A Novel State of Mind

I am seldom completely unable to write, but i am all too often unable to write what I want to write. Currently I have three main ‘projects’ on the go: my weekly blog, my A-Z blog (which I hope will become a kind of self-assembly book for anybody who is dedicated enough to be bothered by it) and a novel (which is actually a follow-up to my first novel which, true to form, has yet to find itself flopping across the desktop of any publisher or literary agent. I have a terrible tendency to become bored by things as soon as they are finished. I am hoping that writing a ‘part two’ will spur me into action with ‘part one’. On the whole, I doubt it. Almost certainly it will result only in me having two unpublished novels on my books. Perhaps I’ll leave them to my children in my will.) I try to plan how I use my time: blog Monday/Tuesday, novel Wednesday/Thursday/Friday, and A-Z on Saturday (Sunday remains a day off, unless the rest of the week has gone particularly badly and/or my mother-in-law has come to visit¹) but my brain seldom plays ball. A blog idea – one that simply has to be written posthaste, before it slips from my grasp – inevitably occurs to me at the very moment I settle down to work on the novel: a beautiful A-Z definition will tumble from my pen in the midst of a torturous plot-hole repair, and eventually I will struggle for hours to successfully extricate one from the other. Writing would be so much simpler if I didn’t have to use my brain.

I should, of course, have a place to jot down ideas as they occur so that I can return to them as required but, sadly, my organisational skills reach their nadir precisely at the point of desperate need. “I must remember that” I think each time an idea pops into my head, “it’s too good to forget,” but sadly it is not. Nothing in my head is immune to episodic amnesia.

In the past I always kept a notebook by my bed in order to record mid-night inspirations, but more often than not, what I wrote was indecipherable, incoherent and in dire need of attention, particularly as, for some unknown reason, my wife objected to being woken by my bedside light and, my night vision being what it is, I was probably as likely to scrawl down her leg as on the paper. Consequently I often approach a day at the keyboard with an empty page and an empty head. Staring at a blank sheet of paper pushes whatever should be on my mind further back into the deepest recesses of the Labyrinth, behind ‘O’ level Geography, the chemical symbol for blancmange and a surefire method for remembering the names of The Seven Dwarfs (Dwarves?) in alphabetical order. A blank sheet of foolscap inevitably leads me to conclude that I will never write again.

Getting the Tetris blocks of my mind into order is the primary obstacle. The A-Z has a certain ‘style’ as does the novel whilst everything else spills into the blog and, if I don’t have my wits about me, slops straight back into the former two as well. Characters in my ‘book’ suddenly find themselves spouting subversive definitions, conversations occur that clearly belong to Frankie and Benny*, and situations develop that only Dinah and Shaw* could make sense of. Unpicking the stitches involves a kind of inverse macramé that my mind is simply not equipped to perform.

It is, I like to tell myself, nothing more than a state of mind. The thorniest of problems – and therefore the ones I choose most often to ignore – arise when I am on ‘novel’ duties. I have a thinly-written plot which, due to my tendency to write myself into corners, evolves constantly. By the time I reach halfway, the précis has become longer than War and Peace, and explanatory passages – which seldom provide an ideal home for gags – begin to litter the manuscript like redactions in Peter Mandelson’s Christmas present list and I am eventually forced to go back in order to remove the reasons for the now extraneous explanations and somehow darn the holes that are left². Early drafts are a sieve through which all traces of reality are sifted. There is a strange circularity to it all:

The chapter makes sense, but is boring
I add jokes and ‘situations’
I add explanation for the added jokes
I add jokes to the explanation
I remove all jokes that are too difficult to explain
I explain to the dear reader why something I have just written so directly contradicts something I wrote in chapter two
What remains makes sense, but is boring – and now twice as long as it originally was.

Invariably I reach a denouement that I am happy with, until I realise that it has precious little to link it with where I started. I generally rewrite the beginning as time has made it even less interesting to me. Most of my blogs work in this way: nothing ends as it was originally intended to, nothing starts as it originally did.

The first draft of the current novel is about two-thirds completed and I have reached the stage where it now has a certain path that it must follow in order to reach its conclusion. It writes itself almost (although it does need me to jazz it up a bit). It knows where it is going and I just tag along for the ride, throwing the occasional firework out of the window. It most certainly is not a chore, but I do find myself writing entire passages that I know I will have to excise, purely because my brain needs the exercise. Eventually I will corral it all back into place, secure in the knowledge that in the morning I will wake up in a novel state of mind.

Unfortunately tomorrow should be an A-Z day.

My mother-in-law sadly passed away some years ago and was actually a delightful woman who suffered fools (me) very gladly. I dedicate that line to her in the knowledge that she would find it funny despite her oft-repeated assertion that she didn’t really like ‘comedy’.
Does anyone actually darn anymore? I have painful childhood memories of woollen socks that seemed to be ninety percent darn. I grew up on a council estate, I thought that was what tennis balls were invented for.

*Regular readers will be familiar with both Frankie & Benny and Dinah & Shaw, both of which have appeared regulalrly on these pages over the years – and are probably due to do so again.

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (DDT to Devil)

DDT Hydrocarbon compound, an effective insecticide. Many of the people you will encounter in the pursuit of your subversive activities would benefit greatly from a spray down with this. Pay special attention to all warm, moist areas: The Amazonian Rain Forest, North West India, all regions generally covered by underwear.

DAMAGE To injure or impair. It is a legitimate course of action to cause damage to those who themselves cause damage on a much greater scale. There are those who would damage our communities, our countries, our planet and, were they to be given the opportunity, probably several others in the universe. Now is the time to rise up and damage their cause. It is impossible for even the seasoned subversive not to take sides. Sit on the fence and you will get your balls creosoted¹. Think of your children. If you don’t have children, think of somebody else’s children. If you don’t like children, think of yourself.

Probably not applicable to female subversives – unless they are also Wimbledon ball girls.

