Politically Incorrect Horace

Another Horace adventure. The poor fellow never gets a break.

Politically Incorrect Horace

'Horace, old boy,' said John Farnham, 'we've got to get the old Clarion into the Century of the Fruitbat. We're hopelessly behind the curve.'
Horace groaned inwardly. First, because Farnham, having discovered the writings of Sir Terry Pratchett about three weeks behind the Aborigines, was forever quoting him, and second, because whenever his editor-in-chief started talking about innovations (and using all that Orwellian marketing-speak), Horace could be sure of two things:

1. Deirdre Farnham, John's committee-heading wife, was behind the idea, and
2. It was going to mean more work for Horace.

Horace smiled a tight smile. 'John,' he ventured, 'I'm not certain our readers really want to be ahead of the curve. The curve per se is not an entity which they enjoy contemplating. They find themselves most comfortable trailing, rather than leading, the pack, as it were. Most of them associate the name Victoria with Her Late Britannic Majesty rather than the Beckham female – and wish she were still on the throne. Queen Victoria, I mean,' he added hastily, realising belatedly that his syntax had as usual run away with him. 'At any rate,' he finished lamely, 'they're a bunch of old fuddy-duddies who have never heard of 'trending'. Your attempt to update The Clarion will merely unsettle them.'

'That's exactly what I mean to do.' Farnham pounded an enthusiastic fist on the desk. 'I want to shake up the troops here. It was Deirdre's idea, really.'

You mean you want me to do the shaking-up, mused Horace as he reflexively removed his tea mug to a place of safety. Honk if you love aliens, this one said. A gift from his science-fiction-besotted nephew, who knew Horace's most shameful secret: that he read Philip K Dick in bed. Mentally counting up the years to possible retirement, Horace pretended to give his boss a fair hearing on his latest whim...er, stroke of genius.

Farnham ground on, 'What we need is to be on top of new developments, like those American blog thingies...' Ignoring Horace's discreetly rolled eyes, he went on, 'Take this 'political correctness' business that's sprung up of late. Don't know how it got started, but it's gone too bally far, you know. Can't call an [expletive deleted in anticipation of Moderator ire] an [expletive deleted in anticipation of Moderator ire] without getting every [ditto] in the shire up in arms. Apparently, though, the Yanks have found a way to deal with it.'

Horace refrained from remarking that 'political correctness', as an idea, was decades old, contenting himself with a non-committal (and, he hoped, politically correct), 'Hm?'

Farnham wouldn't have noticed. He was on a roll – cinnamon, with icing on. 'Now, Horace, my boy, here's where you come in. I've been following these chappies at Faux News, and I think they're onto something. I want you to do something daring – write a column that is politically IN-correct.' He beamed at his own cleverness.

Horace did not beam. Horace did not light up. Horace failed even to raise a figurative cigarette lighter in appreciation of this piece of brilliance. 'Er, John, I hate to bring this up...but there is one crucial flaw in your plan.' He held up his hand to forestall blustering, catching his boss in mid-bluster. 'Have you forgotten that you yourself, some months ago, caused to have installed a profanity filter on this ra-, er, august publication? And that said profanity filter, while a bit overzealous to my personal taste, most definitely and assuredly protects us and our readers from all possible verbal offence by removing words such as [expletive deleted in anticipation of Moderator ire]?' He patted John's knee comfortingly. 'You can't call them that these days, you know. The Raj is over.' He smiled generously. 'Oh, well, it was a clever idea, but I'm afraid it won't work.' He leaned back in his chair, trying not to be too conspicuously smug about winning.

However, Horace had counted his chickens while Farnham still ruled the roost. 'Pish and tosh,' crowed the editor, as he waved his hand airily (causing Horace to duck and cover his tea). 'A minor hurdle which I am sure you can overcome. I'm positive you can find a way to be politically incorrect without offending the profanity filter.' And having laid his clutch, Farnham swanned away, leaving an open-mouthed Horace to wonder exactly what private hades his overextended metaphors had led him into.

'Politically incorrect', in Horace's opinion, was just a catchphrase used by the cowardly, grotesque relics of a bygone day as protective cover behind which to continue their disgusting penchant for insulting everyone in the world who did not happen to be them – women and children in their own countries, foreign nationals of all types, and anyone whose religion, philosophy, or personal habits they disapproved of. Totally forgetting – as, apparently, did John Farnham – that the Almighty (however he/she might otherwise be described as acting) had not died and left THEM in charge. Horace sighed. It was going to be a long evening.





***Four hours later, Horace leaned back, exhausted. He had exhausted his patience. He had exhausted his store of invective. He had exhausted the Glenfiddich with which he rendered the office stewed tea palatable, or at least endurable.

But he had a column. Or what passed for one.

Horace had found it tough sledding at first – the profanity filter didn't let much through, and there were several nationalities he couldn't insult, simply because the filter found the mere mention of their proper names objectionable – but he thought he had nailed it. Even a US Republican would approve, he opined with shamefaced pride.





