Archive for the 'Prose' Category

The Cow

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Chapter Seven of Mr Key’s Bumper Book Of Birds, a work in progress.

The cow is a type of bird. It is also known as the misprint bird, because by rights there should be an r between the c and the o to make crow, an indubitable bird. What has happened is that certain slapdash ornithological writers, who skimp on proofreading, have given cow where they mean crow. The error is more common in written than in verbal ornithology. In the latter, the varying pronunciations of the letter o tend to alert even the most misty-brained bird expert to the difference.

In cow, the o is pronounced as in ow!, the exclamation you make when, for example, a crow alights on your head and pecks at your scalp with its sharp fearsome beak in order to gobble up the various little beetles and creepy-crawlies and breadcrumbs scattered in your bouffant because you have not bothered to wash your hair for several weeks.

In crow, on the other hand, the o is pronounced as in the surname of Sebastian Coe, the high speed Olympic champion better known for his wrestling bouts with William Hague MP in the gymnasium of the Houses of Parliament. Interestingly, if we substitute the wrestler’s initial C for a K, thus Koe, we arrive at the Flemish word for cow. In that case, however, it is well to bear in mind that the o in the Flemish koe is pronounced like the o in coo, which is the sound made by doves and pigeons and various other birds.

You can see how this all hangs together.

Only a nitwit would think a cow was actually a bird, as opposed to being a misprint bird. Cows have neither beaks nor feathers nor wings nor talons. Nor are they capable of flight. It is true that there is a nursery rhyme in which a cow jumps over the moon, and that high leaping can in some circumstances be mistaken for flying. It is possible that the rhyme was originally transcribed by a slapdash ornithologist who skimped on proofreading, and what was meant was “the crow flew over the moon”. Visually, you might see a crow flying “over” the moon depending on your angle of view, from your position in a muddy field on earth in relation to both the cow – oops!, the crow – and the moon. Though it is not often one sees a crow flying around the sky at night, a time when most crows are fast asleep in their nests. Cows, on the other hand, do not make nests. They sleep in byres.

The Roc

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Chapter Six of Mr Key’s Book Of Birds, a work in progress.

The roc is a type of bird. Actually, it is a fabulous bird, meaning it does not actually exist. So it is not entirely true to say it is a type of bird. We might say instead that the roc is a type of bird imagined in the heads of persons long ago. Or possibly just one person, whose phantasm was adopted by others, yea down the generations unto our own days.

“Fabulous” is the root of the slang word “fab”, popular in the 1960s, and surely overdue for a revival. The pop group The Beatles were commonly known as the Fab Four, but that is not to suggest that, like the roc, they did not actually exist. Or is it? Could the loveable moptops be nothing more than a hallucination shared by millions? Could The Beatles be a stupendously complex work concocted by the avant garde Japanese conceptual artist Yoko Ono (b. 1933)?

I am not going to argue the case, or provide evidence for my theory, in part because it is, to use Ambrose Bierce’s favourite word, bosh. But it is something well worth thinking about, next time you find yourself at a loose end, as for example when a few days go by without any new postages at Hooting Yard. I know only too well that in those lamentable circumstances my readers are reduced to quivering jellies, sobbing their hearts out and biting great chunks out of their hearth-rugs, if they have hearth-rugs to bite chunks out of, or indeed hearths, for a hearth is present only where there is a fireplace and with the advent of central heating many homes are designed and built now without fireplaces. As George Harrison (1943 – 2001) once asked, “isn’t it a pity?”.

Harrison was a member of the Beatles – either real or imagined by Ono – but he asked his question in a song composed and recorded after the group’s demise. Whether he ever existed or not, what we can say with certainty about Harrison is that he was fab. He was as fab as a roc.

Which brings us back to the subject of our enquiry, the fabulous bird. What can be said, usefully, about a non-existent bird? Not much, really. I mean, what on earth is the point of babbling on about something that does not exist, and never has existed, except as an idea inside people’s heads? One cannot even say of the roc, as one can say of so many other types of birds, oh! so many, that it has a beak and feathers. Its beak and its feathers are as imaginary as the roc itself. It is merely a spectral thing. Upon close examination, it disappears from view. Like the Snark, it softly and suddenly vanishes away.

There is possibly a scholarly essay to be written on whether the roc, like the Snark, was in fact a Boojum all along. We might ask the same question about George Harrison and the other three Beatles. Having allowed that they were indubitably fab, but possibly fabulous, we might consider whether any or all of them were Boojums. Some have identified their manager Brian Epstein (1934 – 1967) as the Boojum, indeed as the Boojum of Boojums.

Again, I am not going to give chapter and verse, for the simple reason that my reference source is as fabulous as the roc. I just made up that Epstein – Boojum comparison, because I could. But now I have made it, and posted it on Het Internet, it has become an idea, a concept, not unlike an Ono concept. Anybody typing “Epstein – Boojum Comparison” into a search engine will find it, and read it, and thus it may spread, like wildfire, through the heads of millions, just as Ono’s Beatles did, just as, over longer centuries, the roc did, or the idea of the roc, that fabulous bird which never really existed at all.