DANGER Exposure to injury; jeopardy; risk. Oh, dear me, no! No, no, no, no, no! Exposure to injury is to be avoided at all cost. Besides serving no useful purpose whatsoever, injury is in itself a foreign word to the subversive. It translates as ‘Pain’. Pain is exclusively reserved for the benefit of others. Pain is to be inflicted. Pain is most certainly not to be endured. Some people thrive on danger. To the brave, it is like a drug. To the subversive it is like a laxative. It is best never to get involved in anything that could, in any way, be considered dangerous.

DEATH Extinction of life. Death is not a skeletal figure dressed in black, carrying a scythe¹. Death is an insurance salesman. Death is called Nigel. Death works at a call centre in Mumbai. He got your phone number from the HMRC website.

An agricultural hand-tool for mowing grass or reaping crops. How it became associated with Death, I am not certain. A scythe is used in the reaping of crops and Death is, of course, The Grim Reaper. I Googled ‘Grim Reaper’ and got a short piece about a heavy metal band from Droitwich. I also accidentally Googled ‘Grim Reeperbahn’, which I do not recommend as a course of action, and I would like to make it known, here and now, that I have never met the lady.

DEBACLE A confused rout. Now here is a word I know all about. My whole life is confusion – at least I think it is, I’m not sure. A rout is any overwhelming defeat, which just goes to prove that my wife is completely correct when she describes my entire life as a debacle.

DEBATE Contention in words or arguments; discussion; controversy. To dispute; to deliberate. Forget it. Politicians do it all the time – and look at them. The gentle art of persuasion is best served with a baseball bat. Do not deliberate – it merely postpones the painful realisation that you haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. Debate requires at least two parties and has three rules:

Don’t get involved.
If you do get involved, always stand by an open door.
Write down very clearly the points you wish to make and, in an emergency, use the list to set fire to the other person’s trousers.

DEBAUCH To corrupt; to pervert; to riot; to revel. Excess in eating or drinking; lewdness. This sounds like so much fun, the government will almost certainly tax it in the next budget.

DEFEAT Frustration; overthrow; loss of battle. Try to avoid all possibility of defeat by never openly being drawn into battle. If you should become embroiled in a literary battle, use a pen-name and, if possible, somebody else’s typewriter or cut letters out of the newspaper. If you are drawn into a verbal battle, remember always to speak slowly and quietly. Very quietly if your opponent is bigger than yourself. Keep calm when stating your own arguments and listen carefully and patiently to those of your adversary before destroying them with your incisive wit and perception. It is also a good tactic to stand behind them and pull faces. Should you get drawn into a physical battle you have two basic choices: flight or fight. Of course, one of them is right and the other one is fight. If all possible escape routes are blocked, and a physical confrontation becomes inevitable, you must immediately adopt the correct stance. This is best known as the foetal position. Roll up in a ball, as tightly as you can, and whimper softly¹. Never worry about losing face – it does not hurt as much as getting beaten up.

Foam at the mouth if at all possible: your opponent will a) believe that you are in need of medical attention and will not want to get involved in all the questions that are associated with a 999 call (the answers to which are all ‘I don’t know’) b) will not want to get sputum all over his brand new linen trousers and c) will have just the vaguest suspicion that you might have rabies and/or a trapped fish bone – the consequences of either being far more messy than they would want to risk.

DESPERADO Desperate fellow; reckless ruffian. A media word for subversive. If you like the sound of this title, do not wash or change your underwear for a week.

DESPOT (See Dictator – below) A king or other ruler with absolute, unlimited power; autocrat; any tyrant or oppressor. Everything that you most revile. Everything that you’d most like to be. You could buy a dog, but remember that even the dimmest of canines might be inclined to answer back now and again – also it is not easy to remain imperious with dog crap on your slippers.

DEVASTATE To lay waste; render desolate. The effect that the dedicated subversive can have on an ‘All U Can Eat Oriental Buffet’ during its £4.95 Afternoon Special session. Also the effect that certain prawn dishes in the above may have on the hungry subversive after they have sat in lukewarm water for four and a half hours under a dodgy heat lamp. (You know that I meant the prawns and not the subversives.)

DEVIL (1) The supreme spirit of evil. I drank some of this on holiday in Bulgaria and spoke Swahili for three days afterwards.

DEVIL (2) An atrociously wicked, cruel, or ill-tempered person. You will meet a lot of these. Tell them that you have wandered into the Job Centre by mistake and, anyway, you can’t attend a job interview right now because you have a bunion.

DEVIL (3) A person who is very clever, energetic, reckless, or mischievous. Exactly the kind of person that you do not want in your band of desperadoes, but will almost certainly be first in the queue to join you. Allow them to become a member at your peril. Finding your shoes super-glued to the pub floor is all well and good the first time it happens, but can become seriously annoying, particularly when you are trying to evade the landlord.

DEVIL (4) (Cookery) grill with Cayenne pepper. Something that you do with kidneys – although God knows why. As far as I am aware, kidneys serve only one purpose in the culinary world, e.g. something to pick out of steak and kidney pie.

Lessons I Have Learned

If you have anything at all between the ears, you have to treat life as one big lesson. If you are prepared to learn, life will teach you all you need to know, although not always before you need to know it. Sooner or later you will have access to the font of all knowledge… and then, of course, you die…

As I approach, with ever-increasing velocity, my own personal end-of-days, I feel it only fair that I should share the fruits of my knowledge with you. Here is what I have gleaned from 67 years of existence:

