Women should never be in any doubt as to which of their assets men look upon with the greatest admiration.
Thanks, Lou, for being my first – this year at least. You have no idea what pleasure it gave me to open the envelope and see your card. Sometimes it seems to me that women have an almost preternatural ability to know what most appeals to men – I don’t know how they do it.
And a nice limerick too. It didn’t make me feel at all insecure.
Right, folks. This is the one which is to set off an avalanche. Don’t miss your chance to have your contribution posted in Simon’s blog. Be famous!
Two years ago, on my previous blogging site, one of my readers came up with a suggestion. It was that other readers should send me cards – either postcards or Christmas cards – which I should then scan and display in my blog.
It was a big success, at least considering the relatively small number of readers I had: I got over forty cards that year, from the end of November through to January, and almost as many last year, when I tried it again. Most of the cards were ordinary Christmas cards, but I got a wide range of postcards, the latter generally showing the place where the person came from, and often with an amusing or cryptic message. Or a downright crude one of course. There were some inclusions, generally of a vulgar nature, such as the vibrating cockring and sachet of masturbation cream I got from Indantatia, and an interesting range of stamps from around the world. Okay, mainly the English-speaking world, but also from Denmark, Austria, Germany, the Netherlands and Scotland.
For the last few weeks I’ve considered trying the same here on Blogger, even though I have a fraction of the readers I did previously. I dithered. Then I saw how Mae had offered to send a postcard from Cairo to any of her readers who asked, and I thought ‘What the hell, I can only face complete humiliation when I only get one card; I shall go for it.’
So, dear readers, I am inviting you to send me a card – either a postcard or a Christmas card – at some point over the next month or so, for me to scan and publish in this blog. Anything will be gratefully received, though if they’re amusing or strange then so much the better: they are not primarily for me, but for the enjoyment of your fellow readers.
Note: This isn’t a request for you to put me on your Christmas card list or anything like that. It’s just for a bit of fun – or at least it will be if anyone bloody well sends anything.
My name and address is:
Simon Butler,
33 Springwood Gardens,
Belper,
Derbyshire,
DE56 1JR
ENGLAND
…though if you’re short of space on the card, you can omit the ‘Derbyshire’, which is implicit in the postcode. We in England take a perverse pride in our unwieldy postal address format, and sneer at places like the US and Australia where a name and address may occupy as little as three lines.
‘Just down here,’ I said, ushering my client into the basement. ‘Don’t be concerned about the smell – just an experiment which went wrong; nothing to worry about, ha ha!’
The young woman paused just inside the doorway and looked around the laboratory cautiously; the glass jars with their unidentifiable but clearly organic contents, the heavy-duty power cables, the surgical implements, the large bench with the human form lying on it.
‘There we are!’ I said, rubbing my hands together. ‘I told you I’d do it. They didn’t believe me, you know. They said I was mad. Can you believe that? Such ignorant fools.’
‘So you managed it then,’ The woman whispered in admiration as I led her over to the bench. ‘You made one for me. One who will not disappoint me, who will meet all my ideals…’
‘Indeed,’ I answered, my eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. ‘Here he is! Tau, I call him. Perfect in every respect!’ I hesitated slightly, for I am compulsively honest. ‘Well, in almost every respect. In every matter of importance. There are a few bugs, glitches, minor things. He’s almost as stable as if Microsoft had designed him! Alpha, Beta and the others… well, they were prototypes. One must expect a few teething problems.’
The woman looked impressed, as well she might. ‘But what about his… performance?’ she asked, looking with fascination at the naked, muscular male body stretched out before her. ‘Is it true that you managed to program him to do all I want?’
‘More than that,’ I said proudly. ‘You can personally configure him yourself. Watch!’
I pressed a button on a remote control and Tau opened his eyes. He stood up and slid from the bench to face the woman. His look was vacant and his jaw hung slight open; his arms hung slackly by his sides. ‘You see?’ I said. ‘Indistinguishable from an average human male. Limited observational skills, low intelligence and so on. Entirely normal. Now watch.’
I held up a photograph of Angelina Jolie. Tau’s eyes lit up and he began to salivate. He made vague fumbling motions towards the picture. ‘Want!’ Want!’ he mumbled. Lower down his body other physical changes were evident. Very evident. The woman’s eyes widened with interest.
‘Yes, quite,’ I said. ‘Nothing but the best synthetic tissue! More human than human, if I may paraphrase a character from a well-known film. Of course the ones in that case turned out to be psychopathic killers, but that that is a mistake anyone could make! But enough of that, this is the exciting part…’ I pressed another button and keyed in a sequence of instructions.
Tau’s expression changed. He became more alert. He lost interest in the picture, and he instead swung round to examine the woman with both fascination and respect. He knelt before her. ‘My darling,’ he said, his voice deep and pleasing, ‘I exist only to serve you. You are the sole reason for my being. I dedicate myself entirely to you.’ He bent lower, and, abasing himself before her, kissed her shoes. ‘Angelina means nothing to me. I have already forgotten how I enjoyed the delights of her exquisite body; she is a mere…’
His voice stopped as I hastily pressed another series of buttons. My client looked at me quizzically. ‘Angelina?’ she asked, her eyebrows raised.
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Yes. It was necessary for me to build a perfect female form. Erm. For research and development purposes. I shall have no further use for her now, of course!’
‘Naturally,’ the woman observed drily. Her attention returned to Tau, who was still prostrated at her feet. ‘So he will never be interested in another woman? Only in me?’
‘Exactly,’ I replied. ‘More so; he will only want to please you. With the use of the keypad and his own heuristic abilities he will soon be doing everything you want of him without you having to ask. He will rapidly learn all about you; your personal details, your tastes – everything. He will always be able to recognise you, even if you dye your hair or develop a disfiguring skin disease. He will never fail to notice if you make changes to your appearance, such as a new hairstyle, different clothes or whatever – things which no normal man would ever detect; furthermore he will compliment you upon them. He will never forget a birthday or other anniversary or celebration. If you indicate you like to be given flowers of a particular type he will get them for you. He will be able to judge your mood to tell the appropriate times to do so. Should you wish to be tied naked to a bed and spanked, he will do it.’ I hesitated. ‘Not that I was suggesting that you would, of course, but if you were to… erm…’
‘I think I get the idea,’ said the woman, her eyes revealing her growing interest, as Tau continued to grovel and make desperate attempts to gain her approval. ‘But what of his needs? Watching football on TV, drinking beer, belching, scratching his testicles in public, all that sort of thing. Surely all these things are an essential part of male behaviour.’
‘You might think so,’ I replied, ‘but that would not apply in Tau’s case. For example I found that approximately one third of the average man’s brain capacity is taken up by the ability to understand and create jokes about farting. By freeing up these areas I was able to make Tau capable of picking up the sort of obscure and oblique comments or questions which are so often made by women – and which are so baffling to ordinary men. He will be able to give satisfactory answers to questions such as ‘Do you love me?’, ‘Do you think she’s attractive?’, ‘Do you think I’m fat?’, ‘Does this colour go with my eyes?’ and others of this type.’
‘Hmm…’ said my client. ‘But what about his own sexual desires?’
‘Simple. He has none,’ I answered. ‘His only motivation to have sex is to please you. He will soon learn your needs, but for the first week or so you should just use the built-in timer. Let me show you.’ I flipped out another panel and indicated the display, while the woman looked over my shoulder. Tau shuffled around on all fours after her, whimpering slightly as her stiletto heels dug into his hands. ‘The default settings are 06:30 to 07:30 and 22:30 to 23:30, but you can adjust these to suit, or override them at any time. For example if he wakes up and attempts to initiate sex too early you simply hit the snooze button located behind his left ear and he’ll fall asleep for another ten minutes – or any other preset interval – before trying again. You can turn him on at any time using the usual methods for standard human males. The level of… erm… vigour is set on this scale here—’
‘Hot, warm, cool and delicate/silk.’ the woman read off, raising her eyebrows again.
‘Well, yes, I did use some washing machine program software,’ I replied, somewhat defensively. ‘It seemed a waste not to use it. But these are just the manual settings provided for the period while you’re… erm… running him in, as it were. After a week or so he will have learned exactly how to satisfy you; when you want him to use any particular technique, what degree of passion, what duration and so on.’
