that I’m the leading scientist in the world today.

Newton: What’s a scientist?

Leibniz: It’s a term I’ve just invented and it won’t be widely used for a hundred years or more. I suppose I shan’t get the credit for that, either. For your information, the word science will replace what we now call natural philosophy.

Newton: Twaddle! The current expression is good enough for me. However, we’re not making progress here. I tell you that my description of what we’re discussing is more accurate than your clumsy definition, nova methodus pro maximis et minimis. That’s too much of a mouthful for anybody. 

Leibniz: Oh, so you’re now saying that I’m guilty of superfluidity in my use of language.

Newton: Superfluity is the word you’re seeking, dimwit. Do I have to correct you in your use of English as well?

Leibniz: In case it’s escaped your feeble notice, we’re holding this conversation in Latin, dumbo.

Newton: Well, English will take over in due course.

Leibniz: How do you know that?

Newton: Because in addition to standing supreme in the field of mathematics, I am prescient. Just wait and see. You might also care to note that the matter of terminology is now irrelevant because I’ve changed the name of my work to The Calculus.

Leibniz: Hah, more cheating. May I ask when you had this ‘inspiration?’

Newton: This morning.

Leibniz: A likely story, but not one that will do you any good. I came up with the same term yesterday.

Newton: Balderdash! You’re just trying to steal my thunder again, but the truth will come out. Look, this connection is getting worse. I’m having trouble hearing what you say. You keep breaking up.

Leibniz: No wonder. I’ve only recently developed this thing I call the telephone. It won’t be in common use for about two hundred years. See, you’re not the only one who can peer into the future, so don’t give yourself so many airs. Now, this call is costing me a fortune.

Newton: I can’t imagine why. I mean, a pair of empty metal or paper cups and a length of baling wire can’t be all that expensive. Still, I think we’ve said enough to make it obvious that my fluxions and fluents preceded your nova methodus bunkum and that both are now outdated, so begone and don’t pester me again.

Leibniz: My idea will win the day. Nobody is going to take notice of a man who tries to poke out his own eye and sits on the edge of his bed for hours after waking. Honestly, forgetting to get up in a morning. What kind of cretin does that?

Newton: Enough! Goodbye, blockhead.

Leibniz: Likewise, moron.

* * *​


----------



## Courtjester

*THE INTERVIEW*
​
Two senior officials, Godfrey and Claude, are conducting an interview with the aim of recruiting spies for the UK’s security services. A knock at the door preceded their encounter with an applicant named Snowden. It went as follows:

Godfrey: Come in. (The door opens and closes but nobody appears.)

Godfrey: That’s odd. Come in!

Snowden: I am in.

Claude: What nonsense is this? We are expecting Mr Snowden, not a ghost. Kindly explain yourself.

Snowden: It’s simple enough. I’m not a ghost. You can’t see me because I’m invisible.

Godfrey: Hah, a likely story. Since we can hear you close by, I take it that you are a ventriloquist, playing a joke on us. If so, it isn’t very funny.

Snowden: I’m not a ventriloquist and this isn’t a joke. Just put out your hand and I’ll shake it. (The handshake takes place.)

Godfrey: This is amazing. You certainly seem to be present, so I suppose we shall have to believe you.

Snowden: Good. We’re making progress. May I take a seat?

Claude: Please do. (A chair facing the interviewers creaks.)

Snowden: Thank you. Now, what do you want me to tell you?

Godfrey: We know where you come from. Perhaps you would fill us in a little with regard to your background. Where were you educated?

Snowden: At my local comprehensive school.

Godfrey: I see. How about tertiary?

Snowden: What do you mean?

Claude: Your higher education. University.

Snowden: I didn’t go to one. I left school at sixteen and started work with a chemical firm near my home. I was employed there for eight years and left a few days ago.

Claude: No university! That’s very unusual for anyone seeking work with us. I believe you’re the first non-graduate we’ve had here for some time. Why did you leave your company?

Snowden: Well, it struck me that this invisibility thing should be useful to anyone in your line of business, so I just walked out of my laboratory and applied to you. Nobody at the firm knows about my transformation and I thought it might be a good idea to leave it that way. 

Godfrey: When and how did you become invisible?

Snowden: Shortly before I left the firm, after messing about with some compounds when carrying out an experiment, I drank something from a glass by the side of my workbench and within a few seconds I'd just sort of vanished, complete with my clothing.

Godfrey: Wasn’t taking that drink rather careless?

Snowden: It was an accident. I reached out for some fruit juice and picked up the wrong liquid.

Claude: Very odd. Is your condition reversible?

Snowden: I don’t know. I was working with a few different substances in various proportions. There’s no way I could repeat what I was doing, but even if I could, I don’t think I’d want to.

Claude: Extraordinary. How many people are aware what has happened to you?

Snowden: Nobody but the three of us. I live alone and as far as I know, the firm thinks I’ve simply left without telling anybody.

Godfrey: This gets stranger by the minute. As you’re no longer in employment, how do you manage to live?

Snowden: So far I've been using my savings. Now I need to start earing again.

Godfrey. I understand. Now, have you any other attributes you feel may be beneficial to the work we have in mind?

Snowden: I don’t think so. The invisibility is about all I have to offer. Still, I imagine you train people.

Claude: Sometimes, but our service has a long tradition of depending on talented amateurs. You might say that we keep instruction to a minimum. Versatility and initiative are the qualities we rely on. How do you score there?

Snowden: I’ve never been put to the test, so I can’t tell.

Godfrey: That’s understandable. Now, I think you’ve told us everything that’s of any consequence, so perhaps you would leave us for a few minutes and wait outside. We’ll call you shortly.

Snowden: All right. (The chair creaks again and the door opens and closes.)

Claude: Well, what do you think, Godfrey?

Godfrey: I’m afraid he won’t do. Not the right sort of chap.

Claude: My view precisely. He just isn’t one of us. He wouldn’t fit in. Rather short in the upbringing department. I shudder to think of his likely manners in our kind of society. And what about his schooling? I think we can discount any knowledge of Greek and Latin there.

Godfrey: Right! I doubt he would ever hold his own among the class of people he’d meet. Let’s haul him back in and impart the bad news.

Snowden: No need. I never went out.

Claude: I say, that’s rather bad form.

Godfrey: Very underhanded. We distinctly heard you move out of that chair and saw the door open and close.

Snowden: So you did, but I’ve been here all the time. I gather you don’t want me, so maybe you could point me towards someone who might.

Godfrey: Try the Russian embassy. The people there are always on the lookout for agents. Goodbye and good luck.

* * *
​


----------



## Courtjester

*PURPLE PROSE*
​
Welcome to this month’s edition of Bookworm with me, Angela Pickbone. As regular listeners know, we normally invite the author of a recently published novel to discuss it. On most occasions we talk about a work that has been favourably received by the literary critics. This time we are dealing with one in the opposite category. All the pundits seem to be baffled by this book and are fiercely hostile to it. We therefore asked the writer, Terrence Torrance, to join us and offer his observations. Good afternoon, Mr Torrance.

Torrance: Hello. Please call me Terrence.

Pickbone: Thank you, Torr . . . er . . . Terrence. Now, your hundred and sixty thousand word story ‘Abstrusius’ has attracted a lot of press reaction, mostly from reviewers who have had difficulty trying to understand it.

Torrance: I don’t see why. It seems perfectly straightforward to me.

Pickbone: Well, the consensus of opinion is to the effect that your prose is so obscure that it makes James Joyce’s ‘Finnegan's Wake’, Thomas Pynchon’s ‘Gravity’s Rainbow’ or Martin Heidegger’s ‘Sein und Zeit’ appear as clear as window panes by comparison.

Torrance: I can’t be held responsible for the inability of soi-disant literarians to follow plain English.

Pickbone: I’ll read out what some of them have said about your opus, and I should mention that their words reflect the general assessment. One observes that ‘Abstrusius’ is a triumph of opacity. Another remarks that you have reached hitherto unimagined heights of inaccessibility. Yet another notes that the word incomprehensible is barely adequate to describe your tale. Pretty strong stuff, don’t you think?

Torrance: These people are supposed to be erudite but all they are demonstrating is their ignorance of linguistic matters. Maybe they should try a different line of work.

Pickbone: Obviously you are entitled to express and defend your opinion, but I must say that I too had trouble with every passage I tried to read. When I got halfway through your first paragraph I abandoned my dictionary, thinking that it must be out of date or too limited, or maybe I was grappling with a different language.

Torrance: It’s clear enough to me and common parlance in the circles in which I usually move.

Pickbone: Which circles are they?

Torrance: Various but mostly I can be found at the Logophiles’ Club, of which I am a member. What difficulties did you encounter with the book?

Pickbone: Allow me to read a little from the beginning, so that our listeners may form their own opinion. It goes: “Though no mean deipnosophist, I absquatulated during the hors d’oeuvres, as my sole companion was a doryphore and comminatory to boot. Also, his jejune literary animadversions were adscititious to our exchanges and largely obnubilated them. Still worse, his minaceousness and gasconade indicated that he considered me a gobemouche. All this was regrettable because I am quite edacious. Felicitously, the incident was a eucatastrophe, as I repaired otherwhere by an anfractuous route to assuage my gustatory appetency in a mollicious milieu.” I will not go on.

Torrance: What’s wrong with that passage?

Pickbone: Let’s just see how a another author renders it. He writes: “Though adept at dinner-table conversation, I left hurriedly as my sole companion was an irritating and threatening critic. Also his dull literary carping was extraneous to our talk, largely obscuring it. Further, he was boastful and saw me as gullible. All this was regrettable, as I like eating. Still, good came from bad, as I took a winding route to another place and ate in luxurious surroundings.”

Torrance: And you regard that as better than my opening, do you?

Pickbone: I think so. It has fewer words, syllables and characters than yours, doesn’t require the repeated use of a thesaurus and covers the same ground.

Torrance: Madam, I am not seeking an award for breviloquence. I expect my readers to have a modicum of knowledge, but as you clearly prefer the scribbling of a hack writer, you are welcome to it.

Pickbone: Very forthright, Torr . . . er . . . Terrence. I understand that you are to produce a sequel to ‘Abstrusius’, in the same vein but longer. I can hardly wait. Perhaps we’ll invite you again when you have completed that next foray into impenetrability. However, we’re out of time now, so good luck with your further belletristic emprises and goodbye. 

Torrance: Belletristic emprises, eh? Nice one. I think you’re catching on. Ta-ta.

* * *
​


----------



## Courtjester

*COME AGAIN!*
​
The closing stage of a recent hearing in a UK court included an extraordinary exchange between the chairman of the magistrates and the plaintiff, Ephraim Wharfedale. It is given below:

Chairman: Now, Mr Wharfedale, this seems to be a strange case. Both you and the defendant, Mr Grobe, are representing yourselves and we have already heard what he has to say. He claims that he had never heard of you before this action began, that he has no idea why you initiated it and that he has appeared only because he was required to do so. I would now like to hear from you.

Wharfedale: It is all quite simple, Your Honour. The defendant attacked me with a most fearsome weapon, causing me bodily harm and mental anguish.

Chairman: I see. What was the instrument he used and what injury was done?

Wharfedale: He struck me in the face with a white cabbage. As a result I had a lengthy nosebleed and suffered emotional consequences.

Chairman: When did the incident occur?

Wharfedale: On the tenth of November, 1816.

Chairman: I don’t understand. You say you are speaking of something that took place over two hundred years ago.

Wharfedale: That is correct.

Chairman: Remarkable. You seem to be a relatively young man, as does Mr Grobe. Why has it taken you over two centuries to pursue this matter?

Wharfedale: That is easily explained, Your Honour. The assault took place when Mr Grobe and I were in earlier incarnations. I suppose he thought he could get away with it, but I imagine he reckoned without karma, which has now caught up with him.

Chairman: My word, we are in deep waters here. Who were the two of you at the time to which you refer?

Wharfedale: His name was Sprode and mine was Swaledale.

Chairman: You seem to have an affinity with the Yorkshire Dales. I imagine that if we were to go back even further, you were probably Mr Wensleydale in a yet earlier incarnation.

Wharfedale: Good try, Your Honour. I was in fact Mrs Wensleydale.

Chairman: Were you indeed? So am I to take it that one may come back at one time or another as a member of either gender?

Wharfedale: Yes, or in any status between the two.

Chairman: This is all too much, Mr . . . sorry Mrs Wens . . . er . . . Mr Swale . . . er . . . Mr Wharfedale. This is a secular court and we cannot deal with such affairs as the one you have raised. In any case, you are out of luck in another respect.

Wharfedale: Why?

Chairman: Because there is a timebar on the kind of misdeed in question.

Wharfedale: What does that mean?

Chairman: It means that after a certain period an occurrence of that kind should not give rise to legal proceedings. I don’t know offhand why this particular one has been allowed to do so. However, I need not consult my two colleagues here before informing you that the charge is dismissed.

Wharfedale: Hah, just my luck. I suppose I should have expected that there would be no justice for a poor man.

Chairman (after a brief word with his co-magistrates): You are about to be even poorer because you have to produce the sum of two hundred pounds for wasting the court’s time. Begone, and make sure that you pay the fine before you shed your current incarnation, perhaps to return as Mr, Mrs or Ms Arkengarthdale. 

