For Yasgur’s farm.

I couldn’t resist a quick tramp through the bracken with the 410 so I was a bit late getting into work yesterday. I got a couple of fine doe hares and three brace of pigeons, right plump ones too.

I split the kill with Dick when I got in:

‘There you go and don’t say I’m not good to you. That’d cost you a few quid in the shops.’
‘These ladies are from Icelandair,’ he said, a bit frosty. ‘They’ve been waiting since 11 o’clock to discuss the maintenance contract. Remember?’

There was blood and feathers on my jerkin and my moleskins were covered in briars, but I hid it well.

‘Yes of course I remember. Inga and Sandra! How are you both? Good flight I hope.’

I reached out a hearty hand. Sometimes I hate my big practical hands.*

Cooking tip.

A raised pie uses hot-water crust pastry. That works the best.

Make the stock with the leg bones of the hare and the carcases of the pigeons after you’ve removed the breasts.

For the pie, you’ll need the breasts of 4 pigeons and the boned hare sliced into strips. Mix with 10 oz of pork sausage meat, a quarter pound of cooked ham chopped, 6 oz of chopped mushrooms, a chopped optional hardboiled egg, ½ cup red wine or vermouth and season with salt pepper and grated lemon rind.

Remove the hot-water crust pastry from the pie mould. Check the resultant pie case for holes and repair. Fill the pie case with the mixture. Dampen the rim, cover and seal, - crimping to make a decorative edge. Cut a 2” vent in the top. Brush with a beaten egg and bake in the hot oven for an hour.

Remove from the oven, make a cigarette out of greaseproof paper and force it into the vent to keep it open. Brush the top and sides with more beaten egg and replace in the hot oven but on a lower shelf, for another hour.

Remove the pie from the oven. Let it cool a bit then pour 1¾ cups of the stock through a funnel into the vent of the still warm pie. If the pie has leaked in the oven, wait until it’s cold before pouring in the stock. You can use any remaining stock to make a rich game sauce by reducing it with some sherry wine and unsalted butter and one of the blood bags out the hare. Lovely.

Let it chill for 5 hours before cutting.

*You can’t get the gloves.

I could tell you about my life and keep you amused I’m sure. Look, never mind all that, listen.
Today, as always around this time [14.05] I am submerging. For a quarter hour I slide down this mad helter-skelter into the rotten core of my weak human heart.
I don’t fight it. I dive deeper. The sooner it’s over, the sooner it’s over.
Lately it’s been getting worse. These days, my mind turns quite naturally to novel ways of inflicting pain at its most exquisite. I’m surprising myself. We’re in terra nova folks; we sure as hell ain’t in fucking Kansas Toto.
The objects of my malevolence?
David and Ruth Archer.
I want them to die. I want them to suffer pain in some painful combine harvester crash...no wait…I want them fed, feet first, into some kind of industrial meat grinding machine… in slow motion…yes in slow motion…it mustn’t be quick…not for those bastasrds!
I said I was surprising myself. I don’t say I’m a good man, oh but I would be, if I could.

St. George and the Budley Salterton Bypass.

A happy St George’s Day to Pat and all the other English bloggers like Ayres and Foot Eater and Neil and Dick and the rest of them. God bless you all.

Only the top notch countries have a patron saint and they don’t come more pukka than St George. He kills the dragon and gets a virgin! Result!

The English flag is in fact just the flag of St. George.
They liked it so much, that they made it their own.
‘We like the whole St George story so much,’ they said, ‘that we’ll make your flag, our flag.’ and that was that. St George’s flag was now England’s flag as well.
Hmmm, a little bit naughty when you think about it. Didn’t really ask, did they? Little bit previous if you ask me. Didn’t wait to be offered. Just stretched out and took it, like the last bun on the plate.
Anyway, all a long time ago and I’m sure we wish them well, on this, their day of days.
Was a bit rude though. Manners don’t cost anything. ‘Ooh that looks nice, I’m having that…’
Yeah, just like India.