The Pratincole

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Chapter Five of Mr Key’s Book Of Birds, a work in progress.

The pratincole is a type of bird. Beak, feathers, power of flight etcetera etcetera. It is something of a neglected bird. In a poll, when asked to list, with a minimum of thought, the first five birds that came into their heads, nought percent of respondents named the pratincole. And there were a lot of respondents. A lot. It was one of the biggest polls ever conducted by the Pratincolophilia Society, and the results caused its members severe disappointment.

Pratincolophilia is the technical term given to the psychological state of attraction to pratincoles. This can vary from a casual regard and appreciation of the bird, as when a person clomping about in the sort of environment where one might see a pratincole (meadows and marshes in southern Europe, Africa, Asia, and Australia) spots one and smiles and says, “Gosh! What a delightful little pratincole!”, to full-blown crazed adoration of the bird. Pratincolophiles at the far end of the spectrum have been known to erect shrines and altars on which they place simulacra of the object of their obsession, made from plaster of Paris or plasticine or wax or marzipan. Occasionally they might obtain a stuffed pratincole from a friendly taxidermist. These people are doolally but harmless, and you might be acquainted with one for years without suspecting the nature of their inner mania, or even that they are maniacs at all. Commonly, the first hint you will be given is when the pratincolophile, speaking in a strangely heightened and excited tone of voice, invites you into the sanctum wherein stands the shrine or altar to their bird. In these circumstances, the best thing to do, having prostrated yourself upon the floor and jabbered a rum litany of nonsense, as bidden, is to pretend you have an urgent appointment, preferably on the other side of town, and to scarper without looking back. Next time you bump into your acquaintance, you would be advised to steer the conversation away from any bird-related topics whatsoever.

It is a curious fact, however, that high spectrum pratincolophiles often display absolutely no interest in any other types of birds. If anything, they seem blitheringly ignorant about birds in general. Boffins have yet to identify the “danger points” which propel the casual or low spectrum pratincolophile, the one clomping about with a pair of binoculars and a healthy interest in other types of birds, to the bonkers level. It may have something to do with brain chemistry, or exposure to airborne toxins, or trauma, though it is difficult to imagine what possible trauma could be occasioned by a little pratincole. Still, the Lord moves in mysterious ways, as we know, and it would not be beyond His wit to think up some horror involving a maddened flock of pratincoles and visit it upon a poor benighted sod.

I am often asked – well, no, I am not often asked, in fact now I think about it, nobody has ever asked me – “Mr Key, if there is such a condition as pratincolophilia, is there a concomitant condition of pratincolophobia?” Should that question ever be put to me, and I hope it will be, one day, before I die, I will have an answer ready.

The Chiffchaff

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Chapter Four of Mr Key’s Book Of Birds, a work in progress.

The chiffchaff is a type of bird. It could be said to be a difficult little bird, for reasons which I shall explain. The chiffchaff is almost exactly the same type of bird as the willow warbler, and the difficulty arises because I have already written about the willow warbler. I am not trying to claim that these two birds are identical in all particulars, as that would be foolish, but quite honestly they are so alike that only the most acutely observant among you would be able to tell the difference. It would not surprise me to learn that even a chiffchaff might mistake a willow warbler for a chiffchaff, and vice versa, so what hope can there be for us humans?

Some might argue that birds’ organs of perception act in ways wholly alien to us, and that their apprehension of the world around them is, as a consequence, so vastly different to ours that a chiffchaff will always recognise the chiffchaffness of another chiffchaff, and the willow warblerness of a willow warbler. It would be fruitless to argue the case. All I am trying to say is that as far as we humans are concerned there is precious little difference between the two birds.

So, having devoted a chapter to the willow warbler, I do not want to risk repeating myself by chuntering on about the chiffchaff. Christ knows, the repetitions involved in writing about birds are numerous enough. Beaks, feathers, wings, talons … you are already more than familiar with them, and we have not yet started to consider such things as slashed and savaged semi-digested fieldmice and voles, and other gruesome dishes from the birdy recipe book.

Yet while some repetitiveness is unavoidable in a work such as this, if the reader is to gain a clear understanding of all the different birds, I do not want to type out the same old baloney over and over again. Things would be much easier if similar or in some cases identical types of birds had not been given several different names. Don’t get me started on the green plover, for example. But we must deal with the world as it is, not as we wish it to be in our wildest dreams. This earthbound realism is particularly – and paradoxically – necessary in the case of birds, which, in the main, tend not to be earthbound at all. One of the first things the amateur will notice about birds is that God has granted them the power of flight. There are of course exceptions, such as the ostrich, a huge and very stupid bird which is tethered by gravity to the earth as decisively as you and me. But the chiffchaff, like the majority of birds, can fly.

