A Break in the Tale to Describe a Strange Sneeze

Apologies for the short break in the narrative. I will continue the account of my misadventures with the Dundee Mafia momentarily.

First I must tell you of a strange sneeze. I believe I have fallen subject to the infamous curse of the Tewari Eye, a gem which until recently was in my possession (see earlier entries). As any trustworthy man of science will tell you, the Tewari Eye is a deeply magical object possessed of arcane and eldritch powers.

Prior owners suffered terrible and baffling fates: many lost their fortunes and suffered the shame of dying as members of the working classes; one was allegedly transformed into a kind of Russian man with the arms of a hog; one could only ever speak in Greek; one was cursed so that whenever he caught sight of any species of crab, foaming yeast would froth from his ears; another was forced to live out his days with one leg slightly shorter than the other.

The curse manifests in apparently random ways and I believe I have discovered the miserable form that the hex has wrought upon me. Just as I had finished typing the previous entry in my electronic diary, I happened to sneeze, which I put down to a surfeit of hair and dust around my computer. The sneeze complete, I opened my eyes (for you know it is physically impossible to keep one's eyes open while sneezing), and at once noticed that the tea I had been drinking had solidified and was emitting a most putrid stench. It was also noticeably darker outside my window (the weather, not the tea).

Astonished and confused, I saw to my further astonishment and confusion that the date on my computer no longer read "30th July 2008" but instead read "3rd November 2008". Somehow I had instantaneously leapt forward some three months in time.

I believe the sneeze was the trigger for this eldritch time leap. If you bear with me a moment, I will instigate a second sneeze to test my theory. As I type, I am agitating my nose hairs with the elongated lead of a propelling pencil.

I feel the start of a sneeze...

The Dundee Mafia Part 3

Readers, being familiar with all facets of my personality as you are, you will have correctly guessed that for all my attempts at bluster and for all the ideas I had entertained about being able to strike deals with the Dundee Mafia and convince them I was a major player in the world of crime, in actuality I quaked and sobbed and begged for mercy the very instant I was hauled into the inner sanctum of Cox's Stack in Lochee.

I was dragged into a lobby of sorts, where yet more goons stood around looking thoroughly vacant but ready to obey any order to smash my kneecaps with a hammer. The wiry and wily mafioso said, "Zip it kid! Geez! Stop the sobbing will youse? We ain't even given youse the old hoyteedoy yet!"

Between heaving sobs I made it clear to him that I did not understand his fancy street-smart gangster slang.

"Youse are kiddin' me?" he said. "Ya ain't never heard of the old hoyteedoy? The Roobidoo? The Kax-Macket? Gee-whizz, I'll dealin' with a real Pole-toes here!"

For a Dundonian, he had a peculiar way of saying things. I gathered it was the habit of the Dundee Mafia to welcome their guests in some way designed to show them who was boss, to quash any attempt, before any such attempt might be made, at outwitting them or any effort to best them in strength or swagger. Evidently, the fact that I was bawling my eyes out and genuflecting wildly was enough to convince him that I presented no real threat to the crime syndicate, as he forewent any such ordeal.

"Listen kid, youse'll have to quit with the wailing and tears. The boss don't appreciate no salty crackers in this joint. Now, let me clock the bead, chum."

I did my best to control myself. He translated for me, explaining that he wanted to see the jewel I was attempting, poorly, to conceal. Well readers, I was left with no other alternative but to do as the mafioso bade me. I suppose I could have refused, but then he may have performed the Roobidoo upon me and I had a feeling that whatsoever this act involved, it was unlikely to be altogether pleasant.

Taking the jewel, he peered at it closely. He whistled.

"I gotta show this to Old Charlie Noodles," said he, before disappearing through a door. As I waited for his return, the herd of goons approached, obviously interested in me. I talked softly to them and fed one a polo mint from my pocket, which seemed to satiate him.

The wiry mafioso reappeared, trailed by a wizened old coot chewing on a vile-smelling cigarette.

"This is Old Charlie Noodles," said the wily, shifty man. "He's the cheese when it comes to beads and gold in great store. And he reckons this" - here he indicated the massive green jewel - "is a meezer. Sort yourself out kid, Old Charlie Noodles needs a word in your curl about how a feeb like yourself managed to get your kitkats into an amazing buckjumper such as this."

I was up to my neck in this now and had to face the reality of the situation. I stood to my feet, because there is no other way to which one can stand, and tried to look composed as the ancient, bespectacled mafioso hobblingly approached.

Old Charlie Noodles (decrepit mafioso)

The Dundee Mafia Part 2

My dearest and most interested of readers, if you recall, yesterday's diary entry ended with me approaching a lummox in order to persuade him to allow me ingress to the headquarters of the Dundee Mafia. If you did not recall this, it was a simple matter of looking at yesterday's diary entry yourself, instead of wasting everyone's time insisting on this needless recapitulation.

Though I was nervous, I stepped up to the goon and said, "I demand entry" in as authoritative a tone as I could muster. It does not do to show weakness where goons are concerned.

The beast did not react in any way, merely standing impassively like a mighty golem awaiting instructions from a Jew.

I tried again: "Brute," said I, "You must let me in to see your boss. I have something important to tell him."

The monster's eyes slowly tilted towards me, as though noticing me for the first time. With no change of expression, he casually swung his hand at me in a vague swatting motion, as though I were a tiny gnat and he a mighty ox. I know that oxen do not have hands capable of performing this gesture but I expect you to grasp my simile's intent: I mean that I was to him a minor irritation and did not register to him as any sort of threat. However, he did look like an ox.

As the back of his hand made contact with my jaw, dislodging a tooth from my mouth, I fell heavily to the ground, dislodging the jewel from my cardigan.

The enormous creature rumbled as he saw the Tewari Eye escape across the concrete.

"Urrrgh...shiny..." he said, coming very close to forming an expression on his guarantuan bovine face. As I frantically gathered up the jewel and bundled it up once more beneath my cardigan, the goon turned, opened the door, and disappeared inside Cox's Stack.

Moments later, a scrawny black-suited mafioso possessed of wily eyes and a cigarette appeared and promptly hauled me inside the building before I had any time to protest...

The wiry and wily mafioso to be described in more detail tomorrow

The Dundee Mafia Part 1

Cox's Stack (headquarters of the Dundee Mafia)

Once I had settled upon my foolhardy scheme of visiting the Dundee Mafia for guidance and to offload the purloined jewel, I immediately took steps to put the scheme into practice. With no history of crime (except the recent murders and the theft of a priceless jewel) and not being criminally minded (apart from my devious intention to sell the priceless jewel for profit and hide my involvement in the recent murders), I obviously had no real knowledge of the Dundee Mafia. I did not know who was involved in the organisation, nor how far the filthy fingers of their crime syndicate reached throughout the city. I had no contact numbers or business cards. How would I, a mere civilian, get in touch with the man in charge?

The local yellow pages proved fruitless: they had no listings under 'M' for Mafia. The closest I could find was "Marr Brothers Lawful Businesses, Inc." which obviously had no connection to crime whatsoever.

Well readers, common rumour has for many years held that Cox's Stack, the former chimney of The Camperdown Jute Works, is the headquarters of the Dundee Mafia. The fact that it has no windows means that the mafiosos within the converted building are free to get on with their innumerable criminal activities unobserved. The high vantage point from the top of the 286 foot building allows lookout men to view the entirety of the city and also observe when the police are approaching.

Unlikely though this urban legend seemed, it was the only lead I had. It could not hurt to try, I reasoned (in hindsight, this was the exact opposite of the truth). Retrieving the Tewari Eye jewel from my loft and slipping it beneath my cardigan, I left the house and made for Cox's Stack in Lochee.

Paranoia plagued me as I sped towards the Stack, through bustling throngs of crowds of mobs of Dundonians doing their shopping. The jewel was ill-disguised beneath my cardigan and I became conscious that I appeared pregnant or the victim of an enormous stomach tumour. If someone had merely given me a second glance, I would have surely aroused suspicion. How easy too would it have been for some dithering old baggage to accidentally bang into me and dislodge the jewel onto the chewing-gum-spattered paving stones of Dundee's city centre. All would have been lost. When I think back to the number of times this could easily have happened, I realise how fortuitous I was to make it all the way to Cox's Stack with the jewel unspotted.

When I arrived, I noted with a thrill of fear that outside the door in the base of the enormous former chimney, there stood a colossus. This lumpen behemoth was at least seven feet tall and looked to be similarly wide. He looked as though he could crush both Geoff Capes and Giant Haystacks between his gigantic palms, then casually eat a couple of sumo wrestlers for lunch. The brute wore a tightly-fitting black suit and a shirt that would have billowed freely around the neck of an overweight orangutan and yet strangled this beast.

Everything about this creature said "the hired goon of a criminal fraternity". Taking a deep breath, I approached the door.

The Hulking Lummox guarding Cox's Stack.

The Dundee Courier Reports the Crimes

Readers, the brighter among you will begin to realise the reasons why I was unable to update you during the grim events I have just described. The stupider among you will likely be so concerned with chewing your sleeves and banging your head against a cupboard that you will not have given the issue much thought.

Essentially, I felt it necessary to keep as low a profile as possible and decided I could not risk an online presence. I am not an effective liar and the circumstances would have necessitated my keeping up the charade on this electronic diary that all was well, a charade that the brighter among you would doubtless have seen through and the conscientious among you might have reported to the Dundee constabulary. I was not too concerned about the stupider among you because you likely would not have noticed anything amiss and would happily have got on with your usual business of dribbling and misusing apostrophes.

The next morning found me still crouching uncomfortably behind my couch, unsure as to how to proceed. I was startled out of my paralysis by a rattle at the letterbox. It was the newspaper. I ran to see if the previous night's terrible atrocities had been reported by The Dundee Courier.

"TWELVE DEAD AND MUTILATED IN McMANUS JEWEL HEIST" the headline read. Eagerly, my eyes flew across the page, frantic for information... "Tewari Eye stolen ... priceless ... twelve men murdered ... eyes torn from victims' heads ... no obvious leads ... witnesses sought ... police suspect the involvement of the Dundee Mafia ... victim's widow said, 'I just can't believe someone would kill my Jim out of greed for money' ... tragedy...", etc, etc.

Readers, you will now be imagining me, shivering by my letterbox, reading those awful words, tears stinging my eyes, my lower lip quivering and my heart quailing. You are right to imagine this because it is what happened.

There was also an article by Jack McKeown on page 8 where he interviewed local kite enthusiast Duncan Moonie, which was fascinating and briefly distracted me from my immediate woes.

The Courier's report (on the robbery and murder, not on Moonie and his kites) spurred me to action. I had to quickly get shot of the jewel. If police somehow found out that I was in possession of it, I would be in trouble. There was no escaping it. They would take one look at Fell and realise he was merely a tool, incapable of independent thought. I would be the one carried off to gaol forever and brutally abused by bullish prisoners for the remainder of my days, and that would be the story of me.

What could I do with the jewel? Commit it to the flames? No, it would never burn. I could not destroy it as it was made of some sort of precious material as hard as diamond. I could hide it, but it might be found. I would have to give it to someone else. Sell it to a greedy jewel lover? No, it was too famous. Who could take it? Something in the article pricked my attention again.

The Dundee Mafia! They were used to crimes and criminals - perhaps they would buy the jewel from me and take it off my hands. Perhaps they would use their clout to offer me protection. Perhaps they would take razorblades to my face. It was a ludicrously risky plan, but for better or worse (in hindsight, worse), it was the plan I decided to follow.

The Great Slave Scam Part VI (6)

My dearest and most anxious of readers, even if you yourselves have not been personally responsible for commanding a buffoon to steal a jewel only to have him murder twelve men and gouge their eyeballs from their sockets, you must have an inkling of the horror I felt at discovering that the idiotic Fell had murdered twelve men and gouged their eyeballs from their sockets. This inkling you feel is known amongst psychiatrists as 'empathy' and I thank you for it, although it does me no practical good so you might as well feel 'ambivalence' or 'begrudgement' for all I care.

That night, after I had expended the last of my frenzied terror and fury by pummelling Fell to within two inches of his life, I took to pacing restlessly up and down the length of my living room, occasionally pausing to curse, kick, and expectorate at the battered form of the wretched Dr Fell. In my pacing, I was of course careful to avoid stepping in the horrendous puddle of Museum Guard's eyeballs and gore strewn to the left of my Moroccan leather pouffe.

I was guilty of murder! I could not credit it! How could Fell have been so stupid?

These were just some of the questions I asked myself, even although the first two weren't questions as such and were more exclamations. Long that night did I pace. Countless times that night did I emit wails of anguish and tear at my hair. Often that night did I twitch at the curtains and peer out in paranoid fear lest someone had trailed Fell back to my home. Once that night did I stub my toe on the side of the television cabinet.

As the hours wore on and no feds showed up at my door, my nerves began to settle somewhat. After all, the thing wasn't my fault! I only told Fell to steal the jewel! I explicitly forbade the harming of any human beings! No court in the land would find me guilty and no priest or vicar would hold me morally accountable for the deaths of those men! Would they?

Readers, if ever you find yourselves in a similar predicament to mine and make the choice to turn yourself in to the authorities, confess your crimes to a priest, then willingly accept the strongest punishment that the Scottish Justice System can dole out, then and only then will I accept your opinion on the best course of action for me to have taken that night. As it was, I made the decision to do my utmost to save my own reputation and freedom by perverting the course of justice and hiding my connection to the terrible events of that night.

I hid the jewel in the loft, flushed the eyeballs down the toilet, unplugged my phone and computer, switched off the lights, and hid behind the couch until I could think what course of action to take.

The Great Slave Scam Part V (5)

Readers, if any among you is squeamish then I suggest that you do not read this diary entry because it will sicken you. It will make beads of cold perspiration sprout from your forehead and will make semi-digested food and drink, combined with stomach acid, rise inexorably up your gullet and eject itself forcibly from your spasming throat across your computer keyboard. The ghastly sight of this pool of warm, lumpy, and froth-lathered mulch pooling around your soiled desk with its cooling spatter rapidly soaking into your trousers will sicken you anew and you will doubtless expunge yet more vomit until you are capable only of heaving up violent-smelling rivulets of thick brown bile down your chin. At this point, you will likely collapse, ashen-faced, into a tightly curled ball of weeping despair, begging gods you do not believe in for a speedy demise.

Readers, if any among you is emetophobic (fearing the act of vomiting and/or graphic depictions or descriptions of such) then I suggest you do do not read the previous paragraph as it will not be your cup of tea.

That night, Dr Fell dropped the Tewari Eye, the famed and priceless gem from a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khathmandu, into my eager hands then beamed proudly.

"I did it," he said. "I did what you wanted."

"Indeed you did, you delightful imbecile," said I, slapping him playfully across the cheek.

It was then that I noted his right hand was besmeared (i.e., smeared) with blood. I felt a little uneasy.

"Tell me Fell," I ordered manfully, "Why is your right hand besmeared (i.e., smeared) with blood?"

"Don't worry boss! It isn't mine!" he hooted. I felt a qualm in the depths of my belly. His blood I could readily handle, but this news boded ill.

"The plan went exactly as you commanded boss," said he. "I let myself into the Museum through the skylight in the roof, taking care not to be seen. I ran down to the floor with the jewel, smashed the display box using a bust of James Chalmers, inventor of the postage stamp, then swiped the loot. Immediately, there was a load of loud noises, but I didn't pay them any attention just like you told me. Well, I legged it back up to the top floor to escape through the skylight, only to find that I couldn't reach up. I was trapped."

I sighed. Idiot as he was, he had happily dropped some 1o feet or so through the skylight without realising he would be unable to climb back up later when he needed to flee.

"Then a chap in a uniform came in and pointed a gun at me, telling me to freeze," said Fell. "I panicked and threw the jewel towards him. Well it's a huge and heavy rock at the end of the day - it struck his temple and he fell to the ground, quite dead. I heard footsteps. I panicked again and grabbed the man's gun. More men with guns came in and I shot every one of them with my gun. Then there were no more footsteps."

Well readers, you will understand that my heart quailed at this news. Naturally, I subjected Fell to a barrage of punches to the face and neck. As he is a moron, he merely grinned at me throughout the assault, which did not satisfy my rage. I meant no murder to take place! The ninny continued:

"But I never hurt them!" he protested, "The bullets flew into them so quick and their lives flew out of them so quick that they can't have felt nothing! You said not to hurt anyone and I never did that, no I never did that! Anyway, I saw that I could use these men to help me escape - I heaped their bodies up into a pile and used them to clamber out to safety. But not before I..."

"Please, no more!" I said. "What other horrors have you committed, you wretch? What further madness have you wrought this night?"

"I'm sorry boss!" he said. "I got confused. I had the jewel, see, but then I remembered you saying something about fetching you the 'eye'. Well, I panicked - I find it devilishly hard to think at times. I am an idiot, as you know. I didn't want to come home to you with the wrong thing. I feared you might be cross. So I wanted to be sure I done the right thing, boss. I only wanted to be sure."

As he spoke, my own eye was drawn to the right pocket of Fell's jacket where I became aware of a red stain, slowly spreading, slowly growing, through the fabric. I had a queer feeling.

"Speak, man!" I stated. "What have you done?"

By way of answer, he slipped his hand into his pocket and removed numerous slimy balls, besmattered (i.e., smattered) with blood and grue. He let each one fall with a sickening plop to the living room floor. I shrank back, appalled.

"So to be on the safe side boss," he said, gleefully, "I just took every eye that I could. I prised the eyes from the heads of those dead men, boss. Just to be on the safe side. Then I came back to you boss. Did I do good?"

The Great Slave Scam Part IV (4)

The idiot Dr Fell proudly holding aloft the legendary cursed Jewel of Nepal

Again I must be divisive and separate my readership into Dundonian and non-Dundonian ones because those Dundonian readers will be more than aware of how events transpired on that fateful Tuesday night. I believe it made national and international news too, but I wouldn't know about that. At any rate, I ask politely that if you already know how things panned out that you keep it to yourself and do not pipe in and ruin it, like some loutish teen in an English classroom, flicking to the end of John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men just as the pupils are about to begin reading the novel for the first time and malevolently revealing that it ends with the death of the idiot man-child Lennie Small.

Regrettably, my own tale does not similarly end with the demise of an imbecile for Dr Fell survived. However, as you will see, things would have been far more advantageous had he met his death that night, whether by a well meaning brother-figure shooting him in the back of the head or even through being crushed accidentally under the wheels of a bus.

My mood was already befouled prior to Fell's arrival home. Gordon Ramsay, demonstrating a recipe for halibat with caper tapinade on The F Word had moved through his instructions and list of ingredients too quickly for me to be able to write them down for future reference. Disgusted, I fell into a huff for the remainder of the evening, cursing the fact that I would ne'er (never) be able to enjoy such a halibut dish.

You will perceive that, despite my earlier boasts of treating this adventure in a care-free manner, that I was now becoming anxious and ill at ease. 11 o'clock came and went. Then midnight appeared, treated me to a cocoa and a digestive biscuit, but did not hang around for very long. Next, 1am slunk in, contented itself with dishevelling my hair and grinding my teeth, then left my home, leaving the door open for 2am. 2am in rarely a pleasant house guest - it has poor taste in TV for one thing. I tried watching a bit of televison but all that was on was the end of a poorly-dubbed film on Channel 4 about a Chinaman kicking and punching other Chinamen, and an Open University programme on BBC 2 about algae.

When 3am came uninvited in, I confess I despaired. What had happened to that chump Fell? Had he been caught? Was the idiot even now leading the police to my door? I could scarcely thole the suspense a moment longer.

At 3:42am, Dr Fell appeared, apparently unfollowed. Well do I remember his vacant, slightly-drooling face as he held aloft the famed Tewari Eye. Evidently, the plan had succeeded.

Of course, it had not gone completely free of hitches, some of them rather major ones. I will reveal all in my next diary entry......

(You will note that I have doubled the number of dots used in this ellipsis. I feel this is the only way to indicate to you that, although previous entries ended at tense points and justified the use of ellipses, this diary entry's ending is doubly tense and I felt I should formally recognise that in some way.)

The Great Slave Scam Part III

Well do I remember the fateful night I bade Dr Fell steal the Newari Eye from Dundee's McManus Museum. It was a Tuesday.

Well did I know it was highly unlikely to succeed: after all, Dr Fell was an irreemable buffoon of the first order and could not be relied upon to open a carton of French onion soup unsupervised, let alone purloin one of the world's most famous and heavily guarded jewels.