A Maserati passed me at Stirling. It so like evoked Fatmammycat in her shiny leather catsuit. That’s right. In my mind that’s what she always wears.
I know what you’re thinking : it must chafe and squeak. Well she’s worth it.
As I drove on, I pictured us both in my luxury jet, flying off to somewhere tropical, you know? Somewhere like so long haul.
It was great. We had in-flight Cobb salads and afterwards she had a bloody mary while I drove over the rumble strip onto the hard shoulder. Whoops.
Those rumble strips are a triumph of British ingenuity. They stop you drifting right enough. After that I toned down my fantasy considerably.

By the way SheBah, if you’re reading this, I am six one with smooth golden skin, long sensitive fingers and the darkest liquid eyes. I love painting, especially WW2 fighters and bombers. I can play trad on the piano and smoke on the water on the guitar. I’ve got a fuzz box.

let’s get back to those toned-down fantasies;

• for the Friday booze run to Tesco, I now dress her in boots, britches, cravat and give her a riding crop. Yoiks! Halloo!
• for the bar supper down at Wetherspoon’s, it’s Emma Peel’s jumpsuit from the Avengers. Two mixed grill sizzlers please!
• for clubbing at the Ice Factory, I’m thinking Dallas Cowboys cheerleader with like, cowboy boots and silver cap guns. TOUCHDOWN!
• and for watching Celtic on Setanta in the front bar, a simple and elegant French maid’s outfit with feather duster. Deux kir? Oui s’il vous plait!

It’s not the same without the duster. Everyone knows that.
Some nights I dream of finding solutions to mathematical functions but not so much recently.

And when the dam breaks, many years from now…

Anglophilia and the Scottish Elections.

I believe that the Scots and Irish are anglophiles.

I don’t mean the mindless sycophancy of Ulster and West of Scotland Unionists; which is a buttock clenching horror upon the earth; I mean our deep hidden admiration of the English and their English ways.
Many times I’ve heard ‘bloody English!’[and worse] in the cosy Front Bar of an evening.
I always challenge this because that’s just the kinda guy I am.
A frank exchange of views then takes place where the thrust of reason and rational counter argument take the floor and cant and sophistry slink off to their cheerless hovels...
not.
And it’s not all roses in the English garden either. There is the royal family for instance. Surely in 2007 even the idea of a royal family is an embarrassing anachronism. Hereditary privilege? And worse, a constitutional function? Based on genes? What are we thinking about? Are we mad?
There we are, preaching parliamentary democracy to the poor and ignorant of the world, (3,000,000,000 on a dollar a day or less) while we pamper our royals to the point of obscenity.
But of course to disestablish the monarchy would mean taking a hard look at all our upper classes and they wouldn’t like that so they will never let us. A pity really because it lessens us, whoever ‘us’ is, and that’s another thing, there never was an ethnic British identity, let alone one that should be protected.
No matter what any Nationalist will tell you.
Nationalists. They are another anachronism.
The idea that people are simply better because of the bit of ground they were born on.
Give me strength.
Sean Connery? What, for the love of Christ, is that all about? He’s Spanish for God’s sake, in his kilt or no’.
The only good thing to be said for independence is that it might make us less anally retentive, because by God, THAT is the national disorder of the Scots. That and a parochialism that would astound. To the Nationalists, I heartily say:
“Hamish! The world’s speeding up!. Jump on! Leave Brig o' Doon and come with us to Rio and Noo Yoik and Barthelona and LA and high-ceilinged Paris.”

If we were to become a republic and be in the EU with euros and everything and not be dragged into disgraceful wars all over the place and we had a Chinese woman from Dundee or Garnethill or even Kirkaldy as the first president, then I’d probably vote for Them. The Nationalists I mean,- not the Chinese; they’ll be here soon enough.


I’m doing ‘Ameriphilia’ next.

Mater has come. She’s been here four days now but it seems longer. She’s a total townie. Unfenced grass upsets her, it makes her nervous, she hates it. Even the fair city of Perth, gateway to the highlands, heart of Scotland, holds no joy for her beyond the pleasure of sniffing at the place. She should have been a duchess. Our house backs onto the park where the village fete is held. Once, some years ago now, she was up and as we walked over, we were met by some smiling villagers and it soon became clear that they had mistaken her for Lady Somebody Else who had been booked to cut the ribbon. Made her day of course. I remember it fine. There was a racehorse, a Grand National winner and at the bottle stall I won a bottle of Mateus Rose and one of Head and Shoulders shampoo. Mrs Maroon has taken a lot of extra shifts. The money will come in handy.
Still no sign of NTL.