‘Duration?’ asked the woman. ‘How long can he… ah… keep it up for?’
‘While his default settings allow him to continue for an incredible two minutes,’ I said proudly, ‘this can be set in principle to any length of time. Unlike a normal man, he won’t stop when he’s had enough; only when you have. He will never tire; he will perform whatever duty you wish him to – he will be everything you desire in a man!’
I hesitated again, as my conscience compelled me to be completely honest. ‘But for the initial period he may be a little… lacking in finesse. And predictability. After all, his basic operating system is Windows 95! Should he ever lock up at any stage you’ll have to press the manual reset button behind his right ear and he’ll boot up into Safe Mode.’ I looked a little uncomfortable. ‘You may want to use that if his behaviour should become erratic at any time. He hasn’t been completely beta-tested I’m afraid. For example it may be wise to keep him clear of knives or household pets for a while. You may also want to put him in standby mode when you’re not actually using him – safer and more energy-efficient. You can store him in a cupboard while you’re out at work for example.’
‘I’m very impressed,’ said the young woman. ‘I’d certainly like to give him a go. Any other little things you want to tell me about before I take him?’
‘Ah!’ I said, slapping my forehead. ‘I knew there was something. You don’t need to worry about the most important male dysfunction of all. And you don’t need to because, being a cyborg, he has none of the basic bodily functions.’
‘Of course,’ she nodded wisely, ‘I don’t need to worry about him leaving the toilet seat up.’
Those of you who have been reading my blog will be aware of the strange – some would say incredible – way in which I discovered that I had two illegitimate daughters, plus a third who was a half-human, half-alien hybrid, and that by a remarkable coincidence they were all girls who were bloggers on this site.
This morning I was delighted to receive a postcard from the eldest – formerly The Girl with the Pink Teacup, or ‘Red’, as she now styles herself – revealing that her memory had not, after all, been reprogrammed by her alien masters. But my fatherly pride at seeing the three of them happily posing together was not to last long.
The damage done to their children’s lives by neglectful or absent fathers is a subject frequently commented on, but the matter could hardly have been better demonstrated in my case than by an examination of the above picture. Not because it showed that all three of them were working in a brothel – a father can only be pleased to see his daughters establish themselves in a career – but that they appear to be charging only two shillings and sixpence for their services (35¢ to US or Canadian clients). Though I admit I am not sure if that is their individual or collective fee, it should be at least twice as much. Three times, even.
This is what paternal neglect results in. Daughters who do not realise their full value, and who underestimate their worth. It is a terrible thing. I have failed them as a father. Failed them all.
As most regular readers of mine will be aware, the joy of finding I had a third illegitimate daughter was dampened by her disappearance on that same day. But now a message purported to be from her has been discovered in a blog elsewhere on this site.
Whether the message is genuine or not must remain uncertain – it could be the work of a skilled forger – but for those of you wishing to analyse it yourself, please visit Tennyson ee Hemingway’s blog for a full transcript.
My own faith is unshakeable. Only a daughter of mine could have written such things as ‘amputee porn’ and ‘finger-banging me senseless’. But I shall leave it to you, as intelligent persons, to decide for yourself.
Imperial Stormtroopers, following a tip-off that a Jedi Master was hiding out in a swamp on the planet of Dagobah, arrested a humanoid in what turned out to be an humiliatingly bungled operation. The humanoid, who gave his name as Mr Yoda, explained he was on his way home from an Ann Summers party, and that the device they had thought to be a light sabre was in fact a battery-operated sex toy called a ‘Deep Prober’, whose purpose he declined to explain.
Despite being released, Mr Yoda is expected to lose his teaching post after the incident. It is understood that he has a young man – whose name is believed to be Luke – under his tutelage at present, and there is concern in the local community that Mr Yoda may have an unhealthy influence on his future.
The person in charge of the operation, a Mr Vader, or ‘Lord Vader, the Dark Lord of the Sith’, as he asked to be identified, apologised for the misunderstanding, saying ‘heads would roll’ for the debacle.
This entry originally appeared in my last blog at Journalspace. When, in the comments section of an earlier entry, my second illegitimate daughter Indantatia said she’d like to see a picture of Yoda in girls’ panties, I suspect she was not being serious. But you have to be careful when you make remarks in my journal, for your wishes may come true (though not all of them, I regret to say).
I would also forestall any questions from non-British readers asking what an Ann Summers party is by providing a link to the relevant website, thus saving me the embarrassment of explaining something I don’t fully understand myself, at least not as a participant.
And please, I’d rather not have anyone saying ‘That doesn’t look like the swamp-world of Dagobah to me!’ Have you ever been there? I thought not.
The Deep Prober measures 260mm x 35mm and requires 3 AA batteries.
IMPORTANT NOTE: To properly understand what follows you must read the letter below, or the remainder of this sorry tale will make very little sense.
The fateful letter to my daughter that was to lead to her disappearance. (Left-click on each page to open it full-size in a new window).
When I first discovered that The Girl with the Pink Teacup was another illegitimate daughter of mine, I sent her the letter you have just read; a copy of which now lies before me. It is stained by my tears.
I am sure that many of you will know what it is like to discover that your daughter is a half-human, half-alien hybrid, and I, like you, was prepared to love her half as much as my human daughters. How could I fail to do otherwise? But the love I felt for her was all too soon to be turned to grief, in a development that was to seem like a badly-written 1960s sci-fi novel.
I had hoped to gain my dear daughter’s forgiveness, even acceptance, to assuage my guilt for the way I had neglected her – albeit unknowingly – for the twenty-four years of her life. Instead the letter was to lead to tragedy. I should have realised that in sending it I was betraying her, but in my woeful naivety I failed to do so.
By cruel coincidence today is Father’s Day in Australia: I had been hoping that my daughter might make contact with me, giving me the release I so desperately needed, but instead I received an email from her distraught boyfriend. Returning home he had been unable to find her in the house, and, puzzled, he had looked on her desk, where he had found my letter – and another, partly completed one that she had started writing to me in reply.
Shocked by what he saw in both letters – finding that your girlfriend is a half-alien, half-human hybrid can be disconcerting to some, more sensitive people – he had looked up my email address in her contacts list and sent me a scan of the mysterious message, wanting to know if I could explain it, and if I could tell him what could have happened to my daughter.
The words that told me all I needed to know. (Click to enlarge)
I knew as soon as I saw it. I had been a fool to tell her the truth. They had found out, and had come for her. She could not be allowed to tell others of her real origin. I could only weep as I thought of how, even as I was reading those words, they would be inserting their long, shiny probes into her vulnerable body. Or was it the thick, ribbed ones? There was still much I could not remember of those long ago pleasures. Worse, they would tamper with her memory again, altering her identity, changing her into another person with no recollection of her past.
My daughter would no longer remember me. She would not remember her blog. Oh, I knew that they would arrange things so her disappearance would be accepted. There would still be a final post for the week’s Sunday Secrets, and some reason would be supplied for her closing down her blog, one that her readers would believe. Even the replies left to comments would seem to be authentic ones written by her.
But I would know the truth. For a while at least. Because they will be coming for me next. And her boyfriend. And, of course, anyone who has made the mistake of reading this.
A rare sighting of a late-model Reliant Regal in its native habitat.
I stood quietly at the bar in the smoke-filled pub, idly running my fingers through my long grey beard as I listened to the conversation around me. A group of business-suited men standing near me were talking about cars; specifically of cars they had owned, boasting about their performance and the prestige they gained from having them.
‘A Ferrari Fellatio,’ said one, leaning back smugly. ‘The version with the triple bypass colon injection. What a car!’ His colleagues were murmuring in smiling appreciation when I leaned over and spoke.
‘My first car was a 1973 Reliant Regal,’ I said in a matter-of-fact voice, just loud enough to be heard, absent-mindedly tapping out my pipe into the nearest man’s beer glass – the result of years of prescription medicine abuse.
The men swivelled to look at me in amazement. The landlord too had overheard the remark, and the sound of the jukebox was suddenly stilled. A muttering ran around the room and others repeated the phrase as if they could hardly believe their ears. One young man fell to his knees, overcome with emotion.