Well did I decide I did not much care either way, because if the plan failed, all that would happen would be that Fell would take the rap and face the wrath of the Scottish justice system. Thus the scheme was, for me, completely risk-free and so I treated the whole affair in as laidback and carefree a manner as that of Nigel Havers reclining on a beach lounger instructing his waiting staff to fetch yet another pitcher of gin and tonic.

"Dr Fell, you cretinous boob," I said to the cretinous boob Dr Fell on the night that I wished him to go to the McManus Museum and steal the famed Newari Eye, "Listen well. Tonight you are to go to the McManus Museum and steal the famed Newari Eye."

"Sure thing boss," he replied.

"You must break in through the skylight in the Museum roof and lower yourself into the upper gallery," I ordered, "Then run down to the Jewel room. Smash the display case and grab the jewel. You will likely hear a loud alarm at this point. Do not worry about it. Simply run back to the upper gallery and let yourself out through the roof once more. You are not to hurt anyone, is that understood?"

"Sure thing boss," he re-replied. Well, I did not wish to have murder on my conscious for what was simply a bit of a lark.

"Above all," I said. "You must not return here until you are sure the coast is clear. I do not want you leading the feds to my door!" I used the word 'feds' because I felt that it made me sound knowledgeable and seasoned regarding jewel heists.

"Sure thing boss," he repeated, grinning vacantly.

I opened the door and pushed him out. I sat back to watch Ten Years Younger and to await Fell's return...

(You should be used to the ellipsis by now, so I will refrain from explaining its presence)

The Great Slave Scam Part II

If any of my readers are of the Dundonian persuasion, they will already know that Dundee is rich in treasures just ripe for the plucking. They will also know that many of the city's choicest and rarest artifacts were mysteriously stolen over the last few months. If any of my readers are not of the Dundonian persuasion, they need not worry as they will likely have read the information I have just imparted in the last few sentences to my Dundonian readers and so will now be sufficiently up to date with the relevant exposition. In retrospect, there was no need for me to be quite so divisive in separating my readership into Dundonians and non-Dundonians, but I have done it now so we shall have to make the best of it.

One such treasure held in Dundee is the infamous and priceless "Newari Eye". Every Dundonian school child knows the history of this artifact, so if you are such a school child you can probably safely skip the next little section, though it isn't long and you might do well to refresh your memory anyway. Before it came to Dundee the jewel had a long and terrible history which I will not bother to recount because I do not know it. What I do know is that it was brought to Dundee in Victorian times from Nepal. It had been found affixed to a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Kathmandu where it had formed the idol's green 'eye'. A brave British soldier (whom my mother always told me was one of my distant relations) was asked by a young lady to steal the jewel for her to prove that his love for her was genuine. Well, the soldier succeeded in prising the jewel from the statue and presented it to his sweetheart as a token of his desire to mate with her. Of course, legend has it that the jewel was cursed, and of course, the British soldier was brutally killed the same night. Well, the woman, the daughter of a colonel, kept the jewel and took it back with her to her family's mansion in Dundee. Within a year, all their fortunes had failed and she was reduced to hawking second-hand shoelaces in Lochee. She was left with no option but to sell the jewel, which she did - to Mark McManus who owned the McManus Museum and Galleries.

There it remains to this day. Or rather, there it remained until a few months ago, when I successfully used the slave Fell to purloin it. The jewel is priceless, which means it is worth about 10 million quid. I will explain the heist in the next entry...

(the ellipsis again indicates that more is to follow and is intended to excite you)

The "Newari Eye" (about the size of a watermelon)

The Great Slave Scam Described

Readers and lookers, the keener among you will have noted that I have not recently been keeping you updated regarding my many misadventures. There is sound reason for this and I will tell you what that sound reason is in the course of the impending narrative. It is a tale unlike any other. In turns it will astound you, shock you, disgust you, perhaps even stimulate you carnally if are the type of person who gains arousal through reading accounts of misery and suffering.

If you recall, I had enslaved my former enemy Dr Fell by rendering him idiotic through Bhujeum Pills and had been frittering away my time having him perform humiliating actions merely to amuse myself. If you do not recall this then it does not matter because I have just told you so you need only recall the information I have just imparted, which was a scant one sentence ago. If you struggle to recall that, there is no hope for you. In my previous diary entry, I indicated that I had in mind a grand scheme for the slave Fell. This grand scheme was the ultimate cause of my inability to update this electronic diary for reasons you will shortly discover.

My plan was this: I would use the slave Fell to commit various thefts around the city of Dundee. To my mind it was a plan with no drawbacks because if he succeeded, I would gain the numerous monies and priceless artifacts that I would order him to steal. Thus I would become rich and could afford a Nintendo Wii, etc. If he failed, and was captured by the filthy arm of the law, then I would lose nothing save an idiot slave and Fell would be the one incarcerated. Being as how he was now a moron of quite epic proportions, he would be unable to remember why he was stealing things and would certainly lack the wherewithal to pin the crimes on me: he would not even remember my name.

With the basics of the plan established, I next had to establish the complexities of the plan...

(Note that I made use of ellipsis at the end of the previous sentence. This is to indicate that I have more to say about the topic but am choosing not to do so right now. I will do so in the next diary entry, which I will begin writing now. The ellipsis was to whet your appetite and to excite your curiosity: I hope it worked.)

More Fun with Slavery

My dearest and most fremulous of readers, as you are aware, I am, like honest Abe Lincoln and Taylor from Planet of the Apes, morally opposed to human slavery. That said, having access to a slave of my own has proven hugely satisfying. Readers, I fear that whatever cosy morality you cling to, all would be abandoned if your power too surpassed that of the common stock.

Dr.Fell, now idiotic through my forcing him to swallow countless Bhujeum pills, is a delightful slave. Whatsoever my whim, he satisfies it. On Wednesday night, purely for sport, I bade him rhythmically beat his forehead with a chicken thigh during the entirety of The Apprentice. When Sir Alan Sugar announced that he would be firing Simon, I bade Fell comfort me by submerging both of his elbows in a pot of scalding broth and chant, "Sir Alan Sugarpuff" until he passed out. The sight of this warmed the cockles of my heart.

At present, I have sent Dr.Fell to buy me a fish and chip tea. A slave is a great resource for avoiding such tiresome jobs, but I have a rather better and more ingenious plan in mind for Fell.

An eventually-aborted attempt to sketch Dr. Fell as though he looked like Gok Wan (TV fashionista)

Toying with my slave

Today I have enjoyed forcing my idiot slave to do my every bidding. This afternoon I bade him entertain me by playing the theme tune to Casualty upon a xylophone. This he can do tolerably well. I have illustrated his performance, choosing to depict Dr. Fell as an obese naked man.

The Plan for Revenge is Undertaken

My curious readers, I am satisfied to report that my plan to gain revenge 'pon (upon) Dr. Fell has fallen out well. He has remained in my Dundee home since Monday and here he must be content to stay for I have no intention of ever releasing him.


Dr. Fell irked me from the off by eschewing my doorbell, choosing instead to chap repeatedly at my front door to boorishly alert me to his presence so that I might allow him to gain ingress to my home. With my heartbeat audible and perspiration prickling my brow, I went to pick up my copy of Samuel Richardson's Clarissa and prepared to open wide the door and promptly bludgeon the unwitting Fell. This huge and weighty 18th-century tome is dense enough to render anyone unconscious. Unfortunately, but understandably given my nervousness and concomittent confusion, I picked up a copy of Clarissa Dickson Wright: Spilling the Beans which is a different affair entirely, being a much slimmer volume of lightweight and fluffy prose. I won this in a church raffle some years previously, and, disasterously I now realised, had failed to commit it to the flames. It was as I opened the door and invited Fell in that I realised my folly and laid the autobiography down - to attempt to strike a (medical) doctor's head with such a floppy book would be foolish.





"Good to see you Horton," said Dr. Fell, before glancing at the copy of Clarissa Dickson Wright: Spilling the Beans and adding, "I see by your choice of reading material that the Bhujeum pills are still working. Most encouraging!"


"Hey Dr. Fell," I said, adopting a moronic mode of speech so that Fell would not realise that I was now free of the influence of his idiot pills, "Fancy a drink? I got Sunny Delight or Red Bull or pretty much any brand of isotonic sports drinks you like! I can't get enough of them!"


"Fabulous - the pills are working better than ever I could have hoped!" said Fell, smiling to himself in an infuriatingly smug manner. "I will take a 'Sunny Delight' if you please."


"Need any munchies? I got cheese-strings!" I said.


"This is just perfect. The pills are clearly a triumph. No thank you, Horton, I won't take any snacks," he said.


Readers, it was as I was preparing Dr. Fell's beverage that I arrived at a change of plan. Murder, I realised, was too final and would not serve as a satisfying punishment. My revised idea was far superior. As I had no Sunny Delight, I was attempting to create a convincing makeshift version (normal fresh orange juice with three pounds of sugar dissolved in it). The addition of superfluous ingredients to an otherwise pleasant drink gave me cause to pause. What if I was to add something else, unknown to Fell, to his drink? I toyed with adding bleach or horse tranquilizers or all manner of revolting possibilites, but hit upon an ingenious scheme. Bhujeum pills! I would grind up Bhujeum pills and watch, secretly delighted, as Fell consumed this concoction and succumbed to the terrible effects.


So that is precisely what I did. And I am pleased to report that it succeeded spectacularly. Dr. Fell is now an idiot of quite impressive stupidity. "Hoist by his own petrel", as they say. I have kept him well dosed on the nefarious pills for the last few days so that he is essentially my slave, helpless without me. I fully confess that it has amused me greatly to command Fell to debase and humiliate himself for my own amusement. As I compose this entry, I have forced him to improve the weft of the lounge carpet using only his shins. He does this with nary a complaint.


I have further plans in mind for my dimwitted slave, which I will tell you of tomorrow.

Tomorrow's righteous atrocities

My dearest and most fragrant of readers, I have once again been considering the various ways and means by which I will gain revenge against Dr. Fell when he visits my home tomorrow.

When he enters my home I must quickly render him unconscious so that I can better prepare him for his treatment. Readers, do not be shocked by the premeditated nature of my actions: I am surely justified because of his initial cruelty to me. "A nigh for a nigh" as people inexplicably seem to say in situations like this.

I have devised one technique for knocking him out but worry that it may be too fanciful. I have provided a sketch of my methodology below. Dr. Fell is imagined as being played by the late Sir Harry Secombe.

Musing on Tortures Galore

I have spent all my waking hours today relishing convoluted fantasies of exacting gruesome revenge 'pon (upon) Dr. Fell who so cruelly rent the soul from out my body and left me a cretin.

In my mind's eye, I have visualised the various facial expressions that Dr. Fell will surely pull when I brutalize him. This activity has amused me enormously and has fully encouraged me to see my plan through to the end.

Here is a sketch of my favourite expression that I imagined Dr. Fell hypothetically adopting. I feel this expression (alarmed flabbergastment) would arise from me holding several heated teaspoons against his calves.

Although Dr. Fell is in reality a svelte and angular man, I have here depicted him as being portrayed by the late actor John Candy (heavily disguised) because I believe this lends the image a much-needed comical air.

A Plan for Revenge is Hatched

My dearest and most obstreperous of readers, my plan to exact revenge on Dr. Fell has been hatched. I feel it must needs be severe because he tinkered with my soul, which is a serious offence.

My scheme involves all manner of grisly activities but ultimately ends in his death at my hands. Doubtless you are shocked and outraged because you do not think me capable of such a heinous act. I am morally good as you know, but I believe my cause is a righteous one. I think I will be able to go through with it.

Being subject to unspeakable tortures during my time as an inmate of Dundee's Home for the Irretrievably Demented, I have become hardened. Murder is no longer a great taboo.

Below is a sketch of an instrument I have designed with which I will torture Dr. Fell. It should be obvious what its function is.

A Plan for Revenge is Mulled Over

My readerly and most writerly of readers, you may now like to gaily and daily release small ejaculations of joy for I am returned to my prelapsarian state! Forgive the reckless use of an exclamation mark but I feel it is warranted given the situation.

Since I was hoodwinked by the nefarious Dr. Fell into partaking of certain jelloids which he called "Bhujeum pills", I have been rendered arrantly moronic. You need only look at the previous few entries on my electronic diary to observe that this is the case. Why anyone would think their readership would find pleasure in considering an obese Yankee teenager flailing his arms about as if in combat is now beyond me. For making you endure such idiocy, I apologise, but only on the edge of hearing because none of the affair was really my fault.

I see now that Fell's "Bhujeum pills", although they undoubtedly succeeded in making my troubles softly and suddenly vanish away, performed the twin action of forcing all my wits to softly and suddenly vanish away also. Luckily, this stupidity ultimately led to me missplacing the pills, which in turn led to me missing my daily dosage, which in turn led to me recovering my wits. If you will indulge me, I will describe what my brief foray into the world of asininity was like.

I confess that it was wonderous and I can begin to appreciate why fatuousness is so popular: the most inane things at once become things to marvel over. I spent three consecutive afternoons joining internet message boards under assumed names and posting false weblinks to a Rick Astley video on Youtube, finding this the most deliciously hilarious thing imaginable. I watched entire catalogues of Internet Flash cartoons. For hours at a time I played internet games that answered such questions as "What Diff'rent Strokes character are you?" (Mrs Garrett), "What mid-Victorian philanthropist are you?" (W.E. Hickson) and "What curd are you?" (lemon). I bought (and shamelessly consumed) Pop Tarts. I watched multiple episodes of Booze Britain 2: Binge Nation. I even began writing Blog Fiction.

Readers, I enjoyed every minute of it. However, I realise now that I had no capacity for abstract thought. Since coming to my senses, I have returned to my habitual misery and gloom but have regained free will and intelligence. At times, I have felt like recommencing the dosage of Bhujeum Pills but have so far withstood the temptation. The dilemma is this: a happy imbecile or a miserable genius?

For now, I have chosen to remain a miserable genius. This will help me to concoct a ferocious revenge on Dr. Fell who so cruelly toyed with my wits - nay, my very soul. Fell is to visit me on Monday, ostensibly for a "check-up". He will find me far less maliable than he expects...

Yes, I am glad once more to be a genius, with all my faculties returned to me. Readers, when Fell enters my Dundee home, you will begin to truly appreciate exactly what devilish wonders this marvellous mind of mine, rich in thought and imbued with fierce and keen intelligence, is capable of...

Must go now - Flog It! is coming on the telly.

Star Wars Kid! ROFLMAO!!

Hey guys! One of my readers has been surfing some of the weirder areas of the internet and has found this total gem!! It's a vid of a kid (hey, I'm a poet and I don't know it ;-)). Basically, he's acting as if he's a jedi from the Star Wars films, but the funny thing is that he's only a kid so not really very good.



Totally random! I pretty much agree with all the Youtube comments left - my favourite one is fargis9 when he says: "this is like the worst star wars vid i''ve ever seen :( oh and by the way hes fat!!!!!!!!)" I guess the kid is kind of fat which makes it funnier.

ENJOY!! :D :D

I'm loving bringing you all these weird vids and pics that you won't ever have seen or heard of before. I'm pretty much loving the direction my blog is taking. You guys like it too? Leave comments plz!! Better shoot off now - I've got to take my pills again (drag!)

Badgers! LOL

Hey guys!! I'm here to entertain you again. Here's another wacky video I found when I was surfing the net, so thought I'd share it all my lovely readers. And some less-than-lovely! I kid! I kid because I love!! ;-) Sure you'll love this - I'm probably one of the first bloggers to find out about this so remember - you saw it here first! It's totally random.

http://www.weebls-stuff.com/toons/badgers/

I Can Has Cheezburger?! LOL

Hey guys!! Spent today chilling out watching a bit of telly. Still trying to get my head around the weird stuff I've gone through recently - there's gonna have to be some pretty major changes round here. Need a bit of normality in my life...

Hey, just found this pretty funny picture. Thought I'd share it with you all - maybe give you a giggle!

Made me chuckle anyway! Lol!

Gotta dash - I've been on the net for way too long...just realised I'm really late in taking my Bhujeum pills today!! Yikes! Better get on and do that, lest my mind fissiparously dissipate and return me to my previously addlepated state.

...readers, an errant thought tugs at some metaphorical loose thread in my mind. Some nebulous, poorly-defined idea - perhaps a memory - gingerly tickles at my consciousness. I am perturbed. Something is not quite right. The picture of a cat that I have just posted is palpably ludicrous...why have I done such a thing? My perturbance has been joined by perplexity... perhaps these pills will clear things up, though for some reason the thought of them chills me to the marrow of several of my bones.

Whooa! Phew! Just taken the pills - feel a bit better now - back on track. Jeez, looks like I had some sort of episode there. Memo: MUST TAKE PILLS ON TIME FROM NOW ON!! That was weird.

The picture of the cat cracks me up though - totally cheers me up. Lol.

Matt Damon

So I've spent most of the last few days trying to basically clear out some of the junk round here. Jeez, I must of really been totally mad when I look at some of the stuff around my house. Most of the crap is pretty random stuff (dismantled Rubik's cubes and dozens of beige tennis shoes with no soles!?! Wacky or what?!) but I guess I'm pretty shocked at some of the kind of dark and heavy shit I've found (no, not literally!!) - at the back of a cupboard I found a drowned kitten in a bucket, an alphabetised collection of different pastries (which only had choux, puff & shortcrust!) with a number next to each one telling me how many pounds of that kind of pastry that a gypsy would have to eat before he/she would die, and some photographs of Billy Elliot with everything Tippexed out apart from his face and legs, with the words "Dance while you can Billy" written across it. Weird!

Meh, least I'm better now. I'm so glad Dr Fell managed to persuade me to take those pills cause without them I was clearly in a pretty bad way!

I've also been reading through this blog of mine. It's a total mind-bender let me tell you ;-)
I don't remember writing any of it and it's mostly all complete rubbish.

To be honest, it's kinda embarrassing and is taking me to a place where I'm not comfortable - I'd like some brain bleach! What I'm going to do after I've finished reading through all the entries is pretty much delete the whole lot. No one wants to read that guff!

From now on, you've got your all-new & improved Horton C. to entertain ya! The blog's going to have pretty much a totally new focus - none of the old shit. Basically, I'm going to be sharing with you some of my thoughts about the world of TV, music and movies and so on. Maybe chuck in a bit of my political rants and stuff too! Bloody Tony Blair, etc (Tony B-Liar more like!) Pretty much anything that takes my fancy! I'll have links to Youtube vids that I think my readers will like. Hopefully they'll be ones you haven't seen before - here's one to start you off - it's a really funny one about Matt Damon.

I'm probably one of the only bloggers in the world to pick up on this vid. You saw it here first!



Awesome. Anyway, like I say, you can expect more of this funny stuff on this blog in future. I'm gonna start deleting all the junk from earlier entries asap.

Freedom!

Well guys, I'm free. All I had to do was go up to Dr Fell and tell him that I'd taken the pills. He signed the release papers and said I was free to go. It was as easy as that.

So I said goodbye to the guys in the hospital and had to go and collect my stuff. See, this is where I'm kind of worried about myself. I must have been really wacked out when I first came to the home because some of the stuff I'd obviously brought in with me was just totally random and weird. What could I have been thinking? Tic-Tacs glued to a hard-boiled goose egg? I mean...wtf?! Apparently, I'd insisted to the warden that this was a genuine Faberge Egg and had to be treated with respect. Carpet swatches, two dead tawny owls, a bust of Pallas made from plaster of Paris, a copy of The Blood of Dracula by Jack Hamilton Teed (signed by Nanette Newman for some bizarre reason), and five Tesco bags stuffed with loft insulation.

I mean...come on! I must of been on something - that is just so INSANE! Anyway, I'm glad to be out of there now. I'm back in my house, which is in a totally shocking state. I'm going to have a load of work to do over the next few days to get this place into a livable condition.

I'm remembering to take my Bhujeum pills three time a day - really don't want to forget about those and turn back into a mental!

I am cured

Dearest readers, after the majority of my week was spent being cruelly brutalized by male nurse Pugg Muckle in a particularly uncomfortable place (the television lounge), I have subdued the tawdry throng of doubts jostling for attention in my troubled mind, bolstered my resolution, and decided to take the Bhujeum pills at last. I can stand this asylum no longer: I must be free, and if this is the only way in which I can bring about my emancipation, then so be it. My intention is to take the prescribed dosage of pills for but a short time so that I might convince Dr. Fell that I am 'cured'. After I have won my freedom, I will refrain from partaking of the pills and all will be well.