Ubi sunt les neiges de auld lang syne¹? Or, what is the world coming to? (A cultural review)

My fellow Britons, it is time to take a stand. A stand for the old days, the true values, the spirit of the Blitz. The time when we, as true-blue Sons of the Empire, stood shoulder to shoulder against the Menace from Abroad. I refer, of course, to the wily eastern gentlefolk from across the English Channel (English! Yes, ENGLISH! Note that, wily easterners), rather than being reduced to membership in the EU, or Everybody's Union, as we are today, forced to rub elbows with the Aliens from Lower Unspellable. Harrumph.
How did things come to this sorry pass, I ask? And well I might. The answer, my friends, lies in our subjection to Foreign Media. Those satellites in orbit have polluted our English skies with rock'n'roll, with American knockoffs of our own, better, series, with Mexican [can I say, 'Mexican'? Yes, I can] soap operas and Tie-Dye noodle boxing. This is intolerable.
Let us return to true entertainment values. Let us bring back intellectual wit, such as the Goon Show. Let us revive that truly British pastime, insulting the Irish. [Yes, definitely can say 'Irish'.] Let us remember that we INVENTED political incorrectness, long before it was a term of art. Take that, Yanks!
Let us insist on classic film evenings. The great days of cinema, from the war and before, when the grand cry of 'Tennis, anyone?' was a sure sign of a hit. When foreigners were seen to be what they are – pathetic losers and slimy villains intent on stealing our women. When women were women – soft, yielding, doe-eyed creatures – rather than Femi- Iron-Guardists². When these scented creatures looked up to their men – strong, manly, British men – for leadership and guidance, rather than running off to dance the Macarena with some yoik from Buenos Aires. Harrumph.
These opinions may be politically incorrect. If this be political incorrectness, MAKE THE MOST OF IT, as a Great Briton once said³. Let us bring back the great values – Christianity, letters to The Times, and hanging. Harrumph.
It is high time we rejected foreign values from our shores – foreign cars, foreign actors, foreign musicians, foreign languages...ESPECIALLY foreign languages. No, we DON'T parley vous, and if you do, back through the Tunnel with you, Mon-sewer.
Let us, in the words of our Prime Minister, pursue a more robust liberalism...the kind that says, 'Our way or the highway, foreign johnnies!'
If you agree with this campaign to Save Our Destiny, please add your comments to our webpage.
If not, please address your letters of protest to Mr John Farnham, Editor-in-Chief, The Clarion

Horace shrugged as he hit the 'Send' button and headed off to rinse out his tea mug.

After all, he thought. It's slightly less ethnocentric than some media outlets I could spit on from John's office window.

Footnotes:

1 Anyone wishing to translate this title is welcome to do so. Take Babelfish. Please.
2 Horace hoped there were no Romanians among the readership.
3 It was Patrick Henry of Virginia, Horace. But what the H? He was British when he said it.

The Chieftain's Ring - A Cautionary Tale

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, or to persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Mysterious are the ways of the desert. Secrets there are easily buried under the shifting sands of time. Stranger yet are the ways of the city. The secrets there, while not so easily buried, may still lurk in the shadows, eluding the seeker's lantern. The work of the scribe may be honest, as he sees it – but who is to say whether his vision is clouded, or who guided his hand? Thus spake the seer in the Year of the Red-Eyed Locust.

Twilight cast its blue magic over the bazaars of ancient Babel, and the torches were being lit as Assurbentophet, the mighty, summoned his chamberlain, his scribe, his general, and his chief assassin. These men, well-versed in the ways of power, awaited instructions expectantly. They did not wait long, for Assurbentophet was resolved upon action. He gazed upon them serenely beneath his jewelled crown, and thoughtfully stroked his well-curled beard.

'The time has come,' he informed them. 'The hour is ripe. The tribes of the north are weakened, distracted. The kingdom of the south is at ease. We may act to good purpose on the morrow.'

As the scribe unpacked the tools of his trade, sharpening his stylus and taking fresh clay, the chamberlain nodded eagerly. 'The wedding of Princess Hotscatsup has all the world aflutter. They won't notice anything we get up to,' he put in. 'We have what Your Magnificence might call a window of opportunity. No,' to the scribe, 'Don't write that down, you fool.' The scribe, a meek man, smoothed clay, waited.

The general twirled his moustache, and patted the slight paunch he had developed from the years of soft living in the capital. 'Your Munificence,' he began. 'The army is ready to attack the evildoers of the east. We await your signal. A thousand thousand troops stand ready. We even have stealth elephants.' Assurbentophet nodded graciously. This was what he wanted to hear.

But the chamberlain looked alarmed. 'Your Haughtiness,' he protested. 'How can we invade the east? Even with the distraction of the Princess' wardrobe, surely the news-criers will notice that we...er...' he faltered beneath his monarch's gaze,'...that we, er, have no reason to invade the east. We will look like, er, aggressors. Bad guys, in short.' The chamberlain looked down, ashamed to have mentioned this, but feeling that it was his duty.

Assurbentophet smiled condescendingly. 'That, too, has been thought of, my faithful servant.' He struck an even more regal pose as he announced, 'The kingdom will invade the east, because the east has been sheltering Harun al-Rashomon, the notorious bandit, whose raids have made Babel unsafe these many years.' His royal eyes glowed. 'This very night,' he nodded to his chief assassin, who bowed, 'Cohort VI of the Royal Liberation Assassins has, well, assassinated the villain in his lair, which they finally found after a dozen years of painful searching.' He smiled benevolently. 'They have done well, and will all receive medals.'