Anything else that might usefully be said about the chiffchaff I have already covered in the chapter on the willow warbler. You can trust me on this. It goes without saying that I know more about birds than you do. After all, I am the writer and you – whoever you are – are the reader, and it seems plain as the peas on my fork that if you already knew much about birds you would not feel the need to read this book. You would be out tramping the countryside, a pair of binoculars dangling around your neck, pointing at our feathered friends and showing off by exclaiming, to your companion, “Oh look, Constance, a chiffchaff!”, suspecting that poor Constance thought she was peering at a willow warbler.

The Corncrake

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Chapter Three of Mr Key’s Book Of Birds, a work in progress.

The corncrake is a type of bird. Its call is raucous and alarming. To gain an idea of how raucous, how alarming, imagine you are fast asleep in bed. Because you are obsessed with the rigours of polar exploration, you sleep, like Roald Amundsen, with your bedroom window wide open in all seasons of the year. Through this open window flies a corncrake, and it comes into land upon your head. Ordinarily, the sensation of its talons digging into your bouffant to steady its perching would awaken you. But you are wearing your thickly-woven woolly swaddling sleep helmet, as recommended by Von Straubenzee. Having suffered from debilitating insomnia for many years, you studied Von Straubenzee’s exciting new discipline of snoozetics. Now, before retiring, you drink a pint of lukewarm milk of magnesia, picture yourself tossing the contents of your brain into a wooden crate and hammering shut the lid of the crate with ten thousand nails, the same number of nails Cornelius Cardew thought sufficient to seal the coffin of imperialism, and you don the sleep helmet before hopping – never climbing, but hopping – into bed. You have found that ever since following Von Straubenzee’s procedures religiously, your sleep is deep and untroubled and not unlike a coma. Thus when the corncrake alights upon your head, and digs its talons into the thick wool of your sleep helmet to steady itself in its perching, you do not feel a thing. You remain fast asleep, content and snug in la-la land.

From its perch, the corncrake surveys its surroundings. If you asked it why it had flown in through the window, and if it was somehow capable of responding in an approximation of human speech so that you understood its reply, it is likely that the corncrake would have absolutely no idea what impelled it. Who knows why birds do what they do? Not even the birds themselves know, for their brains are tiny. Rather than using reason, birds follow the dictates of instinct, what you or I would call “gut feelings”. All we are able to say is that, on this occasion, the corncrake saw the open window and took the opportunity to fly into your bedroom, probably in the hope of finding something to eat. Fortunately, densely-woven wool does not feature as part of a corncrake’s regular diet.

So while the bird rests from the exertions of its flight, perched on your head, it trains its two black fathomless savage inhuman eyes upon your bedroom. It takes in the frieze of martyred saints above the dado rail, the wainscot, the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the rug and the unseemly stains. It takes in the clutter atop the bedside cabinet, the glass of water, the folded spectacles, the scrunched tissue, the anglepoise lamp, the stray button, the biro, the pins, the bowl, the dust, the cardboard carton of pills, the alarm clock, the other button, the little jars, the littler bottles, the nameless thingummy, the biscuit crumbs, the snuffbox, the coinage, the pipe-cleaners, the mud idol, the cotton wool, the toffee apple wrapper, the handkerchief, the string, the puppet, the putty, the duster, the rag, the bus ticket, the scrap of paper, the pocket Bible, the rosary beads, the taffy tin, the bonbon, the monkey snapshot in its frame, the atomiser, the shopping list, the rubber band, the drawing pin, the plaster Madonna and Child statuette, the sophisticated cocktail party invitation, the chewing gum, the gloves, the telephone. Were it a magpie or a jackdaw, rather than a corncrake, it might swoop and snatch up in its beak one of the smaller items on the top of the cabinet and fly out through the window and away, to deposit the stolen gewgaw in its nest. In folk tales and legends, magpies and jackdaws often appear as thieves, the bird equivalents of opportunistic pickpockets, and this characterisation has some basis in brute avian fact. Not so the corncrake, which is not thought of as a pillaging bird. So while it gazes upon the clutter, it remains still, perched upon your sleeping head, and swoops not to snatch booty in its beak.

Stille Nacht. It would be hard to imagine a night more still, more silent than this one. The Von Straubenzee method ensures you make no stentorian snoring noise. The sound of your breathing is almost imperceptible, muffled by the sleep helmet. The corncrake’s breathing is equally quiet. Nothing stirs in your bedroom, and from outside, through the open window, there is not even a breath of wind. It is as if the planet has fallen asleep with you.

I have said that we can have no idea what prompts a bird to do what it does. So I can offer no logical, reasoned explanation for the sudden loud jarring raucous cry of the corncrake on your head. It makes its harsh caw twice, then lifts off, and flies away out of the window. The effect on you is instantaneous and awful. You waken, alarmed, indeed panic-stricken, as if prodded with a burning hot pointy stick. You do not see the corncrake fly away, so you cannot account for the horror by which you are convulsed. Trembling, you clamber out of bed and shuffle to your toilet to piddle, a piddle occasioned by fear. Such is the raucous and alarming call of the corncrake.