As I type these words I have before me the bottle of Bhujeum pills, which if taken, promise to make all my troubles softly and suddenly vanish away. Almost at once, my determination is rent by treacherous doubts. I do not know if I am brave enough to go through with this task. The idea that my personality, my soul, will also softly and suddenly vanish away, is one that punctuates my thoughts and appends the prefix 'in' to my decision.

I will do this. I shall do this. A pang, almost physical, strikes at my heart. I cannot do this. I shall not do this. And yet I must. I will.

Readers, I have placed two Bhujeum pills upon my tongue and will shortly swallow them. Tears are welling up in my eyes for I am overcome with emotion. Unaccountably, I feel as though I am about to be severed in some way. This is surely the wrong decision.

Readers, I have swallowed the pills. I await metamorphosis.

Nothing has happened. I feel no different.

I feel betrayed and sit passive, sunk in a lethargy of sorrow.


That last sentence looks odd to my eyes. It seems a bit wordy. What I should say is that I guess I feel kinda sad that nothing's really happened to me, you know? The pills haven't had any effect.
Here's me - the same Horton Carew as always. No different. Don't feel like anything's changed. This whole pill thing's pretty much been a total failure. Which really sucks.

Jeez, when I read over this blog post, I can kinda see why I haven't been getting many readers, you know? It's sort of like longwinded in style and takes yonks to come to the point. How's this for messing with your head, but I don't even like recognise myself in this post. What was I thinking writing in that weird old-fashioned way for Christ's sake? Hmm, well I guess maybe Dr. Fell and Dr. Gland have been right and there has been something wrong with me. God, this is so freaky!

Well, guess I'll go and have a word with Dr. Fell. Sure he'll be able to keep me right.

I Tell Fell

Today's discussion with Dr. Fell, wherein I did my utmost to convince him I was cured of the insanity from which he mistakenly thinks I am suffering, went as follows:

Me: Dr. Fell, I have taken your pills and find myself cured.
Fell: I will need to test your claim Horton.
Me: Feel free my good man, feel perfectly free!
Fell: Okay. Let's start with some word association. I will say a word, you must respond by giving me the first thing that comes into your head. Okay?
Me: Dokey.
Fell: Sorry?
Me: Ronnie Corbett.
Fell: We haven't started yet.
Me: I see. Will this be held against me?
Fell: Not necessarily. Let's start.
Me: Okay.
Fell: Hope.
Me: Sanity.
Fell: Love.
Me: I am sane.
Fell: Ambition.
Me: I am cured.
Fell: Dream.
Me: Release me.
Fell: Death.
Me: Sanity.
Fell: Pain.
Me: Sane.
Fell: Work.
Me: Compos Mentis.
Fell: Sex.
Me: Well-adjusted.
Fell: Life.
Me: Cured.
Fell: Bed.
Me: I'm sane.
Fell: Dark.
Me: Sane.
Fell: Night.
Me: Sane.
Fell: Wedding.
Me: Sane.
Fell: Hands.
Me: Sane.
Fell: Mother.
Me: Wicked soul trapped forever in a pewter scottie dog from the board game Monopoly.
Fell: Pardon?
Me: Sane.
Fell: Well Horton, it seems abundantly clear to me that you have not taken the Bhujeum pills. You are unconvincingly feigning sanity in a feeble effort to persuade me to release you. This I will not do. You are still madder than three geese. Go back to your cell and never try to deceive me again. Begone!
Me: Sane.
Fell: Oh do go away.

Alas readers, I have not succeeded and remain incarcerated.
Perhaps I should simply take the pills.

I take the pills

Readers, as you know I am fully committed to the idea of making this electronic interactive, so I have posed a question regarding my life which I have left in your capable hands. Once more, I see that the majority of my readers wish for me to take the pills. Yet again, this was the wrong decision.

As genuine interactivity necessitates me doing precisely what the readers vote for even if it was not part of my original plan or imagined narrative trajectory, I am obliged to do exactly what you have voted for. Thus, I must set the poll again until you vote for the correct response, which is "Do not take the pills".

However, I suppose that the results will once again favour "Take the pills" and I recognise that I cannot go on setting these polls indefinitely, because I am desperate to flee this place and all this humming and hawing (and unrealted heaving) is merely wasting precious time. Thus, I propose a compromise.

My solution is this: I will pretend to Dr. Fell and to those malicious readers who wish for me to take the pills, that I have taken the pills, then pretend that I am suitably 'cured' for Dr. Fell to sign my release papers. Then I will be free.

My pretence will begin at once...

I have swallowed two bhujeum pills as per the instructions on the bottle. I feel a grinding in the bones, deadly nausea, and a horror of the spirit that cannot be exceeded at the hour of birth or death. These agonies swiftly subside. Now I feel younger, lighter, happier in body. I know myself, at the first breath of this new life, to be cured. I stretch out my hands, exulting in the freshness of these sensations. I am cured! I am cured!

Now I will contact Dr. Fell and convince him that I can be released.

My Readers Have Spoken

Well, my dearest readers, you have voted and I am honour-bound to follow the results of your vote. I have used my mind to tally up all votes placed and find that "Take the pills" has won by two votes.

Thus, I must take Dr. Fell's bhujeum pills. Perhaps I did not make the situation clear enough: these pills, although they will make all the bad things in my life softly and suddenly vanish away, will also make my personality, everything that makes me me, softly and suddenly vanish away. Although I will be happy, there may no longer exist the entity known as "Horton Carew" to appreciate the new-found happiness.

I will allow you a second chance to vote correctly. As before, I will do whatever you vote because this electronic diary is fully interactive.

What must I do?

My gipseian and pigmaean readers, I must tell you that my quandary has not yet been resolved. This week I have hummed and hawed (and hornswoggled, though that is completely unrelated), yet I cannot decide what to do for the best.


I will decide the matter on the toss of a coin. Yes - hang it all! - that is what I shall do. Excuse me, dearest readers while I throw myself upon Fate's mercy. If the coin lands on heads, I will take the pills. If it lands on tails, I will not.

...I have the coin. It is a tuppence. Destiny awaits, gentle readers, destiny awaits.

I toss (the coin).

It has landed.

...Readers, I am afraid that the best laid plans of mice and men, as they say, gang affy gay. The coin has landed in a small globule of mashed swede upon the floor, directly side-on. It is neither heads nor tails.

Alas, Fate means for me to be decisive.

Thus, I will set up a poll: readers, you must decide my course of action. For you, this will be akin to a Fighting Fantasy 'Choose your Own Adventure' game book because I will do whatsoever you choose. I pray that my adverture does not end here.

Kindly let me know what I should do. Take the bhujeum pills? Eschew the bhujeum pills?

Advice from an unexpected source

As thick-wristed male nurse Pugg Muckle was administering the second of my daily beatings this afternoon, utilizing for the sturdiness it offered a metal fire extinguisher, I thought long and hard about Dr Fell's offer. As Muckle was working on my shin bones, the excrutiating pain I felt as a sliver of bone split from burst skin and flew across the room momentarily distracted me from my musings and caused me to wail in anguish. Muckle answered my impromptu cry of agony by clubbing my gums with rough and blunt knuckles. His casual brutality and workaday truculence piqued my ire and I began roaring, expectorating a broken tooth in my fury. In my anger, I quite lost self-control and began speaking my mind, honestly and openly, for the first time since becoming incarcerated, telling male nurse Pugg Muckle precisely what I thought of his smug Irish face. Readers, my tongue became over-loose, not least because my styloglossus muscle had been terribly rent by Muckle's thrashings. Weeping, I told the pugnacious Muckle all about Dr Fell's offer of pills and, with a new-found boldness, told him that I intended to take these pills, quit this bedlam, then go straight to the Dundee Courier to expose the villainies and outrages daily committed in this den of terror.

Pugg Muckle sat bemused through my impassioned outburst, then struck me in the cheek with a tightly-balled fist.

"Now Horty, calm yerself down and shut yer trap, bejappers," he said (he did not actually say 'bejappers', but as Pugg Muckle is Irish, I feel obliged to sporadically insert such words into his dialogue so that you do not forget his ethnicity).

"You can choose to believe me or you can choose to disbelieve me: that's up to you, begorah," he continued. "I hold no special contempt for you Horty. This is just a job to me. True, I happen to greatly enjoy brutalizing lunatics, but there is nothing personal at work here. Truth be told, I've always looked forward to sessions with you and have enjoyed working with you, bejaysus. You rarely complain, and you can take a lot of pummeling before passing out. You always give me my money's worth! So let me give you a florin's worth of free advice: do not trust Dr Fell. At least I'm upfront about my love of torture, begob. Dr Fell is no better than me. He just hides his cruelty better'n a common or garden sadist, that's all, Bejam."

He then broke my nose by slamming my head roughly against a doorframe.

Food for thought though!

The Quandary Continues

Readers, I remain in a quandary.

Dr Fell, whom I do not like, though not for any particular reason, has raised the stakes in his proposition in an effort to persuade me of his point of view. If I follow his advice and take the bhujeum pills, not only will all the bad thoughts and events in my life softly and suddenly vanish away, but Dr Fell has also announced that if I take the pills I will be considered 'cured' and will be permitted to permanently leave Dundee's Home for the Irretrievably Demented. Readers, you will appreciate that freedom from this bedlam and house of horror is something I have craved since first I was immured. I am sorely tempted.

Perhaps having my personality softly and suddenly vanish away will not be as terrible a thing as I have been imagining. Perhaps the pills will just remove the negative aspects of my personality and leave me the good points. Maybe then my truelove, my ladylove, Carol Doocot will think more highly of me and I can be the man she deserves...

Dr Fell has left the pills in my possession. Even now I can sense that I am convincing myself to take the pills. But I must consider this more fully before making the choice. What should I do?

A hastily-sketched depiction of the Bhujeum pills

A Philosophical Quandary

My dearest and most pelargic of readers, I am in a quandary.

"But that is natural, Horton," you say. "After all, you are currently resident in a mental institution. A state of doubt or perplexity is the default state for a person in your predicament and should not be considered worthy of comment."

Dear reader, as usual you have jumped the gun and not allowed me time to elaborate. I must say that this lack of patience rates among your chief flaws and is not to be encouraged. Try to calm yourself for I am about to elaborate.

Today, I was visited in my cell by a Dr. Fell. I did not like him. If you were to press me, I would be unable to provide convincing or logical reasons for the dislike which I clearly felt towards the man. However, I am inescapably certain of how I felt: I did not like that Dr. Fell. He is a medical doctor and claimed to want to cure me of my supposed madness.

"In this bottle," he said (for he held a bottle, you understand), "I have Bhujeum pills. If you take these pills, all the strange things that plague you, all the aberrant thoughts that trouble you, will softly and suddenly vanish away. It will be like waking up from a terrible dream. You will be a completely different person."

I patiently explained to Fell that I am not actually insane and have been imprisoned in this asylum under false pretences. In a gentle and kindly voice he told me that the pills also work on sane people such as myself.

"If a sane person like you or I takes the pills, Horton," he said, "they just make the bad things in life stop happening and make happy things happen instead. They make us into different people. Better people."

This is the nature of my quandary, readers. I would like to live a life free of miserable events and tortuously episodic disasters, but I do not wish to lose my personality in the process. If I take the Bhujeum pills, I may become happy but will there be an 'I' to appreciate the happiness? If I take the pills and all the bad things in my life softly and suddenly vanish away, that would be indescribably wonderful, but will Horton Carew also softly and suddenly vanish away? This will require a great deal of thought.

On top of all this, I have developed scurvy through lack of vitamins.

The Last Recitation

My dearest and most anonymous of readers, I shall share with you but one more example of Robertson's verse. Thankfully, this is his last day of being a visiting speaker at the Dundee Home for the Irretrievably Demented as he has fallen out of favour with thick-wristed male nurse Pugg Muckle. Robertson, having finished today's recitation to the inmates, was being shown out of the building by Muckle when he decided to try out some of his new material on the lumpen Irishman. Muckle suffered a small apoplexy, soiled himself, and has been left temporarily numb down the entirety of the left hand side of his body. Roberston has been told, in no uncertain terms, never to return.

Scheme Fowk Hae No Pretensions

See scheme fowk? They dinnae hae ony truck
Wi Markies food or ony o' that muck.
"This is no just food, but M&S food"?!
Aye it is! An' it's no even a' that good!
Thon Jamie Oliver says nae mair Turkey Twizzlers?
Thon ur scheme bairns' favourite treat, alangside rolled up Rizlas.
An' see thon Dr Gillian McKeith?
Aye, her wi the soor pus and squinty teeth?
Ah hear she's tryin' tae ban the butterie!
She'll hae nae luck persuading scheme fowk o' that. It's utterly
****** ridiculous, ken. An' takin' lettuce an' cucumber
Fur pack lunches? Talk aboot dumb an' dumber!
Nah, scheme bairns'll tak Cheezy Wotsits,
Curly-Wurlies, E-number flavour jeely tots. It's
Whit they thrive oan. Nah, gie the scheme fowk pehs
An' Special Brew an' chips wae deep-fried salt Ah sez!
Aye, scheme fowk hae no pretensions,
An' at the skale they goat detentions,
On baccy an' Buckie they spend their pensions.
An' tae the polis they dinnae pay attention.

See scheme fowk? Salt o' the ******* earth!
Are yiz mindin' Ah'm fae Fintry?

We are each of us relieved that we do not have to hear from Robertson any more. However, the sadistic male nurse Pugg Muckle has made it clear that if we do not do his bidding and submit to four daily thrashings all next week, then the next visiting speaker will be Dundee Courier columnist Anthony Troon.

We are on our best behaviour.

More Hard-Hitting Street Poetry

Readers, I will share a further example of Robertson's poetry, chiefly as evidence should he ever go on trial for his crimes. He is rapidly wearing us down - one inmate today sneaked into the kitchen and submerged his head in a large pot of boiling lentil broth, ultimately killing himself. Unfortunately, Pugg Muckle has now locked the kitchens to prevent anyone else doing likewise.

Doon at the Chipper on a Seturday Nicht

See scheme fowk? They love eatin' chips,
An' stickin' battered bits o' haddock past their lips
An' ken, sometimes they like a black or white
Puddin' supper on a Seturday nicht (night),
An' some o' them spend hauf their wage
On a burger in batter or a deep-fried sausage.
Maist scheme fowk will ask fur vinegar and salt,
Tae be added tae their suppers (the vinegar's usually malt).

Ken, goin' doon the chipper on a Seturday nicht (night)?
Scheme fowk love tae first get pished then get intae a fecht (fight).
Yis huv tae watch yerself doon there
So's ye dinnae get a pickled egg stuck in yer hair.

See scheme fowk? Salt o' the ******* earth!
Did Ah mention ah'm fae Fintry?

The Street Poet of the Schemes.

Readers, once more have we endured the recitations of the self-confessed 'poet of the schemes' Gary Robertson. Today he harangued on stage for two hours, enthusiastically bawling at us a great many of his poems. All the while, sadistic and thick-wristed male nurse Pugg Muckle, with cotton wadding in his ears to avoid hearing Robertson's poesy himself, laughed as we writhed and squirmed in our seats.

For those of you unfamiliar with Robertson, perhaps a brief introduction would not go amiss. He is a 'street poet', who claims to write in an authentic Dundonian accent with brutal honesty about Dundee life. A denizen of one of Dundee's innumerable council house schemes, he claims to speak for all the poor 'schemies' who presumably do not possess the wherewithal to speak for themselves. I suspect he may be working class.

Though I do not feel comfortable making my readership suffer as I have suffered, I feel I should give you a flavour of what we inmates must endure. Here is an example of the verses today we heard:


Scheme Fowk at the Riverside Switches

Mind thon switches doon at Riverside?
Ken, when yis wur young an' starry-eyed,
They wis pure beezer. Eh, they wis magic,
Till the dodgems birled ye an' made ye sick,
A' ower some auld wifie and her bairn,
A' ower its heid an' bobble hat it wis wearin'.

Mind, when ye wis young, the switches were rare?
Toffee aipples stuck on sticks an' then yer hair,
As ye dunted the big 2p machines wi' yer erse,
Till the tinky carnie came ower lookin' a fierce,
Bawlin' at ye till ye started tae greet,
And ye got a skelp on yer lug and flung oot on the street.

Eh, ken, mind thon switches were braw?
A' the scheme bairns were taken by their maws.
Ye kent weel that the coconut shy wis a con,
But ye paid onywey fur a shottie then a play on
The puggies (but if yis won, a big lad aye stole it
Then bought baccy and a Rizla and then he would roll it).

But ken, when yis got older, ken, a teenage schemie,
Yis would still go tae the switches wi yer pals, twa or three,
But it wisnae rides yis had on yer mind,
At least, no rides on dodgems. Naw, yis wanted tae get entwined,
With some daft burd ahent the goldfish stall,
An' ******* **** her up against a wall.
Yer scheme pals and ye would get totally pished,
On cider and Buckie and, Christ, yis wished
Tae hae a fecht wi' the rival gang,
The 'Douglas Munters' or some ither bams.
Mind, you and yer pals wid chib them and batter their pusses
Wi' a length ae pipe an' they'd shout oot cusses.

See scheme fowk? The salt o' the ******* earth.
I'm fae Fintry ye ken.

The Visiting Speaker

My dearest and most sympathetic of readers, I will now reveal the identity of the visiting speaker, whose company we must endure each day this week as part of a cruel torment devised by our sadistic male nurse. Rest assured that I now look back fondly to the days when our only recreation was the removal of coagulated cats' droppings from the bottom of wire cages.

This afternoon, thick-wristed male nurse Pugg Muckle, with his blunted, scabbed knuckles and his mighty belt buckles, lashed us into submission with a length of cable then he and his underlings hauled our protesting forms through to the community auditorium where they bound us to chairs with chicken wire. Laughing maniacally, he introduced us to the guest speaker, whom he had carefully chosen to offend our sensibilities and evince anguish and nausea in all residents. He then ran from the room so as not to suffer any injurious effects himself.

The visiting speaker appeared on stage clutching several manuscripts, which did not bode well for it meant that he intended to read from them for some considerable time. Dearest readers, the visiting speaker was none other than the Dundee 'street poet' Gary Robertson. He proceeded to read his work to us for upwards of an hour, either oblivious to the inmates' weeping and howling, or relishing the pain that he was able to inflict. At present, my nerves are too frayed, my hands too shaky, and my soul too despairing to permit me to relate much more of the horror I have witnessed today.

Suffice to say that one of my fellow inmates has just forced a propelling pencil into both of her ears and permanently deafened herself so that she will not have to hear anymore of Robertson's poetry tomorrow. Pugg Muckle promptly removed all such implements to prevent anyone else trying the same scam. As I write, the newly-deafened inmate sits smiling serenely, and we each look upon her with the greatest of envy.

Fresh Misery

After dinner tonight (the scrapings from a navvy's boots and a three-inch length of garden hose), thick-wristed male nurse Pugg Muckle gathered together all inmates and announced that for the next two minutes, Dundee's Home for the Irretrievably Demented was to be a democracy. Certain inmates became excited at this notion and incautiously allowed their sense of hope to reawaken. I knew better and merely fortified my sense of despair.

Muckle declared that we were to take a vote. He felt that we were at risk of becoming mollycoddled so he had devised new tortures for us that would begin from Monday next week. As an example of, he claimed, unprecedented generosity on his part, we were to be permitted to decide, via due democratic process, which of the tortures we wanted to receive.

The options were as follows:

1) All footwear to be replaced with coils of barbed wire wrapped around the feet.
2) Our eyes to be sewn shut during the afternoon showing of Quincy.
3) Our current toilet arrangements (a bucket) to be replaced with a new system (our beds).
4) A visiting speaker each day this week.
5) Breakfast to consist of razor blades, with vinegar as a beverage.

After a little discussion among those of us capable of speech and abstract thought, we naturally opted for the 'visiting speaker' option. At hearing our decision, Muckle guffawed malevolently. He then told us, between laughs, exactly who that visiting speaker would be.

Readers, you will doubtless realise the horror of the situation when I tell you that I now wish we had gone for any or all of the other options.

A Disappointing Turn of Events.

Dear readers, I must report that my spirit is quite sapped. Because the inmate's duties at the Mid Craigie Cattery ended when male nurse Pugg Muckle and Cattery owner Mrs Imogen Pottle slaughtered all their cats to use as the contents of faux-haggisses, my escape plan has failed. I had planned to flee last Wednesday when Muckle and Pottle briefly took their attention from us as they retired for their three minute grapple in the Cattery. Alas, all visits to the Cattery have ceased until Pottle and Muckle can restock their feline supply, so that particular route to freedom is now closed.

Thus, I remain incarcerated in this terrible place. I will have to rethink my strategy. Male nurse Pugg Muckle has promised us fresh torments next week, as he does not wish us to become complacent with his current brutalities.