The general's eyes widened. 'But, oh, Plenipotency, forgive the objection, but was not Harun al-Rashomon killed? Lo, these many years ago, seven, I think, in the fighting at the Fortress of Kresh?' The others glared at him. The general, being made of stern stuff, stood up to their gaze, although the knuckles of his clenched fist were white with the strain of it. 'I'm just playing devil's advocate here,' he added lamely.

The chief assassin cleared his throat – a sound that, as always, caused the others to shudder involuntarily, as if a goose had walked over their graves. 'Your Mightiness,' he ventured, in a voice as smooth as oil on the palm of a harem girl, 'I have brought the tokens you require.' Into his monarch's outstretched hand, the assassin placed the ruby ring of Harun al-Rashomon, as well as a bracelet and torque, easily recognised by all the viewers of the Nightly News Re- enactments: these things, indeed, had belonged to Harun al-Rashomon, and had been taken at his death seven years before by the hand of the chief assassin himself. They had merely been laid by for a more convenient occasion. The general and chamberlain gasped in comprehension, as the scribe began picking furiously in the clay.

The chamberlain noticed, fortunately. 'Stop that, you imbecile!' he hissed. 'Do not write what you see.' The scribe shrugged, and re-smoothed the clay, muttering under his breath, 'Why do I bother?'

Assurbentophet grinned an imperial grin as he transferred these tokens from the assassin to the general. 'You understand now, my military friend? You have only to find a suitable corpse – I recommend a size 40, long, al-Rashomon was a large fellow – and place these tokens upon him. The rest, as they say, will be History.'

The general, the assassin, and the chamberlain bowed low – nay, grovelled – before the genius that was Assurbentophet. 'Surely, you were born to rule over us,' they enthused.

The scribe, an insignificant fellow, piped up, but cautiously, visions of the headsman in the forefront of his thoughts. 'Er, it's obvious you don't want anybody to know about this stuff,' he ventured. 'So can anybody tell me why I'm here?'

Assurbentophet beamed at the scribe. 'Why, my friend, yours is the most important task of all. When the general here finds the body of the hated, the loathed, the despised Harun al- Rashomon, may his name be forever cursed for insulting my father, and parades it in the palace square of Babel, he will of course announce to all and sundry that Harun al-Rashomon has left behind many, many private writings...outlines of his further nefarious schemes, his plans for mischief, allowing us to take action against his many, many conspirators, some near, some far...Harun al-Rashomon has been very, very busy...we will have much to do.'

The scribe gulped, and nodded. He refrained from remarking that Harun al-Rashomon, like all his tribe, was illiterate. He refrained from saying anything that might draw attention to himself. Instead, he smoothed his clay again and picked up his stylus.

'Let us write History, then, Your Elegance,' he said simply, as he prepared to take dictation.

Saucer of Jam

When the alien space ship arrived – chock-full of impressive technology, enough to convince even the most paranoid skeptic that this was the Real Deal – humans of all stripes and persuasions were falling over one another to get a gander at the craft, its inhabitants, and whatever else was going on.

Twitter's stock split (again), the web lit up 24/7, and news people never seemed to go to bed. Maybe, as some suggested, the aliens had taught them how to clone themselves, complete with perfect hairdos. The aliens (or rather, the androids they had sent in their places) appeared to be teaching important people a lot of things: new products appeared on the market, at reasonable introductory prices, there were rumours of medical advances, including a cure for the common cold, and the airwaves were full of startling images of the aliens' homeworld, which looked like a realtor's paradise.

Of course, only world leaders got to talk to the androids, who explained patiently (as androids are built for patience) that yes, they (or rather, their flesh-and-blood creators) had been monitoring Earth for a very long time, were big fans, in fact, and knew as much as the next rabid fan about the place's history, habits, and general quirks. Just ask them. In fact, they modestly supposed they might even know more about the running of the planet than the average local inhabitant. Though they didn't like to brag. The androids proved this, right off, by asking for the world leaders and media darlings by name. They even knew all the trivia from the comic books and scifi blockbusters.

Anybody who wasn't a world leader or media star (the androids appeared interested in construction tycoons with bad hairpieces and political ambitions, as well as over-muscled and/or scantily-clad movie folk) just had to be satisfied with the day-and-night coverage of everything from the latest glimpse of the interior of the ship (mauve, surprising choice) to endless discussions of Lady Dada's wardrobe malfunction at the android-attended Oscars. (The androids appeared only mildly interested, leading to speculation that the androids' bosses were similarly equipped.) As usual, hoi polloi sat and gossiped while the major players did whatever major players did.

Finally, after the usual high-level talks, the following facts emerged:


The aliens' homeworld had plenty of room for new settlement, and was issuing invitations.
Only the best, brightest, most gifted – meaning the well-heeled and famous – need apply.

In other words, business as usual. People expressed opinions on Facebook ('Like! Like! Like!') and collected collectibles commemorating the hotly-anticipated day of departure. Ratings had never been higher.