If you are over sixty years of age, you are NOT cool! It is an incontrovertible fact and nothing can change it. Any attempt to make yourself look more cool will, inevitably, actually make you less so. Raised eyebrows and under-the-breath ‘tutting’ is probably the best you can expect. If you have children, they will refuse to sit next to you on the bus and may even attempt to persuade the local magistrate that you abducted them at birth.
Young women NEVER think you look younger than you actually are. Try too hard and they are more likely to think that you are both ancient and terminally sad. They will find you ‘sweet’ until you start to smell of urine. They also will not sit next to you on the bus, even if the only alternative is standing, wedged between the woman with a Chihuahua in a nappy and the schoolboy with who is dying to show them what he has in the matchbox.
Losing weight will not help. Senior skin loses all elasticity, so removing ‘filling’ merely leaves hanging flaps – like a sausage with the meat sucked out. Moobs¹ do not disappear, but begin to look alarmingly like those of the native women you used to stare at in the National Geographic.
Clothes will not be your saviour. Wearing clothes that are appropriate for your age will merely make you look your age, but wearing clothes that are inappropriately young will almost certainly leave you looking like the kind of person that nobody wants to be trapped in a lift with.
Whether button or zip, you can NEVER trust a fly. Either can reveal itself as being open at the most inopportune of times, but only the zip has the capacity to bite back. Life holds, for most men, an absolute minimum of two scars: one under the chin – from falling from a bicycle, scooter, roller-skate or badly nailed together pram-wheeled go-kart – the other being the winkle welt from an all too close childhood encounter with a zip fly.
Once you have passed 50 years of age, tight clothes are NEVER the right option. If you must wear the bloody things for riding your bicycle then never get off it in public. Ever.
You will not be able to impress young people with your intellect. They speak a completely different language: they will not understand a word you are saying.
There is no such thing as the right temperature. Everything – food, drink, hands, feet, enthusiasm – is either too hot or too cold.
Despite the panoply of options available, the world remains solidly polarized: Left versus Right, United v City, Us against Them, Marmite vs well, anything really… You will never be in the right half.
Computers never need to update unless you want to use them. If you need to use them urgently, the updates will take days and will involve hours locked on a black screen within which not even the little circle-thing turns.
Contact lenses have many advantages over spectacles, but being able to see properly is not one of them.
You do not become better at things as you grow older, you merely become more tolerant of your own mistakes.
Shoes do not ‘wear in’. Shoes either fall off on the way down a long staircase, or grip you so tightly that your nails turn black and drop off. Loose shoes do not tighten and tight ones never loosen, they cut off your circulation more effectively than becoming honorary secretary of the local stamp collecting forum.
The next blog post is always great, the present one is awful.
Whatever else you fight for, you should always battle to keep the old you at bay. Never wear a flat cap to hide your bald spot. Other than a ginger toupee, nothing says ‘lost the plot’ as loudly as a tartan cap and string-back driving gloves.
Parking spaces are never perpendicular. Why else would you not be able to leave your car straight in one?
You can never trust a politician. Even if they promise to lie and cheat for you, they are lying.
Nobody ever really believes that ‘it was the dog’.
Whatever you may believe, you never know best.
You should always brush your hair and take a selfie before you do anything strenuous – it may just be the last time anyone ever sees you alive.

¹ Man-boobs. The real reason men were given nipples: to complete their total humiliation on the beach. Along with noses and ears, these grow exponentially with age. Try to relax, they are a normal symptom of ageing, even if they prove to be incredibly inconvenient when they keep falling through the arm-hole of your singlet in the gym.

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Communism to Crucifixion)

COMMUNISM Doctrine that all goods, means of production &c. should be the property of the community. What a wicked system! Communism is currently frowned upon by most countries of the world, particularly the communist ones. It strikes me that the most obvious problem with the communist system is the confusion engendered by the paradox that those who are most doggedly communistic and therefore ardently opposed to all change and liberalisation, both socially and economically, are known as ‘conservatives’ and… actually, now I see that written down, it isn’t actually paradoxical at all, is it?
Most subversives are, nominally at least, Socialist¹ – except when it actually comes down to the principal of sharing things. The average subversive is more comfortable with a more theoretical observance of Socialist principals, whilst maintaining their shares in BT and the little nest egg in Zimbabwean diamonds.

A sort of user-friendly Communism, once much-vaunted in democratic societies, but now largely discarded in favour of personal advancement, capitalist expansionism and unparalleled levels of shoe ownership. Socialist principles in the UK have been progressively watered down since the Second World War, through the Worker’s Party, The Labour Party, New Labour, New New Labour, and Sir Kier Starmer.

CONFLICT Struggle, trial of strength. Oh dear me, no. No sensible subversive ever gets involved in such a thing: he/she is seldom well enough. I, myself, have been almost exclusively virtually subversive for six months, due to a heavy cold. Struggle is a very physical process and, should it become absolutely unavoidable, best left to somebody considerably fitter than yourself.

CONSCIENCE The complex of ethical and moral principles that controls or inhibits the actions or thoughts of an individual. E.G. ‘Am I likely to get caught?’

CONSERVATIVE In politics, one who desires to preserve institutions of his country against change and innovation. What a wonderful concept. In Britain, we have a whole party opposed to change and innovation. The only problem is that, these days, nobody is quite sure which one it is. Generally, in politics, innovations, such as everybody getting a fair and equal chance in life, are frowned upon.

CONSPIRACY An evil, unlawful, treacherous, or surreptitious plan formulated in secret by two or more persons. The most widely known conspiracy in the UK is almost certainly The Gunpowder Plot of 1605. The conspiracy was to blow up James I and the English parliament on its opening day, November 5^th, in the hope of prompting a great Catholic uprising. The brother-in-law of Francis Tresham (one of the conspirators) was warned not to attend the ceremony and the plot was subsequently exposed. Guy Fawkes, a paid mercenary, was captured, tortured and killed, as were most of his co-plotters¹. The plot back-fired as harsh anti-catholic laws were passed by the shocked establishment and November 5^th became widely known as Guy Fawkes Night (as it had a better ring than Thomas Catesby Night) and the tradition of scaring the living daylights out of the elderly and setting fire to half the neighbourhood, nightly from October 1^st to November 30^th, began.

Robert Catesby, John Wright and Thomas Winter originated the plot and, when Guy Fawkes was captured, they fled to Holbeach House in Staffordshire, where they were killed during a gunfight with the local sheriff and his deputies the very next day, having accidentally ignited their own gunpowder. Instant karma.

CONVERSATION Informal talk or exchange of ideas. Usually involves one person expressing their opinions whilst allowing others to either agree, or be wrong.

