Day 18

The Cauldron of Udder Decay


03.30 Awakened with a blinding flash
Subject: The Foetal Corpuscle

Dearest Darling Forsythia,



And now, for my latest concept in substandard housing.

You will, of course, have noted my personal experiences gleaned from spelunking in the tricky little disc-slots of my computer. But, you may have asked yourself, what have I actually learned from all this? Aside from the obvious, that it? To answer you, let me just say that I am now fully cognoscente of the fact that far too many people know far too little about the proper use of computer discs. This is, of course, potentially both catastrophic and economically wasteful. It leads directly to an incredible amount of wasted space, and wasted space means someone who could be getting rich, isn’t.

I will set aside, at least for now, the benefits derived by one’s posterior when floppies are improperly inserted. It is not for nothing that they are past their sell-by date and have, by enlarge, been discontinued.

But back to us. As you well know, housing is a problem, especially the affordable variety. Open the newspaper on any given day and even the most myopic of fools can see there is no shortage of upscale apartments and houses, which is good because it gives those of us with taste something to live for. To put it bluntly, if you have the means, you have the sixteen homes you can’t live without. However, what about the others? What about those who are in every respect undesirable, detestable and unsalvageable? Where are they expected to live? God only knows there are enough of them, at least according to documentary filmmakers and those social reformers who are unable to have a good hair day. Many of us, of course, have considered the relative benefits of relocating the inconvenient masses to far-off continents, but that has, or so I understand, been attempted by various countries in the past – using such primitive destinations as Australia and North America, etc. – but without fail those experiments proved disastrous. Look what happened when the deportees turned native; they came down with terminal cases of ego inflatibus, and are now making life miserable for everybody else. In the case of Australia, what was essentially a penal colony is now under the impression that it is now a bona fide country, though how grating accents, swilling beer and eating burnt food in their back yards qualifies them for that honour is beyond me. And forget North America. Just the thought of it gives me diarrhoea. Send the pests across the sea, they were told. Transport them; incarcerate them; abandon them with neither weapons nor food. Chain them to the cliffs and forget to rescue them. But did that happen? Nooooooooooo. Some git went and messed up the best-laid plans. Felt sorry for them. Gave them beer and turned them into (in the case of the ‘Australians’) sheep station attendants. Then some moron glued a new map to the globe, rewrote history, forgot the past, taught the deportees funny accents (yes, I know, I’m repeating myself), and the world was lost. You simply cannot imagine how upset I am, but there you are. A tale of woe and an abject lesson in what happens when you don’t get the details right. Bedlam and inconvenient questions asked at awkward times of politicians, usually when they are in the process of engaging a new cook or arranging passes for the enclosure at Ascot or Longchamps.

Getting the details right. That is the key. Now, being politically correct, I have refrained from calling our Solomon Islands development a penal, or is it penile, colony. Reform types and those with nanny tendencies might develop an unhealthy interest in out progress, whereas they will stay a billion miles away from anything resembling a Bible Retreat/Salvation Resort. I mean, what bureaucrat or social worker would be caught dead investigating something as cheesy or blatantly pathetic as Oy, Ye, Mah Purdy Cheese-Soup Holiday Camp and Inferno Bordello and Anita’s White Slavery Motor Hotel and Miniature Golf Course®. Penal, or penile, colonies inevitably come under the close scrutiny of civil libertarians; they are reviews ad nausea by ministerial permanent undersecretaries. They become the focus of independent investigations and government sub-committees. And become favourite topics of evening news broadcasts and chat shows. However, we have the upper hand. Our colony is directly under the patronage of Jeezus. We can do anything we want. We can even buy all the bombs we want, because what Jeezus wants Jeezus gets. Jeezus is good for the world. And he loves us, or at least he says he does. And if he sold Ferraris instead of Chevrolets, I might buy one from him. But enough of me.