* * *
​


----------



## Courtjester

*THE PHILOSOPHER’S  ** STONE?*
​
Yet another spectacular event was staged today by the Yorkshire engineer and inventor Kevin Spout. This one took place in a meadow three miles from his home. As usual, a group of science reporters attended, as did many members of the lay public.

Kevin stood by the side of a metal box, eight feet long, six feet wide and five feet in height. When the gathering had settled down and was paying attention, he began his address. “You are about to see something that will revolutionise all our lives,” he beamed. “The machine here is my latest creation. I call it a combinator. The idea for it came to me after I read an article about 3D printing. It took me only a few minutes to realise that, impressive though this is, it does not go far enough.

“I reasoned that what we really need is a device that will convert any substance to any other. I am delighted to say that within a week of getting the notion, I had built this prototype. It will process a large variety of materials. In due course I shall produce a more advanced model that will have a virtually unlimited range.”

At this point, one of the journalists asked whether the combinator could turn anything into gold. “Not yet,” Kevin replied. “At present I am limited to solids in a certain spectrum of relative densities, meaning the weights of various things compared to that of water, which is the standard and therefore number one. For example, iron is 7.8 times as dense as water, so that is its ranking. By coincidence, it is also the maximum reach of my current model, which starts with the lightest metal, lithium. I shall later build a version capable of producing gold, which has a relative density of 19.3, though to do so I shall need to start from a heavy base, such as lead, which is 11.3 on the scale.”

Kevin’s words brought gasps of amazement from the crowd. Might he be close to revealing the long-sought philosopher’s stone? He did not elaborate on that theme, but said that he had in mind something more mundane, though of immense social value. He added that his aim was to use most of the materials that are currently discarded and process them to produce a great deal of strong and durable matter, which he claims could be deployed to increase the Earth’s landmass. “Just think of it,” he said. “We could corral all the rubbish that’s floating in our oceans and convert it to something capable of supporting buildings. That would help to alleviate the problem of overcrowding, but for now I will proceed with my demonstration.”

With the onlookers agog, Kevin asked the science contingent to move to a position twenty yards west of the combinator. Other attendees were requested to retreat beyond the meadow’s perimeter. When everyone had complied, Kevin stood by the apparatus and completed his introduction. “You will see,” he said, “that there is a slot like a large letterbox at one end of my machine. That is to discharge the product, which emerges somewhat like semi-dried concrete, then hardens on exposure to air. It is therefore far different from the household waste with which, as you saw a few minutes ago, the appliance was loaded by my cousin, Donald, who is helping me with this project. Incidentally, the assembly rests on a rotatable base, so the extrusion slot can be swung to any desired direction. Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to get a glimpse of the future. Here we go.”

With a flourish, Kevin pressed the combinator’s starter button. For five minutes the machine emitted a low rumbling noise, then it swivelled ninety degrees on its base and ejected a stream of malodorous grey slime. That was unfortunate for the reporters who were facing the extrusion slot. All but one of them were splattered liberally with the emission. The exception was a fellow who had dived behind the others. Sadly for him, three of them fell backwards, landed on him and injured both his body and his dignity.

Kevin switched off the machine, apologised for the mishap and began to investigate what had gone wrong. Within half an hour, he was able to report his finding and announced: “It was a simple oversight. The combinator’s main components are the masher that pulps the raw material, the compactor that presses and forms it and drives out most of the water content, and the extruder that does what its name implies. The three parts are activated serially, so that as one finishes, the next one starts. I’m sorry to say Donald failed to install the connector between the first and second components, so the latter was bypassed and the mashed substance was ejected without being compacted. It is but a triviality which I shall correct this evening. If you care to come again tomorrow, you will be able to witness the real thing.”

Madazine’s occasional science reporter, Axel Griess, had watched the event from a neighbouring field. He was later found on a nearby park bench, surrounded by empty cider bottles. Asked to give his opinion, he said: “Another dud demo from the champion chump. The worst thing about this is that I was getting tanked up in an effort to return to the detox centre, where I usually have a good time. Kevin’s blundering has shaken me back to sobriety, so I’ll have to restart my binge and that will cost me plenty. There is no chance that I shall be in attendance tomorrow. Just as well, since that will spare me the likelihood of injury. Sooner or later, Kevin will be confined to a place where he can do no further harm.”  

* * *​


----------



## Courtjester

*PARLIAMENTARY EXCHANGE*
​
Minister: What we need here is a free, frank and open debate about the whole matter.

Member: Hogwash! When the minister speaks of a free, frank and open debate, we all know that what he really means is that the government has no intention of doing anything about the problem. We require action.

Minister: We have already done a great deal. Does the honourable gentleman not realise that we are a world leader in the field of which we speak?

Member: Balderdash! Allow me to translate. The truth is that, as in so many other matters, this government has ensured that we are a world leader in talking about the issue. Virtually nothing practical has actually been done.

Minister: That is not true. We have spent almost ten million in setting up a study group comprising some of the finest minds in the country to advise us on the way ahead. That could hardly be called inactive. It gives an indication of our serious intent.

Member: Twaddle! The minister has recruited a bunch of otherwise out-of-work academics and is paying them handsomely for what it has proved to be: a master class in procrastination. As ever, the government is using this chamber as a talk shop.

Minister: Oh dear, the honourable gentleman seems to be having some difficulty with the English language. If the word ‘parliament’ does not mean talk shop, I am bound to wonder what it does mean.

Member: Well, it doesn’t mean endless temporising and prevarication, which is the government’s approach to any troublesome affair. This whole administration is characterised by indolence and indecision.

Minister: The honourable gentleman is once again in error. I have already indicated that we cannot be regarded as indolent. As for indecision, I have repeatedly made my attitude clear in the plainest possible terms.

Member: Tripe! What the minister has clarified to any but the most obtuse minds that he is sitting on the fence and has no idea how to get off it. I hope the splinters are not too uncomfortable. I am mindful of some famous words of Oliver Cromwell, which are appropriate here. I believe they were as follows: ‘You have sat too long for any good you have been doing lately. Depart, I say, and let us have done with you. In the name of God, go!’

Minister: That’s interesting coming from the honourable gentleman. His party sat even longer than we have and did far less good.

Member: Never mind what we did or did not do. The point here is what the minister is doing or rather not doing. He is simply kicking the ball into the long grass in the hope that the question will disappear and he will not have to deal with it at all.

Minister: The honourable gentleman has already shown that he has trouble with one aspect of our language. Now he is struggling with metaphors. If a ball is kicked into the long grass it is indeed likely to go out of sight. However, that has not happened in this case. I suspect that what the honourable gentleman really intended to say was that the can has been kicked down the road, which I think implies that it is still visible, as it is on this occasion. The fact is that when in office the party now in opposition kicked the can so far down the road that it took a little time to reach it. However, after doing so, we have made much progress.

Member: The government has not done any such thing. In fact it appears to be paralysed. I would say it could be regarded as more in traction than in action.

Minister: Oh, very good. What a pity that the honourable gentleman’s wisdom does not equal his wit.

Member: Not so great a pity as that the minister’s sagacity does not match his mendacity.

Speaker: That remark must be withdrawn. I have allowed hogwash, balderdash, twaddle and tripe, but mendacity is going too far. It means lying and that has long been considered unparliamentary language.

Member: Thank you for reminding me, Mr Speaker. I will change my comment by harking back to 1906 and substituting Winston Churchill’s reference to terminological inexactitude as a variation on untruth, but you might admit that it hardly has the same ring as my observation.

Speaker: I accept that you have a way with words but we are here to deal with politics rather than poetry. However, you may continue after the minister has responded.

Minister: Thank you, Mr Speaker. I was about to express my regret that the honourable gentleman’s intellect is in inverse proportion to his invective. No doubt that explains why he failed so lamentably when he was in the seat I now occupy. Sadly, his conduct at that time was nothing short of treasonous.

Speaker: Oh, so the minister is at it now. An accusation of treason falls into the same category as one of lying. This argument must now cease and the two of you will be allowed to resume it when I am satisfied that your intelligence exceeds your intemperance. See, you are not the only ones who can produce catchy quips. We shall now proceed to the next item on the agenda.

Note. Anyone unfamiliar with the kind of parliamentary protocol demonstrated above may wish to note that in such exchanges the participants do not normally use the word ‘you’ to the opposing party because remarks are indirect, being addressed to the speaker, who need not observe the same nicety.

* * *
​


----------



## Courtjester

*FRANCIS DRAKE REPORTS*
​
The item below is a transcript of a one-sided conversation in which Queen Elizabeth I talks to Francis Drake during his circumnavigation of the Earth. What Drake said can be understood by inference.

Hello, Frankie. It’s about time you called. I was beginning to think you’d got lost. . . . You have? That’s a pity. Anyway, apart from not knowing where you are, what have you to report? . . . You had to scuttle two ships while crossing the Atlantic. Why? . . . Oh, too many men perished to keep all the fleet going. What a shame. You haven’t said what happened to the Portuguese merchant ship you picked up on your way but never mind that. Anything else? . . . One more ship lost to storms in the Strait of Magellan and another sent limping back home. . . . Really, Frankie, that’s pretty careless of you. I mean, you started with five vessels, added another and now you’re down to one. I hope it’s your flagship. . . . Oh, good. You’ve renamed it. So what do you call it now? The Golden Hind. I see. Well, I liked it when it was the Pelican, but I suppose you had your reasons. They say there’s method in your madness, although I sometimes think it’s more case of madness in your method. Hang on a minute. One of these pesky courtiers wants to tell me something.

Back again. Have you managed to collect any plunder? . . . Oh, attacked a few Spanish ports, eh? That might be a bit too provocative. It wouldn’t surprise me if Philip sends an armada here within a decade or so. I hope you’ll be back if that happens because I have you in mind for second-in-command of our lads to repel any possible assault. . . . No, you can’t have the top job. That’ll probably go to Hawkins. Now, about the marauding and pillaging. I need oodles of boodle to keep the country going. . . . You captured three ships. What did you get from them? . . . A load of wine. Well, that isn’t much. Ah, 25,000 gold pesos. That’s about 37,000 ducats in Spanish money. Very good! Is that all? . . . Well, well, it’s gets better. Eighty pounds in gold bullion, twenty-six tons of silver plate, thirteen chests of royals and another load of plate. Excellent work. I can use that kind of loot. Just a moment. Another interruption.

Here again. What’s that? You executed Thomas Doughty. A bit drastic, I’d say. I mean, he was your co-commander. However, what’s done is done. Anything further? . . . You couldn’t find the way back to the Strait of Magellan. That’s quite an admission for a chap who’s supposed to be an ace navigator. So what will you do? . . . Cross the Pacific Ocean. Wow, that’s a long haul. It could take a year or more. I could do with you back here sooner. Still, as long as you return with all that lovely mazuma, we’ll call that a success, big time. If all goes well, there might be a knighthood in it for you. Now, I’m being pestered by affairs of state, so we’ll have to close. All the best for what remains of your voyage and try to stay in touch. You know what they say – don’t be a stranger. Bye-bye. 

* * *
​


----------



## Courtjester

*AS THE CRITICS SAW IT*
​
Yesterday evening’s recital of piano music at the town hall was attended by two of our most prominent critics. Their views are given below:

A star is born! I was privileged to spend much of last evening listening to the first major performance in this country by Polish pianist Szymon Babrinski. Readers may be sure that he will give many more. It was enthralling to hear his interpretation of Beethoven’s eighth sonata, followed by Liszt’s sixth Hungarian rhapsody, with encores of Rachmaninov’s prelude opus twenty-three, number five and Chopin’s etude opus ten, number twelve, known far and wide as ‘The Revolutionary’. Not surprisingly, his rendition of the last item was particularly moving.

Every moment was a joy. Rarely have I heard any of these works presented to such effect. Mr Babrinski’s ritardando and rubato were particularly delightful. It is of course well known that these famous pieces usually get a rousing reception but frankly I was far too transported to notice how the rest of the audience reacted. So thunderous and overwhelming were the chords in the Liszt piece that I was put in mind of an avalanche. At times it seemed as though at least two virtuosi were in action.

It has been held by many that Sergei Rachmaninov was the greatest pianist in living memory. I suspect that same will be said of Mr Babrinski at some point in the future. My space here is too limited to do full justice to what I heard from this young man, so let me just say da capo, maestro. Your next appearance cannot come soon enough for my liking.

The Herald
* * *​
It would be difficult for me to overstate my disappointment at last night’s piano recital by Szymon Babrinski. To my mind it was the pianistic equivalent of listening to the squawking of Florence Foster Jenkins, once called the world’s worst opera singer.

I had been told that we were to hear superb interpretations of Beethoven’s eighth sonata and Liszt's sixth Hungarian rhapsody. In the event the attendees who sat through these pieces and came up for more also had to endure Rachmaninov’s fifth opus twenty-three prelude and Chopin’s revolutionary etude.