Diet of worms.

‘I want Fatmammycat.’
‘Tell us something we don’t know.’ he sneered, dragging the red pencil around Japing Ape.
‘Hey, fuck off Ayres!’ I protested, ‘Bananas must remain a joint protectorate forever.’
‘Fuck you Maroon!’ he replied, stroking his chin, ‘this beard needs the lebensraum.’
‘Why not take your access to the sea through Fishwhacker Swindle?’ I challenged.
‘Poor infrastructure,’ he objected, ‘and who the fuck died and left you SheBah?’ he demanded, suddenly standing up and pointing at the map.

The landlord came over.

‘I wonder if you’d mind keeping it down, gents? Only we’ve got a lot in for lunches today.’ he pleaded.
‘Oh Yeah?’ scoffed Ayres, belligerently sipping his raspberry and vanilla infusion.
‘Leave it Kim, he’s a civilian.’ I soothed…


Once again, Ayres and his beard and I were in neutral Clackmannanshire deciding the future map of the Blogosphere. It was Yalta all over again…


‘What about Hutton?’ Ayres continued.
‘Have it and welcome.’ I offered.
‘I don’t want it.’ he shrugged.
‘Me neither.’ I assured.
‘What about Past Imperfect then?’ he wheedled slyly.
‘Piss off! Just because it’s non-aligned you think you can walk in and make yourself at home.’ I expostulated.
‘Fine, I’ll take Kitchenbitch then.’ he smirked.
‘Oh no you don’t, you slimy fucker. They smash crockery there, -that’s a Maroon trait, -there’s a definite cultural connection speaking geopolitically!’ I raged, spilling my Appletiser into the bargain.
‘Philosophically speaking, that blog is in MY sphere of influence.’ Ayres bellowed, thumping the table with his shoe and upsetting the sugar tongs.

The landlord reappeared:

‘If you keep using words like that, I’m going to ask you to leave.’
‘What, “slimy fucker” ?’ I enquired in amazement.
‘Geopolitical.’ avowed the landlord, before adding darkly; ‘you’ve been warned.’
‘Ooh, hark at her,’ mocked Ayres, ‘…right, what about Problemchildbride?...

Juxtaposition. I’m from a place where the use of that word earns you a punch in the mouth, from your own family even.
Nevertheless…
Tossed and turned all night I did, but the day had arrived. What would the big man in the beard say? What insight would fall from his lips? Which path would he illuminate for me? Would I measure up?

I wasn’t let down. He always delivers. He managed to juxtapose genetic Frankenstein heart valves and mankind’s black heart and the sacred heart of Christ on the cross! Well, it is Good Friday and he is the Archbishop of Canterbury.He always get “thought for the day” during Easter. Fides defens etc. It was a triumph.

As for Ayres, who the hell knows what he has to say for himself?

Never heard about Oscar Wilde and Brendan Behan, Sean O’ Casey, George Bernard Shaw, (can’t think about) Samuel Beckett, Eugene O’ Neil, Edna O’ Brien and Laurence Stern…

This week, I have mainly been listening to Dexy’s Midnight Runners.

And Alice Cooper.

I wear lace and I wear black leather.

I’m using up a day of leave to see Ayres tomorrow. If I don’t, he’ll sulk for months and contrive to throw it in my face in a hundred ways. I’ve told him straight that personal contact is the death of blogging. Does he listen?

Skip to the end.

The point is this: If you have any questions you want to ask the great philosopher, now’s your chance. Get them in and I’ll ask him point-blank.

Post them in the comments, or if you are shy, email docmaroon@hotmail.co.uk and I’ll post the answers.

Personally I wouldn’t ask him anything. His answers are usually flimflam out of some textbook he says he’s read but I think you should have the option. I hope he doesn’t bring his mandolin again. That troubadour look is sooo last century.