The Willow Warbler

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The willow warbler is a type of bird. As its name suggests, it hangs around in the vicinity of willow trees and it warbles. In the notebook you keep in a waterproof pochette on a lanyard around your neck, there is probably a page headed Birds Beginning With “W” I Have Seen, on which you have written a list of birds beginning with “W”. When you see one of these birds, you either make a tick next to the name, or cross it out, decisively, with your propelling pencil. In order to achieve this result for the willow warbler, then, you need to be near willow trees, or possibly just one willow tree. And you also need to listen out for warbling.

If there are no willow trees in sight, and you cannot hear anything resembling a warble, you are very unlikely to spot a willow warbler. The first thing to do, then, is to get yourself close to some willows. Do not forget to take your binoculars with you, unless you are blessed with uncommonly piercing vision, in which case you probably have not bothered to buy, or rent, a pair of binoculars.

It may be that you live far, oh! so far, from any willows, and congenital infirmity forbids you from lengthy travel. In such circumstances, you need not give up all hope of spotting a willow warbler. The thing to do is to obtain, and plant in the ground in your garden, some willow saplings. If you do not have a garden, choose a patch of commons as close to your domain as possible, and plant the saplings there. You will, of course, have to wait some years for the saplings to grow into the kind of lush verdant willow trees likely to attract a willow warbler, but while you wait you can spend profitable time reading up on the bird, so you can be all the more certain you know one when you see one. And of course, reading books about birds can be done in the comfort of your armchair, if you have one, and you need not strain your feeble and debilitated limbs. If you do not have an armchair, you can simply sprawl on the floor.

Several other types of birds are known to hang around in the vicinity of willows. This is where your ability to recognise the warbling of a willow warbler becomes critical. Bear in mind, however, that not only do several other types of birds lurk in the willows, but several other types of birds also warble. I am not going to give you a complete, or even a partial, list of such birds, so do not ask. What you need to do is learn the distinctive warbling sound made by the willow warbler, which differentiates it from other warbling birds. There might be some tape recordings in your local lending library, or you can interrogate an ornithologist.

After much diligent study, you should be able to recognise the willow warbler with both your eyes and your ears. What you then have to do is drag yourself towards the patch of willows, peer intently and prick up your ears, and wait for a bird to appear that matches both the sight and sound of the willow warbler insofar as you have rammed those concepts into your head. You can then take your notebook out of its pochette, flip to the required page, and either tick or cross out the name of the bird.

As we have seen, depending on your physical robustness, or lack thereof, this may take many years to accomplish. But, boy oh boy, it will be worth it, with icing on top!

This is a second extract from Mr Key’s Book Of Birds, a work in progress.

Hallowe’en; or, The Throwback

It was one of those Octobers of relentless thudding and hammering, when the throwback was on the throne. The throneback, some called him, behind his back, but of course nobody had ever seen the back of the throne, not even the carpenter who made it, who was blind. As soon as it was finished, the throne was installed, its back rammed fast against the chamber wall, and there it had remained. When renovations and redecoration were undertaken, the work had to be arranged in such a way that the throne itself was never moved. And sat on it now, this October, with his oxygenator and his paper bag of salt water taffy, was the throwback king.

The drains were blocked. There were a couple of chickens roasting on a spit. A peasant was being tortured in an alcove. And still, the constant din of thudding and hammering, drowning out the squeaking of bats, countless bats, up in the rafters.

We know the bats were countless because the king had tried to have them counted. It was one of his first acts, after taking his place upon the throne. First he called for his oxygenator, then for his taffy, and then he summoned a calculator pursuivant and told him to count the bats. He was a bat-minded king, he liked to say. His uncle had advised him to speak very rarely. The fewer words he pronounced, said this uncle, the greater the force he would lend them. But the throwback king took no notice of this sage counsel, and he babbled, and had his uncle tortured in the alcove, like the peasant.

There was a staircase leading from the chamber, obviously, at the foot of which was a brick-kiln, Each brick baked here was stamped with an image of the king’s heraldic beast, a fish with the head of an owl, the thorax and abdomen of a snapping beetle, and the trailing appendages of a jellyfish. It was called Desmond. The king’s greatest amusement, chewing taffy apart, was to watch his weediest fool try to juggle hot bricks while standing in a puddle.

Milk played an important part in the life of the court that October. The throwback king, with his faux-Flemish affectations, pronounced it melk. He said coo instead of cow. Over and over again, he liked to watch the scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s Suspicion (1941) where Cary Grant carries a glass of milk upstairs to Joan Fontaine. Hitchcock placed a small light in the glass to make the milk glow. The king made his cows glow, by training Klieg lights upon their byre,

It was only a short walk from the chamber to the cow byre, but one the king never made, for he was stuck to his throne. As with his forebears, so with the throwback. Once settled upon the throne, its seat coated with powerful adhesive gum, he would never rise from it again. Would he live beyond October? Towards the end of the month the thuddings and hammerings grew ever more clamorous. The king’s oxygenator gave out, the salt water taffy was as dust in his mouth. His minions circled, their faces expressionless, unreadable.