After this lengthy but nutritious digression, let us return to the matter of those tricky little slits in one’s computer apparatus. The ones that eat you when you’re not looking or when your eyes are crossed. Couldn’t we somehow come up with a way to ensure that all unused computer slits are henceforth made available for substandard housing??? Just think of it! Within each portal there is sufficient room for a single mother with five children, or a married couple with nary a thought in their minds or a song in their hearts. Each one has limitless cupboard space for packets of crisps, beer, hamburgers and deep-fried Mars Bars, as well as the occasional bag of mouldy sausages for a Friday night fry-up. It goes without saying that there are literally thousands of old television sets you can move in with you, most in working order, all the better for watching your favourite soap stars and footies frolicking on the pitch, and if you’re really determined, you might also find old, lime-coloured chairs, scratched lino, and the lovely patterned carpet we all know and love from ‘by the hour’ hotels. I’ll bet your next child that, with enough patience and intestinal fortitude, furnishings of all sorts would soon fill each cosy nook to overflowing. Innit wonderful? There are literally millions and millions of underused and obsolete computers lying about just waiting to be occupied. Yearning to be occupied. That’s what they dream about. And since underused and obsolete computers have not yet learned the value of money, they almost never charge rent! The opportunity is there! May I suggest, therefore, before you do anything else, you might corner the market in obsolete computer terminals; such a move would, with careful planning and a certain ruthlessness, finance all our other endeavours and make us obscenely rich. After all, we know all about charging rent don’t we? Not to mention all those delightfully hidden fees. Are you with me? Wanna hear more?

According to my research, becoming an evil slumlord carries with it a certain mysterious odour, a delectable cachotterie, if you will. A brazen example of this can be found in New York, a cesspit of the truly obvious and unnecessary, in Stomp, or whatever his name is. You know the one I mean? Has a strange, little sideways mouth which opens like an oval, only the wrong way. A dead cat on his head. Fancies naming everything after himself. I believe he’s done quite well for himself, and therefore, should be studied seriously. I’m sure he has much to teach us if we want our smell to equal or surpass his.

Do you think our director of marketing might wish to marry him for a couple of months? It shouldn’t take more than that to discover all his trade secrets. She should go blond, however, before the wedding night. He likes them blond.

Now I do admit that I have neglected to mention a number of vital logistics - or is it statistics? - but no matter. With your profound knowledge of social work, social problems and such like, I know you will be able to draft agreeable legislation and herd it through the bureaucratic maze in no time at all. After that, our New Social Salvation and Individual Housing Unit Compact for a Just and Equitable Society© will become the Law of the Land. Any Land. Every Land. This is the reason why I championed your attendance in Law School and the Ministry in the first place. Surely you recall that one Sunday, oh, so long ago, when you were six and I was slightly more advanced, and we were eating purée de panais et petit pois brûlé en croute aux crème d’huître, as your governess’ canary sang in the next room and the smoke from the nearby crematorium wafted through the open window. After the plates had been cleared by Madamoiselle Cecile and our dessert (boiled onion with strawberries, if I remember correctly) had been placed in front of us on the nursery table, I said to you, … and always remember, my dearest Forsythia, after completing your baccalauréat, there will always be the law. And then, so many years later, after Madamoiselle Cecile had died of apoplexy and you had lost your virginity to whatsisname during a performance of L’Age d’Or at le Théâtre du Soleil, so much was fulfilled and so little went unrequited.

But, again, I disgress. I cannot refrain for a single more minute from stressing that immigration policies must be tightened in our beloved country, The Splendidly Glorious and Triumphant Grand Duchy of Chlamydeous, may it Triumph for a Thousand Thousand Years®. I awaken in the clammy darkness before dawn, numbingly chilled to my very marrow and drenched with sweat, visualising in my mind’s eye our green and gentle country overrun by… oh, by my troth, I cannot even bring myself to utter their names, for they bring with them the unspeakable and puerile. But never mind. After a few nightmarish hours, I gently calm myself, taking in deep breath upon deep breath and occasionally exhaling, and then, with an OM in my heart and a swamp in my sinuses, I realise it has been a chimera; you will never be forced to wear cheap shoes or buy shoddy knockoffs online. I pray, my dearest Forsythia, that there will always be someone there to clean up your messes. I love you but only figuratively - HWISGAAOMRIU®

PS. Please remind me, lest I require prodding from a less mellifluent source. How can we make use of that which is manufactured in and dribbles from our precious noses? Please do assist me in this arena, for my heart is full and my anguish incomplete.