I 'm a bit liverish so let's just sit here quiet and listen to the screams of the robots and the people making the fan blades and stuff not twenty feet away.
Noisy ain't it?
Well no, it isn't.
They're like a gang of Trappists.
That would be weird. A bunch of hooded men working in an engineering workshop in silence. Their cassocks would get caught in the milling machines.
Actually, we haven't got any milling machines.
We had to get rid of them because of the cassocks.

11.47. just another lifetime to go.

11.48

The wind is in from Africa,
Last night, I couldn’t sleep…

Looks like I’ve got the house to myself tonight. I hope I don’t get drunk and play all my old records too loud and start crying again. Mind you, that’s better than getting drunk and playing all my old records too loud and phoning people up at three in the morning. And that is better than getting drunk and playing all my old records too loud and fighting with the neighbours. Saps.

There may be trouble ahead,
But while there’s moonlight and music and love and romance…

They don’t like it up ‘em.
In the China Sea in the eighties when the navy were still boarding ships to have a nose around, it didn’t matter how many guns they carried, the crew of the vessel being searched were always a bit uncooperative, even to the point of rudeness. The boarding parties discovered however, that if they took along some naval pattern cutlasses to wave about, it changed things. Suddenly it was all:

“Yes sir, no sir and this way to the cigarettes and heroin sir.”

Well they pensioned off the naval cutlass just before the 1990 Gulf War because it didn’t fit in with smart bombs and cruise missiles, but imagine if those sailors [under American command] had had them when the Iranians turned up in their rubber dinghies.
For a kick off, your Arab respects a man with a sword. They know you can give any mug an AK47, but it takes cojones to handle a blade. Second, they could have slashed and sunk the Arabs’ boats making them look pretty foolish and Arabs hate to be mocked. Third: if things still looked a bit prickly, then swish, they could have taken an ear or a hand and that always concentrates the mind of the native. They don’t like it.

As it turned out, all their body armour and i-pods and machine guns were useless.
The Iranians simply said, “ Effendis, would you mind awfully coming with us?”
and the senior service replied, “ Why certainly, Abdul.”
Tony Blair says if they don’t hand them back then he’ll let down their tyres and steal their bicycle pumps. Give us back our sailors you rotters !

The sun came out yesterday and looks like doing it again today. You continentals may wonder what all the fuss is but sunshine is a big deal over here.
If I had money I would live somewhere hot and damn the consequences.

On Saturdays I would wear flannels and a blue shirt and pretend to be middle class and sit among the fishermen with a poetry book and I’d be a bit sozzled by 3pm so I’d have a siesta and a wash and brush up and then a sundowner and a bite to eat in the village square.
Through the week I would give lectures at the local university and be held in high regard. There would be faculty evenings with drinks and finger buffet and the staff and students would love me. Grateful fathers would shake my hand in the street for getting their sons to understand non linear differential equations.
I would have a housekeeper who spoiled me rotten and some days I would cycle home through the acacia trees and announce that there would be six for dinner and she’d say no problem and rustle up something terrific and there’d be oil lamps lighting up the wine glasses and all the faces and the vice chancellor’s wife would repeatedly try and get off with me…

See, sunshine is big deal over here.

Update: Pat of Pi fame has been teasing me in the most cruel way. (as only women can) The line she quoted: 'When one wets the bed at first it is warm then it gets cold.' is by none other than my total hero J. Joyce Esq. It's from 'portrait of the artist etc etc' I googled it. I knew it was one of the Waughs.

Call me Ishmael.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.

Winston Smith opened the door to Victory Mansions and lit a woodbine or something.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. The point is, these are all the first lines from books.
Not the best of starts I think you’ll agree and personally I think those books would have been better if they’d grabbed you right away instead of making you work for your enjoyment.

Lets consider the opening line from another piece. This one really gets you going - right from the off.

Fatmammycat gunned the Maserati round the cobbles in an ecstasy of squeals.

That line’s got everything. It’s exciting, glamorous, cool. There’s a top notch dolly bird in a branded sports car driving too fast for the road conditions pertaining at the time. What more do you want? As a first line, it’s a tipper. A belter in fact.