Come Hallowe’en, when they prodded the king with a stick, he did not cry out.

The Robin

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The robin is a type of bird. It may be found, in near stasis, perched on a bough. Arrival upon and departure from the bough is accomplished by flight, flight achieved by deployment of the wings (a pair). Not all birds are capable of flight, but the robin is. During perchment, the robin may be captured by placing over it a net attached to one end of a stick. While it is thus prevented from flying away, one can insert a syringe through the net, and stun the robin with a sedative, rendering it unconscious. The net can then be lifted up, and the bird placed in the pocket.

One should ensure that the bough from which the robin is abducted is within a short walking distance of the laboratory or other workspace. If the bird regains consciousness while in the pocket, it will panic, and flap about, and may well exercise its wings sufficiently to fly free, up and away into the boundless sky. Upon arrival at the lab, place the stunned bird on a work-surface and inject it with another dose of the serum, calibrated to keep it away with the fairies for a few hours.

Various activities can now be carried out with the unconscious robin. These may be in the spirit of scientific enquiry, or just larking about. (Technically, the lark is a different type of bird and has nothing to do with larking about, at least not in the present context.) If one intends, shortly before the robin wakes up, its tiny brain woozy, to replace it on its bough, or on a different but nearby bough, it is important that no great harm should come to the bird as a result of the activities, whatever they might be. Small modifications to the unconscious robin are permissible, for example plucking out a handful of its feathers for later examination under a microscope at one’s leisure, or painting it an entirely different colour with a non-toxic pigment. But on no account should one remove, say, its head, for in doing so one will kill the robin and it will not wake from its induced coma.

If carrying out scientific experiments, it is well to bear in mind that the robin is but one type of bird, and one cannot extrapolate from the results of one’s experiments deductions applicable to all types of birds, not even to all robins. It may not be a normal robin. If simply larking about, say by dipping the feet in a pool of ink and then printing a false bird-trail across the bedroom ceiling of a wife one is plotting to drive insane, as in the Patrick Hamilton play Gaslight, one need not bother whether the robin is normal or not. (The villainous husband in Gaslight did not print such a bird-trail, but it is the sort of tactic he might have used, had he had access to an unconscious robin.)

When replacing the bird on its bough, it will need to be propped upright until it is fully awake, otherwise it will topple to the ground due to gravitational force. Use a small structure of interlaced twigs, or some such temporary bolster. Upon waking, the robin will probably bestir itself and use its wings to depart the bough, in flight, up into the sky, until it is quite out of sight, its destination unknown, even to the robin itself.

This is an extract from Mr Key’s Book Of Birds, a work in progress.

The New World Order

The New World Order has come to pass. It has been decreed by the king that from this day forth, the order of “World” should not be w-o-r-l-d, as at present, but o-w-l-r-d. When a space is introduced between the l and the r, we get Owl Rd, where Rd is a common abbreviation for Road. Thus the New World Order is to be found along Owl Road, which is to be the new name for every single road, street, avenue, crescent, mews, lane, path, you get the idea, throughout the kingdom.

The usual moaning minnies have raised objections, chiefly the posties and dustbin men and others whose duties require them to navigate the various roads and streets. They – or at least their representatives – say that with every road called Owl Road they will get lost, lost, hopelessly lost, and be unable to perform their functions with due efficiency. To which the king says: “Pah!”

That is one of the great things about being the king. You can wave your begloved hand disdainfully and say “Pah!”, and none dare challenge you. The posties’ and dustbin men’s representatives made a little fuss, it is true, but once the king had glared at them and spat his contempt, they knew better than to persist. They returned to their depots like whipped curs, and held meetings where they told the posties and the dustbin men to get to work, starting on Owl Road.

“Don’t worry your little proletarian heads about becoming hopelessly lost,” they were told, “For how can you be lost when, wherever you are, you know you are on Owl Road?”

You see how the king looks after his subjects? In the New World Order, everybody knows exactly where they are, at every hour of the day and the night. And that is a very fine state of affairs indeed.

Written this day sitting on a municipal bench on Owl Road.

Near And Middle And Far

I remember as if it were yesterday my very first encounter with Tarleton. He was propping up the bar in a beige and dismal drinking den, beetle-browed and lantern-jawed and babbling to no one in particular. I sat on a stool beside him, ordered a sprangeloenkenkischt, and listened to what he had to say.

He was only recently back from a hush-hush mission in the East, and was worrying, like a dog with a sheep, at the impossibility of grasping the difference between the Near East, the Middle East, and the Far East. What seemed to bother him was that, whereas the location of the Middle East was as clear as dammit, between the Near and the Far, placing the Near and the Far was by no means as simple a matter. If you were slap bang in the middle of the Middle East, for example, the Near East and the Far East would be equidistant from where you stood, or sat, or lay sprawled in a hammock in the blistering noonday sun, going mad.