‘A 1973 Reliant Regal?’ he stammered. ‘The last year of production. The last model with the 700cc, four cylinder, thirty horse power engine.’ He shuffled across the floor on his knees and bowed his head down towards me. ‘I – I never thought I’d ever meet anyone who’d owned one. A true legend!’ The rest of the men in the room were all staring in awe; those who had been wearing hats took them off. Some brushed tears of emotion from their eyes. ‘You must have been so proud. I feel privileged to have met you, sir.’
‘I’ll never forget the day I first saw it,’ I said whimsically, patting him on the head, then wiping my hand on my trousers. ‘I can see it as if it were yesterday…
They say that you never forget your first car; to be more exact ‘they’ say that you always look back on your first car with fondness. While this is not entirely true in my case, I must admit to feeling a certain nostalgic twinge when I remember how, back in 1983, the ten year old Reliant Regal in the photograph above marked my first foray into motoring on more than two wheels (the more observant of you will have noticed how many wheels it has – at least I hope so).
Non-UK readers should note that Reliant three-wheelers enjoy a privileged place in the motoring world; they may be driven by someone who has passed his motorcycle test, which was my reason for buying one. This makes them popular among bikers, who bestow upon them the respectful name ‘plastic pigs’, because of their fibreglass bodies, as opposed to the sneering term ‘cages’, which they use to describe metal-bodied, four-wheeler cars.
From the moment I saw her there in the street I fell in love with her. I wanted her so badly my pulse raced. I wanted run my hands over her smooth body, to slip inside her and rub against her smooth upholstery. Until that time I had thought that the term ‘auto-eroticism’ referred to masturbation; now I understood its real meaning. Many theses, books even, have been written about the erotic associations of the motor car, but only someone who has owned a Reliant Regal will even begin to penetrate the sexual mystique of this remarkable vehicle.
Just look at the picture – have you ever seen anything like it? To the untrained eye it looks as if it’s been in an accident and resprayed with a colour which doesn’t quite match, but a connoisseur will recognise the hallmarks of particularly sophisticated customisation. A job like this can add tens of pounds to the value of a Reliant. The sight of the plastic clip-on hub caps, the gold go-faster stripes and the rally car steering wheel brought tears of pleasure to my eyes – what unsung genius had come up with these audacious touches of artistry?
The seller, a youth in his late teens, clearly didn’t understand the true value of what he had, and was asking the laughably low sum of £200. I settled the deal immediately, before anyone else could get there and overbid me, snatching this matchless collector’s piece from under my nose. I knew there would be others who would be prepared to pay three, four, even five pounds more. But now it was mine at last. Now I could find what it was that a lucky few others had discovered about this legendary machine.
Only someone who has felt the surge of power when you floor the accelerator in this vehicle can appreciate the adrenaline high it gives you. An acceleration of 0-60mph in thirty seconds is not a figure to be laughed at. Nothing can equal it – except perhaps the awesome braking. Its three drum brakes meant that stopping was an exciting challenge, especially when travelling down a steep hill with a full complement of passengers. It was generally advisable to start braking about half a mile or so before the junction or corner you were approaching. The technique was to place the right foot on the brake pedal, lock the leg straight at the knee, grasp the steering wheel firmly with both hands and pull backwards on it, allowing the body to rise up out of the seat, using the muscles of the back to achieve maximum force. Any passengers unfamiliar with the vehicle may start screaming at this point, and may require reassuring. It is usually best if they are drugged before the start of the journey, or that their eyes, and if necessary mouths, are taped shut.
Its cornering ability was phenomenal. Having high profile, hard compound tyres, a single front wheel, no anti-roll bar across the rear axle, and no reinforcement for the fibreglass body meant that cornering was exhilarating. As soon as you started to turn at speeds above about 5mph – especially if you were braking at the same time – it would wallow like a boat, both pitching forward and rolling into the corner. One rear wheel would begin to lose traction with the road surface, while the tyre of the other would flex under the lateral load and the rear end of the car would begin to shift round in a series of skips – or, on a wet day, a steady slide. The passenger cell would tilt over at a steep angle, causing novice passengers to slide across the rear seat, exacerbating the roll still further. Experienced ones learned to anticipate corners, and to shift or lean in the appropriate direction in advance of the corner, clinging to the rear of the front seats for purchase.
In short, I don’t think that there can be any doubt that owners of cars such as the Lamborghini Diablo or the Ferrari Testarossa secretly envy Reliant owners. They all want one. They simply lack the skill or nerve to drive them.
Owning a Reliant has its penalties though. Theft is a serious problem with desirable cars like a late-model Regal. They are often stolen to order for sale on the foreign market, especially the United States, where they are much sought after, and thieves stand to make enormous profits. In cases such as the one illustrated below they could make as much as £25 in return for a mere month’s planning and work.
A Reliant Regal left unattended by the side of a moorland road – a tempting sight for a daring car thief.
The animals in the background on the right verge in this picture are evidence of how theft of Reliant cars by organised gangs disguised as sheep is a serious problem in England’s Peak District. This is a photograph taken by a hidden camera during a sting operation – the sheep on the left is in fact an undercover police officer. It’s an illustration of what incredible risks thieves are prepared to go to, especially during the sheep-breeding season.
In 2003, twenty years after buying the Regal, I got rid of my third and last three-wheeler – a Reliant Rialto – and bought a 1996 Ford Fiesta for £2000; I still have it. I must admit it is technically impressive, and free of bodywork rust or damage. It has two reversing lights and two rear fog lights. It has a rear windscreen wash-wiper. It has not only electric motors to wind up and down the front windows, but ones to adjust the door mirrors too. It has both an electrically heated rear window and windscreen. It has a radio – loudspeakers even. It has a heater which actually provides heat. It has power-assisted disc brakes. Rack and pinion steering means that I no longer have to juggle the steering wheel to keep in an approximately straight line. The tyres actually adhere to the road surface to such an extent that skidding seems difficult and rolling it impossible. Crosswinds no longer send it veering across into the opposite lane. Driving is not the challenge it once was.
But despite all these features it lacks the style of my beloved Regal. Did I just say beloved? I’m sorry – that just slipped out. But the fact is that it had character. There was no other car on the road that was quite like it. No longer will I experience the sight of a small child pulling on its mother’s hand as it points and stares in round-eyed amazement as I drive past. It is the end of an era.
Click on either image for a larger view in a new window.
On Saturday morning I was delighted to receive a postcard from The Girl with the Pink Teacup, the most recently discovered of my three illegitimate daughters*. It was with mixed feelings that I read the card, however: the woeful neglect of my fatherly duties was demonstrated all too clearly in her apparent decision to follow me into a career in prostitution. To say nothing of the implication that she had ruined her white leather fuck-me boots while giving blowjobs to car drivers. Had she no respect for the value of things?
But I was still proud of her. What father could fail to be affected when his daughter turns to a life of vice in order to support him in his declining years? Not many girls would do the same.
Then I felt the cold fingers of doubt. Had I misunderstood her words? Could she have meant she was providing men with sexual pleasure free, merely for her own enjoyment, as the title of the card implied? But no. That was an interpretation I dared not countenance. It is something I would never have done: I was confident my daughter would not either.
As to her question as to how to disguise asphalt marks on white boots, all I can think of suggesting to her is the spraying on of gloss black paint. If any of my readers have better advice, I’d be grateful if they’d give it. Recommendations on how best to administer fellatio are unnecessary, thank you; I am already proficient in that skill.
* Who will be getting a letter explaining the incredible tale of her paternity on Australia’s Father’s Day (September 6th). Unless the Royal Mail fucks up. Or it’s seized by pirates.
Its official name was Blogmoor Prison and Psychiatric Facility for the Criminally Insane, but to its thousands of inmates it was simply known as ‘Blogger’; and in their bleak humour they called themselves ‘bloggers’ and their cells ‘blogs’. Those who could still speak at least. Few could remember how they had got there; they all claimed they were innocent, but their innocence or guilt made no difference in the end. It was a place associated only with pain and despair. Anyone who entered it through its dread granite portals soon realised they would never leave. And I was one of them.
The powerfully built, grey-uniformed guard led me down the drab corridor to the room. It had a plain wooden door with a small numbered plate on it: 101. The guard opened it and steered me in, following immediately behind me, and directed me across to a large desk with a metal chair in front of it; he pushed me down into it. The desk was almost bare, having only a number of papers on it and a nameplate: O’Brien. On the other side of the desk sat a middle-aged man, perhaps in his mid fifties, with short-cropped grey hair and cold blue eyes; though he wore nondescript grey overalls everything about him seemed to radiate military authority.