The whole experience was extremely painful. I have it on good authority that Mr Babrinski’s contemporaries at whatever conservatoire he attended were in the habit of referring to him as ‘Old Ten-Thumbs’. One can understand why. At times I was reminded of an episode of the Morecambe and Wise comedy show, when André Previn accused Eric Morecambe of playing all the wrong notes during his fumbling at a piano keyboard. Eric replied that he was in fact playing all the right notes but not necessarily in the right order.

I fail to understand how this alleged artist managed to get as far as appearing before a paying public. Perhaps he or someone on his behalf indulged in bribery, rather in the way boxing managers of old were, I understand, accustomed to paying opponents of their pugilists to fall and take the full count as soon as they received a punch that seemed convincing enough to satisfy the spectators. Whatever the background, I hope that I shall not be asked to sit through another spell such as the one I endured yesterday.

The Clarion

* * *​


----------



## Courtjester

*THE APPRAISAL*
​
Dorothy: Well, here we are, Matthew. This is the first time our employees have been given sight of their annual appraisals and had the opportunity to comment on them. You’ve seen my assessment of you and I’d like to hear your response. What have you to say?

Matthew: Plenty. First I want to know what happened to the corresponding documents in respect of earlier years.

Dorothy: They’ve all been destroyed, in order to give us a fresh start.

Matthew: I think you mean they’ve been scrapped to cover possible embarrassment. What did you say about me for the rest of the time I’ve worked under you?

Dorothy: That’s no longer relevant.

Matthew: I’ll bet it isn’t. My guess is you’ve said some nasty things, probably so you could keep me in this department instead of encouraging my transfer to some spot where I wouldn’t be treated like a galley slave.

Dorothy: I can’t believe I heard that, Matthew. If all the galley slaves had worked the way you do, the vessels wouldn’t have moved from their starting points.

Matthew: What’s wrong with the way I work?

Dorothy: It’s more a question of the way you don’t work. Let me be frank here. We expect our staff members to show at least a little get up and go. Now, ever since you came under my wing, it’s been obvious to me that even though your bar of ambition is set at rock bottom, you have persistently failed to clear it. You don’t seem inclined to make use of your education, so why did you go to university? 

Matthew: No problem explaining that. It was a way of not going to work for another three years.

Dorothy: That’s exactly what I mean. You were unemployed for some time and now that you have a job, you appear to be intent on doing as little as possible.

Matthew: If that were true, it would be understandable. I mean, if you’re never going to be satisfied with my work, then the less I do, the better. That limits your scope for criticism, right?

Dorothy: That’s an original idea. Maybe the first one you’ve had since joining us. However, your attitude doesn’t do much for our productivity. It’s my opinion that you’re just coasting.

Matthew: What do you mean by that?

Dorothy: That you’re trying to get through life with as little effort as possible.

Matthew: It’s another point that would be easy to comprehend, if you were right.

Dorothy: Why would it be easy?

Matthew: Look, Dot –

Dorothy: It’s Dorothy, and don’t forget that.

Matthew: Okay. What I mean is if I were coasting, I would simply be anticipating events.

Dorothy: How do you make that out?

Matthew: It’s plain enough. We all know that the advance of technology is going to put nearly everybody in this dump out of work in the next three or four years. I’m merely getting used to doing next to nothing before we’re all in that position, you included. Listen, Dot – 

Dorothy: It’s Dorothy. How many more times?

Matthew: Okay, Dorothy. I have a delicate constitution. I’m used to the finer things in life. A touch of elegance is what I need and what do I get here? Just look around this place and what do you see? I’ll tell you. A bunch of weirdos. Grubby, smelly, bearded and stubble-faced types with hair halfway down their backs, ‘Builder’ stamped across their foreheads and muscles in their spit – and the men are no better.

Dorothy: Well, maybe you shouldn’t work in a perfume factory. Anyway, you won’t be doing it after today. You’re fired.

* * *
​


----------



## Courtjester

*THE HEARING*
​
Extract from the record of a court case held in the Judge’s chambers

Prosecutor: Now, Miss Gloat – 

Defendant: It’s Ms Gloat, and don’t you forget it.

Prosecutor: Very well, Ms Gloat. I put it to you that late in the evening of the twenty-fourth of March you did, wilfully and with malice aforethought, enter the home of your next-door neighbour, Mrs Vinaigrette Mountbrace, and place in her bed a convincingly executed plastic model of a dead mouse, causing –

Defendant: I did no such thing and you can’t prove that I did. I know nothing about any mouse.

Prosecutor: Well, that’s all right then. We will move on to the second charge against you.

Defendant: Not so fast. If the mouse was made of plastic, it would have been dead, wouldn’t it?

Prosecutor: No doubt, but I have just said that we are about to address the second charge.

The Judge: Just a moment, Mr Beanforth, you are supposed to be the prosecuting counsel in this case, yet you have made no effort to disprove Miss –

Defendant: It’s Ms. Are you deaf?

The Judge: Partially, but kindly curb your impertinence or contempt of court will be added to the charges you face. Now, Mr Beanforth, what have you to say to my intervention?

Prosecutor: Only that Your Honour was somewhat hasty in saying that I have not tried to prove the first charge.

The Judge: Explain.

Prosecutor: I am merely attempting to lull the defendant into a false sense of security before I return to the mouse matter and execute the decisive thrust.

The Judge: You are going about your business in a strange way, but proceed.

Prosecutor: Thank you, Your Honour. Miss Gloat –

Defendant: It’s Ms. How many more times do I have to say that?

Prosecutor: Sorry. Now let us finally get to the second charge, which is that, following the incident involving Mrs Mountbrace and the mouse –

Defendant: Alleged mouse.

Prosecutor: As you wish. However, following the incident described in the first charge, you responded to the involvement of Mr Percy Mountbrace in the affair by striking him in his left eye with a bent stick. Why?

Defendant: Because I couldn’t find a straight one, and I didn’t do that either. Anyway, it didn’t hurt him and it would be the left eye because I’m right-handed, so his left side would be the most likely target, wouldn’t it?

Prosecutor: Your grasp of anatomy does you credit, but we are getting into deep waters here. First you say you did not carry out the assault, then you add that it didn’t hurt him. Which is it to be?

Defendant: You’re confusing me.

Prosecutor: That is my intention and I seem to be succeeding, don’t I? You have already contradicted yourself regarding the second charge and I have no doubt that in due course you will do the same with respect to the first. I suggest that your whole defence is a farrago of lies.

Defendant: Your muddling me again. What’s a farrago?

Prosecutor: A confused mixture, a medley. I hope it will not be necessary for me to give you free language lessons. I normally charge for my time, you know. Let us describe your testimony as a pack of lies.

Defendant: If that’s what you want to call it –

Prosecutor: Ah, so we are in agreement. You have been lying.

Defendant: No I haven’t. That mouse was made of wood, not plastic.

Prosecutor: Oh, it gets better as we go on. First you know say you know nothing about the model rodent, then you state that it was made not of plastic but of wood. Your Honour, I think I have demonstrated that Miss – sorry Ms Gloat is guilty as charged and that the jury will agree with me.

The Judge (emerging from a nap and catching only the last few words). What? Wake up, Mr Beanpole –

Prosecutor: It’s Beanforth, Your Honour.

The Judge: Never mind that. You seem to be singularly unobservant. Let me remind you that this hearing is in camera, so there is no jury.

Prosecutor: Beg pardon, Your Honour. For a moment I was thinking of another case. My contrition is boundless.

The Judge: So it should be, though I’m not surprised that you lost track of these proceedings. You have discombobulated me, the defendant and now yourself. Perhaps I have overlooked something here, but even if that is so, I am not willing to listen to all that nonsense again. It is clear that we shall never learn the truth in this case, so I am minded to dismiss it. Now off you both go and I hope that you will never darken my courtstep again.  

* * *
​


----------



## Courtjester

*SEE YOUR DOCTOR*
​
Doctor: Good morning. What seems to be the trouble?

Patient: How do I know? You’re the doctor.

Doctor: True, but you bounded in here apparently full of beans, so I think it’s reasonable that I ask what you believe is amiss with you.

Patient: I may appear to be sprightly enough but who knows what might be lurking beneath this facade? For all I know there may be some ghastly malignancy consuming me as we speak.

Doctor: Possibly. However, most of my patients call because they have symptoms of some kind, whereas you haven’t mentioned any.

Patient: Well, that’s where your expertise comes in, doesn’t it? I mean, after all the training you’ve had, you should be able to diagnose illnesses at a glance. What do you suspect might be wrong with me?

Doctor: My dear sir, this practice is based on my curing ailments as soon as I have established what they are.

Patient: Hah, that’s what’s wrong with our so-called medical service. You should be working on prevention, not cure. Your business is similar to the police service and it falls short in the same way. The constabulary ought to be forestalling crime rather than merely detecting it. 

Doctor: Thank you for the social critique, but let’s concentrate on you. Now, in order to let the dog see the rabbit, as it were, a pointer from the patient concerned is usually helpful. What do you think I can do for you?

Patient: I’d say you should give me a good going over. See if you can find out if there’s anything about to overwhelm me.

Doctor: Look, I have an average of about five minutes for every consultation. A thorough examination will take quite a while and other people are waiting to see me.

Patient: There’s another thing. Why are you rationed to five minutes per patient per visit? You shouldn’t have to rush through your work in that way. No wonder we keep hearing about people who’ve slipped through the net because of this casual attitude to appointments. If you were to give everyone the attention they needed in the first place, you might find that you’d uncover the nasties at an early stage and that would save a good deal of misery later. Also, if you picked things up at an initial visit, you wouldn’t need to see people as often and that would save a lot of your time.

Doctor: Very kind of you to tell me how to do the job I’ve been doing quite successfully for many years. Perhaps you’d like to take over here.

Patient: Worse things could happen. I could sit there and refer patients to hospitals, as you do with any problems that are beyond you, which seems to be most of them, or I could write prescriptions for placebos and medicaments that don’t work. You general practitioners are nothing more than an obstacle in our health service. They are the best-paid office drudges in the country.

Doctor: Heaven preserve us from amateur medicos. One thing I’m fairly sure of is that there’s very little wrong with your chest. I mean, you’ve just got a lot off it, so you can’t have much left there. However, I have an idea. Take my stethoscope and this reflex hammer, examine yourself to your satisfaction, let me know what shape you think you’re in and we’ll see if I agree. For what it’s worth, I can give you a start point, which is that you have an overdose of gall and probably a touch of apoplexy.

Patient: Rubbish! I want a second opinion.

Doctor: Okay, I’ll give you one. You’re a hypochondriac. Forget the self-diagnosis and scram.

* * *
​


----------



## Ralph Rotten

That is some very clever dialog.
I could hear the accent clear across the pond. :grin:


----------



## Courtjester

Hello Ralph. So pleased to see you liked the item. Hope you will enjoy some of the others.

Best wishes, Courtjester


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## Courtjester

*ALTERCATION*
​
Dear Penfellow,

I have just read your supposedly funny piece about an electronic newt. Whatever gave you the idea that you are (a) a humorist or (b) a writer of any kind? This collection of words, I can hardly share your opinion by calling it a story, is absolute drivel. Take it from me, a highly successful published writer, that you have no chance at all of getting anywhere with trash like this. Your best course of action would have been to submit it to a shredder.

The only words of comfort I can give you are that you’re not alone as a hopeless contributor to this forum, which I joined last week. I intend to offer some incisive comments to other incompetent aspiring authors, giving them the same advice as I offer to you, which is to abandon writing and turn your hand to something for which you have talent, if there is any such field. Doing that will save you a lot of wasted effort, and spare other people the time involved in trawling through your feeble efforts, searching in vain for something enjoyable. I did consider sending this as a private message, but on reflection I think it should be available to all members and guests.

Writinman

Dear Writinman,

I suppose common courtesy requires me to answer your diatribe, though I would be justified in ignoring it. Like you I’m a newcomer to scribblers.com and I never expected that my little tale about the newt would evoke such an onslaught. Responding at length to what you regard as a critique is not worth the exertion it would entail, but I will stoop to your level for a few minutes, if only to demonstrate that you are not this site’s only exponent of mud-wrestling.

First, my intention was merely to offer a little light entertainment. I did not ask for observations, though I understand that as this is a forum we are exposed to remarks, including derogatory ones. Second, I note that in addition to harpooning my work, you have already carried out your threat to attack other members in much the same way. It would seem that nobody is good enough to satisfy you, despite the fact that several of those you have assaulted are established authors who are simply enjoying themselves here and giving pleasure to others. In fulfilling the requirement to make a minimum number of postings before presenting your own doubtless immortal efforts, you have adhered resolutely to negative remarks and did not offer a single word of praise to anyone.

I have done a little research into your record. When joining scribblers.com you did indeed describe yourself as a successful author, albeit in your words, of self-published material. Oh dear, this is not quite the case, is it? The information I have unearthed is that your output amounts to one story in the historical fiction genre, produced by a notorious vanity publisher, rightly disdained by good writers.

It is clear that you do not grasp the difference between self-publishing and narcissism. This can be gathered from your opus, a copy of which I have obtained with some difficulty, as it cannot be got from any respectable outlet. Even the least proficient self-publishing house will normally proof-read books before unleashing them. Apparently nobody checked your twaddle before it was issued. It runs to only fifty-eight pages and contains sixty-two spelling mistakes and forty-seven grammatical blunders, many of them astounding howlers. What really puzzles me is that your above mentioned animadversions, even though profoundly distasteful, are passably lucid and that makes me wonder who might have written them for you. 