Final Preparations

Well, my dearest and most crassulent of readers, this may well be the last time you hear from me as an imprisoned man. You should not assume from this that I will shortly become an imprisoned woman. No, my gender is not the state which will shortly alter, but rather the adjective 'imprisoned', for I am soon to flee this dire place. Tomorrow I will be unimprisoned after I make my daring escape.

I have smuggled a few items in pockets and beneath folds in the white dressing gown that we are obligated to wear at all times. Three drawing pins and a single shredded wheat were all I was able to conceal. Perhaps when I am on the run, I will have need to affix a poster to a wall (in which case the three drawing pins will prove invaluable) or win the favour of Ian "Beefy" Botham (in which case the shredded wheat will become of inestimable value). Time will tell.

As one last indignity before I flee tomorrow, male nurse Pugg Muckle today smashed all but four toes on my left foot with the corner of a chest of drawers. It was purely for sport. It is reasons such as these that lead me to think I have made the correct decision in aiming to leave this asylum. Wish me luck for tomorrow. If I fail, my punishment will be so severe that I may not survive it.

A Message to my Lady Love, My Dove

Today found me melancholy. I spent almost all of this sabbath fixating unhealthily once more on Carol Doocot, my true love, who awaits my safe return on the outside. Doubtless she is reading these words, her eyes jewelled with tears, her lip a'quiver, anxious for my well-being. Carol, I will soon be with ye (you), for on Wednesday I mean to make my escape.

I am certain you have good reasons for visiting me not once during my incarceration and I look forward to hearing about them when I flee this place.

More Tales of Resident Lunatics

Readers, as my grim and miserable days in this grim and miserable asylum all follow the same grim and miserable blueprint, there is a paucity of interesting things to write about in this electronic diary. The only thing of any note that happened today was that the madman in the room down the corridor, who insists he is not insane and is actually a time-traveller from the year 2035 where a terrible pandemic has wiped out almost all of humanity, apparently disappeared mysteriously from his locked cell. Doubtless he has merely died of neglect and the wardens have disposed of his body in acid vats in the basement to cover their tracks.

To give you further evidence of the tediousness with which my days are filled, during teatime today, I found myself engaged in conversation to one Fyodor Myshkin, a somewhat dull young idiot who was impounded in this madhouse for his curious behaviour and worldview. However, I confess that when I spoke to him I found his hopelessly naive attitude and inability to understand the politics of the day actually highlighted many of the flaws and hypocrisies inherent to modern life. I found that this so-called madman's innate goodness and child-like questioning alerted me to many of my own prejudices and the depravity of our society. As is so common in this place, I again began to consider that we might well have things back-to-front and that it was not this simple-minded lunatic who was wrong in the head, but rather the rest of the world with all its ghastliness and horror. He quickly provided me with a definitive answer however when he began whooping like some manner of chimp, then pulled down his trousers and defecated in his bowl of soup.

Meet the Natives

My dearest and most curiously moist of readers, I suppose that I should tell you about some of my fellow inmates, whom, over our shared months of incarceration, I have come to regard as, if not friends, then at least as fellow inmates.

In the cell directly next to the left of mine is a slim young man who was jailed for pica. Pica is an abnormal eating disorder whereby the sufferer is driven to consume non-food items such as wax, sponges, bookmarks, convex lenses, snooker cue chalk, and Ginsters Scotch Egg Bars. This fellow eats all manner of crazy things and is therefore excellent entertainment value. Around the asylum, he will happily eat light-bulbs, Blu-Tack, bedding, forks, coat-hangers, and a poster of Rita Hayworth that I was intending to use as part of an escape plan. He was locked up because he developed a peculiar appetite for baby mice, which he ate alive and which led to his expulsion from numerous pet shops around Dundee. He also ate the kidney of a paperboy.

In the cell across the corridor from me is Elwood P. Stewart, an amiable drunk and quite the nicest, most affable chap that anyone would ever hope to meet. A favourite around the asylum, he is friendly, kind-hearted, and honest. His only real "crime" in our blinkered and judgemental society is that he claims to be accompanied wherever he goes by an invisible six foot rabbit, whom he believes is just as pleasant and happy-go-lucky as himself. When I consider how relatively well-adjusted and stress-free Mr Stewart's life is, I begin to ask myself, "Who are the real madmen in this world?" But then I remember that Elwood also skinned his sister in 1979 and the answer becomes abundantly clear.

In the cell to the right of mine, is Amy Winehouse.

A Dire Warning

My dearest and most alphabetical of readers, I have for you a dire warning. If any amongst you dwell within the city of Dundee and environs, then this dire warning is particularly applicable to you. If any readers amongst this subgroup plan to buy a haggis to consume tomorrow in celebration of the Scottish poet Robert Burns, then this warning is very particularly applicable to you. But if any amongst this further subgroup plans to purchase their haggis from Aspick & Sons Family Butchers in Flensers Wynd, then this dire warning is especially particularly applicable to you. Take heed.

Today, we were woken at 2:00am and informed by thick-wristed male nurse Pugg Muckle that he had a special project upon which we were to expend our energy until late afternoon. All we inmates were birched to fully rouse us for the day's work, then led through to the kitchens where the rancorous odour of festering cat corpses greeted us. Many hundreds of them lay strewn about the floors and work surfaces: clearly, they were the recently slaughtered remnants of Mrs Imogen Pottle's Mid Craigie Cattery. It transpired that this repugnant harridan was by no means the animal lover that her ownership of a Cattery would suggest, for, in league with Pugg Muckle, she had butchered all the feline creatures in her charge.

We spent the day scooping out the decomposing innards of these wretched beasts, grinding them up, and mixing them with sawdust and loft insulation. Handfuls of the resultant glop we stuffed inside uncoiled gentlemen's contraceptives until they were the size of mangos. These were then collected and boiled for hours in enormous pots. Readers, here is your dire warning: these unspeakable items were sold by Pugg Muckle to Aspick & Sons Family Butchers, who intend to offer them for sale tomorrow as discount haggises. Do not eat them if you are a cat lover.

All inmates were forced to suffer the indignity of eating some of these pseudo-haggises for our repast this evening. I confess I found them deliciously moreish, though I was disguted at myself.

Haggis

A Plan to Escape is Devised

Today saw our weekly outing to Dundee's Mid Craigie Cattery. These trips are ostensibly intended to lift us from our torpor and provide contact with the outside world as part of the asylum's social integration program. In reality, the only human being we see on these visits is the Cattery owner, a po-faced woman named Imogen Pottle who makes no effort to disguise her obvious contempt for us. She is the dowdy, cardiganned mistress of our thick-wristed male nurse, Pugg Muckle, and together they exploit our vulnerable, voiceless position in society by using us as free labour. She only tolerates our presence because Muckle forces us, under the threat of a sound thrashing with a length of birch, to muck out the cats' wire cages with our bare hands. It is humiliating work for a man of my standing.

As we scrabble around their accumulated feculence and the heaped corpses of their departed brethren, the cats themselves are half-crazed with hunger and terror, so tear at our flesh with their unclipped claws and screech wretchedly. Further to this, Imogen Pottle openly flouts the recent ban on smoking in enclosed places by smoking in this enclosed place.

At 3pm sharp, her and the male nurse Muckle leave us unattended and retreat to the back room to noisily relieve their base urges. At 3:04pm they return, their lustful appetites evidently satiated. I have decided that during next week's visit to Mid Craigie Cattery, I will risk all by using this brief window of opportunity to make my escape. It is a risky strategem but, as no other plan presents itself, it is my only chance.

A Synopsis of my Daily Life

Roote, the boss of this institution, has allowed me access to the internet cobweb for 20 minutes today, so I have elected to use this time to tell my readers about my daily life in Dundee's Home for the Irretrievably Demented. It is with no small amount of shame that I must admit that I have squandered 12 of my allotted minutes in considering the user comments on King Ralph on the IMDB (Internet Movie Database (IMD)). You must understand that some hapless goon had suggested that the title role would have been better played by John Candy, so I felt compelled to register on the website to (a) champion Goodman, and (b) patiently tell this boob exactly why he was incorrect. You will appreciate that I could not let his comment go uncontested.

That said, I will now use my remaining four minutes to give you a flavour of my daily life. It is a wretched and debasing existence. My lower lip trembles, my eyes blur, and my sweetbreads wince as I write these miserable words. Nurse Pawl forces all inmates to rise each morning at 3am (we are allowed a long lie until 3:15am on Sundays), and we are roused into consciousness by a cold shower and a breakfast of flax and powdered limpet shells. Our daily thrashing is administered at 4:00am by a lumpen Irishman named Nurse Pugg Muckle, who has needlessly huge knuckles and mighty belt buckles. We are then forced into the 'Labour Room' where we must toil for hours crafting trinkets to titillate the noveau-riche. At 12:00, we are given sleeping draughts and innumerable concoctions that keep us comatose until 3:00pm, thereby avoiding the need to provide us with luncheon. If it is not a Wednesday, when we are taken on our weekly outing (invariably to the local cattery), then we are permitted to watch Quincy until 4:00pm. We then receive the second of our daily beatings to keep us occupied until teatime at 5:00pm, after which we are dosed with cheap gin and ether, and forced to play carpet bowls until 7:00pm lights-out.

Now of course, I, alone of all the inmates, am permitted the additional luxury of 20 minutes daily to type words onto the internet. Alas, I must go now, for those 20 minutes have now elapsed.

I must escape this place soon or else I will go mad.

An Exciting Development

My dearest and most ombliferous of readers, I have an exciting development to tell you of. My ingenious scheme to escape this Bedlam is nearing completion, but because this institution is no longer equipped with a mute Red Indian, which was intrumental to my plan, I must remain captive for the foreseeable future. The Red Indian choked to death yesterday on a piece of Juicy Fruit.

This is not the exciting development. Rather, the previous paragraph was more expositionary. Do not fear, however, for I will arrive at the exciting development before long. You must allow me some time. I felt it important to precede the exciting development by telling you that I had an exciting development to relate. That way, I meant to capture your interest and engage your galloping curiousity, but furthermore, had I leapt straight in and told you the exciting development, you might not have appreciated that it was an exciting development and you may not have given it your full attention. Your impatience to get to the exciting development, necessitating this cautionary digression in order to calm your nerves, has rather let you down. I see I have once again misjudged the maturity of my readership. You are obviously ill-equipped to deal with too much excitement, so I must quickly let you know of the exciting development.

The exciting development is this: though I am to remain incarcerated in this den of chaos and clucking, I am to be allowed regular access to my electronic diary! Dr Anthony Gland has arranged it, having successfully argued for the therapeutic necessity of this confessional outlet. Thus, I will be able to keep you updated with the grim and miserable events in my miserable and grim life.

I realise now that the exciting development, having been built up by myself in earlier paragraphs to be something truly phenomenal, will likely now be received by my readers as something of an anticlimax. I will apologise only once for this, because I do not think it is a serious enough crime to warrant multiple apologies, and I am sure most of my readers are reasonable enough people and would agree. Sorry.

An Alacritous Update

My most anxious and preputial of readers, doubtless you have been worrying about my safety these last months. You were right to fret for me and I thank you for your compassion. I am having a terrible, miserable, episodic time of it in the Dundee Home for the Irretrievably Demented. Furthermore, I have no means of venting my overburdened spleen as I am forbidden from accessing the internet cobweb. It is only through weeks of planning, devious plotting, and some measure of degrading bribery, that I have managed to persuade the two hospital wardens, Perret and Sembadel, to allow me access to Dr. Biron's personal computer for just 20 short minutes. Such are the hardships I now endure. My time is limited so I must be succinct in my discourse and refrain from adopting my habital digressional mode of narration. Thus I must humbly beg my frustrated readership to weather the achingly sparse and underwritten prose you see before you now.

A grim update: it has become increasingly obvious to me that this carceral nursing home in which I am confined is, in reality, a sweat shop. We inmates are utilized as unpaid labour and are daily put to work crafting assorted luxury goods such as wickerwork, ribbon-weaving, Fuzzy-Felt collages, macaroni greeting cards, and gaudy baubles made with overmuch glitter. These are taken from us and presumably sold to wealthy merchants for vast profit, who in turn sell them to the bourgeoisie for even vaster profits. The inmates receive not one milky monetary drop from the plump udders of this cash cow.

I am languishing and dwindling in this ominous place. It has all the usual bleak accoutrements of mental institutions: white walls, nurses, restraining buckles, and a large mute Red Indian. The daily diet for all inmates is pemmican, carob, and medical gauze, all in tiny portions. As you will no doubt have observed, this diet is horribly lacking in the essential staple, bifidus digestivum, so we all suffer terribly. Further to this, we are daily pumped full of drugs which render the taker immobile and comatose. So at least it is not all bad here.

However, for the last week the wardens have devised fresh tortures for us, bringing in teams of small children festively bedecked with Father Christmas hats and tinsel, who sing carols to us in a manner that is little short of appalling. Their cacophonous screeching complete, they pass out shop-bought, budget mince pies then file out. I fear I may perish in this godforsaken place.

Thankfully, my plan to escape is nearing fruition...but, alas, I must leave that for another day because the wardens have returned to remove me from the computer. Farewell.

A Temporary Farewell

My dearest and most rambunctious of readers, I have much to relate. First, the bad news: I am to be incarcerated in a mental institution in Dundee for the rest of my natural life. I have seen through all of Dr Gland's sly euphemisms ("just a little place for you to relax", "a sort of calming hotel", "a hospital where we can help you to get better") - it is the loony bin for me. They believe me to be unhinged because of my recent public duel with Doocot's beau wherein I penetrated his torso with a fencing sabre to his permanent injury.

Tomorrow morning, I am to be packed away to the Dundee Home for the Irretrievably Demented. Within those walls, there is no form of access to the outside world, so until I can work out a way to escape, I will be unable to update this electronic diary. For this I apologise. In the mean time, I suggest you read over some of my earlier diary entries a day at a time and pretend they are occuring in the present. Until I can escape, I must bid you farewell.

But before I bid you farewell (in retrospect, I should have saved such bidding until the end of this entry because this appendment now appears amatuerish and somewhat embarrassing), I will tell you of some good news that has befallen me. Yesterday I received a visit from my ladylove, my dove, Carol Doocot. She called in at my house, looking careworn but succulent.

"Horton," she said, "I have brought you something."

Her words struck a chord in my heart which sang with strange music, with music so barbaric that, frankly, I blushed to find it harmony. Have I said that she is beautiful? It can convey no faint conception of her. With her pure, fair skin, eyes like the velvet darkness of the East Neuk of Fife, and red lips so tremulously near to mine, she was the most seductively lovely creature I ever had looked upon. In that moment my heart went out in sympathy to every man who had bartered honour, country, all - for a woman's kiss. She had a couple of spots on her chin though, which let her down a bit.

"I cannot help but feel responsible for your recent hardships," she said. "It was I who encouraged you to explore your passions for the purposes of Art. Those passions overflowed and turned against my economics student boyfriend, but had I not forced you to unearth those passions in the first place, none of this would have happened. I didn't know you were...unequipped to deal with those emotions."

Here she handed me a bag.

"I made this for you," she said. "Take it with you to the Dundee Home for the Irretrievably Demented. I hope it brings you some peace."

She left. Inside the bag was a lump of clay in the shape of a fat dove.

Some might say that this is a piece of sculpture conveying the theme of peace, created by a well-meaning art tutor to gift to a poor, bewildered lunatic. However, I know different. It is surely a hollowed-out container housing Doocot's child, to which I am the father. She has placed the baby in this clay womb because she trusts me, the father, to look after it. Inside the clay dove, the baby is in a state of suspended animation. Clearly, this gift is meant to give me hope. Hope that when I finally escape from the mental institution, Carol Doocot will be there waiting for me. Together, we will crack open the dove with some manner of hammer, and we will start our life together as loving and devoted parents.

It makes perfect sense. I knew I was not mad. Now, I must bid you farewell again.

A Ludicrous Charge is Levelled Against Me

Readers, not for the first time in my life, I am in trouble with the law. My duel with the suitor of Doocot was reported to the police, who have obviously been slipped some bribe because they have treated me abysmally. They have pulled out some ancient, dusty tomes of law and hooked me on a technicality: apparently some archaic statute or other still exists which means it is technically illegal for a man to commit attempted murder in the city of Dundee.

Attempted murder? you ask, italicizing the 'attempted' to convey your shock that I did not fully succeed in my quest to destroy Doocot's beau. You could equally have underlined the 'attempted' to emphasize it, but had you done so I would not have replied to your question because I consider underlining words for the purposes of emphasis to be much overused of late, and I do my utmost to discourage the practice.

Alas readers, I did not slay the beau. In the end, I merely wounded a portion of his trunk with my sabre. He survived my spirited onslaught. Thus, I have been formally charged with the pseudo-crime of 'attempted murder' which is a ludicrous notion to my mind. One would not be charged with 'attempted theft' or 'attempted forgery' or 'attempted kidnapping' (I assume), so why should 'attempted murder' be singled out and become a chargable offence?

I have been released for the moment. Dr Anthony Gland and a lawyer called Poove have had a word with the police and explained my position as a man of some clout in the community, so they have managed to ensure that I will not go to a real jail if I am convicted, but rather a plush hostelry designed entirely for the comfort of the inhabitants, up to and including padded walls.

I will keep you updated regarding this situation.

The Duel

Readers, you join me as I prepare to do battle with Carol Doocot's beau whom I intend to slay in order to prove my love for Doocot. When she sees me standing over his bloody corpse, doubtless she will realise how serious my love for her is and will devote her life to me. I hope she will help me dispose of the body discreetly so that we can avoid a scandal.

I am in Dundee University Library using their computer machines to type this message. As I will be updating you on the duel while the fight is in progress, I trust you will excuse any inelegancies. At the moment, Doocot's beau is standing by the photocopier, photocopying an entire chapter from Catholic Social Teaching and the Market Economy by Philip Booth. As he stands there, willfully breaking copyright agreement, he remains unaware that he must shortly die at my hands.

As he was boorish enough not to respond to my invitation to duel like a gentleman, I have spent the last few days tracking him down and following him around Dundee. He is an Economics student which to my mind is crime enough. Despite being no great looker, he has somehow succeeded in seducing Doocot. Surely, Svengali-like, he has utilized the mesmeric arts to hoodwink Doocot into becoming his lover. Luckily, I am here to save her.

He goes to leave. I am now typing ths with my left hand as I use my right hand to remoive my fenciong sword from the trouser leg in which I concealed it. TH ebounder is going.

Readers, I have just shouted across the library to him. He is looking over. I am typing this just now, though, so when I get to the end of this sentence I will taunt him again.

The taunt successful, he is making his way over here. I am now using my right hand tio type this as I remove a secoind fencing sword from my left trouser leg. As I am a gentleman, I will provide Doocot's beau with a sword so that the fight will be fair.

I have just challenged him to a duel and handed him a fencing sword (actually a straightened-out wire coathanger affixed to a sieve: although I believe in being sporting, there is no call in being too sporting). He laughs in my face, the swine. I have struck him on the arm with my sword, drawing blood.

I have explained to him that I must remain seated during our fight to the death as I have an anxious readership to keep informed but he seems distracted. He is wailing and clutching his arm. He refuses to fight back, so I am forced to strike him a second time. This time, I stab him in the knee ,8ddedfbnhgdrsghL

Readers, Doocot's beau just struck me in the ear with his sword. No gentleman he! It stings like buggery but he has not managed to lop it off. As I am typing this, I am jabbing him repeatedly in the leg and groin with my sword. He is pulling me away from thhe coopomuter terminal but I hav managgerd ti kjeep hold of the keyboasrd and keep typingh. He is stomping on my legs wehich is pasinful beyond the telling of it. A security guard is aspprtoaching - - I must finish this quickly. I stab doocot's beau in the chest.


THe securityy guard haas
he;s wrestlin me off and


i will click ;publi'sh post''' the brute has a grip ojn me
doocots beau is llying derad i hav triumphed



mnb yfghjb45 /

Taking Control of my Future

Rather than descend into a period of doldrums over my recent bad luck, I have vowed instead to tackle my listlessness head on. I will be an agent of my own change. Not for me the route of despair and denial: I will face my foes and fears with force.

The facts in this case are as follows:

1) I have somehow impregnated an Art tutor.
2) She is unaware of her gravidity.
3) I must tell her of her condition.
4) I must wed her so that the child, when born, is not a bastard (if male) or bitch (if female).
5) She has a suitor who will not be happy at my attempts to woo her.
6) I must remove the suitor from the picture.
7) Permanently.