***

When Jim Garrity presented his media pass (www.homeopapenews.com, a modest start- up whose bricks-and-mortar assets consisted of a desktop and an outdated 4-in-1 printer in the corner of his living room), the guard at the gate grunted rudely and pointed vaguely in the direction of the holding area for insignificant press types. Jim clutched his second-hand notebook computer as he shouldered his way into his bleacher seat, but could not suppress a moue of distaste at the shabby treatment.

'The problem with you,' remarked a voice at his elbow, 'is that you still think you count as a person.'

Jim swivelled in annoyance to the speaker, who turned out to be a short man with wiry red hair, who grinned up at him, showing crooked teeth. 'I do count as a person,' Jim protested. 'So do you. So does everybody.'

The little man shook his head vehemently. 'Nope,' he said emphatically. 'That's where you're wrong, my friend. We don't count. We've never counted – not to them.' He pointed in the direction of the tarmac outside the bleacher area, where the gleaming spaceship stood, doors wide open to receive the well-escorted line of beautifully-dressed prominence proceeding up the red carpet – hands empty, of course, as their luggage had been sent ahead. That's what they had People for. Jim snorted as he watched Lady Dada wave to the many fans who'd come to see her off. To their disappointment, her wardrobe failed to malfunction, but she was still gorgeous.

'I don't suppose they could take everybody,' he remarked. 'Of course they'd take the movers and shakers. The people who...' he stopped.

'The people who count?' The little man chuckled. 'See what I mean? You've been indoctrinated since birth, only you don't know it. Somebody told you that you didn't count. And you believed him.' Jim waved the pest away (while involuntarily thinking, 'my father, my mother, my teachers'), and after paying an exorbitant $15 for a Coke (it was a warm day, and the concessionaires knew how much the traffic would bear), he settled in to follow the ceremonies, take pictures, and blog like all the others. Jim could type and watch at the same time, and did so. The boarding took hours – it was meant to, to allow each and every celebrity his or her red-carpet moment – and there were intervals of entertainment, mostly musical, from B-Listers who obviously felt that, although they hadn't been issued a ticket, they could comfort themselves in the knowledge that, the A-Listers away, they might get a few more gigs than usual. Jim listened, watched, noted in the usual style. (The British Royal Family is well-represented today, having flown to the Launch Site here in Baja California early this morning...the Queen is wearing a tasteful ensemble in, need we say, royal blue, as she leans on the arm of her granddaughter-in-law, who lives up to her reputation as one of the world's best-dressed women in a stunning outfit of...)

Jim stopped to stretch while a boy band sang the new charity song, God Bless the Earth, copies of which were on sale at the gate. As he did so, he noticed that the little man beside him had neither laptop nor camera, and appeared to be taking in all the action without paying particular attention to it. He hadn't even bought a programme. This made Jim curious.

'Hey, buddy,' he ventured. 'What outfit are you with? You don't seem to be taking any notes. Don't you blog?'

The little man winked and tapped his forehead, an oddly endearing gesture. 'It's all up here,' he explained. 'The people who sent me just want my impressions, you know. They can get the rest from the web.'

Jim shrugged. 'Nice job,' was all he had to say to that.

The man stuck out his hand. 'I'm Gabe, by the way,' he said, and of course Jim replied with his name. It turned out that Gabe, while unencumbered by the tools of the paparazzo's, reporter's, or indeed any other trade, had brought something better – namely, sandwiches, which he proposed to share with Jim. As the two munched away at surprisingly tasty hoagies (Gabe explained that he'd flown in from Philadelphia), the two chatted about this and that, as the floor show below continued with a 'farewell clip show' of popular scenes from the award-winning stars who were about to be going...well, out into the stars themselves.

Gabe mused. 'Nice thing about these bleachers,' he commented. 'I don't see many wasps or ants.'

Jim thought. 'Probably because the whole set-up was just put here for the launch.' Gabe nodded.

'I imagine you're right,' he said. 'You know, where I come from, we used to have a lot of trouble with wasps at picnics.' He chuckled. 'Doesn't it just get your nanny when you're trying to eat, and those biting insects get between you and your potato salad?'

Jim had to agree. 'I know what you mean. Not much you can do about it, though. If you spray 'em, the poison will get into your own food.'

Gabe laughed. 'That's true. But we knew a better trick than that.' Seeing that Jim looked interested, Gabe went on. 'We just set a saucer of jam about 100 yards or so away. The wasps would always go after the jam, and leave our picnic alone. They drown in the sticky stuff, too.' Jim decided that Gabe was a pretty practical fellow, as well as generous with his hoagies, and they got along well for the rest of the afternoon, all through the launching ceremony, in which the national anthems of 26 nations were performed by mass choirs. Finally, when it was all over, and the ship itself was only a distant point on the twilight horizon, the two new friends adjourned to the least fashionable (and therefore least crowded) bar they could find, and drank to friendship before heading back to their hotels.

***

Somehow, it was Gabe Jim thought of when he saw the news a few weeks later – images from orbital telescopes which had captured the moment when the spaceship from Earth was supposed to be launched into the aliens' captive wormhole.