After reading your ‘novel’, I suggest you take a course in English language and follow that with another one in creative writing, not that either will do you much good, as a pig’s ear cannot be turned into a silk purse. However, occupying yourself in the way I recommend might keep you from pestering those who do know how to put words together.

Penfellow

Dear Penfellow,

Your response to my entirely justified observations is scandalous, and possibly even actionable in law. I was merely trying to be constructive. However, I see now that you are a case of one can lead a horse to water but cannot make it drink. I will leave you to stew in your own juice, whilst taking legal advice as to what can be done about your disgusting outburst.

Writinman

Dear Writinman,

The guidance you need is not legal but literary. In view of your offensive attitude, I have invited the forum moderator to step in.

Penfellow

Moderator: Hey, don’t ask me to intervene. I’m enjoying this punch-up far too much to stop it. Get stuck in and when you’ve finished, I’ll clear up the blood and feathers.

Dear Moderator,

That’s a disgraceful retort from an alleged senior forum official. I shall, with immediate effect, close my scribblers.com account and open one with a decent forum, namely scrawlers.org.

Writinman

Dear Moderator,

Me too.

Penfellow

Moderator: Good riddance to both of you. That saves me banning you. 

* * *​


----------



## Courtjester

*RETAIL PSYCHOLOGY*
​
Ruth: John, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about something that’s troubled me since I began working here.

John: No time like the present, Ruth. Fire away.

Ruth: I hope you’re not going to bite my head off, but I’m puzzled by the way you operate this shop.

John: Why?

Ruth: What I mean is that I’ve been with you for five months now. I’ve worked in two other health food stores, but as far as I know, your method of doing business is unique.

John: How?

Ruth: Well, in my time here, you’ve put on two special offers and now you intend to introduce another.

John: Right. So what?

Ruth: My point is that on both previous occasions, you made sure we didn’t have any of the items supposedly on special offer, and now you’re going to do that again. I’m baffled. How do you expect to sell the stuff in question when we’re out of stock of it?

John: Obviously I don’t expect to sell it. This seems to be an aspect of retail psychology you need to grasp, Ruth.

Ruth: Would you care to explain?

John: Certainly. You must have noticed that I announce the offers loud and clear, and stress that they are available for only two days. The resulting footfall here in those short periods is much higher than at other times.

Ruth: I understand that, but some people leave disappointed and empty-handed when they see that the special offer shelves are empty.

John: Indeed they do, but many of them reason that while they’re here anyway, they might as well stay and buy other things at normal prices. Now, if you just go over our sales figures for the two-day periods in question, you’ll find that daily receipts are on average over a third higher than at other times. All those takings relate to stuff sold at full prices, which means that we’re selling goods at top margins all the time.

Ruth: But we get complaints.

John: I know that a few people squawk, but most shoppers are pretty fatalistic. They either buy something else or just leave. Anyway, my assessment, based on experience, is that the gripers are usually those who come only to nose around for bargains, and who needs them? 

Ruth: I see what you mean. Do you ever have any genuine special offers?

John: Oh, about once a year I dispose of things I want to jettison anyway. That doesn’t cost much and gets rid of clutter.

Ruth: Don’t you feel that your technique is a wee bit questionable?

John: You might look at it that way, but I prefer to think of it as making a good profit. That’s why I could employ you. Get used to it, Ruth.

* * *​


----------



## Courtjester

*OLD MONEY*
​
Visitor:  Good morning.

Cashier: Good morning.

Visitor:  I have a hundred in old tenners here and I’d like to exchange them for the new notes.

Cashier: Oh, you would, would you? Well, this should have been done by Monday and it’s Wednesday now. Why have you brought them in so late?

Visitor:  I know I should have done this earlier, but the money belongs to my wife and she’s only just noticed that it’s out of date.

Cashier: Has she now? It’s a pity she didn’t spot that earlier.

Visitor:  Yes it is, but as it happens I phoned your manager and was told that it’s all right for you to swap the cash now.

Cashier: This is very irregular but I’ll oblige you without consulting my boss. Anyway, why hasn’t your wife come in herself?

Visitor:  Because she isn’t well enough.

Cashier: What’s wrong with her?

Visitor:  She has arthritis, but I don’t see what that has to do with you.

Cashier: It wouldn’t do you any harm to humour me. How long has she had this problem?

Visitor:  A couple of years.

Cashier: Are you looking after her properly?

Visitor:  Of course I am. Are you satisfied now?

Cashier: Not quite. How long have you been married?

Visitor:  Forty-two years.

Cashier: Ah, I thought as much.

Visitor:  What do mean by that?

Cashier: It’s simple enough. Forty-two is six times seven. That’s the seven-year itch, sixth time around. You’ve probably been looking elsewhere and neglecting the poor woman, so this ailment is an outward manifestation of her inner pain.

Visitor:  I’m so sorry to hear that. As a matter of fact we haven’t been getting on too well recently.

Cashier: There, you see. If you’d been treating the lady properly, she wouldn’t have landed you with this old money problem. What she’s really doing is crying for your attention. It’s high time for you to show that you really care.

Visitor:  For a person who seems to be less than half my age, you appear to know a lot about these matters.

Cashier: Age doesn’t have much to do with it. I’m a married woman and I do know plenty about suffering.

Visitor:  You appear to conflate wedlock with misery. I don’t see why.

Cashier: No, you wouldn’t. However, I can’t spend all day discussing your affairs.

Visitor:  Pardon me, madam, but you started this. I came here on a simple errand and you sailed into me in this unwarranted way.

Cashier: I’ve finished now.

Visitor:  What a relief. How about the shiny new banknotes?

Cashier: Oh, yes. One hundred in tens. Here you are. And make sure you spend some of it on that poor woman.

Visitor:  You seem to have forgotten that it’s her money.

Cashier: Don’t quibble. Just buy her something nice. She won’t mind whose cash it is. Now pull yourself together and start giving her the affection she needs.

Visitor:  I’ll see what I can do. Goodbye and thanks for the advice.

Cashier: You’re welcome. Have a nice day.

* * *​


----------



## Courtjester

The item below is a letter just received at our office
*
SAVIOUR*
​
To the editor of Madazine.

Dear Mr Rider-Hawes,

This is a note to let you know that I have discovered a way of saving the human race. No doubt you will wish to know how this came about. It happened three days ago, when I got talking with a man in a pub, where we shared a table and had a few drinks together.

Our conversation took an extraordinary turn when I asked the man what he did for a living. He replied that what he called his people did nothing in the conventional sense. As he appeared to be fairly young, able-bodied and mentally quite sharp, I asked him if he would be so good as to tell me what he meant by his people and how they got by in our world.

My companion’s response astounded me and I suppose it will have the same effect on you. He said that he was a representative of an alien race from a planet in a distant galaxy, that these creatures could change form to suit any surroundings and that those on the Earth had assumed human form. When I asked how many of them were among us, he replied there were many thousands of both genders, distributed everywhere, roughly in line with each country’s percentage of our world’s total population.

In response to my request to know what his kind wanted here, he further astonished me by saying that they intended to take over after the human race had, as he put it, vanished. I pressed him for details as to how our disappearance would occur and he replied that he and his complanetoids (I invented that word) had plenty of time to observe us destroying ourselves, as he seemed to think we would in due course. Should we not do so in what he and his fellow beings considered a reasonable length of time, they knew how to exterminate us quickly and easily.

I noticed that although we had been drinking for quite a while, the fellow was totally sober. Then I realised that it was because he had been imbibing only fruit juice. At that point, I had the inspiration that will rescue us from extinction. I asked him if he would allow me to buy us a round, suggesting that he might care to try beer or possibly something stronger. His gave himself away at that point. With a look of horror he answered that he and all of his like were intolerant of alcohol and that the slightest drop of it was fatal to any of them.

I bided my time until my interlocutor excused himself to go to the toilet. When he did so, I hurried over to the bar, bought a shot of vodka and poured it into his half-full glass of orangeade. On his return, he took a sip of it and within seconds, he slumped back in his chair, eyes glazed and breathing stertorous. After a further two minutes, his body went into a spasm, then he gave a short gasp and appeared to expire. At that point I left. Confirmation that he had perished on the spot came to me in the form of a report in our local newspaper the following day.

You will surely grasp what is necessary for our salvation. All we need to do is ply everyone we meet with any sort of drink, provided it contains alcohol. That way we shall dispose of these interlopers before they do the same to us. Naturally I realise that we might in the process do some damage to human teetotallers, but as ever one cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs. You may thank me if you wish.

Yours sincerely,

Horatio J. J. Pumps-Ventricle

Editor’s note. Pumps Ventricle, eh? Seems to come from the heart. (I hope you don’t have to look that one up, Pumpers.) We shall see how the wider public reacts to your message but everyone in this office is grateful for this pointer to our deliverance and you may be sure that we shall do our bit. We can hardly wait to get out there and indulge in all the booze-ups we shall arrange, hoping that in the process we shall get rid of a few of the intruders you mention.

* * *
​


----------



## Courtjester

*AN EVENING OUT*
​
A young married couple, Nicola and Thomas, hired a taxi for a whole evening. They had in mind to first call at a public house for a drink or two, from there to go on to a restaurant and then to finish their outing by taking a ride in an open carriage in the town park. The agreed fare would be £100.00. An excerpt from the dialogue that took place in the cab is given below:

Thomas: Right, we’ll start with a drop of good cheer. Please take us to the Hussar, driver.

Cabbie: I wouldn’t go there if I were you, sir.

Thomas: Oh, may I ask why you say that?

Cabbie: It’s snooty, the sort of place where they make you feel uncomfortable when they think you are not their type. I’m sure you know what I mean. The prices are very high and the drinks are nothing to write home about. I’ll take you there if you insist, but you’d be better of at the Nag’s Head.

Nicola: I don’t fancy that. I’ve heard it’s a spit and sawdust establishment and I hope we don’t strike you as potential patrons of such a place.

Cabbie: I grant you it’s a bit rough but you can get tanked up there for half what you’d pay at the Hussar, the booze is better and so is the company.

Thomas: Look, this is none of your business. Just do as we ask. When we’re ready to move on, we’ll have dinner at the Palace in Regent Road.

Cabbie: I wouldn’t recommend that.

Thomas: I don’t care what you’d recommend but as a matter interest, what have you got against our choice?

Cabbie: Just about everything. It costs a packet to eat there and it’s unhygienic.

Nicola: In what way?

Cabbie: Well, for one thing the cooks and waiters think they’re God’s gift to the diners. Condescending is the word, madam. There’s every chance somebody on the staff will take a dislike to you for no good reason and if that happens, you can bet that one of the chefs will be doing something nasty to your food.

Nicola: Oh, dear. Anything else?

Cabbie: You bet. One of their favourite tricks is to get an empty bottle of top-class wine, fill it with the cheapest plonk they can get, recork it and present it as the real McCoy. A friend of mine knows a lot about these things and they offered him what they said was a Gevrey-Chambertin, Premier Cru. He swears what he got was Beaujolais Nouveau.

Thomas: Astonishing. If that’s true, how do they get away with it?

Cabbie: It’s a question of percentages, sir. They know that on average, only one party in five complains. The others are either too shy to make a fuss, or they’ve had a bevvy or two before they dine, so they don’t realise they’re being swindled. That way the restaurant foists them off with rubbish eighty percent of the time. Makes sense from their point of view.

Nicola: Appalling, but we’ve booked.

Cabbie: Well, it’s your money but I think you should try Tommy’s Grill & Griddle.  

Thomas: Yes, we’ll do that. After the meal we’d like you to take us to the park and wait while we have a spin in one of those carriages.

Cabbie: That’s something else I wouldn’t do if I were you.

Thomas: This is ridiculous. What’s wrong with our plan?

Cabbie: I suppose you’ll be wanting to do that around nine o’clock, right?

Thomas: Yes. So what?

Cabbie: The place is full of muggers and suchlike at that time. You could wind up with somebody jumping out of the bushes and telling you to stand and deliver. Those types are just like eighteenth-century highwaymen.

Thomas: This is ridiculous. No doubt with your encyclopedic knowledge you have an alternative suggestion.

Cabbie: Yes I do. Your best bet is to go to the News Theatre in the railway station. It’s small, sort of intimate and the seats are luxurious. You get an hour and a quarter of great entertainment – a newsreel, a couple of good travel shorts and a few hilarious cartoons. In my view, a much better way to pass your time than what you have in mind.


Later. The cab has taken Nicola and Thomas home.

Thomas: Well, thank you driver.

Cabbie: The name’s John, sir.

Thomas: Right, John. Thank you for steering us to a pleasant evening. I’m sorry I doubted you.

Nicola: That goes for me too. We met some very nice people at the Nag’s Head, had a super meal at Tommy’s place and a really lovely time at the theatre. I enjoyed every minute of our outing.

Thomas: So did I. Look, here’s the payment we agreed on and another twenty for your guidance.

Cabbie: No need for that, sir. The advice comes free. Now just to see you top off your night out, take this.