To deal with points 5 through 7, I have written a letter to her suitor to invite him to join me in a duel to the death. Here is the letter which is blunt and to the point:

Dear chump [by using this demeaning title, I hope to rouse his fury from the off],

You have been observed making unseemly and unwelcome advances towards my gal [I use the slang term 'gal' to make me seem more like a New York tough, and hence to worry him]. You are hereby challenged to a duel. Be prepared to fight to the death. The winner takes all.

Yours angrily [here I have replaced the more traditional 'Yours sincerely' to emphasize the extent of my ire],

Horton Carew

This letter has made its way to my Art tutor's pigeonhole in Duncan of Jordanstone Art College. On the envelope, I wrote "Please pass on to the suitor of Ms Carol Doocot, nymphean Art tutor". By now it should have reached the swine. I must go and practise my fencing skills.

The Engagement does not go as Planned

Yesterday's encounter with the Art tutor Carol Doocot was, emotionally speaking, a tumultuous one. With some compound of horror and hope, I approached her in the studio before the class began and stated my case. A combination of excessive nervous energy and a surfeit of fortified wine resulted in a dangerous lapse in restraint on my part: regrettably, I misjudged the situation and was far too forward, too blunt, and this discourteousy may ultimately have cost me dear.

What I intended as a fervent and passionate sweeping off of feet became a clumsy and awkward embrace. And when I say 'embrace', I mean 'an unwelcome and unreciprocated fumble', and when I say that, I mean 'a headbutt'. You see, I accidentally tripped over an easel in my enthusiasm as I rushed towards her, and consequently fell in such a way that my forehead struck her nose. Naturally I apologised profusely and, in an effort to placate her as she daubed uselessly at the rivulets of blood gushing from her broken face, I proposed marriage. Obviously she was too shaken to fully comprehend what I had said, for her only response was copious weeping.

Conscious that the situation was not proceeding as intended, I panicked and began blurting out as much of my planned speech as possible, with no thought towards decorum.

"You have my child! You will be mine! You will wed me! I will get a job! Your child is mine!"

I had no opportunity to hear her reply for at that moment into the studio rushed an alarmed looking man who pushed me away from my ladylove.

"Get away from my girlfriend pal!" the goon bellowed, allowing saliva to spray freely from his mouth in his fury. He snatched her up in his arms and cradled her head in his palm.

In terror I absconded.

I do not know what to think. Clearly, I have a rival for Doocot's affection. One who does not know of her secret - that she has permitted herself to become impregnated by another man, i.e. me (Horton Carew). I will doubtless have to arrange a duel with this cove in order to win Doocot back.

For the moment, however, I must allow myself time to weep and to claw at my scalp in anguish.

Rehearsing my Engagement Speech

Tomorrow is Wednesday, the day of my Art class and the day that I must finally confront my Art tutor Carol Coocot about her impregnation. She will likely be unaware that she is with child so I will have to handle this situation sensitively.

I must make my intentions plain so that there is no room for misunderstandings. I will march into the studio, grab her firmly by the wrist as though I was a smouldering and impassioned Rock Hudson, and state boldly and decisively the following:

"Carol Doocot, as far as can be ascertained you are pregnant with my child. Thus, I will wed you whenever is convenient with you. You will have ample time to finish off any paintings you might be working on and so on and so forth. It is my intention to begin gainful employment as soon as possible so that I can support you and your child financially in the coming years. I have settled upon the name 'Gordo' or 'Aubrey' if the child is male and 'Meemsy' or 'Debs' if the child is female, but I am prepared to hear your suggestions. Assuming this satisfactorily squares with your expectations, I will begin preparations directly."

Once she agrees to be my spouse, I will reward her with an engagement ring which I have modelled from clay. As she is an earthy artistic type, she will appreciate this personal touch.

Wish me luck readers for I have limited experience in engagements and begin to suffer from nerves.

Contemplating my Future as a Husband

Now that I am to be a father of a baby child, I must take my place in this world more seriously. My carefree batchelor days will soon be over for I must now wed the art tutor Carol Doocot whom I impregnated. If I am to offer stability and a healthy upbringing to a baby child, it will be essential to have some form of wife who can feed it milk and help it learn quadratic equations and such.

Although a mere quirk of fate has cast myself and the Art tutor Carol Doocot together forever, I must confess that I rather like the idea of owning a wife, baby or not. I will be able to visit public houses and talk about my wife to other men. I have decided that although I will doubtless dote on my wife in private, when I discuss my wife with other men I will adopt a tone of comical downtroddeness and refer to her as "She Who Must Be Obeyed" and "The Old Ball and Chain" and similar epithets because that will make me appear to other men as though I am unemotional and that I would not necessarily have chosen to get married but was somewhat coerced into it by circumstance. This routine will engender a sense of camaraderie with other married men, who might buy me a pint of bitter and eventually invite me to join them in a game of golf and ask me to their family barbecues, etc.

Although Carol Doocot is obliged by her pregnancy to accept my offer of marriage whether she likes it or not, it is not my intention to be a boorish husband. I am keen to show her that I am thoughtful and caring by giving her an engagement ring and kneeling, which I understand is considered romantic. Once she has agreed to be my wife, she can move into my Dundee home at once and prepare the house for my baby's arrival by cleaning my rooms and redecorating the bedroom upstairs, which has needed a lick of paint for some years now.

A comical metaphor for married life that I will employ to appear worldly in front of other men

The Truth is Revealed at Last

Tonight's art class provided the perfect opportunity to ascertain whether or not the art tutor Carol Doocot had indeed been impregnated by me. Sufficient doubt remains in my mind as to the precise mechanics behind how a woman becomes heavy with child, but as I have seen Carol Doocot naked once and consequently experienced a spasm, I felt that a pregnancy was probable enough that I could not afford to ignore the likelihood.

But how to ask her? How was I to frame such a question, the answer to which might very well bind the woman to me in perpetuity and change the course of my life forever? Just thinking of it caused me to bite my lower lip and fret. I eventually decided that there was no need for me to ask Carol Doocot directly and that I could establish the truth covertly. I have seen enough soap operas to know that there are ways of discovering pregnancy using small white plastic sticks that change colour when urinated upon. It was such a method that I chose to employ this evening.

Having no Home Pregnancy Testing Kit available in my Dundee home, I was forced to improvise by affixing a strip of litmus paper to a toothbrush: as the final product visually approximates a Home Pregnancy Testing Kit, I assume it is also functionally identical.

When I arrived at Duncan of Jordanstone Art College, I was greeted by Carol, who welcomed me into her classroom and asked if I had made a full recovery from my spasm. I used this opportunity to quickly check her over for any signs of pregnancy, such as having a swollen abdomen or emitting a womanly glow, but she was found wanting in both departments. Further measures were needed.

It was then that I realised my Home (-made Home) Pregnancy Testing Kit was of limited value for its success depended entirely upon the Art tutor Carol Doocot introducing the Kit to a stream of her urine and I could see no way of persuading her of this course of action without arousing suspicion. I would have to be wily.

Thus it was that I snuck into the women's toilet immediately after she had used it and daubed my Home (-made Home) Pregnancy Testing Kit around the toilet bowl. The litmus paper changed colour. Readers, I tremble as I write this... the paper turned red.

I am to be a father. Carol Doocot is pregnant with my child.

I celebrated by buying a fish supper on the way home.

What Did I Do in the Great War?

I find that the above poster by Savile Lumley still works its propagandist magic, for its message has played heavily on my mind today. If my own child, full of wonder and pride, asks me what I did in the Great War of 1914-1918, I will be obliged to answer that I did nothing, which will humble me and make me adopt an expression of consternation just as the troubled father in the poster is doing.

Through consulting the newspapers and the internet cobweb, I was delighted to be reminded that Britain is technically at war just now. Although it is no 'Great War', I will surely be able to do something to help the war effort and hence avoid an awkward, shamefaced silence when my baby becomes a child and asks me what I did to help the nation.

I am not entirely sure who the enemy is - what I have been able to pick up is that Britain and the US (America) have been bombing some countries and shooting some people to help save them from tyrants. Some of the people are not grateful for being saved in this way and have been shooting back. I think they are the enemy. The tyrants are the following: Saddam Hussein, who lived in a hole in the ground, then was hung, Osama Bin Laden who has a big beard and who lives in a cave, and a man called George Galloway who lives in a house with Rula Lenska and Pete Burns, but I remain unsure of his involvement. None of this fighting in hot and sandy countries is of any use to me, however, as it is all happening at the other side of the world and you cannot get cheap return flights to Iraq from Dundee airport.

Thankfully, there is an enemy closer to home that I might help to fight: Terror. On our fair island are agents of Terror who live in Britain and who assiduously help Osama Bin Laden's Terror-Cause by inciting Terror. I only have the popular media to go by, but these Terror-Enemies seem to be some species of Mohammedan gremlin which ruins public transport for everyone by self-destructing during rush hour.

They seem to be the main Terror-Culprits, but they are certainly not the only ones. I have noticed that many other people cause needless Terror-Terror in Britain today: last night, even the BBC proved themselves guilty of helping the Terror-Enemy by showing Tales From the Crypt. What chance have the government got if the country's main broadcasting station is working for the War on Terror by further Terror-fying the populace? The bit with the murderous Father Christmas and the Joan Collins engendered nothing but Terror in me. Congratulations BBC! What a disaster for the war effort - Osama Bin Laden will doubtless be laughing when he hears of this.

Readers, my solution to the War Against Terror is the liberal application of Courage. I have spend much of today bolstering my stock of Dutch Courage by drinking endless mugs of Kentucky Bourbon, and I suggest you soon do likewise. Not only does is boost your Courage and hence reduce your Terror, but it also benefits the American economy, which I have gathered is also somehow related to helping the war effort.

I would like to see Osama show me Tales From the Crypt in my newly fortified state - he would soon realise that us Britons are made of sterner stuff! Now, when my child asks me, "Daddy, what did YOU do in the War?", I will be able to look him squarely in the eye and say, "I beat Terror, son." Then I will offer him a slug of Wild Turkey to help him beat Terror too.

Further Measures to Protect My Future Child

Readers, I must tell you that despite my initial misgivings about fathering the child of an Art tutor, I have warmed to the idea considerably. There are one or two things I fear about being a father, such as having to involve myself in the Father and Son Sack Race at school sports day. I am not proficient in athletics and worry that I will show my son up and embarrass him in front of his friends. Even if I just have a daughter, I will still be expected to give her a lift to the Brownies every week and I cannot drive. Above all, I live in terror that my offspring, whatever its gender, will develop a terrible wasting disease and die young, or that some awful calamity should end its existence, a tragedy that would break my heart. I would be unable to cope with the grief and would likely force a screwdriver into my ear to puncture my brain and expediate my own demise.


Such are the perils of parenthood. To protect my future offspring from disasterous death, I have taken further measures to ensure its wellbeing within my Dundee home. I have wedged Gluetack (a mixture of Blu-Tack and Glue of my own devising) into all the electric sockets in my home so that my baby does not electrocute itself by insering a metallic strip into one of the zapholes.

All poultry has been exorcised from my kitchen to avoid the risk of botulism. I have heard that babies cannot tolerate salt in their diet, so I have dutifully expunged my sellars and saltlicks. A grave risk to our nation's young is scalding: to remove this hazard, I have committed my kettle to the flames, and have cast away my plugholes - if a bath or sink cannot be filled at all, then there is less chance of it being filled with boiling water, and therefore less chance that I submerge my baby in it in a fit of pique.

Potential Fatherhood

Readers, I have decided that if Carol Doocot, the Art tutor, has been impregnated and if I prove to be the father of the child, then I will do the honorable thing and help her to raise our baby. As I have already intimated, I am unsure exactly how a woman becomes a pregnant woman, but I am certain that female nudity is involved at some stage in the proceedings. As I witnessed Carol Doocot in a state of undress at Wednesday's Art class, it will be safest to assume that I have indeed impregnated her until I learn anything to the contrary.

I have already sellotaped bubblewrap to all the sharp corners in my home, removed the bleach from under the kitchen sink, and hidden my revolver in a shoebox to protect my offspring from injuring itself when it arrives in this world, young children being notoriously stupid and foolhardy in such respects.

Tomorrow I will clear out my tools from the garden shed and begin preparations to convert it into a Wendy House for the child to play in. I will attach plywood turrets to the roof of my shed so that the child can pretend the Wendy House is its magical castle. If the child is a boy child, it can pretend to be a prince or king: if the child is a girl child, it can pretend to be a princess or queen. I will also plant some saplings in the garden so that a tree might eventually grow and I can build my child a tree house. I believe I will make a good father to my child.

An Art Class and a Spasm

Yesterday I promised to tell you about a recent stressful incident at an Art class. Because I am a man of my word, I will today tell you about a recent stressful incident at an Art class. My four regular readers will remember that on 22nd June I was offered a place at an evening Art class run by a graduand/graduate of Duncan of Jordanstone Art College. She had been singularly unimpressed by my efforts at portraiture, all of which she claimed looked like characters from The Munsters, and so proposed that she tutor me in the ways of Art. I made the rash decision to accept her tutelage but now regret it bitterly.

On Wednesday night at 7:00pm I arrived at the appointed room in the Duncan of Jordanstone building to be met by Carol Doocot, the tutor. Curiously she was wearing a white dressing gown, but I put this down to Artistic eccentricity. She bade me sit by the group of shabbily attired, rough looking young sorts (some of the females sported tattoos and some of males unashamedly wore earrings) who were to be my classmates. Several of the roughs attempted to engage me in conversation on a variety of topics, but I steadfastly ignored them.

"Well class, we have a new member joining the group today," announced Carol. "Horton Carew - he's the street artist I was telling you about. I'm sure you'll all do your best to make him feel welcome. Sorry to put you on the spot Horton, but perhaps you could tell the class a bit about yourself."

Happy that my reputation evidently preceded me, I grew confident and agreed to share a few tidbits of biographical information to keep the baying mob satiated, as well as offering a little advice to the scruffier elements of the group on how to present themselves more respectably.

"Thank you Horton. To fill you in, last time the class met, we'd just started some life drawing which we'll be continuing with today. Okay, if everyone could get their materials out, we'll make a start."

I took out my habitual Artistic tools - a biro and a pad of A4 lined paper from Woolworth's - but Carol informed me that if I wanted to do proper Art, I had to use more expensive paper and draw with sticks of charcoal to make my work a little more smudgy. Furthermore, it was essential to attach the paper to a wooden board with two metal clips and stand whilst drawing. Only through this method would my Art be considered acceptable.

These measures taken, I watched as Carol flitted around the room giving tips to my peers, such as to avoid using the pink pastel for skin tone, but to instead use blue and yellow. That way, it would look more Arty. The phrase 'skin tone' gave me a clue as to what our subject would be: something with skin. As it transpired, that was only the half of it. Readers, what I am about to impart is doubtless the raciest episode yet recorded in my electronic diary. If you are offended by filth and indecency, I strongly recommend that you do not read further lest you faint and crack the side of your head on a radiator as you collapse to the floor in your swoon.

Carol casually announced that she would be today's subject then promptly disrobed. With no sign of a blush, and no concession made whatsoever to cover her shame, she stood in the centre of the room completely naked. To compound this felony, none of my classmates appeared at all phazed by this unannounced nudity, and at once went to work sketching her.

"Remember to pay particular attention to the negative space; the space around the subject," suggested Carol, as though she were clothed instead of standing unadorned in a room full of people clutching charcoal sticks.

Appalled as I was, I made to leave at once. But readers, I must admit that I persuaded myself to reconsider, telling myself that all Artists must go through terrible ordeals and suffering in order to improve and inform their Art. No readers, to my everlasting mortification and regret, I elected to stay in that room among the nakedness. I had the opportunity to leave but did not, and I have paid for that decision since.

I did my best to draw the denuded Carol, starting with her head and working down. I kept my eyes focussed above her neck at all times so as not to corrupt myself more than was necessary. But readers, my anxiety continued to rise as my gaze was obliged to sink lower. Through deftly averting my eyes, I did manage to draw one of her naked arms, but when I came to draw her private chest area I am afraid I was corrupted. My heart beat faster, my breathing rose and fell rapidly and full drawn; a sobbing, that rose into a sense of strangulation, supervened, and turned into a dreadful convulsion, in which my senses left me, and I became unconscious.

I awoke to find a now-robed Carol hovering over me, asking if I was all right. She apologised, saying that the room can get very warm and that she should have opened a window. In terror, I grabbed my Artistic apparatus and fled that den of iniquity at once.

Readers, I confess that I have no experience whatsoever in matters such as these and am largely ignorant in the ways of love and the mechanics of human procreation. I am not entirely certain what happened to me on Wednesday night, but if I am correct in my suspicions, I fear that Carol may now be pregnant with my child. If that is the case I will either have to marry her soon in order to save face, or flee the country and disavow all knowledge of her.

Eight Facts About Me

Readers, soon I will tell you about my traumatic experience at an art class, but in today's entry I must indulge a brief digression. I was recently 'tagged' by an internet entity who told me that I must share with my readership eight facts about my miserable life. Though I cannot be sure, I believe it to be a legal requirement that I share these facts or else risk the gaol. At any rate, I have researched the internet cobweb and discovered that this practice of writing eight facts about one's life is something of a fad on electronic diaries at present, so I think that if I go along with this, it will make me more popular.

Eight Interesting Facts about the Life of Horton Carew.

1. I am a male person.
2. As a youth, I once caught a crab at Lunan Bay, which I christened Mortimer.
3. I have never committed a murder of a man.
4. I have two permanent diseases.
5. In the past, I have feigned an allergy to brine in order to impress a bully.
6. I once appeared in an episode of To the Manor Born.
7. My favourite food is lovely.
8. A childhood accident involving a calliper has left me unable to correctly pronounce 'Cincinnati', 'plinth', and similar words.

Rebuilding Dundee

You will note that I have of late been providing you with detailed descriptions and pictorial representations of several Dundee landmarks. Because of this recent diversion, one reader has written to me (for some of my readers can also write) to ask me if I am trying to do for Dundee what James Joyce did for Dublin. By that I assumed that my correspondent meant that I might eventually have several walking tours around the city named after me, but this was not the case. Of his populist trash Ulysses, James Joyce apparently boasted, "I want to give a picture of Dublin so complete that if the city one day suddenly disappeared from the earth it could be reconstructed out of my book". My correspondent wondered if I intended something similar for Dundee with my electronic diary.

Of course, I sent that reader a vicious and abusive reply telling her to mind her own business and not to be so damned nosy in future. After a while, however, I began to worry about what might happen if Dundee did suddenly disappear from the earth, and all that the architects and planners had to go on was the information contained in my electronic diary. Clearly, they would be unable to make much headway on the project.

Thus, to help those builders, and to best Mr Joyce and his lowbrow penny dreadful, I will begin to use this electronic diary to furnish the reader with detailed topographical information about the streets of Dundee.

Today for example, I walked from East Whale Lane to Euclid Crescent. First, I departed from East Whale Lane by turning left into the Seagate where I walked for approximately 0.01 miles (0.02km) before bearing left for a further 0.05 miles (0.08km), then I crossed at the Marketgait roundabout and bore left for 0.05 additional miles (0.08km). At this point, I turned right into Sugarhouse Wynd which I strolled along for 0.06miles (0.1km) before turning left into the Cowgate. There I ambled for 0.09miles (0.14km) until the street became Panmure Street. I walked along Panmure Street for 0.13miles (0.21km) then bore left for 0.03 miles (0.05km), where I successfully turned right into Euclid Crescent.

Here is a map for further information:

That should be enough for the builders to make a start if Dundee should disappear tonight.

The Great McGonagall

Despite today's atrocious weather, I have managed to produce yet another Artistic gem, albeit one soggier than usual. It would perhaps be immodest to say 'masterpiece' at this stage, but as you have pressed me, readers, I admit I can find no other suitable word to describe it.

As local readers will note from my masterpiece below, I have been to Dundee's Magdalen Green today to add the statue of William McGonagall to my folio of masterpieces. Local readers, I know the following will be painfully familiar to you already, but I would ask you to be patient while I describe to ignorant non-local readers the tradition associated with this statue.

Statue of William Topaz McGonagall, Magdalen Green. Ignore the smudges - it was raining heavily when I drew it.