The moment, not to put too fine a point on it, when the spaceship full of Earth's most important and newsworthy citizens blew up. Brightly and soundlessly and finally, somewhere on the edge of the solar system. Jim stopped to reflect, along with all the other citizens of Earth, on the loss of so many of the planet's political, military, economic, and society elite.

***

The next time Jim thought about Gabe was when he saw him on television the day after the explosion.

Gabe was getting out of the other spaceship, you see, the one that had people in it rather than androids.

Somebody was calling Gabe 'Commander Gabriel', and the little redhead was explaining what the new offer was. They'd brought a lot of nice things, you see, and were looking forward to getting to know folk...

Somehow, Jim was sure the new offer involved good food.

And that in this scheme, everyone counted.

Sanity

John Walters was afraid he was going sane.

The thought had occurred to him, disturbingly, as he crossed the street at the corner of 40th and Walnut in a high wind that threatened to empty the potholes of their wholesome water.

What happens if I become sane? he wondered. How on earth will I survive?

He mulled this over as he soldiered on against a heavy headwind until he arrived, somewhat tired, at the café on Baltimore Avenue. Pushing the door open with difficulty, he leaned against it, briefly, as if for support against even more unseen elements than an urban wind gust, before pulling off his jacket and sliding into a corner booth. He ordered coffee and sat staring out the window at the doubled-over passers-by as he drank the filthy stuff.

I can't do this, he thought. I can't survive in a delusion-free world.

His musings were interrupted by a gentle tap on his shoulder. 'Excuse me, mister,' said a sweetly quavering voice, 'do you mind if I sit here?' He turned to see a vision – in fact, he blinked, because for a moment he thought (he hoped) he was hallucinating – there stood a tiny, wizened woman with a sweet old face like an apple-core carving topped with blowsy white hair escaping from under a felt hat adorned with a silk rose (lavender). I'm dreaming. he thought, because he was sure he had seen the little woman, who was grinning at him disconcertingly, showing excellent dentures, somewhere before.

Probably in a late-night showing of Mary Poppins. That must be it – he was hallucinating saccharine cinema.

'No, you're not,' said the woman, as she arranged herself and her odd possessions – oversized quilted tote – multi-coloured – string bag full of books, senior bus pass on lanyard. 'I'm just a run-of-the-mill Bag Lady.' She winked at him.

John blinked again, and thought. 'Stop that!' he snapped. 'Either you're reading my mind, or you're committing Blog Abuse. I won't have it.'

The lady shrugged amiably. 'Reading your mind is not such a trick, ' she commented equably. 'Though I need vocabulary control to do it.' As she nonchalantly picked up a menu, John noticed with irritation that she was wearing fingerless gloves.

This was the last straw. He exploded.

'Now, look here,' John remonstrated, 'this sort of thing has got to stop. It's bad enough that I'm going sane…now you show up and complicate my already shaky grip on the reality matrix with postmodern visual references…' He shut up abruptly, as the waitress – a reassuringly boring college student with a green streak in her hair and a barbed-wire tattoo – slouched over to take the lady's order. When she had mooched away, however, he disfavoured the self- described Bag Lady (who looked more like a folklore professor with a warped sense of humour to him) with another glare. The lady returned his look with maddening equanimity.

'Not folklore,' she commented. 'They closed the department, and that particular Bag Lady went back to Germany. I'm in the Multicultural Studies Department now.' She chuckled. 'When they tell me I'm too old to be trendy, I remind them that ageism is anti-multicultural. That shuts them up.' Her tea and 'scone' had arrived, so she fussed about with the little teabagged pot of water and the dry, oversugared cookie that passed for afternoon haute cuisine in Philadelphia, while John mulled this over.

John decided that it was his brain that was mulled. He tried again. 'My dear Doctor…

'Simpson.'

'Dr Simpson,' he continued. 'I am sorry to be difficult, but you appear to be completing my unexpressed sentences. And I'm already worried about my state of mind.'

The merry academic's eyes twinkled mischievously. 'As you were worried about incipient sanity, I was just trying to help.' Seeing that John was ready to concede that point, she went on, 'Think about it. What you fear is that you will reach a state of understanding of the true motives of your fellow humans. An understanding that is accurate and complete, and explains everything from your neighbour's smirk when he greets you in the morning, to why Congress won't pass a reasonable law to let your other neighbours, who are gay, marry. Am I right?' John nodded as Dr Simpson explained.

'You are afraid that, once having reached this level of understanding, your mind will become totally incapable of forgetting it. That you will be forced to spend the rest of your life – indeed, perhaps, the rest of eternity – in a state of total awareness of the shabby reality of human motivation. That, having found the worm in the apple, you will be unable to look away, and will spend forever in miserable contemplation of depressing truths you can neither ameliorate nor ignore. Am I right?'

John scratched behind his ear. 'You have hit the nail on the rather flat head,' he admitted. 'This, indeed, do I fear. I am becoming incurably sane.'

Dr Simpson slapped the table in triumph. 'Exactly!' she exclaimed, as coffee and tea slopped from jarred cups. 'And that is what we must prevent. A person capable of such a thought is too valuable to be lost to the psychiatric profession. You might start listening to Prozac.'