Betray your blogger friends – spare yourself the torture and pain.
‘Do you know why you’re here, Simon?’ he asked, though the way he put it made it sound rhetorical. He was going to tell me anyway.
‘I– I don’t know,’ I admitted, lowering my eyes so they didn’t have to meet his. As I did so I could see the blood spots on the floor and on the desk, and I realised why my interrogator was wearing plain overalls. He must have read the fear in my eyes, for he gave a smile; but it was a smile that offered me no comfort.
‘Then I shall tell you,’ he said calmly. ‘You’re here because you’ve been named by a fellow inmate to be subjected to a meme…’
At the sound of that terrible word I sprang to my feet almost involuntarily, and was just opening my mouth to plead with him when the guard’s brass-knuckled fist made contact with my cheekbone, spinning me round towards him. Then he brought his heavily booted foot up into my groin.
When I had recovered enough for my vision to clear I became aware of O’Brien’s concerned face peering into mine from close to. I was sitting back in the chair again, and he was touching my cheek; he brought away a bloodstained finger. He straightened and looked at the guard with a look of severe reproof.
‘Vincent,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d warned you about that.’ The guard looked down, ashamed. ‘I told you: leave no marks.’ He brought his finger up to his mouth and licked the blood from it, a brief look of intense, almost orgasmic pleasure passing across his face. Then he returned to his chair behind the desk, and Vincent took up his station behind me again.
‘Now, as I was saying,’ O’Brien continued smoothly, as if nothing had happened, ‘you have been chosen to take part in a meme by…’ he looked down again at the sheet of paper ‘by the inmate Mysterg. You are to confess to ten true things about yourself that no other inmate knows. After that you are to betray ten fellow inmates who will then be interrogated in turn. The badge of your betrayal is then to be nailed to the wall of your blog, as a mark of your cowardice and degradation.’ He showed me a piece of paper with the symbol on it: a muscular arm and a fist holding a hammer, cruelly symbolising the manner in which the information was to be obtained.
Tom Cruise before he made it big.
Like all other memes it was brutally simple: everyone had to confess, then they had to betray other inmates until they too were broken. I wondered what had been done to Mysterg to make him crack and give my name, before realising I didn’t want to know.
‘Now, Simon,’ O’Brien said, looking at me directly, ‘are you ready to confess?’ I was suddenly aware of how pale blue his eyes were. They were absolutely cold and steady. I swallowed.
‘I… I…’ My mind was almost paralysed with fear. I struggled to remember anything that would spare me. ‘I have a set of gay bondage porn pictures of Tom Cruise that I masturbate to every night.’ Despite feeling cold, I was sweating.
Though O’Brien’s expression revealed nothing, I could somehow sense he was disappointed. I wanted to please him. I trawled my memory desperately, struggling to think of something else to admit to. What sort of thing would my fellow inmates want to know about?
‘Well, Simon?’ O’Brien said, leaning forward slightly, resting his arms on his desk, ‘continue. You have only made one confession, and a rather uninteresting one at that.’
It was then that I realised. O’Brien didn’t care about my confessions any more than any of my fellow inmates did. He just wanted to break my will, to subordinate his victims; to dehumanise them. That was the reason for memes. To destroy the human spirit. Confession and betrayal. They had no other purpose. I knew then what I had to do.
‘No,’ I said calmly, though not without a certain amount of inner terror. ‘I won’t do it. I am not afraid of pain. Do what you like – I won’t tell you any more. Memes are evil, and I will not have any part in perpetuating them and their vileness.’
O’Brien did not react as I’d expected; he seemed amused. ‘You think that mere physical pain is all I can cause you, Simon?’ He gave a long pause to allow me to make what I could of that, then continued. ‘Do you feel alone and afraid in your blog at night, in the darkness? We know what your deepest fears and desires are, Simon: you have no secrets from us.’ He kept his eyes on mine, but redirected his speech. ‘Vincent, bring me the box.’
Though I felt my scalp prickle, I did not dare turn my head as Vincent moved away from behind me, then, after a short interval returned: he placed a large cardboard box side-on on top of O’Brien’s desk, its top facing me to I could not avoid seeing what it was.
‘Inflatable Angelina Jolie Doll!’ I read out from the lid of the box. ‘With Free Air Pump! Instructions: insert nozzle and pump hard.’ I stiffened, and stared back at O’Brien. ‘Do you think I will betray any of my friends simply for the reward of shallow, meaningless sexual pleasure?’ I asked, attempting to inject a sneer of contempt into my voice.
O’Brien didn’t bother to answer me, at least not directly. ‘Vincent will take you and Angelina back to your blog, Simon,’ he said smoothly. ‘We shall see how you get on. Then, after a week, you will be allowed the choice of keeping her, or abandoning her in order to adhere to your principles.’ There was no mistaking the mocking tone in his voice.
‘Never,’ I said with determination. ‘My blogger friends know I will stand firm.’ I felt Vincent’s hand on my shoulder, and stood while he picked up Angelina with his other hand, then steered me to the door. ‘I will never betray them,’ I said, turning my head to O’Brien as I was led from the room and into the corridor.
Back in my blog I sat on my narrow, unyielding bed and stared at Angelina’s inviting eyes. But I knew what I had to do. My friends were expecting me to behave honourably. Did they really expect me to let them down? ‘What kind of man did they take me for?’
Do you think I would put Angelina before my friends?
WARNING: Those of you who are distressed by mawkishness or displays of sentimentality of any kind are advised to stop reading now, and to leave in an orderly fashion using the nearest exit.
When Girl Interrupted wrote in her blog of how she’d been sent a message in a bottle by fellow-blogger Trinity, it struck a chord. This was partly because I knew perfectly well from my own experiences of what good and enduring friendships you can make through blogging, and partly because I had sent a letter to such a friend not long before, and another, to another friend, was on the way at that very moment.
When I started blogging five and a half years ago, at a small site called Journalspace (that sadly no longer exists), I soon found that most of the others there were a pretty friendly lot. To be sure there were a few arseholes, but for the most part Journalspace formed a wonderful community. I made many friends of varying degrees of closeness, several of whom I’m still in touch with: these include the two I sent those letters to, Shannon and Emily.
I’ll save you the backstory, but shall move straight on to say that when, a few weeks ago, Shannon told me she was writing me a letter, I felt bound to reciprocate. Given that there is a generation-wide gap between our ages it seemed natural that she should be my daughter, despite the fact that I couldn’t recall having children, or indeed of ever having had sex. Thus my first illegitimate daughter was born. And when, after Shannon had received it, Emily asked why she couldn’t be my daughter, the natural consequence was that she became my second hitherto unacknowledged child, and she got a letter too.
They may not have the originality of a message in a bottle, and the appalling handwriting may make a strong man weep, but they are, for all that, an illustration of what blogger friendships can result in. You don’t have to read them of course, but I have provided them here after Shannon told me of her intention to scan hers and post it in her blog to expose me as the moral degenerate (‘whore’ was the term she used) I’d been in the 1980s. Naturally I offered to post it in my blog to give a more balanced view. Emily’s is also included, with her permission, out of completeness.
The portraits, by the way, are tracings made from my monitor screen: I would hate anyone to think I had the competence to do them freehand. Prizes may be awarded to those who can identify the celebrities whose photos I copied in Emily’s letter. If you want to do so for the one in Shannon’s, you should attempt it before you read the letter, as she is named in it.
My letter to Shannon (left-click on each page to open it full-size in a new window)
My letter to Emily (left-click on each page to open it full-size in a new window)
A year after the controversial introduction of Microsoft® Orgasm® in August 2009, Bill Gates has announced stringent new measures to prevent orgasm piracy, which, he claims, is costing his company millions of dollars. This move is sure to outrage those who believe human sensations should never have been patented by Microsoft in the first place.
It was with some shock that it was disclosed last year that anyone in the United States who had used a Microsoft operating system since the introduction of Windows® 95 had unwittingly agreed to surrender their rights to their own senses and emotions. But Bill Gates’ claim was upheld in the courts. As he and his lawyers pointed out at the time, ‘Just because people never bother to read the small print in their software licence agreements doesn’t mean that they are any the less binding.’