When he briefly paused to glug his kolokkengehemmelbe, I asked him which East, Near or Middle or Far, he had been in, on his hush-hush mission. Swallowing the dregs of the fiery liqueur, he spluttered and told me the point of a hush-hush mission was that it was hush-hush. I could not disagree with that. I bought him another drink. His tongue did not need loosening, but I was at a loose end, and he seemed to be a man of parts, well worth listening to.

I was wrong. For the next two hours, he gabbled on and on and on, without cease, trying but failing to settle the matter of the three Easts, Near and Middle and Far, now and then pulling from his pocket a crumpled map, hand-drawn with a leaky biro on a filthy napkin, on which he had tried, tried and failed, tried again and failed again, like the best or worst of Beckettians, to hammer home the geography of the East, to pin it down, definitively, so that he would no longer need to think about it. That, he said, in among his witterings, was what he could not stand – that no matter how hard he tried, the East would remain forever beyond his grasp.

Eventually he staggered off to the lavatory to vomit. He had left the napkin map on the counter. Idly, I picked it up. I turned it this way and that, and then, feeling the breath of God on the back of my neck, I crumpled it up and uncrumpled it and turned it upside down and back to front. I laid it back on the counter and smoothed it out, downed the last of my goospelkschnittzern, wrapped my muffler tight about my neck, and tottered out into the icy blizzard. As I followed the tractor-tracks back towards my chalet, I heard from inside the bar a scream, at once hysterical and tragic and unhinged and ecstatic. I lit my pipe, as snowflakes fell.

The Rubbish Dump

Note well the co-ordinates of the rubbish dump. Lit lantern, hand-held, visibility Stygian. Pebbles underfoot. Buck collar snug at the neck. Distant incomprehensible keening. The mighty pyramids of Ancient Egypt. Satyrs cavort in the forest. A galumphing peasant with a pail. The rubbish dump would appear to be not far from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Crows fly there, on the hour, timetabled. Clack clack clack, rapid clacks. That kind of timetable. Rain on the pebbles. An orphan choir sings a song.

Bob Crow, Bob Crow
Made out of dough
Eat him up with salt and herring

A biff in the chops from an unknown assailant. Fleeing in the gutter. On All Hallows Eve, pictures of Jap girls in synthesis. The seven wonders of another world. Resurrectionists scurry in the night. Spades at the ready. Bob Crow, Bob Crow.

Sibelius was a terrible drunkard. A dog sniffing a ditch. Frisky terrier, lumbering hound. Two dogs then. The Colossus of Rhodes. Young marble giants. Wind in the rigging. A frump with a towel in a doorway, like Harry Lime in postwar Vienna. Wheels within wheels. The windmills of someone else’s mind. Mind how you go, sir. There’s room for one more inside.

There’s room for one more skip at the rubbish dump. Babylon or Chartres. Sing, sing, in a cathedral choir. Nunc dimittis. And he had received an answer from the Holy Ghost, that he should not see death, before he had seen the Christ of the Lord. Bob Sparrow, Bob Lark.

Rain in the gutters and filth on the stairs. I hear the sound of mandolins. Now the orphans sing.

Bob Crow, Bob Lark, Bob Bobolink
Call for another round of drinks
We are teetering on the brink
Let’s fall into the abyss.

Visibility nil, in the abyss. Can I get a witness? Is there honey? Is there tea? No. You have drained your cup. You could not make it up.

A new ghost.

Oh Prunella!

Oh Prunella! Thou art fair! But is it true that thou has lost thy marbles? Just now I was engaged in breezy chitchat with old Greavish the retainer, by the filbert hedge, and he said you had taken to hiding behind the arras waving a new-darned sock from your dainty hand, to and fro, to and fro, while humming a bawdy song. That is why I came bounding across the lawn past the box hedge and the serried rows of owl traps, and dashed into the house and up the stairs to your boudoir, to find out if Greavish spoke the truth. And now I find you here, so fair, not behind the arras at all, but slumped on a divan, toying with pickles in a jar, and by your slipper-shod feet another jar, sealed, in which there appears to be a creature of the sea, enbrined, globular, and luminous. The sock you were wafting has been tossed aside against the wainscot, where it is being gnawed by a little mouse. Thou art not singing, now, but keening, a low, melancholy keening, redolent of untold centuries of historic wrongs unrighted. I shall bring you a flan from the pantry, oh my Prunella! And then I shall lift you to your feet and carry you all the way to the house of Dr Slop. It is an untidy house, dilapidated and falling down, but within the good doctor maintains a laboratory in which he conducts his brain sluicing experiments. I shall pay him a few sous and hand you over to his care until springtime. Come, Prunella dear. Let drop your pickle jar. Think no more about the sock. I will take your sea creature to the aquarium as soon as I have you safely installed with the doctor. Do not, oh! do not scamper behind the arras where I cannot reach you. Sing not that bawdy song! It assails my ears and I must stuff them with cotton wool. Greavish! Greavish! Come quick! The sea creature has broken the seal upon its jar and is slithering across the rug towards the arras! Oh God in heaven. Glubb … glubb … glubb …

Grotto Cad

You don’t expect to find a cad in a grotto. But that is exactly what I discovered during a spot of seaside spelunking many years ago. I had abseiled down a cliff, having been told by my colleague Dennis Pivot that there was, at its foot, partly submerged under water, a grotto which, he thought, was the portal to a magnificent and extensive system of caves never before explored.