PPS. My ventricles thunder from the knowledge that your work is so beneficial. Kindly remember when it was that I last ate. I, myself, have quite forgotten, though we are faint from hunger.

***

09.03 But who gives a shit what time it is?
Subject: Puckety

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


Nothing in your schooling has properly prepared you for a career in professional field hockey.

This sad and loathsome fact has led me to investigate the need for a massive class-action suit, to be filed on your behalf against any and all parties, who, at some point in your life, may have fielded critical appraisals resulting in an acute loss of self-esteem and ruin.

To that end, I shall soon draw up a list of annoying people. - HWISGAAOMRIU®
***

12.47 Eating the rat turd I found in my pocket
Subject: Later in the day

Dearest Darling Forsythia,



My mind is blackness, clogged with every bewilderment, and I fear for the last nuggets of remembrance: éclairs in the sunshine; porridge in the bile; sweet love on slimy rocks; hyssop in the hay. Things (all that is contained within that magical word) are definitely slipping, and if you weren’t so appallingly weird and omnipresent I might, perforce, cry for help. Even so, think you that you might find it in your heart to send someone, someone nice and friendly and sociable and generous of spirit? I am verily starving, wasting for want of all manner of sustenance, for food and gentle companionship. You see, my joyous erstwhile squatters have finally and completely abandoned me. With out a word. Without a fond farewell. Without even a baser retort. I do not know if I should retain any vestiges of hope or pray for a quick and paltry end. Please, my dearest friend, when you’ve got a shred of time at your disposal, please advise me. Mental slippage is not fun, especially when it is accompanied by intestinal cramping. Please, please, please don’t forget about me entirely. - HWISGAAOMRIU®

***

15.22 Delirium and sweet cankers
Subject: Vegetables

Dearest Darling Forsythia,



Did I just send you something? An email, perhaps, or a greeting card or a gift certificate from Sephora Blanc or Amin Kader? My short-term memory has got lost on the way to my brain, my poor mind is playing tricks on me, and I’m sorry if I upset you occasionally. If only I could remember to do it more often, you’d be used to it by now.

Be that as it may, I am increasingly concerned about your vegetable consumption. How much and when and where and what and whence? Please, please, please beware of the source of mostly mad-cow pats. Grass and crunchy green nibbles. Have you ever seen a cow eat anything other than grass and crunchy green nibbles – discounting, of course, the occasional twig or branch or meadow flower or bird’s nest? No? Well, I must put it to you that the primary cause of mostly mad-cow pats just might be grass and crunchy green nibbles, if not the worst sort of vegetables (ignoring, if you will, the occasional severed finger, used condom and joyful spludge of chicken shit). We simply must conclude, therefore, that these bad vegetables (along with the occasional severed finger, used condom, and joyful spludge of chicken shit) should be banned until such time as they have been studied within an inch of their lives. At the very least we should expect some sort of blue ribbon governmental enquiry and the possibility of ministerial sanctions, to be followed abruptly by a series of cooling off periods, government scandals and the return of interesting social diseases. At least that’s how several Great Leaders of the Past would have dealt with it, especially their wives. Wives at that time – it was before the advent of focus groups and twelve year old political consultants – had balls, with double starch and furry grit, unlike the wives of today who have personal assistants. Where, you may ask, is machismo when you need it most?

By the way, please do not point out that man-cow disease was eradicated years ago. There are plenty of mad cows about. Have you visited a dairy farm recently? Haven’t you ever witnessed a large swarm of cow who’ve been kept waiting, while their udders stretch and shudder, their shit shoots and their brains explode with angst and desperation? If they are not mad, then I don’t know what is! So kindly keep your misplaced sympathies to yourself!