Thomas: What is it?

Cabbie: A bottle of single malt, with my compliments. After all, Christmas is coming.

Nicola: What do you mean? It’s the twenty-fourth of September.

Cabbie: I know that, but you can’t deny what I said about Christmas. It comes every year. Good night.

* * *
​


----------



## Courtjester

*WORKLESSNESS*
​
The item below is a letter we have just received, which I think offers an interesting slant on a topic that seems to be on many minds at present. Editor

Dear Madazine,

It occurs to me that you may be willing to publish details of an idea I have been playing with for a while. It started when I conflated two pieces of information I gleaned from listening to my radio. Perhaps there is no good reason why I should have fused the two, but I did so and came up with a notion that I think may give us all a pointer to the future.

The first item was a report that a man in France had sued his employer – a public body – for what he claimed was distress caused to him because his job gave him a total sinecure. In order to be paid, he was required to be at his workplace each workday, though he had no duties, to do nothing but pass the time until leaving for home. His employer was aware of this and quite happy about it.

The second item arose during a programme about the future of employment in general. An expert in this field stated that the advance of technology would soon put millions of people all over the world out of work. Even those now doing professional and senior executive jobs would be replaced by machines.

My reaction is that it is a pity this did not come along earlier. I am not suggesting that the people affected should be put onto scrap heaps, but rather that they should continue to be paid, in most cases as before but perhaps from different paymasters, say new national bodies.

What I envisage is that the displaced workers should be required to turn up for work somewhere, much like the Frenchman mentioned above, and occupy themselves according to their inclinations and abilities, on condition that their labours are directed to the good of society as a whole. They should not be allowed to fool around with pointless games and similar pastimes, regardless of how they might try to rationalise such activities.

My notion here is that if a number of people are placed in a given spot where they must stay for a working day of average length, most of them are likely to cooperate and exchange ideas that benefit them and others. I suppose one could liken this to the atmosphere of universities. Perhaps we might even call these places multiversities. There would of course need to be some kind of supervision, the nature of which I have not yet thought through. Spice could be added by rewards for anything deemed socially useful, to be determined by judging panels. 

In putting forward this proposal I am mindful of my own long career in the mills of industry and commerce. I don’t believe that my country derived much benefit from my efforts, whereas had I been set free to occupy myself as I wished, I like to think the outcome would have been better for my contemporaries and for future generations.

When I took the opportunity to retire somewhat earlier than expected, my boss, the company’s chief executive, asked me what I intended to do with my time. My reply was that I wanted to indulge my long-held desire to produce works of fiction. I was not too pleased when he retorted that most of my work for the previous ten years had comprised writing reports for him and his fellow directors, and that the nature of those papers was such that my proposed future efforts would not represent much of a change. The cheek of it! But never mind my disillusionment after that decade of toil, or the fact that I have not yet done what I had in mind. Let me just hope that you will put my scheme before your readers and I would like to hear their reactions.

Yours sincerely,
Tobias Oxminder

* * *​


----------



## Aquarius

_* Be A Miracle Worker – Part Nineteen

The Miracle*_

_*





*_
​After having reached his eighty-third birthday on 8th January 2020, when the Sun was in Capricorn, my husband of fifty-six years and best friend of sixty-nine years departed from the earthly school of life on Saturday, 25th January 2020 in the morning. Will you believe me when I tell you that I am glad about it? The 8 is ruled by Saturn, the planetary ruler of Capricorn, and that made my husband a double Capricorn and that is the hallmark of a very old and experienced soul. In keeping with his Saturnian style, he left our world behind on a Saturday, the day ruled by guess who? Saturn! 

Knowing that, if he managed to get things right towards the end of his present lifetime by patiently enduring whatever came his way, he would be released from the compulsion of having to take part in further earthly lessons. And so he refused chemotherapy and bravely battled with cancer of the waterworks until the state of his health got so bad that he had to be taken to our local hospital less than a fortnight ago. In the morning of the above mentioned date, one of the nurses saw him contentedly sipping his cup of tea. When she looked again less than ten minutes later, he was leaning back and the colour of his face had changed. Very quietly he had just slipped away. 

Together we have been working on a miracle for quite a while and only the day before he departed from our world I told him that the miracle could happen quite suddenly. Little did I know that it did and how it would manifest itself in the end and that in God’s time and God’s way – not ours. My thanks to God and the Angels for this blessing. It’s a great relief to know him safe and sound, alive and well, starting to enjoy the greater freedom of the spirit realm. All along I have never given up hope that one of these days a miracle would happen for him and that he would then be writing the last chapter of this part of my jottings. 

Through his suffering his karmic debts must have been paid and the balance of his spiritual bankbook restored. The slate was wiped clean through clearing out, down to the last one, the false beliefs, prejudices and superstitions that were stored in his soul memories. With this the conditions were right and nothing stood in the way of a miracle, so that it really could come about quite suddenly. Knowing where he was going and what awaited him, made it easy for him to let go without a struggle when the Angel of Death took his spirit/soul by the hand and said: ‘You’ve suffered long and hard enough, old boy, come along with me! I’ll take you home.’ 

One part of me cannot help feeling guilty because sadness when someone passes into the world of light is the traditional thing of the past. Yet, the other much stronger spiritual side of me just feels happy and relieved that he no longer has to suffer. That’s why God and the Angels have decided in their infinite wisdom to write this last chapter of ‘Be A Miracle Worker’ through me, the same as all other parts of my writings always have done and to this day are coming into being. As this outcome is much more beautiful, good and right than any other one could possibly have been at age eighty-three, I am glad to oblige.

Let’s steal away, let’s steal away,
No reason left for staying.
For me and you
Let’s start a-new
And quietly steal away.

Let’s leave behind the city streets,
The gloom and desolation,
Of earthly life.
The rain, the cold,
Growing older and older
That’s too tough a station
For you and me.

The Fureys
Edited by Aquarius ​
I hope that one of these days the same kind of miracle is going to happen for me and that I too will be allowed to quietly slip away. And it’s not a goodbye or farewell we are saying to each other now, my Beloved, merely ‘au revoir’ and ‘auf Wiedersehen’ in the world of light. This is humankind’s true home from which we emerge at the beginning of every new lifetime and return to when it ends, at whatever earthly age this may come about. It’s no big deal really and nothing to be afraid of. And because in spirit we are one, until then you will be with me in any case and never be more than a thought away. What more could anyone wish for?

For me it’s a comforting thought that everything in the whole of Creation is wheels within wheels and cycles within cycles, and that this also applies to our earthly existence. On the whole human lives unfold like the seasons of the world around us, never stopping or even resting, merely slowing down towards the end. In both cases spring, summer, autumn and winter quite reliably are followed by another springtime that brings a renewal, regeneration and rebirth. In the case of human beings this happens in the world of light, our true home. There we rest and recuperate from the stresses and strains of earthly life until we are ready to either apply for another earthly lifetime or being allowed to move on to exploring the next higher level of the spirit realm that is ready and waiting for us. 

The outcome depends on which degree someone’s development has reached. But whatever happens, without interruption every one of us at all times is taking part in the flow of the great river of life and evolution. All of us are constantly proceeding forwards and upwards, each on their own individual spiral as well as that of humankind and the whole of Creation.

From ‘Be A Miracle Worker’ 


   * * *

P.S. Dear Friends. Before his  departure into the spirit realm the Courtjester wrote several more  Madazine items. In loving memory of him and appreciation of his  contribution to the Writing Forums, from time to time I hope to share  another one of them with you, his cherished readers, until the last article  has gone. 

​With love and light,
Aquarius 

* * *

​


----------



## Aquarius

_*To The One I Love And Who Loves Me
*_
​ _*




*_
​ Now that I have departed from the earthly plane, 
Release me and let me go.
You and I, we still have many things to see and do,
So do not tie yourself to me with regrets and tears.
I gave you my love and you will never guess
How much you brought to me in happiness.
I thank you for the love you have shown,
But now it’s time for each to travel on alone.

So, weep a while, if grieve you must.
Though not for me, only for yourself and
For the hole my passing has created in your life.
But then let your grief be comforted by trust
And the knowledge that 
It’s only for a while that part we must.
Bless the memories you carry in your heart.
It knows that no love is ever lost,
That life is eternal and goes on and on,
Not just for you and me, but everybody.

You and I now are closer than we have ever been
And I’ll never be further from you than a thought.
So whenever you need me, call and I’ll be near.
Even though you can now neither see nor touch me,
Know that I have never gone from you.
And when you listen to your heart,
You’ll feel my love there soft and clear.

And then, one fine day,
When you are coming this way, 
You’ll find me waiting to greet you 
And with a smile 
I shall welcome you home.

Fr. Pat Lennon
Edited by Aquarius​ 
 From ‘Comfort For The Bereaved’ 

 * * *
​


----------



## Aquarius

_*Au Revoir Courtjester
*_
Life and water.
Into the ocean of life drops a milestone.
The ripples reach out and as they intersect
with other ripples from other milestones,
create a complex weave of dancing refractions.
​
In my life I have had many milestones. Writing Forums is a fertile garden for them. Of these, I wish to tell of Courtjester. While, sadly, his corporeal body is no longer here, his strength and skill and humanity remain as simple words on this screen, even though they are an eternal part of him. For us he is leaving behind his legacy of strength and determination. They are immortal and are guiding those who find them and understand their messages. He, like you and me, was and will always be, a writer. 

As he partook of the dance of life and wrote about it, made us richer. Now the wind blown leaf of his spirit and soul are resting, but I know he will soon be writing up a storm of a different kind in a new place. I salute his generous spirit and soul. See you on the other side of the veil of consciousness that separates our world from yours.

No writer, like no artist, ever rests in peace. There is always a story to be told. Write on.

Bazz cargo

* * *
​
I could not have expressed it as well as you did and thanks a million for that, dear Friend. I sense the Courtjester looking over my shoulder, reading your kind and loving words, smiling, nodding in agreement and thanking you. God bless you, your loved ones and everybody at the Writing Forums, writers and readers alike. 
With love and light,
Aquarius

* * *
​


----------



## Aquarius

In loving memory of The Courtjester
from my Madazine Pending File*

STALKER *
​
A man noticed that a woman appeared to have been following him for over half an hour. Curious to confirm his suspicion, he turned a corner, came to a standstill and accosted her when she reached the spot. The conversation went as follows: 

Man: Excuse me for stopping you, but I believe you have been trailing me for some time. Is that by chance or intention? 

Woman: Oh dear, is it so obvious? 

Man: It is. I walked along Manor Street, turned into Albert Road and entered this shopping precinct, where I took a right turn, then two left ones. I’ve covered a mile and a half and you have been within a whisker of thirty yards behind me the whole way. Whenever I paused, you did the same. Would you care to comment on that? 

Woman: Yes. I must confess I have been following you. I’m sorry if that has upset you, but it’s part of my field experience. 

Man: In what area? 

Woman: I lost my job recently and I’ve spent two hundred pounds on a correspondence course designed to teach me how to be a private detective. This is my first outing covered by lesson two which is Unobtrusive Tracking. 

Man: Well, I regret to disappoint you Miss, Mrs or Ms – tick where appropriate – but you are about as unobtrusive as the proverbial elephant in a living room. 

Woman: How do you think I went wrong? 

Man: Where do I start? First, if you want to be inconspicuous, you need to keep your distance. A hundred yards would be about right. Second, there’s the small matter of what you’re wearing. 

Woman: I see. Is it the coat? 

Man: Well, if I may paraphrase Raymond Chandler, the coat helps but you don’t really need it, though I have to say that your choice of bright red does tend to attract attention. You might also consider changing your headscarf from that striking shade of yellow to something darker. Then there are your black fishnet stockings. Lastly, I strongly recommend to get rid of your three-inch heels. They’re not the ideal footwear for a private eye. If you persist with them you’ll always have trouble following your quarry for any length of time. Frankly, your outfit could lead a man to think of you as being in a quite different occupation. 

Woman: This is very depressing. I’ve been in financial difficulties for a while, especially since paying for this tuition. I can’t afford any more clothes at present and I have eight more lessons to learn if I’m to finish my training and try to make use of it for earning a living. 

Man: I see. Look, take this twenty-pound note and go round the charity shops. You should be able to get some decent stuff with this. And make it sober, maybe grey or black. Do it today. And here’s my card. Call at my office about nine tomorrow morning. Perhaps I can be of some assistance to you. 

Woman: This is really nice of you, but how do you think you might help me? 

Man: No problem there. I’m a private investigator.

* * *

Presented with love by the partnership of 
The Courtjester and Aquarius

* * *
​


----------



## Aquarius

In loving memory of The Courtjester. 
Another story from my Madazine Pending File.

*ALL AT SEA*

A recent radio shipping forecast. 
​
We’ll skip the general synopsis with all those highs and lows and things. Nobody’s really interested anyway. I’ll start with the area forecasts.


Viking: Well, there’s quite a blow up there, but what do you expect when the wind has been virtually uninterrupted for thousands of miles?

North Utsire, South Utsire: Now here’s a thing. I’ve looked into this and learned that from 1875 to 1924, the Norwegians used to spell Utsire with ‘e’ at the end, then they changed that to an ‘a’ ending. You’d think we might have caught on by now. After all, it’s been nearly a century. Makes you sick, doesn’t it?