CORRUPT Make rotten, pervert, make evil. A common aim of all subversion and politics. Calling a Right Honourable Member a corrupt politician is a double damnation similar to evil devil, violent war and Michael Gove. If you believe that two wrongs can make a right, you may feel able to trust a corrupt politician. I do not, but then I don’t trust Dettol.

How To Corrupt a Politician: Elect Him

COSH A bludgeon. The subversive’s most subtle weapon.

CRISIS Turning point or decisive moment. I’m not certain that my interpretation of crisis is quite the same as my Dictionary. A subversive’s definition of crisis requires just one word – ‘Life’. Life is crisis, crisis is life. If I have a crisis it is seldom, if ever, a turning point, it is usually a rabid fear of being found out.

CRUCIFIXION A form of execution by being nailed or tied to a cross. Although the Romans did not originate crucifixion, they did use it widely, generally on slaves and despised malefactors. It would appear that Jesus of Nazareth, who could almost certainly be described as an early subversive were it not for the fact that both his motives and his methods were honest and virtuous, was killed in such a manner, with the intention that his importance was seen to be diminished to that of a common slave – well, that worked didn’t it…
In order to speed up death, which could be slow and tortuous, the crucified party often had his legs broken. This was considered merciful by the kind of person who regarded nailing an innocent man to a tree as justice.
As a subversive, you will have little time for religion, but you will have plenty of time to consider whether you are sufficiently committed to your own cause to run the risk of such punishment¹.

The answer is ‘No’.

HOMEWORK.

Describe in detail, the differences between:

Capitulate & Collaborate
Chaos & Crisis
Corrupt & Castrate
Capitalist, Communist & Conservative

Don’t bother.

The Analogue Kids #2 – A Spittoon in the Lounge Bar

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
Harry nodded and Muriel sat down unheeded, placing a pint of beer in front of him. “I hope you don’t mind but, it’s really heavy isn’t it, a pint of beer? If you don’t take it I’ll have to pour it in the spittoon.”
He wanted to smile but he found himself pouting like a toddler and he had no idea of how to stop. “I saved you the seat last week,” he said, “but you didn’t come.”
“I know,” she said. “And I’m sorry. I couldn’t call you because I don’t have your number. I phoned the pub…”
“Really? Who did you speak to?”
“I’m not sure. She said she was too busy to act as your unpaid answering service, especially on quiz night, and hung up. I presumed she’d let you know when she wasn’t so busy…”
“I left early – straight after the round on Soul music – this is the first time I’ve been in since.” Harry moved his empty glass from the beer mat and having taken a sip, put his new pint in its place. “It might have been better in the spittoon,” he said.
“Isn’t that what you normally drink? I’m sorry, I thought it was… Shall I?…”
“It is what I normally drink,” he said. “It’s always horrible. I don’t know what they do with it.”
“Why don’t you drink something else?” she asked.
“I like it,” he answered, looking puzzled. “And what kind of pub do you think has a spittoon these days?”
“I thought they all had them.”
“I think something might have misled you. Is there a John Wayne season on the iPlayer or something?”
“I don’t really come into pubs very much. They’re not easy places to be in when you’re on your own.”
“They’re about the only places I do go in on my own.”
“So when you say you haven’t been in here since last week?”
“I’ve been sat in front of the telly, eating frozen meals for one and generally pondering my navel.”
“And did you reach any conclusions?”
“I need to get out more.”
“Good. Where shall we go?”
Harry picked up on the you/we transition immediately, but all in all he thought it best not to mention it. She might change her mind. “I don’t know,” he said. “I never really go anywhere.”
“What about the seaside?” she answered. “You can’t go wrong with the seaside can you? Do you have a bus pass? We could go on the bus.”
“It’s years since I’ve been to the seaside,” said Harry. “So many people and so noisy… I’m not sure.”
“It’s not all ‘kiss me quick,’” said Muriel, suddenly nervously twisting the stem of her wine glass. “There are plenty of quiet beaches. We could just walk, take a picnic maybe, or buy fish and chips.”
Harry fiddled with the wedding ring he had moved onto his right hand over five years ago and gave the impression of deep consideration. “Why not,” he said at last. “Yes, I’d like that. If we win this quiz, the prize will pay for the chips.”
“Better get the form then…”

Harry returned with two glasses, one of wine and one of beer, two packets of crisps (one plain, one salt & vinegar), two packets of salted peanuts, two packets of pork scratching and a cheese and onion sandwich that looked as though its best days may have been before the Crimean War. He placed them on the table in front of Muriel. “I wasn’t sure,” he said, “which you might fancy.”
“I’m not certain that anyone should eat that sandwich,” she said. “I’m pretty sure that the cheese wasn’t blue when it went into it. Perhaps you could go and put it somewhere where it can rot in peace.” Harry departed with the offending butty, returning without it seconds later. “Landlord took it back,” he said. “Put it in the dart team’s buffet.”
“They don’t play until Wednesday,” said Muriel.
“He doesn’t like waste,” said Harry. “He’s got steak pies in the warmer that lived through Brexit.”
Muriel looked at the smorgasbord on the table. “Shall we share a packet of ready salted?” she asked. “The one that’s still in date?”
Harry smiled agreement and sipped his beer as he lowered himself into the chair. “I registered us as The Analogue Kids,” he said.
“That’s good,” smiled Muriel, testing an over-large crisp on her front teeth. “No-one will know who we are. If we lose we won’t be humiliated and if we win, we won’t get mugged on the way home.”
“For twenty quid?”
“Harry, where I live, they’ll mug you for twenty pence. Well, they don’t need the money actually: they’ll mug you just for the fun of it.”
“Bloody hell, are you ok going home?”
“Oh yes, the bus stop is right outside my door and the bus driver always waits until I’m in.”
“That’s good of him.”
“Her. I pay her with humbugs. It’s a long night for her and her breath smells like she’s swallowed a dead fox by then.”
“Right… well, there’s two teams of students in tonight and one team of dons, not to mention the extremely uncomfortable middle-class foursome over near the window who have somebody outside with a mobile phone giving them answers when they think that nobody’s looking, so I definitely wouldn’t go spending the prize money just yet.”
“Is there nobody ‘normal’ doing the quiz?”
“Lots of them. Half a dozen ‘normal’ teams doing the quiz, but absolutely none of them winning it.”
“But you still think that you can win it.”
Harry allowed himself the slightest of smiles. “We,” he said. “I think that we can win it. We did ok last time until they had the round on Social Media Influencers.”
“Derren Brown seemed like a perfectly logical answer to me.”
“To all ten questions, yes… Anyway, if I have a good day today, yes, I think we can win it. If you have a good day, I think we can win it and if we both have a good day then nobody will stop us. The fish and chips are as good as ours.”
“But what about the team of dons?”
“No problem with them. Away with the fairies, all of them. They’ll do well in the Classical Greek and Philosophy rounds of course.”
“Are there really…?” Muriel stopped short, warned by the amusement in his eyes. “I suppose you think that’s funny don’t you?”
“Well,” he grinned. “It is a bit.”
“Misplaced I’d say,” she pouted.
“Like a spittoon in the lounge bar,” he said.