For example, it’s much better than this line, isn‘t it not?

“Mr Jones the cannibal came home and ate someone’s leg.”

I mean that line’s got nothing. Nyente. Nada.

I bet no-one outside their immediate family has bought that rednose book.
Oh, and if any of you writes a book that starts “Mr Jones the cannibal came home and ate someone’s leg.”, I’ll fucking sue.

Book your tickets now.

At Hampden Park Glasgow, our universally admired Tartan Army saw the gallant Lion Rampants of Bonny Scotland, thrash Joe Stalin’s evil ape men of Georgia, sending them back to the gulag in a two-one drubbing they won’t forget in a hurry.
Meanwhile in a humiliating disaster of utter proportions, the soccer maestros of the English premiership were humiliated last night by the footballing Jews of Tel Aviv. As the useless millionaire failures slumped to their worst ever nil-nil defeat, cries of “strangle him” rang out around the Moshe Dayan stadium when legions of thuggish England fans bayed for the death of their manager Steve Whatshisname.
Meanwhile across the water, both sets of troublesome Irish somehow notched up victories against totally substandard opposition.
The sportsdesk team can reveal exclusively today that the Irish have also taken up the unnatural English game of English Cricket, beating the shopkeepers of Pakistan in a competition laughingly called “The World Cup”.
No good will come of it.

Tennis news.

Andy Thingmibob is Scottish, as is the game of golf.

At Saint Alphonso’s Pancake Breakfast (where I stole the margarine)

So like that Twenty Major says he’s got a book deal. My heart is filled with like total utter joy for him.
It’s what I’ve always said: the doers do and the don’ters don’t.

I’ve been away in London Town myself as it so happens, talking with other very important people like me about the consequences of this new finger quotes cross pond open skies thing end finger quotes. It was that kind of crowd. We were all terribly agreed that Boeing has been working George Bush with wires, although there is no evidence whatsoever to suggest such a thing. You see, you might not know this, but while useless A.I. has been trying to get it’s super elephant plane off the ground, Boeing went the other way with a point to pointer called “The Dreamliner”. Cooool. So what? Well, only the big national hubs can cope with French Fatso, whereas Yankee Dreamliner will take you direct to Nevada from Nuneaton.

The upshot is, we don’t care, because in true English style, we backed them both.

Ha Ha

Think I’ll have a Bloody Mary for a change.

There’s no vodka so I’ll substitute Bacardi and I don’t think I’ve any tomato juice but coca cola will do.

Down the hatch. Here’s to you Twenny! God, that’s the worst Bloody Mary I’ve had in years.

The ‘Forfar’ Way.

That Daphne Wayne-Bough reminded me about a young lad that comes in the front bar now and then. Big Bob’s his name and he’s from Forfar but he’s awful Heilan’ and he was in the other night, telling us all about his weekend away in Paris. To let you know, he’s never harmed a living thing in his life but he could snap you in two like a Kit Kat. You’ll know the type of lad I mean. He’s strong on the likes of John Deere over the likes of International Harvester, but he couldn’t buy underpants out of a Marks and Spencer if there was a girl on the till. To be honest, he’s not the brightest but you want to see the size of him. He gives us something to talk about when he’s not there.

“It’s as well he’s good natured…” says Alec the Dalek.
“I would not like to tackle him,” nods Pally Ally. “strong as a bullock he is…”
“Aye, and twice as thick…“ says Mortal Dan.
“Och, there’s not an ounce of guile in him…” say I, sticking up for the boy.

Well, the other night we’re all lined up at the bar chewing the fat and thinking about death and on the TV comes some girl band not wearing enough clothes, making us feel worse, when up pipes the big soft lad himself.

“Hey, Professor, I met a lass on the trip there, that was better looking than any o’ them.”

They sometimes call me Professor, but not in a good way.

“Oh ?” I asked, “was she an air hostess on the plane?”
“She was a hostess all right, but no’ on the plane…”

Well! We’ve never seen him so animated about something you couldn’t bolt to a tractor, so Alec sets them up, adding a double for Big Bob to keep him talking.