What I am actually suggesting to you, albeit in a more than usually meandering style, is that, for your own personal safety and inward bliss, you should henceforth restrict your diet to reconstructed parsnips (avoiding mangelwurtzels; they are commonly added to bran mash and fed to livestock. You have more than enough problems without being transformed into a broodmare. I almost said racehorse, but, to be honest, your lack of expertise in field hockey precludes an athletic career). Banana cake is also nutritionally beneficial, as long as you are careful to eliminate the sultanas. By all means, gorge yourself on burnt spaghetti casserole with a rapturous sauce Marmite d’Angleterre, and, if you have time weighing heavily on your hands, there is always the ever enchanting and divinely inspired soufflé de gnu with lumps and odd bits and pieces.

It is with great sorrow and a heavy heart that I own up to a recent and somewhat unfortunate encounter with an aubergine, an encounter which resulted in what only can be described as a lamentable and excruciatingly painful eruptive reaction in the lining of my bouche. Initially, I had blamed chocolate (for which I shall, no doubt, serve a lengthy and severe beating the instant I step into hell). You see, an extremely dense and rather superior confection had shared the same repast, but I soon came to my senses. On may tolerate one allergy, even a fatal one, to the likes of aubergine. It is, after all, a vegetable of the very worst sort, with a colour that is so two years ago. Chocolate, on the other hand, is divine, the food of the gods, and must never be spoken of in vain. But to regress. That particular meal was my last to date. It came last Friday, or was it Thursday, one of the few times when an obliging bistro has, for a small gratuity, gone to the trouble of sending an order as an attachment. Mind you, the plating left something to be desired, but beggars cannot be choosers. Anyway, I am in a bad way. Do you think you might be persuaded to actually read my emails? Is there anyone, anywhere, who has a sympathetic heart and is able to exert influence on your actions?

Ah, but my mind wanders. As much as I cling to Denial – one of my very best friends – I now live in mortal terror that I shall be severely punished in the afterlife, if not before, for daring to think and speak ill of chocolate. Was there a hint of irony in my voice when I said it was the Food of the Gods? Not that you would know, because all that you possess are mute, written testaments. Emails. The silent and the dead. My conscience, that whingeing part of me that I am normally able to repress, now insists upon a hearing. Chocolate is the basic food group of the gods, it roars. By blaspheming, you have committed a mortal sin. What am I to do? In your opinion, based as it is upon years and decades of research and political circumspection, will The Master of the Universe™, Blessed be He™, be more lenient if I could get a minion together and start saying kaddish this very day? Before the sun goes down and it is too late? And what if I ask them to bring holy water, as well? Lots of holy water? Gallons of holy water? Swimming pools full of holy water? Swimming pools in which small children have not as yet urinated? And incense, of course, as well as a half-dozen or so of those temple prostitutes, just to cheer everybody up and make for a grand occasion. Isn’t that what we really want? A grand occasion? Come of think of it, let’s make it an even dozen temple prostitutes. Four dozen even. One for some and seventeen for the one in the back row. And couldn’t we dress them in black shiny plastic? Playing bagpipes and carrying cattle prods?

But I digress once again (Oh fool that I am). I return to you ere you lose interest and have fifteen more babies before sunset. Back to you, for the simple reason that you will find yourself far more interesting (and don’t say you won’t) than my slow death from starvation and circulatory strangulation, not to mention a latter day bowel dysfunction that has chosen me for its own. Have you ever thought of taking up tennis for a career? Forget your lack of athletic prowess. What I am thinking is, the sooner you become wildly famous and enchantingly rich, the sooner you will be paid for endorsing wine. You will then be paid for getting drunk and will no longer have to practice every night for free, a situation which might please Whatsisname no end. You really should speak with our director of marketing, who is, for various reasons, eerily fluid with racquetal movements, and arrange for lessons. For tennis, not wine endorsements. Do not blunder, your life is undervalued as it is, as well as quite unpleasantly unnecessary. - HWISGAAOMRIU®