John wrinkled his nose as he mopped up liquid with the tiny napkins from the niggardly dispenser. 'Very generous of you, I'm sure. But what do you propose to do about it? Do Multicultural Studies offer a mind-wipe session?'

Dr Simpson laughed, a tinkling sound. 'Multicultural Studies, my left bunion. What you need is a multi-species encounter. You need to meet Goths.'

As John looked around quizzically at the undergraduate wait staff, Dr Simpson added hurriedly, 'Not that kind of Goth. The kind who write Purple Books. You need Purple Books – quite a few of them, unless I miss my guess.'

John sighed. 'Madam, I am a database manager. I do not know what you are talking about. Who are these Goths, and what are Purple Books?'

Dr Simpson looked exquisitely happy at the idea of going into Lecture Mode, and then did. 'The Goths were the first Earth people to become completely sane. Their solution to this intolerable reality was to remove themselves from this universe. Of course, history blames this on Attila the Hun. History is an ass.' She held up a gloved hand – John noticed glittery nail polish – to forestall objections. 'They didn't disappear completely, you understand. They just went far enough away from acceptable reality that almost no one ever sees them. Or mistakes them for ambulatory clichés.' She leaned forward, and John could smell her cologne (old-fashioned verbena) as she whispered, 'You will have the gift to see them now. And read the Purple Books.' John shuddered involuntarily. Verbena reminded him of William Faulkner, whom he did not like.

John protested. 'What if I don't want to see them? Or read purple prose?'

Dr Simpson waved this away. 'Not purple prose, silly. Who wants to read that, except Judith Butler? Purple books. You'll be receiving one shortly, and can decide for yourself. Goodbye, Mr Walters.' She stood up, drank the last sip of her cold, tasteless tea, and gathered her smart handbag under her arm. Adjusting her stylish headscarf (it was still windy outside), Dr Simpson gave John a brisk handshake with one elegantly manicured hand, smiled gently (why had he not noticed what a lovely young woman she was?), turned and left the café, her high heels tapping on the linoleum.

John paid for the drinks – the waitress was as hang-dog as ever – and left the place hastily, like a victim of the Ancient Mariner escaping another stanza about albatrosses. He hurried down Baltimore Ave – the wind seemed to have died down – in the direction of 47th Street. On the way a homeless man stopped him. 'Hey, mistah, did you drop this?'

John looked down at the little man and almost screamed. No, no, no, no, his brain shrieked, DO NOT WANT. The hobo was grinning innocently at him and holding up a paperback entitled, Prester John's Account of a Visit to the Planet Betamax Delta. The cover art was lurid – an impossibly young Helen Mirren in a negligée...

The hobo looked exactly like the actor Robin Williams. Dressed as Mork from Ork, from that horrible old sitcom. John snatched the book from his left hand, pressed a dollar bill in his right, and ran like hell in the direction of Clark Park, where he cowered among the dog watchers until he felt safe again.

Later that evening, sitting by the fire with a decent glass of wine (or a glass of decent wine), John had to concede that Dr Simpson and her cronies were right. Prester John and Betamax Delta just about hit the spot. Perhaps sanity won't be so bad, after all… he mused.

He dismissed the answering chuckle from the chimney as imagination.

Soliloquising on the Chatline

2b r not 2b,

That iz teh ?,

If u shud put up with

Bad breaks and no gl

Or try a ninja move,

And bust up harry.

If u die, u just reroll,

Right? Or end up at the reclaim,

Nuthin to it, m8.

But w8. Sumthin tellz me

It might not be that simple.

What if - just if -

You'd wake up someplace bad,

Someplace evil,

Someplace like...

RL?

That's why the old hang on,

I bet, cuz everybody's scared

Witless

Of finding out there's no more

Levelling

And uv lost all ur

XP.

So we just think

About it long enough, it makes us

Ante up and pay the nxt month's fee,

Instead of risking waking up in some

Disgusting afterlife that looks like

The Miracle Mile. :(

Hey, lookathere and smileys,

Here comes my gf Feelie,

cucu, m8.

Space and the Single Ouija Board (a report from the vicinity of Betelgeuse)

Note: For more science fiction, visit http://therealgheorgheni.blogspot.com/.

It has come to the attention of Researchers for the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy that the advent of the Sub-Etha net has led to a number of puzzling communications anomalies, some of which can be taken advantage of by enterprising hitchhikers. Or, at least, help pass the time pleasantly while waiting for a lift from Barnard's Star.

One of the more perplexing anomalies has been the appearance on navicom screens across the galaxy of random messages asking for Nati-Gitchi-Bumppo or Princess Ticklefeather, and inquiring in the most fervent terms after the well-being of Uncle Henry, and how is he enjoying life in the Summerland?
After consultation with experts at the Centre for Higher-Dimension Mathematical Jiggery-Pokery at the Rigellian Institute for the Study of Practically Everything, the following explanation was mooted:

There is some connection between the physics of n-space hypercommunications and the operation of the planchette, or Ouija board.

Dr. Alu Minium Zeiding, holder of the Georgelucasian Chair of Hyperdimensional Mathematics, explained it thus:

'The collusion of the vectors of intentionality vis-a-vis the sitters, the planchette, and the alphabet/numbers board corresponds periodically to the frequency patterns of higher-dimensional warp-time communications signals. In short, there's a cross in the line somewhere.'