“What makes you think that, Dennis?” I had asked him, as we ate sausages in a seaside cafeteria.

“Clues strewn in various rare manuscripts of olden times,” he said. When I pressed him for further details, he pretended to be chewing on a piece of gristle, then gagged, spat into a napkin, and keeled over. It was a convincing performance, and at the time I had absolutely no idea he was dissembling.

I hired some kit and headed for the cliff. It was a squally day. Gulls were screaming their heads off. My ears are oversensitive to certain bird shrieks, so I stuffed them with cotton wool. Then I abseiled like the abseiling expert I am down the cliff face. What with the cotton wool and my cushioned helmet I couldn’t hear a thing. At the bottom of the cliff, I swung myself into the grotto. I unfastened myself from my abseiling rope and stood for a moment or two, knee deep in sloshing seawater, to catch my breath. That is when I saw the cad.

He came looming out of the Platonic shadows at the back of the grotto, a dapper fellow in spite of the cheapness of his suit. Like many a postwar cad, he bore a striking resemblance to the actor Terry-Thomas (1911-1990).

“Hello old chap!” he said, “I say, you couldn’t see your way to loaning me a few bob, could you? Had a run of bad luck on the old gee-gees, you know how it is.”

I couldn’t hear a word he said, and gestured to indicate as much. Then I took off my helmet and prised the cotton wool out of my ears and asked him to repeat himself. After he had done so, I explained that I never carried cash when abseiling, for fear it might fall from my pocket into the merciless sea.

“Drat!”, he said, and then offered to place some bets for me if I met up with him at Waterloo Station on the following Thursday and forwarded him several hundred pounds.

I promised to think about it, though in truth my puritanical ways made it very unlikely that I would ever get embroiled in any form of gambling.

“Tell me something,” I said, “You seem to be familiar with this grotto. I’ve been led to believe it leads to a magnificent and extensive system of caves never before explored. Is that indeed the case?”

“I haven’t got the foggiest,” he said, “Only been here a couple of weeks, haven’t quite got my bearings.”

This surprised me. I had always thought it a characteristic of cads that they were quick to grasp the possibilities of whatever circumstances they found themselves in. I put this to him, without actually calling him a cad. By way of reply, he changed the subject.

“I say, you couldn’t loan me those bits of cotton wool, could you? I’m being driven crackers by the shrieking of those damnable gulls.”

I was reluctant to relinquish my makeshift earmuffs, and told him so. I still cannot remember how he managed to wheedle them out of me, nor how he convinced me to let him try on my abseiling harness, which, having donned, he attached to the rope dangling at the grotto’s opening, whereupon he rapidly ascended, leaving me alone. The sloshing seawater was now up to my waist.

There was nothing for it but to make my way deeper into the grotto, in the hope of discovering a magnificent and extensive system of caves never before explored. But was my colleague Dennis Pivot right, or was he talking twaddle, as he so often did?

On this occasion, I am relieved to report, he was bang on the money. I spent several days clambering about underground, the first man to see, oh!, such wonders!

But when Thursday came I determined to find my way back to the grotto and then, somehow, up the cliff face. I remembered I had an appointment to meet the cad at Waterloo Station, and though I had no intention of giving him several hundred pounds to bet on the horses on my behalf, I dearly wanted to retrieve my abseiling harness and rope and cotton wool.

When I got to the grotto, the tide was in, and the sloshing seawater came up to my neck. Without my abseiling gear, I knew I could not hope to scale the cliff, so I decided to plunge ahead and make a swim for it. There was a terrible risk that I would be dashed to pieces on the rocks. Luckily, I managed, by dint of advanced swimming techniques, to steer my way through the tremendous currents, and by midday I was panting on a shingle beach. I was exhausted and sodden and had numerous tiny crustacean beings snagged in my hair, but I was alive.

Stopping only for a reviving cuppa in a seaside cafeteria, I caught a train to Waterloo Station. And there, on the concourse, waiting for me, I spotted the cad. I squelched towards him.

“There you are, old bean,” he said, “Have you got a wodge of the folding stuff?”

“No I have not!” I cried, “I am of puritanical bent and I never bet on the horses. I have come for my abseiling harness and rope and my cotton wool, with which I entrusted you in the grotto.”

“Of course, old boy, of course,” he said, a gleam of mischief in his eyes, “I put them in a locker for safe keeping. Here – “ and he handed me a key – “Number 666. Be seeing you!” And he scarpered.

I asked a railway person where the lockers were, and went straight to them. I inserted the key into the lock of locker number 666, and opened it. There was no sign of my harness, my rope, and my cotton wool. Instead, what I found in the locker was the thing that, had I but known, I would have dropped as surely as one drops a burning potato, for it led to my utter ruin in this world, and my damnation in the world to come.