The courts also upheld Microsoft’s right to include patented mind-control algorithms in their software which meant that anyone using a Microsoft operating system would be unable to experience a specified feeling without Microsoft allowing it. The technique works by sending subliminal messages via the computer’s monitor to the user’s brain, modifying his or her neural structure and having the potential to block any selected mental process.
The controversial clause discreetly contained within the end user licence agreement of all Microsoft Windows operating systems since 1995.
On August 1st 2009, the date built in to all Microsoft® Windows® versions for the start of the neural blocking technique, millions of Americans were dismayed to find that they could not experience an orgasm without first installing a copy of Microsoft® Orgasm®, which came on sale on that day. As a result, the product – with the logo ‘Microsoft makes it harder™’ – sold in huge volumes, despite the fact that some people were unable to use it due to the large amounts of memory it required, and doubts about its claims of giving orgasms which were ‘faster and leading to increased productivity in the workplace’, at least in the Office version.
Soon, however, people were finding ways of avoiding paying for the new product. As Bill Gates stated in September 2009:
‘We eventually became aware that some people were producing fake orgasms, and there will also always be people who will give their friends orgasms for nothing. We realised that something would have to be done to discourage this sort of irresponsible and illegal behaviour.’
So, nearly a year on from its initial release, the latest version of Microsoft® Orgasm® is to use protection. It is assumed that this will take a similar form to that used with Microsoft® Windows® XP and Microsoft® Windows® Vista™, appropriately modified. Users wanting to have an orgasm will have to obtain a product activation key, which must be entered first.
Users are already annoyed by problems with the notoriously buggy earlier versions, especially those who required hospital treatment after experiencing Invalid Page Faults, or even Fatal Exception Errors, which caused their equipment to freeze up, and it’s anticipated that there will be complaints about this further intrusion into private areas. Bill Gates however maintains that all will go smoothly, and that no personal data on people’s equipment would be stored by Microsoft. He explained the proposed method:
‘People wanting to have an orgasm shall simply have to sit in front of their computers while a retinal scan is made to check that their identity matches that of the purchaser of the copy of Microsoft® Orgasm® installed on that machine. An online confirmation is made if the user has internet access, otherwise they should telephone a freephone number and give the 20 digit code, then type in the supplied product activation key. They will then have a ten minute period in which to have an orgasm. In the unlikely event of this not being long enough they will simply have to repeat the process. I’m quite confident that people will soon get used to the procedure, and will understand the need for this sort of protection.’
These measures will not affect the statutory rights of those in countries other than the United States, where the consumer protection laws are different, and Bill Gates has accepted that it is inevitable that some people will cross the border into Canada or Mexico in order to have orgasms there. He has however made clear his wish that US President Arnold Schwarzenegger will put pressure on the governments of other countries to allow Microsoft’s rights to override their laws. In a recent speech he said:
‘It is clearly unfair that people in, for example, Britain or Australia should be able to have free orgasms while those in the US pay for theirs. The socialist governments of those countries are obstructing free trade and the capitalist ideal which has made this great nation what it is today. One day, everyone in the world who wants to experience an orgasm will have to pay me first.’ At this point flecks of foam started to appear at the corners of his mouth, and his advisors assisted him from the podium.
Microsoft Doors
While some people feel that this is bad enough, there may be more sinister moves ahead, especially if the project succeeds in going worldwide. Some people believe that Microsoft® Orgasm® is merely being used as a trial for the new neural control system, and once the bugs have been ironed out Microsoft hopes to extend the same principle to senses such as sight and hearing – even thoughts. They claim that Microsoft® Orgasm® will be just one component of the suite of applications to be called Microsoft Doors, in an apparently ironic reference to Aldous Huxley’s book The Doors of Perception, in which Huxley described the liberation of the senses from the brain’s own filtering system. Just as Huxley argued that the doors of perception could be opened by the use of certain drugs, allowing the brain to experience previously blocked sensations, Microsoft Doors will do likewise, though in this case the mental blocks would be ones introduced by Microsoft itself.
If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite.
For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.
—William Henry Gates III
Should we embrace this Brave New World when it comes – if it ever does succeed in coming?
I am a fourteen year old girl, and a staunch pacifist. However, I was watching the American film The Sum of All Fears on the television the other night, and when it came to the part where the Russian missile launchers were rising to the fully erect position, I felt myself becoming strangely excited.
Is this normal, or should I feel thoroughly ashamed of myself?
AN ANONYMOUS READER
Do you feel aroused by this image? If so, it’s possible you may have repressed militaristic tendencies, and should seek help from a member of the armed forces.
Lou posted a recent entry about how light pollution not only hindered the work of astronomers, but also prevented ordinary people from appreciating the night sky to the full. I left a comment recalling how I’d taken photographs in my younger days that showed that even in light-polluted England you could still find beauty in the night sky, and that I would post examples: this is the (somewhat belated) result. (You can click on the images for a larger version to appear in a new window.)
The white-painted folly White Nancy, directly beneath the Pole Star, with the orange street lights of the southern fringes of Manchester illuminating the sky to the north.
The 18th century folly Mow Cop Castle illuminated by moonlight: beyond the Cheshire Plain is entirely covered by fog, with the streetlights of Congleton shining upwards through it. Manchester lies on the northern horizon.
Though Mow Cop Castle may superficially appear to be a medieval castle, both it and White Nancy are modern follies, built as summerhouses by wealthy landowners to look out over their properties. Mow Cop Castle was built in 1754 and White Nancy in 1817. White Nancy originally had a door and windows, but as the building fell into disuse these were blocked off, and it is now a plain dome, entirely covered by white-painted plaster.
Both pictures were taken with a 20mm lens; the one of White Nancy was given a 30 minute exposure at f/8, and the one of Mow Cop Castle was given a one hour exposure at f/8. The camera used was a Chinon CM-3. The most easily identifiable constellation in each case is the Plough (the Big Dipper), which appears so the ‘handle’ is resting on the top of each structure, and extends upwards and to the right.
I believe it to be the sign of a true artist that he should be able to consider some sliced tomatoes on bread as both Art and food.
Critic A (coolly): Yes, the artist certainly has captured the essence of the meal in this startling and provocative piece, daringly entitled, I believe, ‘Tomatoes on Bread’.
Critic B (with passion): Indeed! One only has to look at it to feel, to relish the texture, indeed the taste of those pieces of tomato. One can imagine the juices bursting into one’s mouth in an almost orgasmic rush; the metaphor with oral sex is almost tangible.
Critic A (stirring in his chair): And the use of the ceramic plate in Art is not to be underestimated either. Hard and unsympathetic on the face of it, yet also smooth and pleasing to caress with one’s fingers; once again one is made to think of in terms of eroticism – contact with a person’s skin, the arousal one feels… the sensuality is overwhelming.
Critic B (beginning to loosen her clothing): Also it is impossible not to notice the somewhat mischievous way he has included a small area of sheepskin rug on top of an artificial fibre carpet at one edge of the piece – nothing short of masterful. The contrast between the silky warmth of the rug and the unyielding, abrasive carpet evoke astonishing levels of erotic desire.
Critic A (clears his throat): I also find it makes me feel slightly hungry. I am not sure why – yet another sign of the extreme subtlety of this acclaimed artist’s work.
Critic B (excitedly): Yes! Yes! YES! It works at so many levels – do you think he is once again to win the Nobel Prize for Art?
Critic A (firmly): There can be no doubt about it.
Having had my blog pimped out by The Girl With the Pink Teacup, I am now bound to fulfil my promise to do whatever she asked in return. This is what has been requested of me:
I think you now owe me a post on breasts. I feel it's been a long time between drinks on the subject of breasts at your blog, Simon - something which must be immediately rectified. If mammaries provide no inspiration, I demand something at least a little bit smutty. Featuring Zooey Deschanel. Now write, whore. You've got a huge debt to work off...
She’s right of course. What has happened to those old, tacky entries I used to write, like giving advice on how a man can increase the length of his penis threefold without pills, pumps or surgery (unless something goes wrong)? Where are my pictures of celebrities’ breasts? I have let things slide, I’m sorry to say. What follows is an attempt to rectify this. So here it is: my theory of breasts, amply supported by illustrations.
What do breasts look like? This illustration is for the benefit of those of you who do not have breasts of your own.