So he continues, telling us that before the game, the other three give him the ticket money to keep because he is as straight as a die and no one in their right minds would try and rob him. The young lad was put together by John Browns of Clydebank, I’m not kidding. But they never saw the game, nor a ticket neither, for big as he is, didn’t they go an lose him in the crowds? So there he is, wandering lost in the opposite direction, but slow as he is, he doesn’t panic because he’s got the ticket money and that’ll see him through any little emergencies…

“Holy frost!” says Ally, Perth being his idea of a big town, and gettin in another round, asks: “so what did ye do then?”

Well he takes himself into some wee dive just off the main drag, to have a think and maybe something for the heat. So he’s sitting there with his big rosette on and his rolled up flag and his woolly tartan scarf round his neck drinking French beer when what looks like the girl from the Renault Clio advert comes over and starts chatting away right friendly. Three or four drinks later they’ve clicked and she’s taking him back to hers for ‘coffee’. But when they get there, he’s no sooner planted his flag in the lobby press, when the young girl’s tone changes and now she’s rhyming off a pricelist all business like, rolling off all the things she’ll do to him, but for a price.
Holy Moly! he thinks and he’s squirming a bit because it’s a shock and he doesn’t know what to say and him built like a Sherman tank…

“Never!” exclaims Dan, waving over refills for everyone. “Are you sayin’ she was a…ho…a…who..”
“Hostess! That‘s right.” interrupts Big Bob, nodding, lifting his glass.

So the girl’s standing there, all sophisticated, waiting for an answer.

“Well mon cheri…” and Big Bob swears that’s what the girl said to him, “Well mon cheri, what’s it to be? Voolly-voo want a good time avec moi? oui?”

He’s just a country lad and although he’s Heilan’ he’s no’ as Heilan’ as that, so, seeing which way the wind’s blowing, he stalls for time to sort out his thoughts. I’m telling you, a Glaswegian would spot he was new in off the fields, in a minute, no, in a second even. You know the sort of plain simple lad I mean, but a physique like the jolly green giant.

“So long as we do it the Forfar way,” he blurts out, sitting there with his tartan scarf near choking him…

When Big Bob gets to this bit, I rap the bar for more refills all round, mainly to cover my ignorance. I’m pretty straight when it comes to all that and this sounds a bit kinky to me.

Anyway, the young lass is also brought up short by this, for although she’s quite young and no’ the size of tuppence ha’penny, she was sure she knew all the ways to make love that are in the book. And some that aren’t.

“Zees Forfar way,” she says, ”Jinny say pah, explain please.”
“Oh, I just ken it as the Forfar Way” he manages to say, now desperate to take his damned rosette off but the safety pin is stuck fast in his jumper.
The girl can do the karma sutra backwards but she has never heard of the Forfar way.

“Ees it like ze Eskimo Way?” she asks.
“What way’s that then?” says he.
“Ze Eskimo, zay do eet weeth zare clothes on.” she explains.
“Would it no’ get awful hot?” he reasons.
“Do you mean maybe zee Catholic way? Through zee ‘ole in the bedsheet?” she tries.
“No No!” he says, quite scandalised, “It’s the Forfar way for me, or nothing.”
“Per’aps eet’s like ze Chinese Way?” she suggests.
“What, you want more twenty minutes later?” he asks puzzled.

Now the girl laughs at this. She is warming to him in spite of his clumsy clothes and his big honest sonsy face and his silly big hands like shovels. She thinks for a minute.

“Môn sewer Bob,” she says, “I am expert at more ways than you can imagine, but never ‘ave I ‘eard of zees Forfar way. If you show me, I shall do eet for free.”
Finally, the big lump of a lad relaxes and sighs: “aye, that’s the Forfar way.”


Now he’s finished his tale, the poor big soul sees the pub clock and slams down his empty tumbler, rushing off just like a wee vexed boy, to catch his bus, which isn’t even due for another fifteen minutes.