Forties, Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Dogger, Fisher, German Bight: A bit windy here too, but that’s hardly surprising. I mean, these spots are exposed to whatever comes from the East, and we don’t get much that’s good from that direction, do we?

Humber, Thames, Wight, Portland, Plymouth. Still a bit breezy here and there, but rather less chilly than way up north. Not so bad if you’re well wrapped up.

Bíscay: Further south, so getting warmer. Big surprise, eh?

Trafalgar: We usually give that one a miss at this hour, so why should today be different? I always think it sounds a wee bit triumphal. You know what I mean. Nelson and all that.

Fitzroy: Pity we can’t still call it Finisterre if you ask me, but nobody ever does. However, it’ll be about the same as Biscay, if you can remember what I said on previous occasions about that, or even if you can’t.

Sole, Lundy, Fastnet, Irish Sea: It’s good that we can lump them all together, as they don’t amount to much separately. It’ll be quite nice here, but there’s no need for going into detail.

Shannon, Rockall, Malin, Hebrides, Bailey: Likely to vary from passable to pretty nasty here. Think of it getting worse as it goes upwards. You know, I always feel a bit sorry for poor old Bailey, stuck up there, some distance from land. The place must feel lonesome at times.

Fair Isle, Faeroes, South East Iceland: They are sure to be about the same as Viking, so I’m not going to go through that again.

As for the weather reports from coastal stations and the forecast for inshore waters, we don’t deal with all that hogwash until after midnight, so that means I’ve got through to the end, thank goodness. Frankly, I don’t know why we do this, when the ships have no need of it. They can paddle their own canoes, so to speak. I mean, it’s easy enough for them to find out what they want to know without listening to our broadcasts, so why do we bother? To tell you the truth, giving these reports has been a pain in the neck to me for years. My fellow announcers must speak for themselves but I’ve just about had enough, so you might not hear from me again. I can’t honestly say it’s been a pleasure. That’s your lot.

* * *

Presented with love by the partnership of
The Courtjester and Aquarius

To live in the hearts of those who love us
shows that we are not dead.

* * *
​


----------



## Aquarius

In loving memory of The Courtjester. 
Another story from my Madazine Pending File.
​
The item below is a letter received here a couple of days ago. We neither endorse nor censure the writer’s comments, but wonder whether they might strike a chord with some readers. Editor*
SHOOT THE MESSENGER*​
Dear Madazine,

I hope you will decide to publish the following comments, which I make in great exasperation. My theme is the attitude currently evident in many ostensibly serious radio transmissions. The same may apply to television, but I cannot comment on this as I do not have any means of watching it.

The programmes I have in mind show a marked tendency to debase objective broadcasting in various ways. I could cite many of these but will content myself with a few glaring examples that come to mind immediately. They are as follows:

First: Weather forecasters who tell us with barely concealed glee that we are in for big trouble, for example by experiencing fierce cold, oppressive heat, damaging gales or – here is a nice one – dribs and drabs of rain. I don’t want to know the speakers’ opinions of what is about to happen. What I require is a note of the expected temperatures, cloud cover or absence of it, precipitation (if any) and wind speed. I would like to decide for myself what to make of the information.

Second: Reporters who, in the absence of anything sufficiently sensational on the home front, scour the world for news of someone, somewhere, enduring horrors which are doubtless important to the sufferers, but virtually meaningless to the rest of us. I would prefer the broadcasters to admit that they don’t have enough significant material to fill the time that has been set aside for peddling their wares. They could then offer us something soothing. I am mindful of one news bulletin (for all I know there may have been more) in the early days of radio, when the announcer said: “Today there is no news. Instead, we shall have some piano music.” That was very pleasant.

Third: Interviewers who, when speaking with someone who has had some personal mishap, ooze a degree of empathy which I do not believe can be sincere. Come off it, you lot. We all know you’re enjoying every minute of it, as are your interlocutors, who are basking in brief spells of fame as radio ‘stars’.

Fourth: Presenters who invite guests, talk to them for a while, then mention, as though it has occurred to them only in passing that the invitees ‘just happen’ to have written books that are about to be published. What a coincidence! I am convinced that the sole reason the guests have appeared is to plug their books and, if possible, to elicit compassion from listeners and perhaps eventually readers for the creative agony they have undergone to produce their deathless prose. My heart bleeds. Goodness knows there are enough dedicated book programmes on the radio, so it surely isn’t necessary for literary output to be hawked, especially so blatantly, during other transmissions.

Fifth: The persistent references to illness, both mental and physical. In my opinion, the main cause of diseases is fear of them, and the main cause of that fear is listeners’ exposure to constant prattling about health problems. This suggests to me that the content offered is shaped by worried middle-aged people who are angst-ridden about the future and who will not be satisfied unless they get everyone else as screwed up as they are. My advice to people affected by this is to cease tuning in and, as a consequence, hopefully stop worrying.

Sixth: Reporters who, when relating details of an incident, find the noisiest place they can in order to shout their comments, when they could surely move away a short distance and speak to us quietly. I don’t want to hear people yelling from under whirling helicopter blades, close proximity to gunfire, beside busy roads, rioting crowds and the like. If this is supposed to impart realism, it fails in my case, as I turn my set off until they are likely to have finished.

Seventh: I would like to know why, when I try to listen to the main late evening news bulletins, I hear a totally disproportionate amount of time given to what I call the crimecast. It seems that the news gatherers have trawled our world to bring an assortment of snippets that are of little or no interest to the vast majority of us. It looks to me that this is done to fill slots for which there is not enough material of substance.

Eighth: It seems that no matter what kind of programme is offered – news, current affairs, economics, obituaries or whatever else – the producers find some way of introducing blaring and totally inappropriate pop music at various points. I wish this practice would cease.

My final observation is that it would be nice to hear more good news, for example a comment to the effect that on the day under review, ninety-odd percent of us lived our lives in a normal, largely uneventful way. I seem to recall that the idea of offering brief bulletins of positive information was tried some time ago. The initiative did not last long, presumably because it wasn’t depressing. This leads me to think that if we were to adopt a method used in the past by the Armenian king Tigranes the Great, among others, i.e. the practice of ‘shooting the messengers’, we might get fewer gloomy items from the newshounds who survived.

I assume that other people have their bugbears about radio and possibly television, but if you would like to include my comments in one of your issues, you are most welcome to do so. 

Yours sincerely,

Boadicea Higgins, Miss – and please don’t refer to me as Boudicca 

* * *

Presented with love by the partnership of
The Courtjester and Aquarius

‘Living in the hearts of those who love us
proves that we are not dead.’

* * *​


----------



## Aquarius

In loving memory of The Courtjester. 
Another story from my Madazine Pending File.
*
AS YOU WERE*
​
The item below is a letter we received a day or two ago, addressed to me. Editor

Dear Mr Rider-Hawes,

While I am cognisant of the fact that you do not devote much of your organ to current affairs, I feel you might offer your readers a little something of my own devising, which I think could be of great benefit to them and perhaps to many more of our compatriots. My subject is one now receiving an enormous amount of attention, namely Brexit.

I suspect that most of us may now be weary of hearing pronouncements from self-styled experts in every aspect of the UK’s departure from the European Union. Much of the output concerned is both tiresome and unnecessary, as it is, at least in my view, impossible to be an expert on an event that has no precedent. Also, it puzzles me that people who seem to be armed with all relevant knowledge of this matter should come with such certainty to opposite conclusions. One would think that truly sensible, logical minds would, when in possession of every scrap of pertinent information, converge on a particular opinion, regardless of their genders and largely of their ages. That they fail to do so persuades me that too many of them are motivated more by socio-political dogma than analysis.

My research indicates that the deluge of information and opinion to which we have been subjected has resulted in great confusion in the minds of a large number of us, including myself. I believe there are millions of Britons who are now unsure as to whether they really went for the right option in 2016, irrespective of how they voted. The scheme I am putting forward would resolve the quandary troubling these people, as they would not need to agonise any further, having covered both in and out options.

The solution to this so-called problem is to my mind very simple. I suggest that we hold another referendum to ratify or reject the one we had in 2016. However, the second one would be different from the first. My proposal is that the remain or leave choice should be same as before, but should be preceded by a government statement that an indecisive result would mean retention of the status quo ante, i.e. the position before the first referendum.

You might ask how the outcome I envisage could be achieved. This is perfectly straightforward. Under the system I am advocating, all voters would be required to put their crosses in both boxes, leave and remain. Any ballot paper not completed in this way would be regarded as spoiled. This exercise would have huge advantages all round. The voting age could be fixed at any point, so for example those aged sixteen and seventeen would qualify.

One can imagine the relief in official quarters. The UK government would be immensely pleased by the removal of any requirement to do anything – always a welcome development to any British administration. The joy among eurocrats in Brussels would be boundless, as they would have seen the validation of their main democratic principle, namely that people who make the ‘wrong’ choice in any first referendum must keep on voting until they get the right answer. In addition, the civil servants on both sides would derive great satisfaction because a vast amount of unnecessary work will have been done, keeping many people harmlessly occupied for a long time.

I submit this plan in the hope that if adopted, it will bring an end to the current disgruntlement, regardless of who is experiencing it.

Yours sincerely,

Aloysius Spindle

Note: At first reading this seems a strange idea but on reflection perhaps it indicates the confusion in the minds of many of us, including me. Editor

* * *

Presented with love by the partnership of
The Courtjester and Aquarius

To live in the hearts of those who love us
shows that we are not dead.

* * *​


----------



## Aquarius

In loving memory of The Courtjester. 
Another story from my Madazine Pending File.

*JUST CHATTING*
​
A: Nice weather. It makes one feel good about the whole Universe.

B: Which one? I’m a multi-universe man. But perhaps you don’t dwell on such matters.

A: On the contrary, there are long periods when I do little else.

B: Most interesting. So I imagine you will have taken up a position with respect to our Cosmos and the possible plenitude of others.

A: I have my views, but so much depends on the significance one assigns to the Anthropic Principle, on which I have cerebrated extensively.

B: I think one should dismiss the concept as merely speculative. I am more inclined to cogitate on the Deceleration Parameter.

A: Really? I’ve always thought of that as the sum, to any given level, of an infinite series, leading towards the omega limitation. 

B: Ah, well, we are all entitled to our opinions and I would certainly wish to eschew animadversion. However, I would say there is at this stage no sound reason for us to accept that omega is quantifiable.

A: Without desiring to asseverate, I think it is, and I derive that conclusion from the extent to which the ekpyrotic process, assuming the hypothesis concerning it is verified, facilitates examination of the Hubble Constant and the ascertaining of its precise value.

B: I don’t see how the two are connected. I’m persuaded that when in pursuit of the Hubble figure, it is more important to have a clear understanding of the hydrostatic equilibrium of maturing celestial bodies.

A: Indeed? I would place greater emphasis on the wider aspects of the degeneracy of compacting matter. However, to digress for a moment, I have of late devoted some time to questioning whether we shall detect superluminary bodies.

B: Well, many people mock that notion, even as a theory. Still, they do the same with regard to other many other conjectures. Die Menschen verhöhnen was sie nicht verstehen, if I may lean upon Goethe.

A: Ah, yes. The people deride what they don’t understand. I never before encountered the quote, but clearly the German polymath knew whereof he wrote.

B: True, but to return to our theme, I often think that we would make more headway if we could establish with certainty the absolute magnitude of cepheid variables.

A: No doubt, but how are we to do that without sure knowledge of the effects of gravitational lensing?

B: We might well get a pointer to construction of the cosmological distance ladder by considering the sub-atomic firmament in general and quantum indistinguishability in particular.

A: Hmn. The extremes of size. That would raise the question of whether both the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle and Pauli Exclusion hold good in the context of the possibility of quarks being leptonic entities.

B: We can only persevere with our respective endeavours. I’m fairly confident that the TOE – the good old Theory of Everything – is almost within my grasp.

A: My own bouts of lucubration have led me to conclude that I also have made much progress in that direction. In fact I . . . oh, my goodness, I seem to have cut off a piece of your right ear. Clumsy thing for a barber to do. So sorry.

B: Don’t give it another thought. Thanks to Mother Nature’s wondrous bounty in such matters, I have two ears. Give me the severed portion and I’ll get it re-attached when time permits. You might take comfort from learning that I err at times in my work as a taxi driver. Last week I inadvertently delivered a man into a duck pond. Parked too close to it. He was sitting at the front with me. Got out and took a bath. Paid me with a wet fiver. 

A: Just one of those things. It’s a relief to know that I’m not the only one who executes the odd professional faux pas. There, we’ve finished now, and I must say I’ve greatly enjoyed the polysyllabicalism of our interlocution.

B: It was indubitably sesquipedalian. Here is your money. You will appreciate that in the circumstances I do not feel it appropriate to offer a tip – the ear thing, you know.

A: Perfectly all right, sir. Mind the step on your way out, and in view of your occupation, may I express the wish that you fare well. Ha, ha.

As the customer leaves, dripping blood across the flagstones, he addresses a man intending to enter the shop. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. That fellow knows precious little about cosmology and he’s even weaker on nuclear physics.” 