Breasts are not as easy to grasp as one may at first think. What are they for? Some people naively believe that they are for the suckling of infants, but this is a misapprehension. Nipples and mammary glands serve that purpose: breasts do not exist in other mammals, only in humans; why is this? After I’d been researching via Google Images for many hours it became clear to me that my project was becoming longer and harder than I’d expected it to. But I came up with something: the proposal that breasts are there to be looked at for pleasure, and do not serve any other function. The argument I present here is, I hope, a firm, well-rounded one with a clearly defined point coming out of it; you, dear reader, will be the judge of that.
As might be expected, men are most obviously the ones whose eyes tend to be drawn by the sight of a pair of women’s breasts. But are all alike? Apparently not. It can be seen from the following that what men find most attractive is a matter of taste:
We should next consider what the priorities are when a man is faced with a woman whose breasts are exposed. The next illustration will serve this purpose.
A psychological test is being carried out here to monitor the eye movements of persons looking at the photograph: where does the subject look first? It does not take much imagination to work out what thoughts pass through the mind of a typical man upon seeing this picture: Aren’t they rather big? Don’t they get in the way? But it won’t be long before his eyes move on from the way her fingernails are manicured to her breasts, where they will rest until something more urgent, such as the need to drink beer, occurs to him. This is, after all, man at his most primitive.
But do breasts serve merely to appeal to male sexual appetites? From what follows, it would appear not.
In this second psychological test, a girl wearing no bikini top paddles along at the edge of the sea, while photographs are taken of whoever stares at her breasts. From this picture it can be seen that women’s breasts are also of interest to other women, though the psychological drives behind this are less clear. The possibilities are examined in the experiment conducted in the picture below:
These two half-naked girls have been placed in a water tank for observation, while a video camera enables us to study how they interact. This video still from the study demonstrates that the girl behind is taking a covert glance at the other girl’s breasts. While her interest is probably sexual, it is also possible that she is wondering what breasts are for as well.
Another curious feature that became evident when I sifted through enormous numbers of pictures for this piece of research is the lack of concern shown by women regarding their breasts being visible. It was then that it came to me. These pictures were all of young women and girls: they were exposing their breasts because they knew of their aesthetic appeal. They were doing it for artistic reasons, and were naively unaware that people were looking at their breasts for their own disgusting sexual gratification.
Kate Moss demonstrates her innocence of sexual matters as the fashion photographer has to point out to her that she has forgotten to put any clothes on.
The more photographs such as the one above I came upon, the more sure I became that these young women are genuinely unaware of the sexually stimulating effect that their breasts have. Why else should there be so many pictures like this on the internet?
Here is an instance of a celebrity – Kelly Brook – who has suddenly become aware of the fact that her breasts are exposed, and covers them with her hands in a charmingly ingenuous manner. It’s obvious that until she noticed the photographer she hadn’t realised she was half naked, and is uncertain how to react.
Then there are the examples of bras or bikini tops that emphasise the breasts: what woman would wear them if they knew that they triggered lustful thoughts?
The second picture, which comes from a clothing catalogue by a company called ‘Victoria’s Secret’, shows a bikini top which has gel-filled inserts that are apparently designed to push the girl’s breasts upwards and closer together, emphasising them and her cleavage. Would she wear it if she realised it would create sexual interest in her? I think not.
I hope you’ll by now have been persuaded by my theory. The evidence is overwhelming. Breasts exist only to be visually appealing, both in an aesthetic and a sexual sense. The tragedy is that many innocent young women are unaware of the latter. To think otherwise would require the belief that girls pose topless in order to cynically exploit vulnerable persons for financial reward or to sexually manipulate them. I don’t think that any of us wants to accept such a distasteful hypothesis.
ADDENDUM:
Following the comment left by the sponsor of this research I have edited my work. It is still far from perfect, but it now more accurately reflects the truth.
Also I apologise for the offence caused by the picture of the Australian aborigines; I hope the replacement is more tasteful.
This entry, originally posted on Journalspace in 2004 and slightly edited for topicality, is dedicated to The Girl with the Pink Teacup, in response to her concern that she may not be updating her blog frequently enough to meet the needs of her readers – though it applies equally well to any of you who may have felt yourselves to be in the same position.
I pulled up at the side of the road and looked around to make sure no one was watching me, then I turned into the alley and drove slowly along until I saw the place. There it was: Blogs Engineering, Repairs and Customisations; the faded lettering almost lost against the weathered signboard. It looked just like any other backstreet garage – rundown and disreputable.
I parked and got out, then, after a final furtive glance round at the empty alleyway, went up to the side door and knocked. It was opened almost immediately by a short, fat, greasy-haired man in overalls who gave me a carefully neutral look.
“I… I’m… Simon,” I said, annoyed to find myself stammering, “I made an appointment…”
“Simon. Yeah. Course y’are.” He laughed, revealing blackened teeth. “Come on in, Simon. Job’s just about done. Right through ’ere, mate.”
I followed him into a large, cluttered office labelled ‘Mr Rhetoric: Manager’, with windows on two walls that looked out onto the main shop floor. The panes were dusty, but I could see people moving around, carrying boxes, while others were sitting or standing at various unidentifiable machines. They all looked pale and worn, men and women alike, and I was shocked to see children there too – one was carrying a large wooden box marked ‘Unaccented vowels’, and was clearly struggling under the weight. I turned away, ashamed, for I, and people like me, were responsible for the sweat-shop conditions these people worked in.
As Mr Rhetoric scrabbled through the paperwork I glanced round the cabinets which lined the remaining walls of his office. I was surprised to see a name I recognised among them.
“Sarah Palin?!” I realised I had spoken out loud, for Mr Rhetoric had turned and was looking at me, eyebrows raised. “You mean... you mean that Sarah Palin... you do entries for Sarah Palin? I didn’t realise she...”
“Now then lad,” Mr Rhetoric said warningly. “Those entries are ones we do fer people who want to do Sarah Palin parodies. Only Sarah herself” – he paused and genuflected, and I found myself doing the same – “can write the genuine article. You want to be careful with your allergations or you might find yourself in trouble.”
“Allergations?” I stuttered. “I would never write that!”
“Look,” said Mr Rhetoric. “Who’s doing this – you or me?”
“I thought I was,” I answered weakly. “Anyway, that should be ‘you or I’, not ‘you or me’ – the verb to be always takes the nominative case, as—”
“Now then,” Mr Rhetoric was leaning forward across his desk aggressively. “Do you want this entry written for you or not? Cos if so, I’m the one who makes the rules, right?”
“Right, yes, I’m sorry,” I said humbly. “But I have a good reason – I have other things to do, things in real life. I can’t spend all my time writing blog entries. I’d be doing nothing else.”
Mr Rhetoric relaxed at my apology, and suddenly became expansive. He gestured to the windows overlooking the shop floor. “You think you’re the only one? ’Ow many others do you think ’ave the time? We’re the best fabricators in the business. Start out with raw vowels and consonants and build them into words – nouns, verbs, conjunctions, prepositions, gerunds, what ’ave you. Then it’s finely crafted phrases and sentences – hand-tooled aphorisms… well, machine-tooled aphorisms – you can’t compete with modern equipment, ’owever low paid the labour is.”
“Low paid?” I said uneasily. “I just hope they get the minimum wage, that’s all. And those children should only be part-time employees…”
“Employees?” Mr Rhetoric looked genuinely shocked. “Those children aren’t employees – they’re slaves! Illegal immigrants from Eastern Europe, or sold by their families from the Far East! We don’t pay them! They’re glad of the work!”
“Slaves?” I said numbly, leaning against a filing cabinet. “Immigrant labour?”
“Of course they are – that’s why the spelling and grammar is so bad in the low-cost entries we do for schoolkids and university students! You don’t get something for nothing, you know.”
“I think I’ve heard enough, Mr Rhetoric,” I said stiffly, making my way to the door. “I shall write an entry about this, and expose you for what you are.”
Mr Rhetoric was unmoved. “Fer a start, who do you think is going to believe you who doesn’t already use us? Secondly, do you really think that others with blogs didn’t know about this setup? Grow up, lad!” He sank back in his chair with all the ease of someone who knows exactly the way things work. “You write your own entry if you like, but you see what difference it makes.” He grinned broadly. “And wait until you see the comments you get too. Do you think any real person actually bothers to write comments in your blog?”
