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.

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.