Non-locals are often curious as to why the statue, erected in 1912, has two right hands and outlandish headgear. Well my foolish non-local readers, I will explain why this is. During World War: Part 2, people all over Britain tore out metal railings and sacrificed milk pans to help the war effort. This metal was made into tanks to destroy Germans or something. Many Dundonians felt that McGonagall's statue, being made of valuable metal, should be melted down and turned into bayonets to help the brave tommies doing their bit for King (and country). The council forbade this course of action but this did not prevent one Lochee man from sawing off McGonagall's left hand and donating it to a scrap metal collector. For its own safety, the statue was removed from public display and kept in Barrack Street museum for the remainder of the war.

When McGonagall came to be displayed again, the statue's missing left hand proved problematic: metal shortages thanks to the war made sculpting a new one unfeasible. As it happened, at the foot of the Wellgate steps there used to stand a statue of Janet Keillor, the Dundonian who invented marmalade, almost all of which had been commandeered by gung ho citizens and eventually melted down to make several Goshawk engines. The council had only been able to salvage a knee cap, a portion of inner thigh, and a right hand. As a temporary measure, McGonagall's statue was fitted with Keillor's right hand. Over time, Dundonians grew to love this eccentricity and have resisted any attempts to give McGonagall a new left hand.

The outlandish headgear is easier to explain: from the 1970s onwards, Dundee's student population began decking McGonagall out in various hats as part of a drunken prank. This sort of thing passes for humour among students. Initially, traffic cones and bobble hats would find their way onto McGonagall's pate, but over time the hats became more elaborate. On Hallowe'en for example, he would be seen sporting a witch's hat, whilst on Christmas Day, a Father Christmas hat would be his headgear of choice. And so on.

Today, students still take responsiblity for his hats, and the position of Group Organiser for the Dundee University McGonagall's Hat Society is now highly sought after. McGonagall now has enough hats to enable him to wear a new one every day of the year, and some of the more extravagant hats designed by Art students can take several hours to set up. As you can see from my drawing, he was still to be found wearing a faux-crown in honour of the Queen's visit to Dundee on Monday. Her Majesty was said to be "slightly amused" at the spectacle.

The Dundee Dragon

The most recent piece of sculpture I have turned my Artistic eye to is the Dundee Dragon, just outside Waterstone's (formally Ottakars, and formally Pottakar's during a recent Harry Potter promotion).

The story goes that in times of old, a Dundee farmer sent his daughter down to a well to fetch water. She never returned so he sent another daughter who also failed to return. Thus he sent another daughter who did not return either. Rather than go down to the well to investigate his daughters' disappearance himself, he sent all nine of them down to the well one after the other until all were lost.

Well, as the title of this tale is 'The Dundee Dragon', some readers may have guessed that the cause of the daughters' vanishment was that a dragon had devoured them all with no small amount of greed. A hero was called for who, after some difficulty, killed the beast, as heroes typically do.

To commemorate this dragon, the city of Dundee commissioned sculptor Prentice Oliphant to create a statue in its memory. Oliphant's Dundee Dragon is designed to be interactive: children are welcome to clamber over it, pensioners are encouraged to sit on its snout and enjoy a rest, city workers typically grab a quick lunch leaning against its wings. A particularly ingenious aspect of The Dundee Dragon's interactivity is that when a button under its chin is depressed, a brief flame eminates from a tiny tube concealed in the tip of its mouth. Dundonians can frequently be seen using the sculpture's intriguing mechanism to light cigarettes, cigarellos, cigars, and pipes.

I have ensured that my drawing of the statue shows it being used as the Artist intended. I am very happy with this drawing and do not think that there are any contemporary Artists operating today who could do better than me. I hope people viewing the drawing at my street artist stall will agree with this assessment, for I mean to charge £20.00 for this one.

The Dundee Dragon

My drawing of the Dundee Dragon, featuring a young Dundonian lighting a cigarette

Penguins

New visitors to Dundee will perhaps be surprised to note the preponderance of penguin statuary in the city. However, if they have the foresight to read the explanation contained in this electronic diary entry, they will not be surprised and will instead be well-informed. At the time of writing, over thirty sculptures of penguins can be found around Dundee and environs. Here are some photographs showing just a few of them:

St. Mary's Tower, Nethergate

Riverside Drive

Dock Street (sculpture donated by Roy Castle)

Dundee Law, next to War Memorial

I will now tell you a little about Dundee's connection to penguins. I have decided to do so in the manner of a tourist guide book so that you all pay attention. Dundee's famous association with penguins stems from 1905 and Dundee's ultimately doomed attempt to establish a zoo. Plans for an internationally-renowned attraction in Dundee, featuring hundreds of exotic species and an area selling candyfloss, had been in place for several years. Suitable animal habitats had been constructed in Camperdown, but insufficient funding meant there was a great paucity of animals to delight the people of Dundee. The biggest draws were a tawny owl and a shrew, but both died after only a few months in captivity.

Salvation seemed at hand, however, when Captain Robert Falcon Scott of the RRS Discovery, who had recently returned from his expedition to the Antarctic, donated two valuable penguins to Dundee Zoo as a thank you to the city for building the ship that valiantly remained intact for the two years it was irretrievably trapped in ice. Thousands of Dundonians flocked to see the birds, but sadly their patronage did not save the zoo from closure. Dundee Zoo was downscaled to Camperdown Wildlife Park, which still remains today and displays only dull animals such as foxes, rabbits, and otters, and all the then-useless zoo animals were butchered and served to the homeless.

All that is, except for Gideon and Elnora, the two Dundee penguins. The public had grown so fond of them that there was outcry at the suggestion that their flesh be used to sustain the poor. Thus, to a cheering crowd, the pair were released into the Tay on 21st December 1905. Evidently, the penguins preferred Bonnie Dundee to the chill winds of the bleak Antarctic for they refused to leave Dundee's shores. There they remained for many years, rearing several penguin chicks, which similarly flourished.

Land reclamation work at Dundee's waterfront in the late 20th century displaced the small colony of penguins, but thankfully only as far as Broughty Ferry beach (still technically Dundee), where a modest penguin population still thrives to this day, each of them descendants of the original Gideon and Elnora. As the UK's only wild penguins, they are constantly monitored and highly protected. They are one of Dundee's biggest claims to fame, hence the abundance of penguin statues in the city. Here is a photograph of the birds today:

Penguin colony at Broughty Ferry Beach

And so my dearest and eagerest of readers, my latest Artistic work that I plan to hawk to tourists is one that I have entitled "Penguins". It is my intent to have this image printed onto t-shirts and sell those to people. As you will note, I have embraced all the tenets of modern design to produce a classy yet funky graphic to adorn a range of different sized tees. If you wish to buy one, it will cost you £12.99. Kindly ignore the smudges - my pen leaked.

Robert Burns (poet)

Continuing my Artistic tour of Dundee's statues, I now turn to the famous Robert Burns who sits outside the McManus galleries, seemingly thinking up new poems in perpetuity. This is one of four identical statues of Burns sculpted by Sir John Steell: the others are in London, Edinburgh, and Loblolly Bay.

Dundee was selected as one of the lucky places to recieve a statue because of Burns's famous association with the city. During his Poetry Tour of 1789, on the journey between Kirkcaldy and Monkbarns, he stopped off in a venerable Dundee hostelry known as Pudgetie Samuel's (still operating today under the updated name 'Fat Sam's') to use the toilets.

The eponymous proprietor was apparently furious that Burns has used the facilities without first buying a drink and threatened to hack the poet's cheek with a trout scaler unless he agreed to purchase some measure of refreshment at the inn. Having no money, Burns placated the irate landlord by offering to write a poem free of charge. Alas, only the opening stanza has survived:

To Dundee:

On Visiting a Howf in the Town (1789)

Thou donsie, bowfin, oorie city,

I gie your neebors a' ma pity;

Your glaikit bairns are far fae pretty,

An' reek o' pies.

No place in a' the world's mair shitty

Or mair despised.

A plaque featuring the poem can be found above the entrance to Fat Sam's to commemorate Burns's visit to the city.

Below is my drawing of the statue. Whilst all of you will doubtless look at the drawing itself and think, "Horton has triumphed again - good show!", I know that some of you might criticize my latest effort as being too commercial. Lest you judge me too harshly, remember that I am just trying to make money by appealling to the tourist market which laps up any sort of Scottishness. This is why I have drawn the national bard looking wistful with a selection of quotations from his poetry hovering above his head, as though the statue had just thought of them. It will appear to Americans and the like who will think this a fitting tribute to the great man and a suitable summary of his best works. I have entitled the drawing "Rabbie", which makes my rendering appear more affectionate and familiar, so that more tourists might buy a copy.


£5.00 per photocopy.

Admiral Adam Duncan

So happy was I with my success at rendering Desperate Dan so accurately in ink on Tuesday, I elected to continue in a similar vein today by drawing another of Dundee's famous sculptures. In doing so, I am not only sharing my Artisic gifts with the world but also providing an educational service to those readers of mine who have never been to Dundee and are thus ignorant of the many Artistic gems on offer.

Today's subject was the statue of Sir Admiral Adam Duncan, Lord Viscount of Camperdown Park (1731-1804), whose memorial sculpture is situated in an appropriately dignified location at the foot of the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral. Just beside KFC.

As you can see from the photograph, the sculptor has chosen to immortalize the moment in Sir Admiral Duncan's life during the battle of Camperdown after he had been struck on the spine by Dutch cannon fire, to his severe injury. Both Duncan's arms were dislocated at the shoulder and broken in several places. Demonstrating some of the incredible courage and fortitude for which he was later to be celebrated, Duncan lopsidedly shrugged off his injuries and held aloft a large stick of Edinburgh rock, declaring it a prize for the first of his men to slay the Dutch cannoneer who so deformed his arms. You will observe that the sculptor has done a magnificent job of capturing the admiral's freakish, twisted arms valiantly holding up the Edinburgh rock.

In attempting to draw this complexly-proportioned structure, I had my work cut out for me. Nevertheless, I succeeded spectacularly, as you can plainly see:

£15.00 if you want it.

Desperate Dan

As you will doubtless have observed, I am very strong in conveying the correct proportions of the human body in my Art. Additionally, I have fully mastered the disciplines of still lifes and landscapes. However, I am not so blinkered as to think that I am the finished article as an Artist: one can always improve or hone one's skills. Admitting a weakness is the greatest strength an Artist can possess. For example, I have identified something lacking in my work which I have been striving to improve - shading. Experimenting with the effects of different lighting and shadowing in my work has yielded astonishing results. Readers, if it is not too self-indulgent, allow me to state without shame that I am proud of myself.

My extensive work on shading has culminated in the piece below. Here is a photograph of the original subject:

It is Dundee's much-loved sculpture of Desperate Dan. Here is my own interpretation of this famous statue, which I have entitled, simply, 'Dan' (by omitting the 'Desperate' from the character's name, I feel I have lent the image a warm and affectionate air):

As I trust is apparent, I have succeeded rather spectacularly in capturing the warmth of the sunlight glinting on Dan's manly jaw, and the soft and diffusing light against Dan's frame. Because this piece so obviously outshines my previous efforts at Art, I will accept no less than £10.00 for it if anyone's interested.

Landscapes

As part of my ongoing efforts to extend my Artistic talents, today I decided to attempt some landscape work. Images of local sights and scenes will surely sell well. I felt reluctant about going out of doors on a Sunday in case any religious types took offence at my failure to respect the Sabbath, so I searched the computer for photographs of Dundee landmarks that I might copy.

I found this image of the Tay Bridge:

I discovered that there might be problems in using this image because the 'C' stands for 'Copy Right', an imperative meaning that whoever uses this image for their own purposes must do their very best to copy it correctly, i.e., 'copy' it 'right'. Thus, before embarking on this project, I realised I would have to respect the photographer's wishes by copying his photograph right.

To this end, I believe I have done an excellent job. Here is my drawing of the Tay Bridge, which I have entitled, 'Tay Bridge':

Doubtless, the original photographer will be delighted when he views my drawing and sees what an admirable job I have done in copying his picture right. Readers, if anyone among you appreciates Art and would like to buy the drawing, it is yours for £5.00.

Still Lifes

As my portraiture is suffering at present, I have decided to remain indoors today and try my hand at still lifes. Taking my cue from famous artists of still lifes, I went for a simple arrangement of fruit, flowers, and wine lying on a piece of crumpled cloth. To this I added a mug of coffee and a cotten reel. This selection would allow me to show off my ability to depict numerous different textures.

If I might be so indecorous as to boast, I must say that I have carried off this project very well and believe that this drawing, which I have entitled 'Still Life with Apple, Banana, Cotton Reel, Mug of Coffee, Flower, Wine, Fruitbowl, and a Bit of Cloth' (2007), will bolster my burgeoning portfolio nicely.

Here is the drawing:

Readers, if anyone among you appreciates Art and would like to buy the drawing, it is yours for £5.00.

I draw some graduands/graduates

This morning, I took up my now habitual spot outside H. Samuels at 4:00am and awaited passing trade. At 8:45am, the staff of H. Samuels arrived to open up their shop and asked me to leave. Affectionately telling me to 'p***' (piss) or 'b*****' (bugger) off each morning is starting to become a running joke between myself and those jewellers - they are a real bunch of characters. Of course, I refused, stating plainly that I had a duty to share my Artistic gift with as many Dundonians as possible for £5.00 each time.

Shortly afterwards the city square was filled with young people wearing long black robes. Druids of the Black Arts, I naturally assumed, before remembering that this was Dundee University's graduation day and these young people wearing robes were arriving at the Caird Hall to have various degrees conferred upon them by older people also wearing robes. This was an opportunity to draw some portraits and earn myself some money.

It was not long before a young girl wearing robes approached me.

"Hey, is that a portrait of Isaac Lidsky who briefly played Weasel Wyzell in Saved by the Bell: The New Class?" she asked. "It's a pretty good likeness if it is."

"Of course it is Lidsky," I replied. "What is more, my skill at capturing the likenesses of celebrities also works on non-celebrities such as yourself. For just £5.00 I can draw a picture of your face."

"That sounds like a blast," she said. "Will you do a group portrait of me and my two mates? They are also graduates."

Well readers, I could not let this lie pass unquestioned.

"Young woman, you misjudge me. I am aware that the graduation ceremony has not yet taken place. You have not yet graduated. Therefore you and your chums are actually graduands at present."

I allowed myself a smug smile at having outsmarted this graduand.

"Actually, this is my second degree," said the obvious graduand. "So, technically, I am a graduate. Sorry."

"Then you are a graduate of your previous degree," I countered, "But a graduand of your current degree. For you have not yet graduated in that one."

"Hmm, I suppose you are correct," the graduand/graduate admitted. "What we need is a term to describe someone who is simultaneously a graduate and a graduand. Any suggestions?"

"None at all. You are the graduate/graduand - you are better educated than me, so you should be the one to coin the term. Where would we be if we allowed un-degreed people to coin terms?" I said.

"I will give it some thought as you draw my portrait," she said, taking a seat beside two of her graduand friends.

Here is the finished drawing, which the graduands rejected as looking nothing like them:


They claimed that their portraits looked too much like The Munsters and refused to pay. Readers, I am afraid to admit that I myself can discern a certain Munsterousness about the drawing which was not apparent in the subjects themselves. I begin to doubt that street Artistry is my true vocation.

The female graduand/graduate (the new term she coined by the end of the sitting was 'gradiator', which I refuse to use) offered me a place at some evening Art classes that she runs so that I might improve. For you see, she was graduating with a postgraduate degree in Fine Art. I may take her up on the offer. In the mean time, readers, if anyone among you appreciates Art and would like to buy the drawing, it is yours for £5.00.

Celebrity Portraits

In an effort to attract more clients to my street Artist business, I decided that I would need to provide potential clients with examples of my Art. I have seen other street Artists show their own portraits of famous celebrities so that passers-by can quickly gauge how good the artist is at capturing a person's likeness, being as they will be familiar with what the celebrities' faces look like. I determined that I would also use this idea to show off my wares.

Below you will see my example portraits that I displayed to the Dundee public:

The famous celebrities whose portraits I chose to depict are, from top-left running clockwise, Isaac Lidsky who played the character Weasel Wyzell for one series of Saved by the Bell: The New Class; the novelist Charlotte Dacre who wrote Confessions of the Nun of St. Omer: a Tale (1805); Ronnie Duff who played Mr MacLeod in the weekly mini-soap Aig an Taigh (At Home) in the Gaelic language programme Speaking Our Language; Billy Quirk who played Zeke's Nephew in the 1909 film Oh, Uncle!; and Harriet Buchan who played Taggart's wife in Taggart.

I drew some stars around the celebrities' portraits and employed a 'snazzy' font to lend the portraits the glamour they deserved.

It was a slow day's work however, because I gained not a single commission today. It is depressing having to live in a cultural vacuum like Dundee where no one appreciates Art. Readers, if anyone among you appreciates Art and would like to buy the drawing, it is yours for £5.00.

I begin my career as an Artist

My dearest and flabbiest of readers, I must tell you of some interesting events that have happened to me today. This, after all, is the purpose of keeping an electronic diary.

Of late, I have become more comfortable with the idea of leaving my Blackscroft home and venturing out into the streets of Dundee, populated though they are by strange and unnerving people. Additionally, through my recent pretences described in earlier entries, I feel I have become very well aquainted with the world of Contemporary Art (CA). Given these circumstances, the most logical thing that I could do was begin a career as a street artist. Thus, today, I began my career as a street artist.

Flushed with the enthusiasm of youth, I bought a pen and some paper from Woolworths and set up a chair outside H. Samuels, beside the Desperate Dan statue for which Dundee is so famous. I advertised my skills via a sign with words on it. If you are interested, the words used were as follows: "Portraits Drawn By Famous Local Artist, Horton Carew - Only £5.00 Per Portrait". I capitalised every word on my sign because I felt that this would emphasise the seriousness of my endeavour.

After a while I received my first client: a mother who asked that I draw a portrait of her four-year-old son. The boy had just been to his playgroup prizegiving where he had been awarded a copy of Topsy and Tim Go Large for Excellent Attendance, and his doting mother wanted a special keepsake of the day. I was deeply honoured that she selected me to immortalize her son in this way, but I charged her £5.00 all the same. The little tyke was hard work, being unable to stand rigidly still in the rain for the three hours it took me to draw his miserable face. Furthermore, the sullen imp refused to smile despite my efforts to elicit a smirk through my recitation of 'The Story of Little Suck-a-Thumb'.

I did my best despite such hurdles, and after three hours I had produced a portrait on which I was proud to put my signature. With a flourish, I spun the page around to show the boy and his mother the finished article, which you can see below:

Readers, I am sorry to report that the customer was no Art lover. On viewing the portrait, she lauched a torrent of abuse at me, cursing my supposed artistic ineptitude, before crumpling the paper and stamping on it. She claimed that the picture in no way resembled her son and looked more like, and here I quote directly, "Eddie f***ing Munster!" The harridan then threw a can of Tizer at my temple. She stormed off, refusing to pay me the £5.00. Disgusted at her ignorance and ingratitude, I retired for the day.

Readers, if anyone among you appreciates Art and would like to buy the drawing, it is yours for £5.00.

Short entry for balance

Again, I present a short entry in an effort to break up the tedium of the previous two lengthy entries.

The Second Interview with the Postgraduate Kennie Pome (Part 2)

Readers, as promised I will now continue with my account of the second interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome. It is some time since that interview took place so naturally I have forgotten most of it. Rather than writing down only what I can remember, which is not much and would make for a stilted and aggravating transcript, I will ensure you have something enjoyable to read in this entry by making something up whenever I cannot recall exactly what was said. I am sure you will agree that this option is preferable.

Kennie Pome: Well Steve, I have to admit I've enjoyed the way in which you incorporated our last interview into the blog. It was interesting to see the way you chose to characterise me and the manner in which you distorted reality so readily. You obviously see yourself as more lamp than mirror, to borrow M.H. Abrams's dichotomy. Though in your case, the light from your lamp serves to thoroughly warp its subject through ghastly underlighting. Would you say that's a fair comment?

Me: No.


Pome: Really? That's interesting. Why not?


Me: Because I don't know what you mean.


Pome: Apologies. I did phrase that rather badly. Really, what I'm essentially asking is how much of your blog's content do you draw from real life experiences?


Me: [forgetting momentarily that I was pretending to be Steve M. R. Tubbock and was supposed to be humouring Pome's misperception that my electronic diary is fictional] Why, all of it of course.


Pome: That is very interesting. All of the strange events described in your blog have real life origins? What of some of the more outre posts? Some are really quite outrageous: what about the episode where Horton's dead mother returns as the scottie dog from Monopoly? What inspired that for instance?