I staggered out into the alleyway, his words ringing in my ears. Was what he said true? Or was he cruelly taunting me? “I can rely on my readers!” I shouted back defiantly through the now closed door. “You’ll see!”
But as I got back into my car I felt less comfortable. What would actually appear in my blog? Some twisted travesty designed to make me look foolish and paranoid no doubt. Who would ever believe the truth of the synthetic blog entries, other than those who already used them? The rest would simply think I was making it all up.
I can only implore any real people who may be reading these words: take heed of them.
I had thought that I had been forgotten. Or at least that the tradition, established back in 2007, for sending me postcards and Christmas cards had been forgotten. But Justfly, bless her heart, remembers: she kindly sent me this card from Yosemite National Park, being on a visit there with two of her sons.
The bear sighting she mentions in the card apparently presented her with something of a dilemma; as she wrote in her blog:
I had to constantly look around to be sure there were no bears around me. And let me tell you right now, it paid off! I was very alone, it was around 6pm. Every so often I would look around. I was in the middle of the forest, about a four minute walk to my car. I was doing my regular check… at first I thought it was a coyote because I just saw the snout, then he came out from the bush. ACK a bear!!! A rattled my brown paper bag then shouted to my sons, “I JUST SAW MY FIRST BEAR!”. The bear did run off, I did just like the warning say, make noise. I am a bit disappointed I did not get a photo. My instincts of survival kicked in too fast. Did I want to be dinner? Or did I want to take a photo?
A painful decision. I’m sure that any photographers among you must sympathise with her in her moment of crisis. What would you have done?
NOTE: I am tempted to dedicate a future post to scans of some of my most memorable cards from the last two years: not least the Christmas card from Indantatia that included a vibrating cock-ring and a sachet of masturbation cream, which sadly never appeared in my Journalspace blog because JS had just gone down, never to recover. This is the sort of thing that made Journalspace the tacky, disreputable place it was; we should all cherish these memories.
A disturbing new form of substance abuse has been emerging at all levels of society in recent years – smoking cash. At first it was confined to a few secretive users at the tip of society – wealthy people who were ashamed to admit their disgusting proclivities to others – but it gradually filtered its way downwards, until teenage muggers were robbing people to get a ‘fix’ in order to fuel their addiction.
Simon, one of the many unfortunates to be in this position agreed to give an interview to our reporter, Tanya (not her real name).
Under the studio lights the two figures show in stark contrast. Simon is slumped in his chair, his clothes dishevelled, twitching nervously, while Tanya is beautifully poised, elegant in her short strapless white dress, her blonde hair tied in a loose ponytail hanging over one shoulder. Tanya gives Simon a wad of banknotes and prompts him to begin.
Simon: Well… I suppose it all started when one of my mates said I should have a go… I thought I could keep it under control. I told myself I’d just take a few sniffs – I wouldn’t inhale – and that I’d be OK.
Tanya: But you were naively and stupidly incorrect, weren’t you, Simon?
Simon(fumbling to roll a five-pound note with trembling hands): Yeah… I guess I was. But everyone was doing it – and all some of them had to do was to crumple a newly minted note under their nose and inhale deeply and they’d get an instant high. Well, it worked at first… but after a bit it wasn’t enough. I needed more. It was then that I first tried… tried… you know… rolling one and lighting up… (Inserting roll-up between lips and patting his pockets desperately.)
Tanya(leaning over and flicking a cigarette lighter): Here, let me…
Simon(inhaling with a grateful sigh, then leaning back in chair with blissfully vacant expression): Ah, that’s better… now, where was I?
Tanya: I’m not sure. Fantasising about having sex with me? Wondering how my dress stays up without any shoulder straps?
Simon: Ah, yes, that was it. No! I mean… At first it wasn’t that bad. But as more and more users started the habit it began to affect the local, conventional drug pushers – cannabis, cocaine, whatever. They’d always been the middlemen, and now their customers were robbing people of cash and smoking it themselves, cutting the dealers out. They thought that if people were going to burn their money it should be done figuratively, not physically. They felt they were facing unfair competition. The local chambers of commerce were unsympathetic however – all trade was being hit; money being burned instead of being spent was going out of circulation. Eventually the government decided to act.
The studio is blue with cash smoke. Simon is more relaxed and coherent now as he pauses to light up a tenner from the remains of his still smouldering fiver, which he stubs out in an ashtray.
Simon: You remember when the old one pound notes were replaced by one pound coins? Did it ever occur to you to wonder why?
Tanya: Well – the Bank of England said it was because they would last longer than the notes…
Simon: Yes, they did say that, didn’t they? But the real reason was to make it harder for users, and to discourage youngsters from starting the habit. Lighting up a pound note is one thing – a fiver is another. But there was more. They changed the notes. New fivers, tenners, twenties. Make it more difficult for counterfeiters – they said. You want to know the truth?
Tanya(beginning to show signs of edginess): Think of me as being a complete ignoramus, please.
Simon: Right. What was I going to say? Oh, yes. The new currency. Have you ever had the feeling that you don’t have as much money as you thought you should? That you can’t account for where it’s all gone?
Tanya(with a brittle laugh): Of course. All the time.
Simon: Psychotropic drugs in the dye. They affect the short term memory. The idea was to make people forget they were users. Naturally it had to be kept secret. And it worked – for many. Not for the serious users, those who smoked cash in front of people they knew. People like me. But it was ideal for the secret smokers. They would occasionally slip back and have the occasional tenner, but then they’d forget about it before they had time to become seriously addicted. They would never realise they were doing it. Each time would be the first time for them – except it wouldn’t be of course.
Simon breaks off to light up another tenner from the stub of the previous one. Tanya is staring at him, trembling. She begins to shake uncontrollably. She cracks.
Tanya(throwing herself at Simon’s knees and bursting into tears): Oh God! Simon! Give me one! Please! Now! I’ve got to have it!
Simon(his voice tinged with compassion): Here you go. (He slips his joint between her perfect lips.) You can suck on mine.
Tanya drags on the tenner, gradually recovering her composure. Her trembling eases. She looks around, faintly puzzled, then returns to her seat. She fishes around in her bag for a moment then produces a cigarette holder, into which she inserts the tenner.
Tanya: Er… where were we?
Anyone who has experienced the feeling they should have more money than they do, or that they cannot account for where all their money has gone should consider the possibility that they are unknowing victims of this addiction. Seek help now – before it’s too late.
FOOTNOTE
When my sister was at university, she was inclined to get homesick, so I used to write to her; occasionally I sent her cartoons. This was one of four pictures on an A4 sheet which formed a pseudo-biography of myself, each with a character giving an account their memories of me. Coming across it again was the inspiration for the above entry. (You can click on the image for a larger, more legible view to open in a new window.)
The sentence ‘It’s supported by Art’ refers to the furniture, not the young woman’s strapless dress, which is supported by the purity of my thoughts.
Some of you from Journalspace may remember that Emily – Insane-Li at Journalspace, tigersandtrees on Blogger – has asked me to write her a story for her birthday for the last few years. Today is her 20th birthday, marking the exit from her teenage years, and, in her own words, making her ‘really old.’ This did not deter her from requesting that I write her another story to celebrate the event however, and here it is.
A brief prelude is necessary: it is provided in this vlog she made a few days ago; watching it will do much to explain the terrible events revealed in the account that follows.
It had started when Emily had asked him to play the online role-playing game World of Warcraft. Being dimly aware of his rapidly advancing senility, and fully aware of his bladder-control problems, he’d had misgivings as to his abilities from the start, though it had taken a while for him to admit it: Don’t they do games for stupid people? he had asked her. There must be a huge, untapped market there. Addictive? How can a game be addictive if you have to spend ten minutes working out how to fall over?
Emily had laughed, reassuring him that he’d soon be hooked on it; he just had to get used to it. But when, after a week, he’d still only made it to being a Level 0 Serf, she became more serious. “Simon,” she emailed him, “I think there’s another online RPG service you should try. Something I think you’ll like. I’ve been playing one of their games for a while. Not many people know about it, cause it’s kinda illegal, but here’s the link, and a code number to use to get access…”
As soon as he’d logged on to the site, his imagination had been caught by the audacity of the concept. William Gibson had coined the phrase ‘jacking in’ – directly connecting the human brain to a computer system – in his book Neuromancer, but Simon had never thought to see such a thing in his lifetime. But this was not merely using one’s mind to hack into a computer, it was total immersion gameplaying. Once jacked in, all your perceptions of your surroundings were direct; there was no monitor or keyboard: you really were inside the world of the game. It would be indistinguishable from reality.