Professor Zeiding went on to explain the correlativity of table-turning with the oscillation of dilithium crystals, the relationship of terrestrial poltergeists to pan-galactic spam Sub-Etha mail, and was well into the development of his thesis regarding the general connectivity of humanoid gullibility with seemingly random hyperspace flux phenomena, when the rest of his department mercifully subdued him and gave him his overdue medication.

When he had recovered, he added: 'And there's nothing we can do about it. So there.'

Meanwhile, interplanetary hitchhikers have been known to pass many pleasant hours aboard ship conversing with mediums and their friends, on the well-known theory that even an idiotic chat-room conversation is better than actually reading that improving new book you've been saving up for a long trip.

Of course, in many of the less relaxed sectors of the galaxy, this increase in Sub-Etha traffic has led to headaches for the local thought police, whose attitude toward Free Speech is that they want nothing to do with that sort of thing, and it should be stopped before it spreads.

We have recently obtained, by methods best left to the diseased imaginations of our editors, a transcript of one such conversation, as monitored by the local mind-law enforcement agency, the Betelgeusian Brainwave Control. We offer a sampling here.

Sub-Etha Messager 1: Is anybody there? Oh, Great Spirit from the Other World, we are waiting.

Sub-Etha Messager 2: Hiya, froods and froodettes!

SEM 1: Oh, Great Spirit, we have cleared our minds....

SEM 2: Uh, yeah, lady, that's kinda obvious.

SEM 1: And we would fain hear news of our loved ones who have crossed the Bridge into the Great Beyond...

SEM 2: Oh, that one! Yeah, I think it's on Altair 7. Oh, okay (clears throat), here goes: Uncle Joe is well, and sends his love; Aunt Mary is having a great time, she's learning to play the xylophone in the angelic orchestra, Granddad wants to know if he remembered to turn the stove off, although he guesses you've figured that one out by now, and...uh...yeah, Sister Carrie wants to say that love is all you need.

SEM 1: (Accusatory silence). There's no Sister Carrie here.

SEM 2: Oops! Sorry! That was the Theodore Dreiser thread. Got my lines crossed there. Look, I've got to be going. We spirits are very busy, you know. It's not all sitting around on a cloud and harping on old Beatles tunes, oh no oh no. There's halo-polishing, and music-of-the-spheres practice, and Hallelujah 101 class, and, well, you know...signing off now.

SEM 1: Oh spirit, do you have any parting advice for us?

SEM 2: Oh, sure. Uh...keep your lasers dry, and always know where your towel is. (Giggling.)

Well, you see how this sort of thing is likely to go.

The best advice we can offer, is to demand password authentication when dealing with unknown communications on the Sub-Etha net. That, or demand your poscreds back, if you actually paid for the trip.

Happy navigating!

Hamlet Redux, or the Benchmark of Revolt

One of the highlights of any tourist's stopover on the planet Betamax Delta must surely be a visit to the Archives of Parallel Space-Time. The APST houses an enormous collection of alternate versions of history, mythology and fiction culled from the researches of various intrepid space-time travellers who have chanced upon them by falling into pockets of parallel time on their way to somewhere else.

The collection process, while enlightening, is often a painful one, such as the experience of Leodogrance 'Ace' Cholmondeley-Smythe, the galaxy-famous astrogator, who, while investigating a possible white hole in the vicinity of the Belt of Orion, fell into a wormhole, and spent the ensuing eight years trapped on a colony world of obsessive disciples of a domestic goddess. The Marthaites, as they were called, held the firm belief that anything worth doing was worth decorating, and filled all available spaces in their environment with beautified but useless objects created out of ordinary household detritus. Eight years of forced re-education in the use of the glitter gun had reduced the once-fearless explorer to a jibbering wreck. Fortunately, long and patient counselling at the Galactic Home for the Terminally Bewildered on Rigel V has restored Captain Cholmondeley-Smythe to the point where he can contemplate a white-sale catalogue without shuddering,

The texts which Cholmondeley-Smythe brought back with him (such as the Book of the House of Stewart, a priceless volume bound in stamped Naugahyde with imbedded sequins) have been stored for public safety in a special 'need-to-know-only' collection, and can only be viewed by those with top-security clearance.

While touring the Archives recently, I came across a fascinating volume from the parallel universe designated U1590784. Entitled The Furste Foeley-oh of Weelyam Sheakespeere, it contains alternate story-lines for some well-known material in our own galaxy, and incidentally calls into question the precept held by some that this is the best of all possible worlds.

One of the stories in this volume, in the form of a play, offers an interesting insight into the possibiities of parallel space-time, as you will see.

The story, with the title Piglet, Formerly Known as Prince of Benchmark, begins as follows: Piglet, a Benchish prince, returns from his college studies in Schwatzenburg to find that his father has died, and his uncle Clothilde has become king and married Piglet's mother, all in an unsettlingly short space of time. Piglet is unhappy about this, and refuses to buy the couple a wedding present.