* * *

Presented with love by the partnership of
The Courtjester and Aquarius

To live in the hearts of those who love us
shows that we are not dead.

* * *​


----------



## Aquarius

On the 8th January 2021 the Courtjester would have been eighty-four, if he had stayed on this side of the veil of consciousness that separates the spirit world from ours. In memory of my husband, I would like to share with you one of my Madazine favourites. Apart from that I believe it’s a brilliant piece of work, it somehow rings a strong bell with me in connection with what’s presently happening in our world.

*INDEPENDENCE DAY*​
Greetings, my fellow Zubukians! I intended to address you today from the balcony of Government House. Unfortunately, current circumstances preclude that, so I must ask you to accept this television broadcast as a substitute. When I finish speaking here, I shall try to make my way to Revolution Square and review the annual parade of our magnificent Republican Guard, after the insurg . . . er . . . merrymakers now occupying that holiest of grounds have, entirely of their own free will, dispersed. I am informed that this will be within an hour.

For all of us, this is a solemn day, yet also a joyous one. Solemn because it gives us the opportunity to commune on a national basis, feeling ourselves at one with our ancestors, and joyous because it was exactly twenty years ago that we threw off the yoke of colonialism. Further, it is nineteen years to the day since the events took place which resulted in my becoming Prime Minister and, three weeks later, President of our beloved country.

I am deeply conscious of the heavy burdens placed upon me by the simultaneous holding of the two highest offices of our state, the more so as there is nobody who will, or can, lift them from me. I fear that I shall not be able to relinquish these duties this side of the grave. We live in troubled times. Everywhere in the world there is disorder, and we cannot insulate ourselves. There is no denying that we have our problems. Even in my own party, the National Alliance for Zubukian Integration, there has been unrest and, it must be admitted, corruption. Many of you will recall that only seventeen short years ago, I was obliged to dismiss the ministers of finance, home affairs, foreign relations and transport. Having no suitable replacements, I was forced to assume their portfolios myself- – yet more responsibilities that I shall, however reluctantly, be required to discharge for the rest of my days.

Why shall I not be able to cast off these millstones? I think you know. During the post-colonial disturbances, every party but my own in our hallowed land simply disintegrated, vanishing virtually overnight. It was left to us alone to carry the inextinguishable torch of democracy. True, there was an attempt made recently to form a viable opposition. To my deepest chagrin, that effort failed. I was greatly distressed by the collapse of the Alternative Progressive Enlightenment- – the APE – party.

Feelings ran high at the time, and the prevailing mood affected me as much as anyone. I cannot look back without a sense of deep sorrow at my last words to the leader of the aspirant rival organisation. I merely intended to convey my admiration of the man as, so to speak, the dominant male in his movement. It was regrettable that I referred to him as the chief ape. Also, my remark was ill-timed, coming as it did two hours before the untimely and, I emphasise, totally accidental demise of that fine young statesman. May his soul forgive me.

The unfortunate disappearance of the APE party was not the last of our troubles. Even now there are elements in our revered homeland intent upon fomenting strife. Indeed, it is for this reason that I speak now from the National Security Compound, surrounded by three- – yes, three- – concentric perimeter fences of four-metre-high electrified wire. I ask you to remember that fact, though the last thing I want is to be separated from you by the defences of a totally impregnable fortress. My dearest wish is to be among you, wringing your . . . hands. Yes, my friends, your hands.

Our former colonial masters claimed to have left us with a working governmental system. I spit upon their assertion. If they had made adequate provision before their departure, why were we compelled to discard their arrangements? We even had to change the name of our country. The colonists left us with what? I will remind you. The stark and unimaginative Zubukia. With our modernisation plan, we changed that in less than two years to the People”s Democratic Republic of Zubukia, or PDRZ. Can anyone doubt that this is more appropriate to our status in the world?

My compatriots, we have recently been the target of unwarranted attention from various external bodies. The international team that visited us last year concluded that literacy standards here had declined since colonial days. I spit upon their report. They said that the level was formerly fifty-two per cent and that it had fallen to twenty-three per cent. Do these meddlers not realise that we have our own traditions, our storytellers, to meet our needs? Notwithstanding that, I strive ceaselessly for improvement. I aim to ensure that in under ten years, there will a book in every school and, where there is evening tuition, a candle in each classroom.

We have been told by another agency, whose name I cannot bear to utter, that we lag behind other democracies in terms of our degree of enfranchisement. I spit upon this supposed finding. Is it not true that every first-born male over the age of forty in our country now has the vote? How does that accord with the monstrous charge against us? Obviously it does not. Our advance has been exemplary and will continue at an appropriate pace.

I must now deal with the most unworthy of all the accusations hurled at us. I refer to a bulletin issued by the World Bank, saying that our ninety-billion-dollar finds of oil, gas, uranium, platinum, gold and copper should have been better used in the last nine years. We are told that a land of four million people should be reaping greater benefits from such bounty. At the risk of being censured for excessive expectoration, I spit upon that document. Such malice can have been engendered only by the fact that no interest has yet been paid on the loan of twelve billion dollars, made to us by the Bank eight years ago.

Who is at fault? These legalised loan sharks should have known better than to bury our poor country under such a mountain of money. Our financial structure could not cope. Inevitably, there was confusion, multipartite transactions and complex pecuniary allocations which I struggle unflaggingly to trace. I was, sorrowfully, obliged to seek the assistance of a certain European country, well-versed in these matters. The World Bank asks where the funds in question are now. I answer that that is m . . . our business. Further, if the masters of usury continue to badger us, I shall, on your behalf, repudiate the debt. Do you hear this, you Shylocks in Washington? Not one shavaster shall I pay.

Now, my friends, the cares of state demand that I leave you for the moment. I hear the clanking and rumbling of those tribulations closing in upon me. They are constantly at my gate. If you can still see or hear this transmission, I ask you to join me in singing our national anthem, Zubukia Forever. Let the rafters ring! 

* * *

Presented with love by the partnership of
The Courtjester and Aquarius

To live in the hearts of those who love us
shows that we are not dead.

* * *​


----------



## Aquarius

The following is the essence of a teaching from the White Eagle group of spirit guides that appeared in ‘The Quiet Mind – Just Laugh!’: ‘If everything goes wrong, just laugh! Let your laughter have its fling and let go of things. Keep your vision on God and know that in the end everything is sure to come right. And that is the truth.’ 

With love from Aquarius on this side of the veil 
that separates our two worlds from each other
and the Courtjester greeting you from the other side.

God bless you all and keep you safe, always. 

* * *
​


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## Aquarius

Today I would like to treat you to another one of my all-time favourites that ever came forth from the Courtjester. Something to really make you laugh, not merely chuckle, I hope. 

*SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT*​
A: You seem to be undecided, madam. Are you looking for somebody?

B: No, I was seeking an empty seat. This is the only one. May I join you?

A: Delighted. I always think it’s a little dreary to dine alone on long rail journeys, especially at the last sitting. Perfect timing, too. I was just about to order. Heard someone say the steak’s good, so I’ll try it. A rare one for me.

B: I’ll have the same. Remarkable enough that these people offer so varied a menu, but the inclusion of rarities is astonishing.

A: Er, perhaps so. Fairly comprehensive wine list, too. I suppose one should opt for burgundy, but I have a weakness for claret, so I’m going that way.

B: Claret, you say. I’m more inclined to Bordeaux, but I will accept your choice.

A: Excellent. One shouldn’t be too fussy. My name is Spond, Shane Spond. Let us dispense with formalities. Call me Shane.

B: Pleased to meet you, Mr Spond. Legova, Major. I agree that we should not stand on ceremony. My forename is Puttya. You may use it.

A: Puttya Le . . . yes. The pleasure is mutual, Major. An army officer, are you?

B: I was for some years, but not now. The title keeps slipping out. It’s a habit. Excuse my saying this, Mr Spond, but I have a strange feeling of having come across your name somewhere, and your face seems familiar, too. But then, one sees so many dossiers and photos. No doubt I am mistaken.

A: Most likely. I keep a low profile. Don’t believe I qualify for being on record anywhere. However, it’s funny you should say what you did. I have the oddest sensation that the same applies to both of us. It’s probably just one of those things, but somehow your appearance rings a bell, and as to names, yours has a vague resonance with me.

B: I cannot imagine how or why. I also fly below the radar. Perhaps we’re thinking of two other people. Forgive my curiosity, Mr Spond, but you give the impression of a businessman. What line are you in?

A: Nothing glamorous. I’m a kind of agent. Ordinary bricks and mortar stuff.

B: Ah, construction, is it?

A: Actually, it’s the reverse, but really quite mundane.

B: Demolition? Fascinating. I once saw a TV programme about that. All shaped charges and dropping of lofty buildings so that they cover only their own footprints. Is that what you do?

A: Well, you could say that I deal with bod . . . er . . . objects taller than they are wide and that covering footprints is important to me at times. However, my efforts are not very refined. You could call me an animated wrecking ball. I’m sure your work is more interesting than mine.

B: Hardly, though I too am an agent. I deal in metal products. High-velocity things, mainly steel and lead. It’s simply a question of knowing who has something to sell and who wishes to buy it. I’m sometimes jokingly referred to as a loose cannon.

A: Dear me. Wrecking balls and loose cannons, eh? A detached observer might regard us as a destructive pair, wouldn’t you say?

B: Possibly, but I’m sure neither of us has anything negative in mind at present.

A: I sincerely hope not. A laughable idea.

B: Pardon me again, but I must say you seem to be staring at me. Is something disturbing you, Mr Spond?

A: Shane. I am the one who should be begging forgiveness. It’s just that you have striking eyes. A man could get lost in them, Major.

B: Puttya, please. Yes, my eyes are said to be compelling. Look into them, Mr Spond. Take your time. Lose yourself. Eyes are magnetic. Eyes are entrancing. They’re rather like mirrors. What do you see in mine?

A: Right now, the reflection of a man with two knives coming up behind me. What do you say to that, Major Legova?

B: He also has forks and spoons, Mr Spond. He’s our waiter.

A: Ah, I see. May I inquire where you are going, Major?

B: Pest!

A: Sorry, I didn’t mean to be. Just making conversation.

B: You misunderstand me, Mr Spond. I was referring to Pest as in the second part of the Hungarian capital. Buda and Pest are really twin cities, you know.

A: Of course. Silly of me. Maybe I was still fixated with your eyes. Noir de noir is the phrase that occurs to me, though possibly I’m thinking of French chocolate, or is it Belgian?

B: I’m not sure, but let us pass on. Where are you going, Mr Spond?

A: Shane, to you. I’m heading for Munich. Come to think of it, I’d better get stuck into the groceries soon – we’ll probably be there any hour now. In fact we’re slowing down. I hope I haven’t ordered too late. Where are we, Major?

B: Puttya, Mr Spond. You’re all right for a while yet. We’re coming into a place called München. All built-up areas look the same, don’t they?

A: Indeed they do. Thank goodness I can relax. I hate bolting my food.

B: You can take it easy this time. May I ask what firm you are with?

A: Oh, only a small one. It’s called Emmeyesics.

B: Eyes again. You seem to have a thing about them.

A: Pure coincidence. The name was computer-generated. One day there’ll be a bungle and something resembling real life will crop up. How about you?

B: At present I’m contracted to an international charity named Sceptre – special counter-something or other. I have trouble remembering these long titles. Earlier, in my home country, I was with another bunch of do-gooders called the Konkordat for Gratuitous Benevolence. They dream up the silliest names, don’t they?

A: Embarrassing, isn’t it? Perhaps our masters employ consultants to devise acronyms, then find words to fit the letters. I often think the whole thing verges on skulduggery.

B: You know, it seems ridiculous, but I get the same idea now and then. An element of hocus-pocus, Mr Spond?

A: Shane, if you will. And you’re right. Anyway, let’s put work aside and consider ourselves strangers on a train. Do you like Tchaikowsky, Major?

B: Make it Puttya. You speak of one of my favourite compatriots. His sixth symphony is divine. And you are right, too. We’re ships that pass in the night.

A: My own number one is Flight of the Bumblebee. How are you disposed to Ripya-Korsetoff, Major?

B: Enthusiastically, but I think the composer you have in mind is Rimsky –

A: Yes, of course. Slip of the tongue – Freudian perhaps.

B: Possibly. However, I just melt at the very mention of his name, James.

A: It’s Shane. Let’s forget Munich and get stuck in – I mean to the food, Katya.

B: Puttya. Agreed. I’m insatiable – with regard to steak, that is. It gives strength, and who knows what the evening will hold. Bon voyage, so to speak.
* * *

Presented with love by the partnership of
The Courtjester and Aquarius

To live in the hearts of those who love us
shows that we are not dead.

* * *​


----------



## Aquarius

Another item from the Courtjester's ‘Madazine Pending’ file.
Even though it was written quite a while ago,
it relates astonishingly well to our world's present situation!