I hope you’ll forgive me. I enjoyed these two so much last week that I felt I had to give them a second episode today. Unless everyone hates them, they will appear again I think.

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Cabal to Collaborate)

CABAL Secret plot. Most of your D.I.Y plots will be extremely secret: you will probably be the only person ever to know anything about them. If you feel that you are perhaps getting too much of a good thing, tell your wife¹, but expect to be held up for ridicule.

Subversion is a notoriously sexist occupation and ‘partner’ still sounds a little too ‘woolly hat and lentils’ for many ‘traditional’ subversives. If you are the wife, then tell your husband and expect the same result. If you are single, then tell anyone you can think of and expect total apathy. If you have a friend, then you are not a subversive.

CANT Hypocritical speech. This is not the word I thought it was and it doesn’t mean anything like the same, however, no turning back, and it is quite an appropriate word for our guide. Being hypocritical is one of the most essential subversive skills. Without it, you may end up saying what you really mean. Fatal. Never fall into the truth trap. Truth is a four-letter word to the subversive¹. Lie at all times.

Inevitable, as most of them cannot count beyond three.

CAPITALIST Owner of capital. Think of everything nasty, everything evil, everything you most covet – that is capital. Think of the owner of the capital – that is a capitalist – and sheer, naked envy will make him your sworn enemy. He has it and you don’t. Now, how can that be fair? Being fair is all about you having the capital and the capitalist slaving away in an attempt to get you some more. Life, of course, is seldom fair.

CAPITULATE Surrender on terms, give in. This is something the good, honest, decent subversive will never do – unless it is to his advantage. Surrender traditionally requires either the hoisting of a white flag or a good foreknowledge of the safe word. Capitulation is, in fact, the greater part of subversive valour¹ and very rarely results in bruising other than to the ego – which does not hurt anything like as much.

Oxymoron of the day.

CASTRATE Remove testicles. Not particularly effective as a political ploy, but great fun in the right company.

CEMENT Fine mortar. A fine, grey powder which, when mixed with sand and water, has many applications in building and construction work. Mainly employed by the D.I.Y subversive in the construction of concrete boots:

Place victim’s feet into two medium-sized plastic buckets¹.
Three quarters fill with suitable cement mixture.
Allow concrete² to set (usually 3 to 7 days, depending on conditions).
Throw victim in river or lake.

It is wise to take a few precautions before employing such conglomerate footwear:

Spread plenty of plastic around before mixing the concrete – splashes can be very difficult to remove from light-coloured carpets.
Ensure that the concrete is correctly mixed. Incomplete mixing could lead to surface cracking and eventually to the re-floatation of the corpse. Whilst this may be acceptable in the large marine environment, it can be unsightly in the home pond or swimming pool.
Ensure that the water depth is sufficient to cover the victim. Throwing a six-foot victim into a five-foot garden pond is never going to work³; the weight of the concrete will ensure that the victim remains upright and, even allowing for a certain amount of settlement, his nose is unlikely to sink below the surface. If you are not properly prepared, you may be forced to haul your victim from the water. Beware – wet concrete is even heavier than dry concrete. If you are unable to remove him from the water, try putting a small fishing rod in his hands or, alternatively, decorate his head to resemble a buoy.

Alternative Procedure: 3,000 tonnes of concrete spread evenly across the bridge of the nose will silence even the most stubborn of dissenters.

Traditionally, the wearer of concrete wellies will be dead. If this is not the case, you may need some help in holding their feet still while the concrete sets.
Mixture of sand, cement and water is known by builders as ‘gobbo’ and is used in building walls – concrete (below) actually relies upon the addition of a harsher ‘ballast’ – usually pebbles or grit – in precise ratio. It is a well-known fact that these ratios are never actually precise enough and the resulting mix is either too dry to lay, or so wet that next-door’s cat is consumed by it three weeks later.
This is especially relevant if you are trying to submerge a living victim. There is a very useful technique for ascertaining the vitality of your victim involving a small hand mirror, but I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it would be best to gag the victim whether alive or dead, but not with one of the monogrammed handkerchiefs that Aunty Sheila has bought you every Christmas for the last twenty years

CHAOS Disorder, confusion. The ultimate aim of the subversive group is to spread disorder and confusion throughout society. The ultimate dénouement is usually the spreading of disorder and confusion amongst the subversive group itself.

COLLABORATE Aid an enemy in occupation of one’s own country. To vote Conservative. In a war (subversives are always engaged in a war – even if it’s only with the car) collaboration is perfectly acceptable, providing you do it with the winners. In the Second World War, the French collaborators made three basic mistakes:

Collaborating with a party that offered little in return.
Collaborating with the losers.
Being French.

In order to make a real success of collaboration, you will first have to persuade somebody to occupy your country. If you are American, Chinese or Russian, I think you might as well give it up as a bad idea straight away. If, however, you live in Lichtenstein, you have a fighting chance¹. Your first step is to talk to someone with a larger army and persuade them to invade. Negotiating with a foreign power is not always easy:

HOW TO TEMPT THEM.