In the silence after the bar doors slam shut, it’s Alec the Dalek who speaks first.
“I can’t imagine how you’d lose such a big lump in a crowd.” he says shaking his head.
“Imagine him getting it for free in Paris.” says Pally Ally in admiration.
“I can’t imagine him getting it for free in fucking Greenock.” says Mortal Dan.
“Och, he’s just a big daft boy…” say I, sticking up for him.

“Aye, he’s daft the right way when it’s his round!” shouts Black Jack from the corner, which is rich coming from him, the miserable little ferret.

So, Mother’s Day was a washout. The singing mailman wasn’t well received. Grandmother said he looked consumptive. Things brightened later on when the family gathered. My brother has one of those Japanese SUVs and his wife managed to scrape it down the wall on the way in. Ha Ha. Mother said nothing good ever came out of the east and she was looking at my brother’s wife when she said it. I said maybe driveways are wider in Cambodia.
Then we had sherry and took tea and smiled when Mother told us about how they only had one clog which is a barefaced lie and my sister and her life partner showed us their tongue studs. Mother winced a bit at the tattoos but she hid it well.
Us siblings have always competed for Mum’s affections, so knowing her love for English first editions, I trumped everyone with a mint copy of Rogers and Mayhew’s “Fundamentals of Thermodynamics”.

It’s got a fifties space rocket on the sleeve and is signed by Mayhew!
(Rogers tragically died in a jet engine at Farnborough. His widow had to bury him in an oil drum)
Then we beetled across town to repeat the whole thing with Mrs Maroon’s Mother.
Mrs Maroon is an only child so her parents hate my guts. When her father looks at me like that, I feel cheap and dirty.
Her mother made old fashioned salad for tea. You know, lettuce, tomato, half a boiled egg and an extra slice of spam for Dad. Her mother was delighted with the Black Magic (presentation box) but then Pop said I, “was driving“, so we left after the arctic roll.
To cap it all, I forgot to leave the Rogers and Mayhew at Mum’s.

By now my friends, you will have heard the hellish news.

Excuse me a second.

I'm OK.

I said I was OK, don't fucking touch me right?

In what can only be described as a total utter travesty of utterly Titanic proportions, Mike Atkinson has cobbled together a concoction of blog wanabees and other derelicts of the blogosphere into some vanity publishing affair. I of course refused to allow Cape to Rio to be associated with this tawdry exercise in petty self aggrandisement. Others, perhaps without the necessary self respect, were only too eager to prostitute their art to the lowest bidder. Don't worry, I'm naming no names Foot Eater, I'm just disappointed, and not a little nauseous.

Each day, in every way I'm getting better and better. So Mum says.

Kim, why don't we contact all the rejects and compile a book of the 101 most vitriolic, bitter, sour, witty reactions and keep the money to ourselves.

Oh me miserum, the airplane has crashed into the fucking mountainside.

OK, that's it.

Over.

I'm fine,...honest.


I mean rejection, alright, I can take that, I'm used to it, but Christ, to take Foot Eater in my place? Come on people. He didn't make that cannibal stuff up, the man's ill.

I
won’t forget you. I may be moving on to an higher intellectual plane but I have honour. I have chosen my desert island discs which are all classical even though I don’t get it and my book will be Proust or Goethe in foreign.
I wonder if “Bling Wraiths” will be put at the front, to get the anthology off to a flyer, or perhaps a tasteful centre spread feature? Who can tell?
Melvin and John Humphries are welcome to interview me but I shall not tolerate Jim Nauchtie who is a plank.
Some have suggested I should wait until I find out if it’s actually going in, but to those I say:
“Rome was built on seven hills”.
You will all still be welcome chez Maroon anytime, although perhaps you should phone first, I’m sure you understand.
Mrs Maroon and I discussed it all last night and we decided that she should stay with her mother for a couple of years. Well, she’s getting older now, as indeed is her mother. Laika, our young daily from Zenda, has kindly agreed to take on more of my quirky little Maroon tasks and stand in for the pop shots. Is that the term? Publicity photos. She loves it.
“Doctor, sometimes I think you crazy mad.” she’ll say.
Anyway, I truly can’t say any more right now. I’m expecting a call from Mike Atherton or Atkins, probably to discuss layouts and so on, (between you and me, he’s a little green) and my muse must come first.