*GLOBAL SOMETHING*
​
This item reached our office by mistake, after the sender had put two letters into the wrong envelopes, one addressed to us (and very complimentary it was, too), the other to a well-known broadcasting corporation. We contacted the writer and were given permission to print her misdirected communication. This is done below. Incidentally, we appreciate that a number of our readers will note that some of the subject matter covered by the correspondent was tackled a short time ago by Sir Bertram Utterside. As the theme is increasingly obtrusive, we make no apology for any element of repetition.

To the editor of Madazine

Dear Sir,

I write in protest at the recent airing of a discussion between Dr Arnold Spiffing and Ms Janet Duff-Squatte, the subject being – according to one’s point of view – global warming, cooling or stabilisation. Permit me to say that I have never heard so much twaddle compressed into so short a time. It was bad enough that two such ill-informed parties should be allowed to babble as they did, and still more depressing that your chairman failed to intervene in an appropriate manner, thus encouraging the verbal brawling of two ignoramuses.

Please indulge me by transmitting a few facts to anyone who may be interested. I can speak with some authority, as long immersion in this subject has led me to the conclusion that this is a field in which few people know what they are talking about. Almost all contributions to the debate come from those with their own agendas. On the one hand, there are alleged scientists who will say whatever is required by their sponsors, so long as the latter keep coughing up funds for the boffin business. After all, the supposed experts will not produce reports which might put them out of work. On the other hand, there are the anti-everything types, prepared to leap onto the barricades in opposition to progress of any kind. Whether the subject is nuclear power, vivisection, environment or whatever, they are against it.

It has been said that there are three kinds of untruth: lies, damned lies and statistics. With regard to global warming, one thing we must consider is whether we are addressing the conditions in the atmosphere or those on the Earth’s surface. There is evidence that the former is warming even less than the latter, if indeed it is warming at all. The ground-level temperature has increased by less than one degree Celsius in over a hundred years. Now, between the major ice ages there are shorter cold periods, and we are emerging from one of them. Therefore, the temperature would have increased somewhat, irrespective of human influence, which might or might not have affected the position to any great extent.

As for ice-melt, this is occurring here and there, but in other places there is some accretion, so the overall position is unclear. Carbon dioxide is another pet hate of the activists, but for what reason? I believe some academic has already noted that the level has risen over a century or so, but that nobody knows whether the increase has been detrimental, beneficial or insignificant. A fair analysis, I would say.

There is no doubt that over the last two hundred years, we have raped the Earth’s resources to produce what is seen – falsely, in my view – as a high standard of living for a modest proportion of the human population. We have not established whether this pillaging has added negatively to what nature would have done anyway.

In summary, I would say let us by all means behave responsibly with respect to our surroundings – one should do what is right, irrespective of anticipated benefits – but let us also note that nature doesn’t care about our presence or absence, so we might as well have a good time, within reason, before we are shrugged off the Earth, along with our contemporary microbes – I know the subject of our likely departure from the Earth has been mentioned elsewhere in your pages.

If anyone wishes to take issue with these comments, I am prepared to modify them in the face of genuine information, but am not holding my breath.

Yours sincerely

Angela Narrowgnome (Miss)

* * *

Presented with love by the partnership of
The Courtjester and Aquarius

To live in the hearts of those who love us
shows that we are not dead.

* * *​


----------



## Aquarius

As an Easter egg with a less fattening centre, I have come to share with you another one of my favourite items from the Courtjester’s Madazine file:

*IMPATIENT PATIENT
*​
The following letter was saved for posterity by our typesetter, Phyllis Tyne. She had applied it to a gas ring, in order to light the revolting stuff she puts into a clay pipe – we haven’t quite caught up with the smoking thing. At the last instant, she realised that the communication might be of interest to some readers. No-one here knows how we came by this item, nor (barring receipt of a confession) are we likely to find out, as the top of the single page was singed by the flames, which obliterated the writer’s name and address, and the signature was unreadable. Anyway, here it is:

Dear Mr X

I write concerning the letter sent to you some time ago by my GP. Regrettably, I do not recall the exact date, as the matter has been obscured by intervening festive seasons, anniversaries, family birthdays, annual holidays, etc., from all of which I infer that you are indeed as overburdened as my doctor feared. You may recall that the problem is a cyst on my right knee.

As it is clearly necessary to alleviate your workload, I have decided to perform the operation myself. I have little medical knowledge, but have been fortunate enough to procure a copy of a book entitled ‘Surgery on the Hoof’, written for the inhabitants of the American Frontier. Although the work was published in 1802, I imagine that basic procedures have not changed much in the meantime. I have assembled almost all the required equipment, much of which, being an average householder, I had to hand. My wife has provided an extra-large ironing board, not dissimilar in shape and size to an operating table. I shall use this as my base, since I do not wish to incur the wrath of the distaff side by possibly defacing our teak dining surface.

My other items comprise an excellent horn-handled knife – a family heirloom – and a small silver mustard spoon. Here, I would have preferred stainless steel, but we do not live in a perfect world. The knife already has a keen edge, but not wishing to leave anything to chance, I shall hone it thoroughly and afterwards dip it in hot water – essential because the oilstone I intend to use has been lying open in my toolbox for over twenty years.

As the offender is at the back of my knee, I am setting up an array of three angled mirrors, in order to, as it were, let the dog see the rabbit. I have conducted a dry run and have found the procedure less complicated than I had first thought. It is rather like reversing an articulated vehicle with more than one trailer. I propose to start by making an incision of about two inches, to expose the growth, which if necessary – you will appreciate that there is an exploratory element here – I shall puncture with a smaller cut, then remove most of the nasty stuff by (a) manual pressure (b) the mustard spoon and (c) a wall-mounted vacuum cleaner. That done, I shall snip away what I assume will be an empty sac. I may be wrong about this, but no matter, as I am very inventive and confident of my ability to handle what comes up. Still, I would not trust myself to complete the excision at an earlier stage.

Up to this point, I do not anticipate much difficulty. However, I am concerned about tying-off and wound closure. My understanding is that catgut is still widely used and as I have none, I wonder whether you could supply me with a short length – a foot or so should do the trick. If you do not have any, please do not put yourself out, as my daughter has offered to lend me an upper E-string from her guitar, which I think would suffice.

Finally, lest you should think that I am adopting a less than completely rigorous approach, let me say that I shall have by me throughout the operation, for internal and external use, a large supply of the strongest product from the house of Smirnoff.

Yours sincerely …

* * *

Presented with love by the partnership of
The Courtjester and Aquarius

To live in the hearts of those who love us
proves that we have not died.

* * *
​P.S. Come to think of it, once again I seem to have chosen an item that could turn out to be of immense value in view of our world’s present state, when healthcare for ordinary human afflictions has almost disappeared in the United Kingdom. D.I.Y. is what’s called for! And the Courtjester is greeting all who are willing to follow his example.


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## Aquarius

Have you ever wondered what the Courtjester looked like, before his departure into the spirit world? 

Well, here is my favourite picture of him. It was taken about a year before he quietly slipped away.

​ 

His name on the earthly plane was Barrie and he was born 8th January 1937.

And because the 8th day of each month is ruled by Saturn, 
the planetary ruler of Capricorn and co-ruler with Uranus of Aquarius,
he was a double Capricorn and that's a difficult pathway to walk.
He shared his birthday with Elvis Presley,
who was born 8th January 1935. 

The Courtjester has asked me to greet his readers in this way.

With love - Aquarius 

* * *

​


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## Gumby

Handsome fellow.  And the kindness shines in his face and through his eyes.


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## Aquarius

One more item from the Courtjester's Madazine Pending File.​
What's written below is another of those little rambles our chief penned, probably not with publication in mind. However, he’s not with us today, so we’re slipping it in and taking joint responsibility for doing so. The staff.

*WORDSEARCH*​
A few days ago I was reading a newspaper article and came across the word numinous. I distinctly remembered checking its meaning on at least two earlier occasions, but still wasn’t quite clear about it. Something to do with saintliness or divinity, I seemed to recall. To make sure, I decided to consult my dictionary. Without looking, I reached out, hauled down the trusty volume at the end of my bookshelf and began pawing through it.

To my surprise, I didn’t find the word I was seeking. However, I did locate numismatics and spent a few minutes boning up on coins. That caused me to pull out small reference book which had more details about this subject. Among other things I learned that if I manage to dig up a 1933 penny I’ll be worth plenty. However, the trouble with very rare items is that they’re pretty well all accounted for, so I doubt there is much chance of my getting rich that way.

It was only when I’d finished this fascinating mini-study and put aside the little book that I realised I’d initially pulled out my encyclopedia instead of the dictionary – the two tomes are about the same size – so I got the right one and spent a further five minutes trying to remember the word I was seeking. On succeeding, I again set off in search of ‘numinous’, only to be waylaid again, this time by numina, which referred me to numen, a presiding deity.

I was getting warm but didn’t quite make it because just below numen came numeral, under which heading there was an example of the Roman counting system. Off into another thicket, where I spent a while satisfying myself that I could work out various dates and times the way J. Caesar and company did. I was quite pleased with my progress but unfortunately for my initial purpose, my eye then fell upon ‘numerator’, which made me think of ‘denominator’, which in turn moved me on to mathematics. This reminded me that I’d been meaning to find out whether that word is singular or plural, so I went off on a further little excursion. That was inconclusive but it did persuade me that I could get a lot of pleasure by doing more of this lexicographical wayfaring, much in the manner of a flaneur sauntering city streets.

On finishing with numerals and mathematics, I had again forgotten the word I’d set out to check. This time I lost track altogether, and have just remembered that I was looking for numinous. On this occasion you may be sure that I’ll find it pretty quickly. See you soon, perhaps between nugatory and nuncio, or maybe elsewhere.

* * *

Presented with love by the partnership of
The Courtjester and Aquarius

To live in the hearts of those who love us
proves that we have not died.

* * *​


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## Aquarius

The following is another item from the Pending File of the Courtjester’s writings:​
*THE LAMPWICK LETTERS: NUMBER TWO*​
Dear Ms Gabbleworth,

I have today received your article concerning the sad proceedings in France and Italy in the thirteenth century. Your covering letter asks me to offer a critique, but to limit myself to English usage, omitting comments on your subject. This is exactly the opposite of the stricture placed upon me in my last commission, but I will accommodate you. However, I hope you won’t mind too much if I point out that your text refers to the extirpation of the Cathartics. It really would not do to submit your piece with the inclusion of that last word, especially as you use it several times. Please note that the people concerned were Cathars, though I suppose one could argue that what befell them was about as cathartic as anything could be, or it might have been, had they survived.

Now I will turn to your use of language. It is perhaps a pity that you don’t seem to be a reader of that estimable publication Madazine, which in a recent issue printed a letter received from someone who wished to remain anonymous. You might have found that epistle helpful, as it touches upon several things I am obliged to deal with here. Without going into the various contexts, I note that you mention temperatures as being cold or warm. Those adjectives should be applied to the ambient conditions you are addressing. There are no such things as cold or warm temperatures. The right words are high and low.

You refer to prices as cheap or dear. No, they are not. Here again, high and low are the words you need. The terms cheap and dear apply to goods or services, not to what they cost. You also write of three a.m. in the morning. a.m. is an abbreviation of ante meridium and that means before noon, so it is incorrect to use both parts of that phrase. At another point you write of people travelling at ‘a rate of speed of three miles an hour’. This is pleonasm. Neither ‘rate’ nor ‘speed’ is necessary here. Make it simply ‘travelling at three miles an hour’. There are other examples of this kind throughout your article. You also indulge in tautology on a number of occasions, for example in your second paragraph you write of a ‘tiny little problem’. If it was tiny then clearly it was little, so omit one of those words. I will leave it to you to spot similar instances.

There are more erroneous expressions in your essay, though I appreciate that you are not alone in resorting to them. One thing I found particularly obtrusive was your allusion to an event as leading to a ‘positive benefit’. I have no idea why so many people, even professional broadcasters, write or say this, and would love to know how a benefit can be anything other than positive. In two places, you write of ‘also’ doing something ‘as well’. More redundancy, ‘also’ on its own is sufficient. The words ‘incredible’ and ‘incredibly’ appear in various places of your piece, and in no case is either of them appropriate. I will mention only two instances. You say that a theme is incredibly interesting and that an artefact is incredibly unique. If something is incredible, it shouldn’t be believed, which is surely not what you mean.

You note that someone was ‘absolutely right’ in the way he presented his point of view. If he was right, ‘absolutely’ is unnecessary, as there could not have been any question of degree. In your penultimate paragraph, you write of a woman about to make a decision, saying that she took ‘a few moments’. A moment is any short time, so the plural is not required.

At one point you state that a party of Cathars was decimated by a sudden attack and that with only a tenth of the original number remaining, the group was disbanded. Please note that to decimate means to reduce by one tenth and not to one tenth. For example, to decrease one hundred to ten by decimation, the operation would need to be carried out twenty-two times, in round terms, the succession of figures being 100, 90, 81, 72.9 and so on.

In my desire to avoid being too discouraging, I have intentionally excluded some minor points, but if you make the amendments suggested above, I believe your work will have an improved chance of being accepted.

Yours sincerely,

Norman Lampwick, D.Litt. 

Revised 11 September 2018

* * *

Presented with love by the partnership of
The Courtjester and Aquarius

To live in the hearts of those who love us
proves that we have not died.

* * *​


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