Advise them of the richness of your natural resources.
Offer them money.
Ask very, very politely.

HOW TO DEAL WITH THEM.

Be certain of their aims.
Be certain of your aims.
Get everything in writing.

IS IT WORTH IT?

No.

Although the non-fighting chance is always the preferred option.

The Analogue Kids #1 – Anybody’s Seat

“Excuse me, is this anybody’s seat?”
Harry hardly registered the question as he was asked it so often, but answered automatically nonetheless.
“Help yourself,” he said, barely raising his eyes from the book on his lap. The chair scraped back from the table, but was not, as he had anticipated, carried away. Instead a glass of wine appeared and a figure – little more than a shadow to his downcast vision – sat down.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
He did mind frankly, but he was courteous enough at least to mumble something that could just possibly be “Not at all,” with all the conviction of a Socialist Estate Agent.
“I’ve never seen you in here before,” the voice continued. “But then again, it’s the first time I’ve ever been in here, so…”
Harry felt obliged to look up. The interloper was female, around – he guessed – his own age and staring straight at him. He could have felt disquieted – she didn’t look like a stalker, although you never can tell – but instead he was intrigued. Why would anyone, least of all – on the face of it at least – a perfectly normal woman, choose to sit with him in what was, admittedly, a pretty full pub?
“Well, this is awkward isn’t it?” she said, the pause in conversation having reached Scandi Noir levels. “Is this situation weird? It is, isn’t it? Oh dear, maybe I shouldn’t have sat here. Should I go?”
“It’s fine,” Harry said, closing his book in an attempt to appear decisive. “It’s just … Look, when you’re sitting alone – as you may have noticed I was – people always come to ask you about the spare chair. It’s no problem, they just take it and that’s where it ends. Nobody ever just sits on it.”
“I know,” she said. “Muriel.” She held her hand out for him to shake. A bemused smile flashed across his face as he took the hand and said “Harry, I’m Harry.”
“Oh God,” moaned Muriel, “I’ve no idea why I did that. I mean, we’re not in a business meeting are we. I just… It’s busy in here tonight, isn’t it?”
“Quiz night,” said Harry
“Oh, do you do the quiz?”
“In a manner of speaking,” answered Harry. “I write down the answers, but I don’t enter. I’m on my own as you can see and people don’t take kindly to you doing well in a pub quiz, if you don’t have a team.”
“Maybe I could be your partner… In the quiz I mean… Obviously…”
“Why not?” he said, laying his book down on the table.
“What are you reading?”
Harry risked a brief glance at the book’s cover. “A Study in Scarlet,” he said, painfully aware that the slightly tatty paperback was little more than a suit of armour for him. A means to discourage unwanted conversation.
Muriel searched through her handbag. “I carry this,” she said, placing an equally dog-eared copy of Cold Comfort Farm on the table in front of her. “I mean, I love it and I’ve read it a thousand times, but in a pub, or a restaurant, on a bus, or in a hotel, I just open it and stare. It is my breathing space.”
“I’ll go and get our names down for the quiz,” said Harry, rising to his feet. “Would you?…” he nodded towards her now empty glass.
“Why not?” she answered.

Harry returned with a glass of wine, a pint of beer and the quiz sheet. “I didn’t know what to put as a team name,” he said, “so I just put Muriel and Harry.”
Muriel smiled. “I approve. Do you normally do well?” she asked. “You said that you write the answers down, even though you don’t enter. Do you do well?”
“I do ok,” he answered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been last.”
“Have you ever won?”
“From time to time,” he answered.
“Oh dear, I hope I’m not a bad omen.”
“It’s only a quiz,” he said. “I’m like everybody else. I know a lot of stuff, but I don’t know a whole lot more. What are you like at music?”
“I like Soul,” she said, sipping the wine.
“Well that’s ok then, because I can’t stand it. You’re one up on me already.”
“Sauvignon,” she said, smiling gratefully. “I thought you might get me Chardonnay.”
“I’ve only just met you,” he said. “I see no reason to upset you so soon.”
Muriel sipped her wine again. “Why that book?” she asked.
“I like it,” he answered. “I like the humour in it. Film-makers, television people, they always miss that. It’s just subtle enough for them not to get it. Besides, I’ve read it so many times that I can answer questions as if I am reading it if anyone asks. What about you and Stella Gibbons? Somehow I’d have expected Jane Austen.”
Muriel grimaced. “And we were getting along so well,” she said. “If there is a literature round in this quiz, you will discover that I really don’t know my Austen from my Bronte, nor, if I’m honest, my Bronte from my Bronte. I have, I am told, a particular sense of humour. Cold Comfort Farm made me giggle as a schoolgirl and I have carried it with me ever since. Most men, I have found, have never heard of it and so are very unlikely to embark on a conversation about it.”
“Would it disturb you if I did?”
“No,” she said. “…But don’t. I could have gone to the library for that.”
“Well, I’m beginning to get an idea of where we stand in this quiz: Soul music, tick, literary parody, tick, now how are you on history?”
“I’m of an age where I remember most of it: even life before mobile phones and home computers; two channels on the TV and nothing after The National Anthem at eleven o’clock. I remember when teenagers shared their deepest hopes and fears with a diary… and that had a lock on it.”
Harry laughed. “I guess we have to hope there’s no ‘Social Media’ round as well then. Maybe we should call ourselves The Analogue Kids next time,” he said.
Muriel raised an eyebrow. “Next time?” Harry could feel his face reddening. “Next time would be good,” she continued. “Perhaps you could save me a seat…

‘The Analog Kid’ is a 1982 song by Rush which, according to t’internet ‘captures the restless longing of youth, the pull of teenage freedom, and the bittersweet transition from a simple childhood into the complex adult world’. It also, I think, captures the spirit of people of ‘our age’ battling to get to grips with a new world.