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Terry-Thomas, for younger readers who may not know what a postwar cad looked like

Crank’s Bumf

Experience tells us that most cranks hoick their bumf about in carrier bags. Any crank’s bumf will be peculiar to his own idée fixe, whether it be UFOs, the second coming of Christ, the grassy knoll, or one of any number of tomfooleries. But no matter what the precise nature of the mania, the crank almost invariably stuffs his bumf into a carrier bag before setting out into the world.

Having so set out, he makes his way to his preferred spot. This may be, for example, at the foot of a statue in an important square. There will be many passers-by, weather permitting, each and every one of whom is a potential convert to the crank’s cause. Bumf in bag, he may either rant through a loudhailer or, more quietly, buttonhole individuals by thrusting a sample of his bumf at them as they pass.

The bumf usually consists of a bundle of Gestetnered screeds, of wild and improbable prose, which the crank will be willing to give away gratis. The carrier bag will contain numerous copies, often dog-eared and crumpled. Most days, the crank will return home with almost as many in his bag as when he set out.

What does he do, the crank, when not at his spot? He scribbles a new and more thorough screed, sitting at his kitchen table. Each day he gains new insights into his inner world, finds fresh evidence for his theory, and he commits it to paper. The best type of crank will have in his bumf several different screeds, all of course devoted to the same subject.

It will be noted the very few cranks ever veer from their chosen topic. A Loch Ness Monster crank is oblivious to the concerns of a Lindbergh Baby Kidnapping crank. But it is also worth noting that, with the substitution of a small number of nouns, the screeds in their bumf can be almost identical.

It is generally impossible to become an ex-crank. The most a crank can hope for is that his mad ideas gain acceptance by the wider world. Then he is no longer a crank but a prophet or a visionary. In the future, in recognition, a statue of him may be cast, and placed on a plinth in an important square. At the foot of the statue, a new crank will take his place, with a carrier bag of bumf, and the gleam of certainty in his wild eyes.

Binder : The Piano Concertos

For a study of Binder’s forty-nine symphonies, see here.

Binder wrote two piano concertos. The first, Piano Concerto In B Flat On A Theme Of Glinka, was for many years, too many to count, thought to be based on a theme by the Russian composer Mikhail Ivanovich Glinka (1804-1857). Scholars pored over his scores, trying to find the theme which had inspired Binder, in vain.

The mystery was solved when a researcher found a scribbled note in the margin of a newspaper cutting at the bottom of a box of Binder’s miscellaneous papers. The discovery, incidentally, happened on the very day of a different discovery, when Pickles, a black and white Collie, rooting about in a suburban hedge in Beulah Hill, South Norwood, found the Jules Rimet trophy which had been stolen four months before the start of the 1966 World Cup foopball tournament. Pickles’ owner received a financial reward; the only reward gained by the finder of the marginal scribble was the undying gratitude of Binder enthusiasts.

What the note revealed was the true identity of Glinka. This was not the Russian composer, but an affectionate nickname given to the landlady of the dilapidated seaside boarding house where Binder lived during a particularly wretched decade. Glinka was rakishly thin and angular and had a certain corvine air, and she whistled while she worked. One of her whistlings enchanted the impecunious composer. He may even have intended the tribute of a piano concerto to mollify Glinka and stop her bashing relentlessly on his door every day demanding the rent, which Binder always had great difficulty cobbling together. He was making a living at the time as a seaside resort piano tuner, in a seaside resort with few pianos.

Glinka’s whistle must have been something to hear. The Piano Concerto certainly is, though you will probably want to wear ear-muffs. It’s that kind of concerto.

Binder’s second piano concerto, the Piano Concerto In B Flat On A Theme Of Glinka Again, is a very different work. One critic, whose ears were pretty fantastic as critical ears go, said that it was hard to believe it was the work of the same composer. Where the first concerto is redolent of marshland and biscuits, the second has a sort of guttersnipe snippiness. Where the first is piquant, the second chunters. The theme itself is rendered by the sizzling of sausages in a frying pan, which was possibly an allusion by the composer to Glinka’s impossibly greasy breakfasts. At the première of the work, in Pointy Town’s pointy town hall, the overenthusiastic sausage sizzler allowed spitting fat to set fire to the trousers of the brass section, next to which he was stationed with his Calor Gaz picnic hob. The performance ended in disarray and the insistent ringing of alarms and the arrival of fire engines, elements which Binder planned to incorporate into a third piano concerto. He never completed this work. Actually, he never even started it. He fell hopelessly in love with the flapper Poopsie Clutterbuck who was allergic to pianos, and who convinced Binder to concentrate on his symphonies, bagatelles, and threnodies.

Glinka’s dilapidated seaside boarding house fell into further dilapidation. The landlady sold it to a simple-minded fool, and retired to a different seaside resort, further along the coast, where she was often to be seen tottering along the pier, supported on sticks, her whistling drowned out by the ferocious shrieking of gulls and gales.