Me: [panicking slightly, because of course, the actual event that inspired those diary entries was the fact that my dead mother returned as the little scottie dog from Monopoly] Oh yes Kennie Pome, I always take inspiration from everyday events. It is part of my gift. In fact, friends tend to watch what they say around me lest it end up in some character's mouth in a future book! [here I feigned a knowing chuckle] Yes, that's the life of an author - always squirreling away observations and conversations for use in some future project! It is a gift and a curse! Horton's encounter with his dead mother was inspired by a meeting I had with a cat.

Pome: A cat?

Me: Yes Pome, a cat. One Friday morning, I was in my Broughty Ferry art shop adding up columns of numbers in a jotter, when I noticed a stray cat had somehow made her way into the back of the shop. Every bone in my body told me that this cat was blessed in some way. This was a special cat. It marched boldly over to my desk and laid its paw down on a pile of papers, directly beside the name of a local artist. As it happened, I was currently debating whether or not to buy some of this artist's work to sell in my gallery. The cat seemed to nod, then bolted from the shop into the street where it ran directly under the wheels of a Vissochis ice-cream truck. I knew this cat was giving me a sign. At once, I phoned the artist and bought up twenty of his paintings. The next week I put them on display. Well, Kennie Pome, let me tell you this - so far I have sold two of them, at a little under the asking prices. That is a personal record for me. That cat gave me a sign. I truly believe that. Real life is often much stranger than fiction can ever hope to be...

Pome: And how exactly did this event inspire the fictional episode where Horton's dead mother returns as the scottie dog from Monopoly and encourages him to commit evil acts?

Me: Well Kennie Pome, I should think that that is plain enough for anyone to see.

Pome: But the two events share little, thematically, in common.

Me: Ha! Spoken like a true Hamiltonteed.

Pome: I'm sorry?

Me: In the authoring world, that is the word we authors use to describe non-authors. You simply cannot understand the world of authoring. It is not your fault. I will explain it. An author can be born of two Hamiltonteeds. Similarly, a Hamiltonteed can sometimes be born to an authoring family, though in such a case, the Hamiltonteed is more properly called a Christophertolkien . And a dark author can sometimes split up his essence and house the pieces in different objects: in the authoring world, we call such objects Horcruxes.

Pome: Fascinating.


Readers, here I will end my account of the second interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome, because I can remember no more of what transpired that day and I fear that anything else I tried to add would be mere fabrication. I will simply say that I got another £5.00 for my trouble and the promise that for future interviews, I will get £25.00. Readers, just think of all the cream I could buy with that!

The Second Interview with the Postgraduate Kennie Pome (Part 1)

There now follows a transcript of the interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome. It is not verbatim, but where I have forgotten the exact wording I have done my best to invent something that looks like it fits.


Kennie Pome: Okay Steve, once again, thanks for agreeing to the interview. Can I start by asking what you thought of the exerpt from my thesis that I sent you?

Me: [having not the first clue what he is talking about] Did you send it by post? I'm afraid I have not seen it. I am sure it is tremendous though.

Pome: I posted it on your blog earlier. No matter, I have my laptop with me: I'll let you read it now.

[here he showed me the excerpt from the thesis, which you can view by clicking this weblink with your mouse cursor]

Pome: What d'you think? Obviously, it's still in the preliminary stages, but you can see where I'm going with it I trust?

Me: ... yes?

Pome: Basically, I'm touching upon Betsy Friedrich's work on blog fiction where she analyses your blog, but I'm really extending it. She's on the right lines, but doesn't quite push it far enough. Friedrich interviewed you too, didn't she?

Me: No. I have never heard of Betsy Friedrich.

Pome: Well, someone claiming to be you has certainly spoken to her. I can show you the website.

[Here I became cunning]

Me: Oh Friedrich? Betsy Friedrich? Of course! Oh yes, yes. She interviewed me. She gave me £10.00 per interview I should add.

Pome: Steve, I will give you £15.00 per interview in future if you agree never to speak to her again. I would like exclusivity on my research into Horton's Folly.

Me: [inwardly guffawing at my guile] Okay Kennie Pome. It is a deal.

Pome: Thank you. Okay, so do you agree with my basic point in that excerpt?

Me: [having, of course, no idea what his basic point was or, indeed, what any of his points were] I surely do.

Pome: I'm glad you're on board with the idea. I suspected that might be where your brain is at when you're writing the blog! You think my notion of metaheteroglossia is a sound one? Can you see it proving fruitful to further research into Horton' Folly? What I'm asking, essentially, is 'Is this going to be a sound theoretical framework for me to pursue, or are you going to be changing you style in the near future?'

Me: To that I would reply, 'Pursue away, my boy. Pursue away!'

Pome: Good. You don't have anything planned for future blog entries that will ruin my argument?

Me: Certainly not.

Pome: I would ask, if it's not too much trouble, that you keep up the same meandering style of writing and continue in much the same way for the next few years so that my argument regarding your blog remains accurate. It'd be really annoying to write up my thesis only for you to radically change your style immediately afterwards, or even go back and edit previous entries, and completely discredit my thesis.

[Here I became even more cunning]

Me: £20.00 per interview did you say?

Pome: That can be arranged. Honestly, blogs are so nebulous and malleable that it makes researching them difficult - it's not like people who research books. Books are fixed - if you're doing a thesis on Dickens, you don't have to worry about Great Expectations changing its content every bloody day! I wrote the best part of a chapter on Arabella Morte's vampire-based blog fiction, Sumptuous Agonies, only to find she'd gone back and edited all her previous entries and completely changed the storyline. I had to bin the lot! Can I rely upon you not to do the same?

Me: Of course you can Kennie. I consider you a friend now and am only too happy to help you out. After all, you are paying me £25.00 per interview. It would be churlish of me to mess you around.


Readers, here I will break off my account of the interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome because you will doubtless prefer to see it broken up into several smaller entries rather than one very long one, so vapid and attention-deficit are you.

A short post with a picture

As the last diary entry was lengthy, with the words unbroken by colourful images, I will slip in this short entry which includes an image, so that casual visitors to my electronic diary are not put off by a series of word-heavy entries.

Ralph Waldo Emerson's dentures

My improvisation skills are tested

The postgraduate Kennie Pome bought two Belgian beers from the downstairs bar of the DCA (Dundee Contemporary Arts) and invited me to join him in a pre-interview drink. By way of small talk he asked if I had enjoyed the art exhibition currently running upstairs, a series of tartan wheelie-bins filled with garden gnomes painted blue, by the Edinburgh-based artist Farelly Rastapap. Of course, I had not seen any of this work, but I replied in character as Steve M. R. Tubbock and declared the exhibition a triumph. Pome suggested that my verdict vindicated his own, for he too had found the exhibition a resounding success on numerous levels. He claimed to follow the CA (Contemporary Art) scene in D (Dundee) closely and would review this exhibition favourably in the Stoodent Nyoos, Abertay University's student newspaper, of which he is the Arts correspondent.

"Did you get a chance to see the Duncan of Jordanstone Degree Show?" he asked.

I should explain to those ignorants amongst you that Duncan of Jordanstone is Dundee's Art College and the Degree Show is the annual exhibition of graduating students' work. You could easily have worked that out from context. You are wasting everyone's time.

My alterego Steve M.R. Tubbock, the talented author of the fictional 'Horton's Folly', would certainly have gone to such an event, so I had to quickly draw upon all my skills of improvisation and rapid adaptability.

"Yes," I said.

"Did you like it?" he asked.

This deviation from the anticipated script forced me to ad lib wildly once again. I felt Tubbock was the sort of person who would enjoy the Duncan of Jordanstone Degree Show, so I had to somehow indicate this, completely in-character, to the postgraduate Kennie Pome despite the fact that I, Horton Carew, had not actually been to the Degree Show at all.

"Yes," I said.

"Any favourite pieces?" he probed, infuriatingly.

Readers, when next you find yourselves in a situation where you are pretending to be an author of a fictional electronic diary in order to earn £5.00 and are obliged to present as true the claim that you have been to an exhibition of Contemporary Art (CA) showcasing the work of recent graduates of Art College (AC), when in fact you have not, and you are asked to comment upon your favourite piece, you might like to borrow my catch-all response because I found it worked quite convincingly.

"I forget the artist's name, but I particularly liked that dark series of paintings - the meditations on death. Very effective," I said. I waved my hands and nodded as I said this. I have seen the mentalist Derren Brown use such a technique to bamboozle proles so I thought I should mimic him.

"Oh yes! I agree," replied Pome. "Janet Peevie's work was well received. You're right though - very dark subject matter. Paintings of dismembered corpses are not for everyone! What else did you like?"

I was starting to become uncomfortable. All Degree Show exhibitions are bound to have some sort of thing about death in it, but what else might it include? My knowledge of the Contemporary Art (CA) scene is limited to three art galleries, a handful of exhibitions that I attended in order to procure free wine, and to seeing Tracy Emin once on Have I Got News For You. If Pome continued this line of questioning, I would doubtless be exposed as a fraud before long.

"I also liked that series of collages," I said, "I forget the artist's name I'm afraid, but his collages were a sort of dissection of popular trash culture. He made use of gaudy kitsch images from advertising to great effect."

"Oh yes! You're right," said Pome. "Dexter Sing's pop-culture collages really revel in the mire of tackiness, don't they? Loved his stuff with the retro Creamola Foam graphics. Anything else that you liked?"

Readers, if Pome had asked me to describe another piece of work at the Degree Show, all would have been lost. As it was, he stopped at just three and I was able to bluff my way through. Every Scottish art exhibition I have ever been to has always had a series of paintings or photographs of weather-beaten North East women who look like they've had a rough life of fishing or weaving or some such. The artist or photographer seems invariably to be called Mhairi something. I hoped that the work of such a Mhairi was similarly present at the Duncan of Jordanstone Degree Show, because I said to Pome:

"I also liked the series of black and white photographs of aged weather-beaten North Eastern fishwives by Mhairi...someone. I forget her surname. Each photograph had a caption telling us a little about each woman. What rich yet melancholy lives they led, reflected in each portrait."

"Oh yes!" said Pome (thank goodness!) "Mhairi Luthermuir's photos were wonderfully evocative. Each wrinkle on each face told a story. Marvellous! Well, shall we start the interview proper now?"

"Do I still get £5.00?" I asked.

"Of course," he replied.

"Then let us begin," I said.

Readers, I have given too much preamble today, so will leave off my account of the interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome until a later date.

An interview conducted in the DCA

The second of my interviews with the postgraduate Kennie Pome was conducted in the DCA building. In this acronym, the letters 'D', 'C', and 'A' stand for 'Dundee', 'Contemporary', and 'Arts', which is lucky because the full name of the building is 'Dundee Contemporary Arts'. The building is in Dundee's fashionable West End, around the corner from Dundee Rep Theatre, where last week they were showing a production of Happy Days by Samuel Beckett, the time traveller from Quantum Leap. I wonder who they got to play the Fonz. Further up the road is the University of Dundee, which is the better of the two universities in Dundee because it is more conveniently situated for buses, etc.

For those of you who do not know, the DCA (Dundee Contemporary Arts) is a building that has the following things in it: a cinema, an art gallery, a restaurant/bar, a gift shop, and toilets for male, female, and disabled patrons. Its cinema is not up to much because it can only afford films in foreign languages - if you want proper films in English, you are better off going to the Odeon. The DCA (Dundee Contemporary Arts) only has a bar downstairs, unlike Dundee Rep Theatre which has one bar downstairs and one bar upstairs, so if you are looking for a building with more than one bar, you would be far better served by going round the corner to Dundee Rep Theatre. The art gallery in the DCA (Dundee Contemporary Arts) is quite nice, but by plumping for the 'Contemporary' part in the name 'Dundee Contemporary Arts' (DCA), they are obliged to only show art that is contemporary. They are missing a trick here because if they omitted the 'Contemporary' part and just called themselves 'DA' (Dundee Arts), they could also be showing old art too, which is better.

Here is a picture of the DCA ('Dundee Contemporary Arts' (DCA)):

As you will see from the image, immediately outside the Dundee Contemporary Arts (DCA) is a sculpture by Lochee artist Bilko Dervish entitled 'Man 'n' Cone', which is a photorealistic piece depicting a man and a traffic cone. It is universally hated.

I went into the DCA (Dundee Contemporary Arts) and proceeded downstairs to the bar, because as you will remember, there is no bar upstairs. There I met with the postgraduate Kennie Pome who greeted me convivially and offered to buy me a fine Belgian lager to keep me refreshed during our interview

I will describe the interview in greater depth tomorrow, for this entry has already become overlong and I imagine your attention is beginning to wander.

A recap for the hard of thinking

Now readers, I will proceed to tell you about my second interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome. It has become increasingly obvious to me that the majority of my readers are what I might charitably describe as subnormal, which necessitates a certain amount of tiresome recapping in my narrative so that these readers do not become confused by the relatively simple chain of events I have thus far described.

Kennie Pome is a postgraduate student at The University of Abertay's English department and is researching fictional electronic diaries, or 'blogs' as he unpleasantly insists upon calling them. For some reason he has mistakenly come to believe that my electronic diary is fictional and that Horton Carew is a fictional character. To aid his research, he has requested a series of interviews with the author of this supposedly fictional 'blog'. Ordinarily, I would ignore such requests until the requester grew tired and left, but this requester has promised to pay me £5.00 per interview so I have done my utmost to accommodate this requester's requests. To this end, I have pretended to be one Steve M. R. Tubbock, the author of a piece of 'blog fiction' called 'Horton's Folly' and have maintained the pretence that I (Horton Carew) am (is) a fictional character. So far I have duped the postgraduate Kennie Pome twice and secured £10.00 altogether for myself. The first occasion in which I hoodwinked Pome was described earlier. I will now describe the second interview he conducted with me where I was once again successful in convincing him that I am an author by the name of Tubbock and that 'Horton's Folly' is a work of fiction.

That is the end of the recap. I am sure you will agree that it was scarcely necessary. Do not blame me, however - blame the dimwitted readers who cannot hold information in their heads for more than four minutes. Now that those lummoxes are suitably reminded of the salient facts, we can continue.

Readers, I must apologise. In my ire, I have now forgotten what I was going to write in this entry. I will continue tomorrow when I have had a chance to calm down and collect my thoughts.

An update on the past few weeks

Dearest readers, I suppose you will be curious as to what I have been doing with myself for the last few weeks while I have been unable to update my electronic diary. Alas, I fear I do not have the time or space to relate in full the many strange and upsetting situations in which I found myself.

The images below will explain the miserable and occasionally horizontal events of my last few weeks far better than screeds of detailed written explanations wherein I would describe precisely what happened to me, illustrating my anecdotes with numerous examples of my thoughts and reactions, using a variety of literary devices to engage and captivate the reader:

I am sure you can see what I am getting at. "A picture paints a thousand words," some people will tell you, if pressed. I have given you five pictures so you now have five thousand words' worth of explanation. I can do no more.

Aside from the terrible events fully explicated above, I had a further meeting with the postgraduate Kennie Pome a week ago, which I will tell you about in tomorrow's entry.

I make a triumphant return to my diary

Readers, I finally have access to my E-Blogger account again. The bigwigs at E-Blogger have allowed me to continue my career as an online diarist only on the understanding that I formally retract my denigrating comments about carob and agree to champion it in this diary whenever the subject comes up in future. To these demands I have reluctantly agreed. I must be humble and bite my tongue so that my readers do not suffer any longer from my absence. However, rest assured that this diary will not become a protracted advertisement for carob. I will not kowtow to these fatcats and betray my artistic integrity.

Apropos of nothing, I will take this opportunity to recommend some products that I have enjoyed recently and hope that some of my readers will likewise find pleasure in. They are delicious. Carob-based treats.

As a small reward to my patient readers who have endured a full month without my electronic diary to sustain them, I present a final image of a monkey. Cherish it for it will be the last. I feel that you can have too much of a good thing.

This monkey believes that pursing his lips and staring vacantly will draw

attention away from his ludicrously elongated arms.

He is incorrect.

Censored!

My dearest and plumpest of readers, please note: I will be unable to update this electronic diary for a number of weeks due to unforeseen circumstances that have resulted in my 'E-Blogger' account being suspended as from tomorrow.

Regular readers will remember that in my last few entries I elected to use my electronic diary as a soapbox to publically speak out against the evils of carob. I suggested that it was unpleasant and did not satisfy in its capacity as a substitute for chocolate. You will note that these entries have now been erased. The company that owns E-Blogger, I have since discovered, also owns the largest carob distribution company in the Northern hemisphere, and did not take kindly to me badmouthing their product. As a punitive measure, they have censored my carob-focussed entries and have frozen my E-Blogger account for a month. Readers, I am a victim of the bullying tactics of global capitalism!

Needless to say, I have become a communist. I rushed out at once and bought a t-shirt from River Island which has a picture of the Cubin Marxist revolutionary, Cheech Guevara, on it. It was only £14.99. I assume the money I spent on it will go towards funding a communist revolution somewhere and will not simply line the pockets of some fatcat t-shirt designer, otherwise I would end up looking like a buffoon rather than a renegade socialist, which would be terribly embarrassing.

Readers, I urge you to speak up against my situation. Rise up against the E-Blogger/Carob Distributor oppressors!

Ever thoughtful of my devoted readership of 14 people, I am aware that many of them will be appalled at the thought of having no 'Horton's Folly' to read for a whole month, and will at once begin tearing at their faces in a frenzied anguish. In an effort to assauge their despair, I will briefly return to my earlier practise of offering up a picture of a monkey. Readers, may this tide you over in the coming weeks.

A monkey momentarily fascinated by his own wrists.

"What power they wield," he seems to say.

Back to a Sensible Length

I must confess that although my new techniques to attract more readers to my diary has succeeded in that I now have an average of 14 readers each day instead of 10, I am unhappy with what I have become.

I have allowed myself to become seduced by the lure of possibily gaining more than 20 readers per day and entering into the big leagues. You start to think you can dip your toes into the modes of populist trash yet maintain your credibility and integrity. You start to think that you can get away with producing inferior products, and that your core fan base will indulge you such slips because they are convinced of your genius. You start to forget your true fans, and just write for the idiots. You start to think you can just post up pictures of Charlie Chalk and Martin Short for your readers to goggle at. Before you know it, your electronic diary is just a collection of links to other people's work. Before you know it, you are weeping into your lap, longing for the days when you were respected by the literary community and were berated on Late Review by Tom Paulin. Before you know it you are disgusted with yourself. Before you know it you are standing in the new Marks and Spencers in Broughty Ferry, drunk on fortified wine, your trousers on your head and your pain-contorted face slicked with aspic from three dozen purloined Melton Mowbrays.

When the police finally let me go with a caution, I returned home and vowed never again to cater to the lowest common denominator: from now on, my diary entries will revert to their usual level of intelligence. I am now going for a Radox herbal bath.

Short

This entry is the shortest yet.

Short Entry

Although my last entry was short, it was not quite as short as I had intended, so I will do my best to make this one shorter.

Here is a picture that I like.

Another Short Entry providing Balance

As my last diary entry was another long one, I will now break up my web page by including another short entry here, so that casual browsers are not put off by too much text.

The postgraduate Kennie Pome told me that, as well as including more pictures to hook readers, I should include lots more web links in my entries, so that my diary is providing a tangible service to readers by furnishing them with interesting and educational content.

Therefore, here is a web site which specializes in the matching and supplying of reclaimed imperial bricks. It has a brick library that you may browse, and the front page features an animated man that talks aloud (about bricks), providing you turn up the volume on your computer. He will keep you right.

I have also been told that I must make greater effort to interact with my readers through such means as asking them questions within my diary entries, which they might reply to through the 'comments' function. Casual browsers will see that each entry has numerous comments, and will assume that the electronic diary is extremely popular and may thus revisit.

I will try this as an experiment to see if it works:

My favourite brick from the brick web site is brick DM0202. What is yours?

The Interview with the Postgraduate: Part 2

I will now continue with Part 2 of my interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome.


Kennie Pome: Now then, Steve...

Me: Who's Steve?

Kennie Pome: You are.

Me: Oh yes of course. And Horton Carew is a fictional character which I created.

Kennie Pome: Now then, Steve, perhaps you could say a little about some of the other characters that appear on the blog via the comments function (and occasionally in the narrative itself). Dr Gland, Professor Flitey, etc. What do they lend to the diegesis?

Me: [worried, because Dr Gland and Professor Flitey would not appreciate me saying they were fictional] I did not actually create them.

Kennie Pome: That's interesting. Do you collaborate with other writers then?