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Blindfold to Burglary)

BLINDFOLD If you have ever played Pin the Tail on the Donkey, you will know that it is practically impossible to properly blindfold anybody, especially if they do not want to be blindfolded. Placing a bag¹ over the victim’s head is generally more successful and easier to do. If you must go for a blindfold avoid handkerchiefs, which are never big enough; silk scarves, which are never opaque enough, and pink fluffy elasticated eye-masks, which, in my opinion, are never tight enough.

1. It is generally worth investing a few pence on a cloth ‘Bag for Life’ rather than a supermarket plastic carrier, as, not only are they more environmentally friendly, they have less of a tendency to leave your abductee dead.

BLOOD It is my firm opinion that blood should be neither seen nor heard. Spilling blood is never good. If you feel the need to prove your commitment to the cause with the acquisition of a physical injury suffered in the pursuit of your principles, try to develop a blister or bloodless abrasion. Pain is one thing, we all know the discomfort a paper-cut can cause, but bleeding to death is quite another. Remember, blood on the external surfaces of the body is almost always a bad sign.

BOMB Explosive projectile. Explosives, effective as they are, are expensive, difficult to obtain and apt to blow bits off the unwary – so why not avoid them altogether and pop an empty crisp packet instead?

BOURGEOIS A person whose political, economic, and social opinions are believed to be determined mainly by concern for property values and conventional respectability. The Bourgeoisie are held in contempt both by those who have no property and therefore no interest in its value, and also by those who determine just what exactly amounts to ‘conventional respectability’. Heads you lose, tails you lose. This dichotomy was experienced most acutely during the French Revolution when the Bourgeoisie were reviled by both factions of the Gallic Class War. To be honest, I don’t think they lost too much sleep over it. ‘Here’s your options – the nobility are going to treat you with contempt because of your petty concerns over conventional respectabilities, whilst the proletariat are going to hold you down on a block of wood so that Monsieur Guillotine’s latest invention¹ can permanently separate you from the full range of bodily functions – now, who are you going to support?’ The Bourgeois are currently known as The Conservative Party and, strangely, have a deep affection for over-priced French Red and pieds-a-terre² in Normandy.

1. Monsieur Guillotine did not actually invent, but rather improved, this instrument of capital punishment – formerly known as the Scottish Maiden (Demoiselle Ecossaise). The guillotine replaced the previous method of execution in France, known as the Breaking Wheel (Rupture de la Roué) which was so barbaric that not even the French could stand it – and remember, this is the nation that dismembers frogs.

2. Literally ‘foot on the ground’ – because the kind of hovel that the French generally sell to the English will have mud floors, three walls and a roof that is fine as long as it doesn’t rain.

BREAK What you do to legs, arms etc.

BRICK What you do it with.

BUBO Pus-emitting swelling in groin or armpit. See Policeman’s Boot (below).

BURGLARY The act of entering a building or other premises with the intent to commit theft. Whilst this is not strictly an ethical act, it can be a highly efficient, if risky, method of raising funds, but then again, so can spending the day in a bath-full of baked beans. As with all such endeavours, the primary objective is ‘don’t get caught’. If you feel that this objective is not achievable, it is always advisable to pursue the secondary objective ‘persuade somebody else to do it for you’.

A TYPICAL D.I.Y BURGLARY – Walking along a quiet street, you notice an open window on the secluded side of a luxury, detached house. You scale the fence and climb in through the window, using the wheelie bin as a step. As you push your way through the open casement, the wheelie bin scoots away and demolishes the garden gate depositing week-old Indian take-away all over the drive way. Stepping from the window ledge, you catch one foot in the sink and the other in a giant potted hibiscus, which crashes to the floor followed by a) the better half of a twelve-piece dinner service and b) you. You attempt to clamber to your feet but find yourself staring into the glowering, yellow eyes of a giant, snarling bullmastiff. You exit the window in one bound, smashing your shin painfully against the kitchen tap and your forehead against the window lintel. Once outside you try to flee the scene, but slip on an extremely viscous Tarka Dahl and fall to the ground where you are immediately accosted by thirteen spitting feral cats and a postman with something brown and odorous on his shoe.

EXERCISE – Grow a beard:

Do not shave for at least six weeks.
Do you have a beard? (If the answer is ‘No’, you are a) a woman, b) a child, c) looking in the wrong place)
If the answer is ‘Yes’, eat a soft-boiled egg.
Try to look in the mirror without being repulsed by the aftermath.
Shave it off.

A Norwegian Blue* Kidney

Every day, they say, is a school day and this week has been a particularly educational one for me. At the beginning of the week, for instance, I learned of the difference between Urology and Nephrology. It is a tiny one, but nevertheless, there is little overlap between the two schools of medicine and furthermore, no information is shared between them. I also discovered that a kidney, having spent eight months being considered, measured and assessed has more than enough time on its hands in which to completely conk out. Maybe, like Schrodinger’s cat, it could have remained in a happily indeterminate state if nobody had looked into it, but the box got opened. I have discovered that I no longer have one fully-functional kidney taking the strain for its temporarily ailing twin, because that, to all intents and purposes, has popped its clogs. It is an ex-kidney.

Never mind, it is not the end of the world and I am assured that I only need one of them – although why, in that case, nature’s default model presents me with two I am uncertain – and the other one appears fine, providing, of course, that it does not find its own way to fall between the diagnostic cracks over the next few years. I have learned that whilst a kidney function of 90+ is acceptable for most people, the doctors are happy with 45 for the mono-kidneyed amongst us, so – on a per-kidney rating – I am bang on track. Although the consultant is at pains to point out that I am not, in fact, down to half the expected number of renal organs, I am merely carrying a non-functional member of the fraternity around with me much like the parents of a psychology student or a three year-old with a handkerchief. She is also at pains to inform me that everything she has told me might just prove to be factually incorrect once the urological Ying to her nephrological Yang has had the opportunity to appraise the scan images that she, as yet, has not been privy to. But she doesn’t think so…

I need, apparently, to eat well, to drink healthily, to exercise and to lose a little weight. All of these, I am told, should reduce the hypertension that has been having a playtime in my arteries for the past eight months of uncertainty. My blood pressure will, I am sure, fall like a stone with the knowledge that I am still unsure of anything except the likelihood that things are now somewhat less repairable than originally anticipated. Probably… I have no certainties and in that, I suppose, I am in exactly the same position as everybody else.