Piglet's best friend and only confidant, Oratorio, informs Piglet that the ghost of the late king has been seen on the battlements of Elsewhere Castle at midnight. Piglet goes out to investigate, and has a disturbing conversation with the spectre of his deceased father. The former King Piglet claims to have been murdered by his own brother, who had his beady eye on the throne and Piglet, Sr's wife Brunhilda.

Piglet is quite alarmed by this revelation of familial perfidy, but even more alarmed by the ghost's insistence that he, Piglet, must avenge his father's death on his uncle, without, incidentally, annoying his mother in any way. Piglet thinks hard about this, delivering himself of several long soliloquies in the process. The following night, he returns to the castle battlements, and informs the spectre of his decision:

No way, Jose!

Piglet explains to the astonished ghost that he, Piglet, is not a policeman, and that if he, the ghost, wants revenge, he can jolly well go haunt Clothilde, the party responsible. And, incidentally, has it occurred to him that Brunhilda is not entirely blameless in the whole matter? The ghost vanishes in a puff of logic, as someone once said

Piglet now turns his attention to the rest of the motley crew at Elsewhere Castle. Clothilde's closest advisor, Phelonius, is watching Piglet closely, trying to find out what his plans are in regard to the throne of Benchmark. To this end, he spies upon Piglet in conversation with Phelonius' daughter, Phred, with whom Piglet has been having a hot and heavy affair.

But Piglet is on to his game. Vous ne pouvez pas pull that dodge on me, he says in the elegant French so in fashion at the court of Benchmark. I am ready for you, mon cher cochon

Having previously tipped Phred the wink, Piglet proceeds to act, and act, and act, convincing Phelonius that Piglet has either a) flipped his wig, or b) been secretly enrolled at RADA instead of attending theology classes in Schwatzenburg as he was supposed to.

Phred pretends to go along with this, and does some C- acting of her own. The whole State of Benchmark is possessed by the demon of Laurence Olivier, exclaims Phelonius, only at greater length, while sawing his hand in the air, thus (there are illustrated stage directions, which I cannot reproduce here).

Piglet has a serious conversation with his mother, in which he tries to convince her to go into therapy. During their talk in her bedroom, a scuffling noise is heard behind the arras. Thinking that Brunhilda's room is infested with rats, Piglet dashes out and returns, armed with mousetraps, which he lays out around the wainscotting.

Shortly afterwards, a loud snap is heard, followed by groaning. Aha!, exclaims Piglet, then pulls back the arras to reveal the suffering Phelonius, with a sprung mousetrap on his big toe.

Oh, pompous idiot, says Piglet, I took thee for thy better, a Norwegian white. Medical help is summoned.

Enraged at this breach of Benchmark court etiquette, Clothilde determines to send Piglet away to his allies in Eltonjohnland. To this end, he enlists the help of Rosary and Fallingstar, his old schoolmates, who are tired of the dole queue and looking for employment in their chosen profession of Toady.

Hey, Big Fella, say Rosary and Fallingstar, let's hit the big time in London, see the sights.

What, says Piglet, Would you play upon me as upon this xylophone?

Hey, says Fallingstar, That's a great idea! Let's start a rock band!

A hoopy idea!, says Piglet, only not in so many words (many more, in fact), and so they pack up their instruments for the trip, taking Phred along as girl singer and Oratorio as roady.

But the cunning Clothilde has prepared a letter of recommendation to the Greater Longtown Arts Council, in which he recommends that, instead of hiring these musicians out for gigs, they nail their carcases to the town gates, pour encourager les autres, lest they be overrun with freeloading Mick Jagger-wannabes. (Curiously, the name 'Mick Jagger' appears unchanged in all known documents in parallel space-time.)

Piglet, however, has acquired good reading skills from his education at Schwatzenburg, and a healthy suspicion of his uncle from the first three acts of this play. So, aboard the Benchmark-Eltonjohnland ferry, while everyone else is taking advantage of the onboard gambling and duty-free shopping, he steams open the letter, while reciting the famous soliloquy, 'Oh, that this too, too solid glue would melt'.

Having read with horror this further evidence of his uncle's villainy and bad spelling, Piglet alters the letter, making it an obnoxious rant to the Times about the general decline in the quality of musical exports from Eltonjohnland, thoroughly maligning the whole pop genre, which will be guaranteed to set off a trade war come the next session of the Yuropean Parliament.

Disembarking at Do-Over, the Fab Five launch a successful career as rock idols, touring Eltonjohnland and the surrounding territories, and finally settling down to write their bestselling memoirs.

Clothilde, Brunhilda, and Phelonius, meanwhile, are faced with an angry mob demanding peace, freedom, and reasonably-priced love, or else they will burn Benchmark Castle to the ground and set up an autonomous free-trade zone. Faced with an impossible situation, Clothilde abdicates in favour of Phelonius' son, Layabout, who rules so incompetently that the kingdom is subsequently invaded by Fourteenbras, the prince of Amway.

The play ends with a speech by Fourteenbras, in which he outlaws Walkmans and MP3 players, exclaiming: We rest in silence!

As you can see, the library at APST can provide the literate visitor with hours of reading pleasure and philosophical speculation, or, as one PST author has it:

Of all weird words of tongue or pen, the weirdest are these: it might have been.