Me: [inelegantly improvising] Oh yes, I have a large network of writer chums. Dr Gland's creator is Bill Tutternosker, a schoolteacher from Kirkliston, and Professor Flitey was the brainchild of Angela Civetbrawn, a homemaker (housewife) from Norfolk, Connecticut (America). They both do a really good job with those characters. We do our best to confabulate online three or four times a week, just to touch base. We've only met up in person once. We organised a Writers of Horton's Folly Christmas Party last Christmas in Connecticut. It was nice. We all sat around on Angela's veranda swigging beers and discussing what direction we wanted to take for Horton's Folly. I have to say, Angela and myself tend to be on the same wavelength, but Bill often wants to be a lot more experimental than we're comfortable with. For instance, he wanted to have Dr. Gland speaking in untranslated Hebrew at one point. Another time, he came up with this idea that Dr Gland should give up being a medical doctor and become an eco-warrier. Angela and myself usually have to rein in those wild flights of fancy!

Kennie Pome: That's interesting...

Me: I can put you in touch with Bill and Angela if you like, provided you only interview them over the phone and just give their £5.00 fees directly to me. Funnily enough, Bill and Angela both have Dundee accents just like me because they both liked mine so much they decided to copy it whenever they spoke. In fact, we often joke about how similar we all sound over the phone. You would pay them £5.00 per interview I trust?

Kennie Pome: That's interesting, but I will stick to just interviewing you. I assume that your blog is sort of an arena in which you dramatise the work of postmodern literary theorists? Is that fair to say?

Me: It certainly is Kennie. I've said so myself many times.

Kennie Pome: That's interesting. Now, what authors influence you? We'll take the usual suspects - Calvino, Borges, Eco, Pynchon, etc. - as given.

Me: Of course. Well, I have to say that I am influenced mainly by the writers of Neighbours. I really love it.

Kennie Pome: That's interesting. You're being coy again. I can see you're not comfortable with that question. That's cool - I'll drop it.

Me: No, I love Neighbours. Have you seen that Max and Steph have split up? It's sad, but I suppose Toady and Steph are free to get together now.

Kennie Pome: Okay, okay. I get the point. I'll drop that line of questioning. Right. In many ways, your blog is metacritical: how aware are you of current academic research into blog fiction (my own included) and how much of that do you incorporate into your blog?

Me: ...

Kennie Pome: Would you like me to repeat the question?

Me: Do I still get the £5.00 if I don't get all the answers right?

Kennie Pome: Okay, we'll call it a day for now. Thank you for your time. That was very interesting. Perhaps we might arrange another interview later.

Me: Yes, that would be a pleasure. We authors relish the opportunity to talk at length about our work, and to earn £5.00.



And that readers, was the interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome. You have done very well in managing to read all the way down this diary entry without losing interest or being distracted by other electronic diaries that have more links to YouTube. I do not wish to tax you further with more text, so as a small reward for your patience, here is a picture of the president of the USA (United States of America), George W. Bush.





I hope that casual browsers might see it and assume this is a website full of stinging satirical commentary. By the time they realise it is not, they will already be hooked by the pictures of monkeys further down the page and by my deft and skillful prose.

A Shorter Diary Entry for Contrast

The postgraduate Kennie Pome has also indicated to me that if I have tried the patience of my readers with a very long diary entry (upwards of 100 words), then the next diary entry I create should be shorter to give a sense of contrast and variation. Readers, if faced with two lengthy diary entries in a row, will break down and give up in tears at the effort expected of them. Therefore, this diary entry will be very short and I will continue with the second part of my interview in tomorrow's diary entry.

I do not like to waste my readers' time however, so I will use this entry to direct your attention to this website which you may explore at your leisure. Once you've read that web site in its entirety, I advise you to follow the link given by that author on the 17th April, because he has also found a very good web site that you will certainly enjoy perusing.

Certain of my readers have indictated that my recent practice of including a picture with each entry has hooked them, so the advice of postgraduate Kennie Pome is evidently something I can trust. In particular, images of simians seem to draw the readers in, so I will now continue this trend by presenting a picture of a monkey taking home a juicy pear to his spouse:

The Interview with the Postgraduate: Part 1

I will split my account of the interview with the postgraduate Kennie Pome into two parts, which I will entitle Part 1 and Part 2 for ease of understanding ('Part 1' being the first part of the interview, and 'Part 2' being the second). Doing so will keep my diary entries shorter so that the reader will not be discouraged by reams of text. As I said yesterday, the postgraduate Kennie Pome informed me that electronic diaries, or 'blogs' as he insisted on calling them, are typically read by jaded and largely uninterested readers, who will not be persuaded to invest any time in reading unless they are 'hooked' by bite-sized chunklets of punchy text and attractive images. I have therefore endeavoured to adopt such a template in order to keep my readers interested. Thus, being studious of brevity, I will refrain from elaboration and continue with my account of the interview.

I cannot remember our conversation verbatim, but I will do my best to recount it exactly as I recall it. I believe I did a very convincing job of presenting myself as an author and hope you will agree.

Kennie Pome: First of all, thank you for agreeing to this interview. I have enjoyed reading your blog fiction. Let's start with a few basic questions about yourself and the nuts and bolts of your blog. What's your name?

Me: Horton Carew. Can I confirm that I will be getting £5.00 for this interview?

Kennie Pome: Yes, you'll get £5.00. But I'd prefer you to conduct this interview 'out of character'. This is serious academic research I'm doing, not a bit of fluff for the gutter press.

Me: [panicking, for I had forgotten that I was supposed to be playing a part, so distracted was I by the lemon muffin] Of course. My name is Steve M. R. Tubbock.

Kennie Pome: Thanks Steve. Do you feel comfortable sharing any personal information with me? Where are you from? What do you work as? That sort of thing?

Me: I live in Broughty Ferry where I own a small gallery that exhibits and sells the work of local artists. My wife creates sculptures of seabirds using hewn driftwood and oyster shells, which are very popular. This brings in enough money to put me in the fortunate position of devoting myself entirely to my writing.

Kennie Pome: That's interesting. What other writing projects are you working on at the moment?

Me: None. I spend all my time writing Horton's Folly, which is of course fictional. As is the handsome and erudite character 'Horton Carew'.

Kennie Pome: That's very interesting. So how long do you spend on each blog entry then?

Me: It varies. I never spend less than eight hours per entry, sometimes more if there's a lot of research required. I write my first draft by midday, then usually scrap it and start again. This abandoning is a valuable part of the creative process though: nothing is wasted. I typically write 20,000 words in total before I begin self-editing. I describe this stage as 'prose decocting' wherein I 'boil down' the 20,000 words and extract the essence of the narrative, which is what I present to the reader.

Kennie Pome: That's interesting. Can you tell me what first drew you to use the blog genre for your fiction? Would you say that you understand that blogs and diaries are conventionally thought of as confessional discourses which present secrets and avowals to readers who consequently feel that they are privy to some naked and unvarnished truth, but that, in couching a fictional narrative in this genre, you chose to mock or subvert that notion to augment your overarching concerns, in common with other postmodernist writers of metafiction, with fracturing the atavistic concept of absolutes?

Me: Yes.

Kennie Pome: It's interesting you say that because that's exactly what I would have thought. Now, what about the character of Horton Carew? Where did he stem from? How did you develop him?

Me: Well, I think of Horton as a classical Hero figure. He is fiercely intelligent, knowledgable, strong, and brave. Throughout his everyday experiences, he always shines through as the perfect human being. Horton is a character that all women fall in love with and all men aspire to be.

Kennie Pome: [laughing, for some unknown reason] That's interesting. Typifies the biting sardonicism prevalent in your blog. But seriously, how did you develop Horton's character? He's a very strange individual I think it's fair to say!

Me: [confused, but deciding to play along so as not to jeopardize my £5.00] Oh yes, of course. Horton is a strange fellow. I wanted to create a strange character.

Kennie Pome: That's interesting.

Me: Is it?

Kennie Pome: I suppose not.

Here I will break off so that my readers do not feel overwhelmed with words. And as promised, here is a picture to attract the attention of new readers and casual browsers, so that I might hook them in:

Broughty Ferry beach

The Meeting with the Postgraduate Kennie Pome

The meeting with the postgraduate Kennie Pome was a success - I earned £5.00 for only 20 minutes worth of work. We met in a sophisticated coffee house called 'Starbucks', the interior design of which was perfectly suited to our great meeting of minds. If any of my readers is a member of the intelligentsia and is ever in Dundee and in need of coffee, I can recommend this 'Starbucks' place highly. It is a real shame that you should all be deprived of access to this delighful shop just because you do not live in Dundee. If only there was some way to duplicate it and place up to seven of them in every town in the world, then you would all be able to enjoy it like me.

The postgraduate Kennie Pome introduced himself to me as Kennie Pome, postgraduate. He bought a couple of coffees and two lemon muffins for the total cost of £12.40, which may sound expensive but when you consider that the coffee tastes marginally better than Nescafe Gold Blend, then you begin to understand that one is paying for quality. Pome had recognised me straight away because I look like the photograph of myself that I include on this web site. He expressed surprise, for he had thought that the photograph was just a random strange picture chosen to look 'totally random'.

Then began the interview, which I will relate to you in full later. You see, the postgraduate Kennie Pome has advised me to keep my electronic diary entries shorter and to include more images, because his research has shown that 'web logs' with briefer entries and more pictures are read by more people. Thus I will save my account of the interview for a subsequent entry so as not to overload the reader with excessive verbiage. Furthermore, here is an image of a monkey riding a man riding a horse.

Becoming a Sham-Author: Part 2

Because I must convince the postgraduate that I am a real author and that 'Horton Carew' is a fictional character, I must do my utmost to stay in character throughout the interview if I am to secure the £5. To this end, I have created a persona for myself that would convince anyone, even P. D. Harris, the number one reviewer on Amazon.com and hence the person most knowledgable about books and authors in the world.

As related yesterday, I have modelled my appearance on such literary greats as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Terry Pratchett, OBE, who are both so good at authoring that royalty gave them titles. I have thus eschewed that view of writers as louche alcoholics, surviving on laudanum in pokey garrets, and gone instead for more workmanlike, down-to-earth craftsmen types. Tomorrow I will wear a shirt and tie and attempt to remain business like. I have fluffed up my moustache a little, but that is my only concession to flamboyance.

It strikes me that I will require a suitable name to go by. What sort of name would the author of a fictional electronic diary have? I feel initials are key to success. J. R. R. Tolkien, H. P. Lovecraft, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Poppy Z. Brite, and Thomas R.D all recognised this truth. Yes, an initial will be essential. A simple first name, a couple of initials, and an unusual surname: this formula will see me right.

Some possiblities:

Ben R. R. Glush
Joe H. L. Askew
Bill M. C. Tutternosker
Lee P. D. Florescu
Dave F. T. Civetbrawn
Steve L. J. Hubshuft
Andy W. C. DeKelb-Rittenhouse
Mark C. F. Krzywinska

I must settle on a name by tomorrow, for it is then that I must meet the postgraduate.

Becoming a Sham-Author

I have arranged to meet the postgraduate on Friday in Dundee's Starbucks coffee house for the first of my interviews. If I am to convince him that I am an author and hence earn £5, I must look the part.

I have decided to model my appearance on a selection of famous and respected authors, whose senses of dress and general demeanour I will syncretize to create a whole new persona comprising the very essence of authorial class.

Here are the authors on which I have chosen to model myself (in some cases I was unable to find images of the actual author, so I have been obliged to use lookalikes):

Arfur Conan Doyle

Charles Dickens

Jules Verne

Robert Louis Stevenson

Terry Pratchett

A Postgraduate Plagues Me

Those of you who have been following the comments left by other readers will have noted that I am currently being hounded by a postgraduate who believes me to be fictional. He wishes to conduct a series of interviews with the author of this electronic diary whom he erroneously imagines to be someone other than myself.

Ordinarily I would not humour such forwardness and brazen cheek, but as he has promised to pay me £5 per interview, I have decided to accommodate the cove. Thus will I pretend to be a writer who has fabricated everything in this electronic diary. I will disguise myself as an author and tell this postgraduate exactly what he wants to hear, even if that involves maintaining the pretence that I, Horton Carew, am a fictional character.

This will not be easy, but I believe I am up to the challenge.

Easter Treats

As it is Easter Sunday, the day before Easter Monday, and as I am feeling light and gay after my recent triumph, I have given the day over to carefree pursuits such as eating chocolates and decorating hens' eggs.

Today is truly a wonderous one, for today we remember the day, many years ago, when Jesus H. Christ rose from the dead and escaped from his cave by turning into an egg and rolling down a hill or something.

To bring you joy, I will share with you a photograph of an egg which I have decorated in such a way that it looks like Scarlett Johansson in that film where she looks like a boiled egg.

I Triumph

Success, dear readers, success! I have, for the moment, defeated my dead mother. She is imprisoned with little to no chance of ever escaping.

You see, for the past few days I made a great show of apologising to my dead mother and repeatedly promising to return to my evil ways. I even pretended to slice off my right hand as she had requested (in reality, I merely hid it up my sleeve). Evidently my ruse succeeded because her manner eventually reverted to a collegial tone rather than that of an evil mother enraged at her morally good son.

Yesterday I asked her, in as casual a tone as I could muster, whether she fancied a game of Monopoly. Perhaps, I mused aloud, it would bolster my capacity for evil for it is a game in which players are blooded in the ruthless ways of capitalism and encouraged to take delight in the financial ruination of family and friends. She agreed at once. My heart skipped two to three beats with the excitement.

She stood upon the board in the intimidating form of the little scottie dog that I have grown to loathe these last months. I chose to play as the race car because I thought that it would make me look cool. I took a deep breath and rolled the dice.

It was clear from the off that she was the better player. Within only a few circuits of the board she had established hotels on the blue set and the red set. I had succeeded only in buying the Waterworks, Fenchurch Street Station, and Old Kent Road. My fiendishly clever plan was failing almost before it had begun.

Down to my last £14, it was obvious that I would be bankrupt within my next few rolls because my mother owned all the property on the board and had at least a house on each site. I had only to wait for her to take her turn then all would surely be over. Well readers, she rolled a ten! That took her to a Chance square. My very last opportunity to defeat her.

I picked up the top most Chance card from the pile and, with trembling hand, revealed the underside. Triumph! It said, "Go to Jail. Go Directly to Jail. Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect £200". Oh frabjous day!

I moved my mother into the Jail square, my heart thumping so rapidly that I feared she would hear it.

"And now mother, I am afraid you lose," said I.

"Not so, halfwit," she replied. "I need only roll a double within my next three shots and, if I fail to do so, I must pay only £50 to secure my release. That is a paltry sum for me because I have many thousands of pounds. Besides which, you will be made bankrupt in your next few moves, and I will de victorious, you chump. Bwah haa haa haah... Now roll the dice and take your turn."

Have you guessed my plan yet readers? I expect two or three of you have, but no more than that because it really is terribly clever. You see, because my dead mother's wicked soul is trapped inside the little scottie dog from Monopoly, she is bound by the rules of that venerable board game. She is obliged to abide by its rules as you or I are bound to the rules of gravity.

Readers, I refused to take my turn. Until I do so, she must remain in Jail. And you know as well as I do, and as well as my evil mother knows, that I will never take my turn in that game of Monopoly. Bwah haa haa haaah.

Being careful not to shift any of the pieces, I gingerly carried the board and accompanying paraphernalia up to the back of my loft where I have laid it in a large chest and locked it tight. Never will I hear from that wicked soul again.

I suppose it's a bit like Jumanji starring Robin Williams.

A Secret Plan is Concocted

Readers, I am afraid I allowed myself to become distracted by numerous animated programmes these last few days, which meant I forgot about my resolve to rid my home of my dead mother's soul.

No matter, for I have hit upon a brilliant scheme. Readers, the solution is in the game of Monopoly itself! I have been blind. The answer is obvious: I must challenge my mother to a game of Monopoly...and win. Her soul being anchored to the little scottie dog from Monopoly, she will of course play as the little scottie dog, and I will play as something sexy like the racecar or the boat...

But I am saying too much. She is crafty and suspicious and may yet read my electronic diary. If so, all will be lost. I will report back to you after my plan has come to fruition.

Pray for me.

The Dog Came Back The Very Next Day

Fact 1: My dead mother's wicked soul is anchored to the little scottie dog from Monopoly.

Fact 2: If I can get rid of the little pewter dog then I can surely be rid of my dead mother's wicked soul.

This was the sort of reasoning I employed when first I hurled the little dog from out my bedroom window onto the street, where it struck the ear of a passing Mormon who understandably evinced chagrin. Alas, the next day the dog stood atop my mantelpiece as though it had never been flung away in disgust.

Next I took the dog to the top of the Law Hill and left it there, exposed to the elements. The next day, however, it had returned to its spot on the mantel.

Law Hill, Dundee

Next I packaged it up securely in a padded envelope, addressed it to Kirk Douglas in the US (America), and paid the relevant postage costs. The next day, however...well, you can undoubtedly guess the rest for you are not a buffoon.

The whole sorry affair reminded me of a cartoon I once saw on Rolf's Cartoon Time about a cat that kept returning to the home of a man who desperately wanted to be rid of the creature. It was a good cartoon. I must go and see if it is available for viewing on YouTube.

I Make a Brave Decision

Readers, I must be quick for I fear my dead mother may be eavesdropping. I have made a firm decision not to kowtow to her any longer. I will not cut off my right hand. Of that I am sure.


Last night I dreamt that Lion-O visited me. He told me that my innate goodness and reluctance to sin was not the debilitating condition I took it for. No, he told me that I should consider it a strength because all heroes everywhere, up to and including Sam Spade from The Maltese Falcon, are good. Goodness is a defining characteristic of all the most admired men (and some women) throughout history. This wisdom imparted, Lion-O faded from my ken.



But readers, his words rang true. Readers, I am good. I will be rid of my evil mother's influence. I will do it. I will surely do it.

Mother's Punishment

My dead mother demands that I sever my right hand from my right arm as penance for my lack of sins. Only then will she be satisfied that fealty has been served.

Readers, I must admit reluctance on my part to cleave my right hand from my right arm. As I am right-handed, I asked if she might reconsider and allow me to cut off my left hand instead, which I currently only use for novelty value and for maintaining a sense of symmetry, but my mother is adamant that it be my right hand.

I expect she will eventually persuade or cajole me into going through with this grim task, but I will be very sorry to see my right hand go - it has served me well these last few years and has been instrumental in many of my happiest moments on this earth.

I turn now to Microsoft's comprehensive collection of cliparts to provide illustrations of common uses of one's right hand, to convey to you exactly what everyday activities I will be missing out on when I sacrifice my hand.

Use 1: Cradling a russet apple

Use 2: Depressing buttons

Use 3: Rehearsing for an imagined day when golf courses shrink

Use 4: Shooting things (specifically guns)

Use 5: Mimicking arthritis

A Heartfelt Apology

Readers - if readers ye be, and not illiterates who have stumbled upon this page by chance and cannot understand the strange hieroglyphs you see before you - I owe each of you an apology. In the past few entries I was convinced by some delirium or wicked hex that I was monstrously evil and capable of terrible deeds. I have insulted you by refering to you as "halfwits" when I know that most of you are actually "fullwits". I have mocked you and tried your patience innumerable times and relished so doing. I have forced you to read about my various horrible acts, up to and including maiming a ladybird and trussing up a Pole.

For this I am sorry. If I could send each and every one of you a gift by way of an apology, I would, but I know that a great many of you dwell in the US (America), so postage and packaging costs would be prohibitive. If it is any consolation to you, you must know that my dead mother, in the form of the little scottie dog from Monopoly, is even now formulating my punishment, which will no doubt consist of prolonged torture culminating in a low and ignominious death. She remains wholly evil and can no longer tolerate a good and moral son such as I.

Do not weep for me. It is no more than I deserve.

Shamefaced

My late mother is furious with me. As you have no doubt ascertained through reading between the lines of my recent entries, I have been living a lie.

I am not evil and do not think I will ever be able to live a normal evil life. There is a perverse streak of goodness in me that quite prevents me from going through with evil acts. When push came to shove, I was unable to skin the Polish fellow. Moral repugnance and guilt stayed my hand. There is unfortunately no doubt that I am good. I apologised to the Polish man for letting him down, and allowed him to go free, unskinned.

"You worthless piece of ****!!" my dead mother bawled, "You're such a disappointment, Horton! You're useless! You're beyond useless! You've let me down! Why do you always shame me? You *******! That's it! I don't want you around me! Get out of my sight, you ****. I must concoct a suitable punishment. If you cannot be evil, I must harm you. I will thrash the goodness out of you! You stupid, worthless ****!! You've let me down!"

I cannot help but feel that I have let my mother down.