He had been apprehensive at first. As no ethical surgeon would consider carrying out such an operation, he had had to insert the connection point himself. Emily had told him she’d had hers done in the back room of a disreputable tattoo parlour in one of the shadier parts of Shreveport, but he had no such option. Using a power drill to make a hole in his own skull had been agonisingly painful, but he was not one to be outdone by a 20-year-old girl. Besides, he was British: he had his country’s national tradition for vain acts of stupidity to uphold.
But then it was done. Once inserted, the implant had automatically connected to his brain’s neural pathways, and the USB port behind his right ear was ready to be used. He only had to connect the cable to his PC, onto which he had already downloaded and installed the necessary software, and he would be ready. He had jacked in.
That had been a week ago.
He had to admit that the game Emily had chosen, Worshippers of Evil, or WOE as it was more generally known, was indeed utterly addictive. He never wanted to leave: really never wanted to leave. He was now a Level −3 Necromancer: all he had to do was to dig up and defile a few corpses occasionally, and then spend the rest of the time in his marble-walled rooms, lying on a luxurious couch and being attended by a pair of succubi; daemonic NPCs – Non-Player Characters – who took the form of ravishingly beautiful young girls. He wouldn’t be allowed to have sex with them until he had descended to Level −20, but as he wasn’t entirely sure how to have sex, that didn’t really matter. At the moment he was satisfied by being hand-fed delicacies by them, and admiring their lithe bodies and perfectly-formed breasts: apparently he’d be able to fondle these when he’d got to Level −5, something which he was quite looking forward to.
He’d performed his first few sacrifices already. All he had to do was to cut the still-beating heart out of a living victim, and he gained ten experience points. He’d felt rather squeamish about the first one, particularly when she had begged him tearfully to spare her life as he’d shackled her helplessly struggling body to the bloodstained altar. He’d winced at her screams as he had thrust the sacrificial knife between her ribs and torn open her chest cavity, but she was only an NPC, and he knew he’d become inured to such acts – even to enjoy them. At least that was what Emily had said, he reminded himself uneasily.
He hadn’t seen much of Emily since starting WOE: she, or rather her character, was a Level −24 High Priestess of Evil, and he normally only observed her at a distance during special public rituals such as mass executions. He was therefore somewhat surprised when he had a summons from her. A muscular young male NPC with an almost androgynously beautiful face, wearing only metal-studded black leather shorts, arrived at his chambers, and told him that his presence was requested. He gave no other details. The term ‘request’ was a formality: it was effectively a command. Simon reluctantly detached himself from the succubus who was coiled in his lap, stroking his long, thick beard, and followed the NPC to Emily’s chambers. He knew better than to keep her waiting: her impatience and cruelty were as feared in the Game as they were in real life.
On arriving at Emily’s chambers within the High Temple of Evil, Simon’s escort was replaced by two other NPCs, Emily’s personal bodyguard, also muscular, broad-shouldered young men who both bore an unnerving resemblance to Brad Pitt: he was not surprised though, for he already knew of Emily’s perverted tastes. Each carried a thick, heavy baton and a coiled lash, though he was not sure if these were for disciplinary or sexual purposes. It was they who led him into the room where Emily’s character awaited him; standing next to a grotesque throne that struck terror into the hearts of all who saw it: it was constructed entirely of human bones – those of her many victims – with a Hello Kitty seat cushion as its only concession to comfort.
Emily’s character was a small, slim, elegant young woman with a pale, flawless skin and long dark hair. Her face seemed, like her real-life one, to be that of a young, innocent girl, almost a child, an appearance shockingly at variance with the character she played. As he paused to stand before her, one of the bodyguards struck him at the back of his legs with his baton, making him fall to his knees: anticipating another blow he bowed his head in obeisance.
“Let him stand,” she ordered, and the NPCs obediently stood back. Simon struggled to his feet with a little difficulty, wincing as he did so, but kept his head bowed in a mixture of respect and terror. Emily stepped up to him, gave a charming laugh and raised his face with one delicate hand, looking him directly in the eye.
“Simon,” she said, “I’ve had you brought here because I want your advice.”
“My advice?” Simon replied cautiously, “you’ve always ignored it before. You still don’t distinguish correctly between the transitive and intransitive uses of the verb ‘to lie’, for example.”
He convulsed in pain as she frowned and inflicted a Level 3 You Fucking Bastard spell upon him, and he hastily shut his mouth.
“As I was saying,” she continued, “I need your advice. Your assistance, to be exact. As you probably know, I have sunk to Level −24 in my role as a High Priestess of Evil. There is a certain quest I must undertake in order to reach Level −25.” At this point a brief expression of anguish crossed her face, and Simon momentarily felt a deep of sympathy for her. The signs of severe WOE addiction were all too obvious.
She started to walk from the room, out into a long passageway; Simon followed nervously. The two bodyguards followed also, a few paces behind him. “The difficulty is that the quest requires me to sacrifice a WOE player who is a virgin both in the Game and in real life.”
“Well,” said Simon thoughtfully, “that could be tricky. I’m afraid I don’t know of any player who’s a virgin in real life – other than me, of course. You’d have to try asking subtly-phrased questions to trap someone gullible and foolish enough into it.” He gave a laugh. “You should be able to find someone though – there are plenty of really naive people in WOE.”
By this time they had reached another doorway: Emily entered the dimly lit room beyond, and Simon followed her. It was a Chamber of Sacrifice, though more lofty and impressive than any Simon had been in before. A huge altar stone dominated the room; rusty shackles hung from each corner, and a trail of dried blood led along a gutter from it into a drain nearby.
Simon realised that the two bodyguards had stepped up alongside him: they now each took hold of one of his arms. He looked at Emily, puzzled. “What are they doing?” he asked.
“Simon,” she said, turning to look at him again. “You once said that you’d do anything for me.”
“Did I?” asked Simon. “No, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I’d have remembered.”
“Simon, Simon,” Emily chided him, “you’ve told me yourself what a terrible memory you have. I assure you that you did say it. Do you think I’d make something like that up?”
“Well,” said Simon, “I—” then he hesitated, feeling the grip on his arms tighten. The bodyguards were beginning to lift him from his feet. “I suppose I must have done,” he said weakly.
“There you are then,” smiled Emily sweetly. “Now, here’s your chance to honour that promise.” She indicated to the guards, who hoisted Simon onto the slab and began to attach the shackles. Simon twisted round to look at her, shocked. Everyone knew that no Player versus Player combat was allowed, for death in the Game meant death in the real world: the degree to which a player’s consciousness was embedded into the WOE game program made it inevitable.
Emily unsheathed her sacrificial knife. “You know how much getting down to Level −25 means to me, Simon.” Her eyes were glittering in eager anticipation. “We all have to make sacrifices.”
Simon closed his eyes, accepting his fate. He knew there was no point in begging for mercy. He felt no anger towards her; only pity. At least death would spare him the horror and indignity of sharing her terrible addiction.
He could only pray that one day she would be free.
Though Emily will be away for the day with her boyfriend and her parents, I’d like to ask any of you who remember her – or even those of you who don’t – to go over to her blog and wish her a happy birthday, and commiserate with her on her advancement into old age.
Oh yes, in case anyone was wondering, the description of my incompetence in World of Warcraft in the above story is only slightly overstated: despite Emily’s help – her character had to practically lead mine by the hand through one section – I’ve only managed to become a Level 7 Rogue at the time of writing this, and still have little idea of what I am supposed to be doing. I am clearly not cut out for the job. There is no need to fear that I may become addicted – save your concern for Emily, should you not hear from her again.
The controversial clause discreetly contained within the end user licence agreement of all Microsoft Windows operating systems since 1995.
I believe it to be the sign of a true artist that he should be able to consider some sliced tomatoes on bread as both Art and food.
What do breasts look like? This illustration is for the benefit of those of you who do not have breasts of your own.
Kate Moss demonstrates her innocence of sexual matters as the fashion photographer has to point out to her that she has forgotten to put any clothes on.