Accepting what you have got is not difficult, it is essential if you don’t want to drive yourself mad. One way or another, things are definitely not bleak: they’re ok, I’m ok. I feel well and there is nothing I cannot do (which is amazing because there was so much that I couldn’t do last week – swim without looking like a drowning dog; run without looking like my final day has dawned; bend down and get back up without audibly grunting). My diet is good, I’m relatively healthy (once I’ve taken the pills) and I’m fit. There were other, far more concerning options, so I am, all in all, in a good place.

I know that I tend to over-think things, which is certainly not the healthiest of habits, although I do try to keep my concerns to myself by and large. I do talk to my wife of course who tells me ‘you over-think things’ so that’s ok and I am fully aware that most people have more than enough problems of their own without having to listen to mine.

Which leads me to the final thing that I have learned about myself recently. I have discovered that I am far more British than I could possibly have imagined. I have spent the last couple of days consciously trying to make light of the situation because I am aware that worrying about such things achieves nothing. Finding absurdity is what I do best. Physically, I am visibly well and although my fitness tracker (which appears to have been programmed by my ex-headmaster) continues to tell me that I must try harder, I am actually far fitter than thirty year-old me ever assumed I would be at this age. To moan about this set-back would seem incredibly disingenuous. Outwardly, the biggest reaction I have allowed myself to date has been a proto-Gallic shrug; the kind of thing a Parisian does when his morning coffee is not quite up to scratch: c’est la vie and all that. I’ve got football to play tomorrow, grandkids to mind over the summer holidays and a drawer-full of chocolate to resist. Most of the pending D.I.Y jobs have been put on hold over until the weather starts to cool, but they are waiting for me. (Boy are they waiting for me!) I will try to be good with both food and drink (three litres of water a day I am told which, given the size of my prostate¹ in relation to that of my bladder, may prove a very interesting challenge – but I’m always up for those) and should I fail I will blame any ill-effects on the non-operative nephro-bean – it might as well serve some purpose…

*“This parrot is no more. It has ceased to be. It’s expired and gone to meet its maker. This is a late parrot. It’s a stiff. Bereft of life it rests in peace…” Monty Python’s Flying Circus – The Norwegian Blue Parrot.

¹In a similar vein, I have just read through this post (Prostate) from way back in 2018. Time passes, but it would seem that the more things change, the more they stay the same…

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y. Subversion (Blackmail)

BLACKMAIL Money extorted by threat; hush money. A simple and relatively inexpensive method of subversion, requiring the minimum of equipment:

A smart phone with camera and voice recorder or, at a push, a camera and a voice recorder.
An insight into the daily routines and habits of a notable public figure who is likely to do something disgusting enough to make him vulnerable.
A large thermos flask and a Tupperware box for your sandwiches.

Blackmail is definitely not the kind of thing that you can go rushing into willy-nilly. Planning must be thorough, meticulous and written down in really big capital letters to avoid any confusion.

Take great care when identifying your victim:

He/she must be financially viable – there is little point in blackmailing someone who cannot pay.
Ensure that they are doing something that they shouldn’t be doing – paragons of virtue are notoriously difficult to blackmail.
Ensure that they care – you’ll get nowhere if your victim doesn’t give a toss what other people think about them.

In gathering the evidence you will require in order to execute your plot, you will almost certainly have to conceal yourself at some stage. Take great care when selecting your hiding place: there are some wonderful places in which to secrete yourself, but they are of very little use to you if they are on the other side of town to the naughtiness. Try and find somewhere to hide in the room where the action is expected to take place. Having decided on the wardrobe, ensure that the door can be opened from the inside – there is nothing worse than being trapped inside the closet whilst the action is taking place on the bed outside, particularly if the flash goes off.

Having leapt out of the wardrobe and captured an image of your victim(s) in flagrante, you must now face the biggest challenge of the whole operation – escape. Plan, plan and triple plan your escape. Have as many alternative escape routes arranged as possible and be aware that you will be attempting to negotiate them whilst lugging your out-of-shape frame along passages and alleyways at speeds far greater than furred-up arteries will appreciate, into a fire door that someone will, inevitably, have locked.

Should you manage to affect an escape, send a simple, straightforward blackmail note to your victim, informing him/her that you will turn the photographs over to husband/wife/police/avoid nausea, unless you receive £10,000 in used notes¹ before the end of the week. Don’t be dissuaded from proceeding if, in the excitement of catching them ‘at it’, you got the angle all wrong and cut their heads off in the finished photograph. There is often incriminating evidence to be found on photos of knees and ankles.

Arrange somewhere very unusual for the money to be left; get somebody else to collect it in case things go wrong and always count the cash before you post the evidence. Do not simply count bundles – remember they may be a ‘sandwich’ of real notes filled with carefully cut newspaper. Always be suspicious if they are carried in a suitcase and the carrier removes one bundle and flicks the corners in front of your face before closing the lid and handing it over. Also, beware of other people in the vicinity carrying identical cases, particularly if they sidle up to you whilst you are waiting for the bus.

A TYPICAL D.I.Y BLACKMAIL PLOT – You are probably the last person this side of Alpha Centauri to discover that your boss is having an affair with his secretary. Through astute investigation and by asking the cleaner, you discover the location of their weekend assignations, and fight your way into the wardrobe where you wait for the main event. You are woken by the 37 other subversives scattered around the room firing off their Yasichas in deafening unison. You leap to your feet, partially garrotting yourself on a pair of braces and take a brilliant flash photograph of the contents of your nose, which the local chemist over-develops. On leaving the hotel, you trip on the stairs and snap the shutter release from your Kodak.

Personally I always prefer crisp, new ones, but the secondhand appears to be the preferred subversive note of choice.