On the slopes of Creag an Lochain (at conk-out point) we came across this attractive amphibian

We spotted this slightly less colourful cousin by the path leading across Rannoch Moor to Glencoe

But in terms of sheer immensity, what could beat the Rannoch Frog Stone?

[Background: on 20th November 2008, I received an unsolicited mail from Blogged.com generously awarding me a score of 7.4 out of 10 whilst informing me with all the gushing, upbeat insincerity of contemporary corporate rhetoric: "This is quite an achievement!"  The sender encouraged me to festoon my site with a promotional link proudly displaying my rating for the vast legions of bored males who according to Google Analytics spend less than one second on my site, just long enough to be disabused of the notion that my category XXL might have anything to do with simulations of writhing ecstasy, perhaps pausing for a Homer Simpson-like, forehead-slapping epiphany that the abbreviation quite innocently refers to clothing sizes.  No doubt expecting me to roll over like a poodle, tongue-lolling excitedly in transports of self-abasing gratitude that a little affection had been directed towards me.  How sadly mistaken.  A more appropriate canine comparison would involve that house at the end of the road in the sink estate, the one that even the local thugs give a wide berth, with the rickety wooden fence complete with scratch marks from vicious claws and an abandoned supermarket trolley lying helpless on its side on the lawn where the spike-collared Rottweiler roams.  One whiff of an impetuous intruder foolhardily approaching the beast's domain and it launches itself, teeth bared, battering its muscular bulk against the flimsy wood, salivating to part flesh and sinew from bone in its frenzied fury.  What follows is my reply.  Needless to say, I did not receive a response]

Dear Amy,

Thank you for taking the time and trouble to send me a standard format mail with a corresponding one-size-fits-all text.  No doubt the implied flattery of the phrase “This is quite an achievement!” is intended to elicit a Pavlovian response from the recipient to increase your site’s prestige (and position in search engine rankings) by pasting the link onto the sidebar as a badge of honour.

I, however, do not have the remotest intention of so doing and would like to explain why.

Firstly, I harbour serious suspicions that no human editor has so much as given the most cursory glance at my blog.  In part because I do not believe that you possess the financial and staffing resources necessary to substantiate your claim (albeit not expressly stated, but inherent in the nature of a site assigning scores to blogs) to function as some kind of arbiter of good writing.  In view of the sheer number of blogs (many of which are strewn over the pages of Blogger like so many archaeological remains, having been abandoned shortly after coming into being in the first instance either because the author’s attention span compares unfavourably with that of a thereby much-maligned amphibian or because they quickly succumb to the disillusionment that sets in when they are not instantly catapulted into the limelight or inundated with offers of book deals and the only attention bestowed upon them manifests itself in the inane and malevolent scribblings of trolls) it would require hordes of full-time employees to sift through and provide a genuine, considered assessment of each and every one of them.

Secondly, because of the score awarded to my blog.  All evaluation criteria are open to contestation, but some are more nebulous or likely to attract objections than others.  Let us examine each of the rating-determining criteria in turn.  The first is listed as “Frequency of Updates”.  This is founded on the assumption that a good blog is updated every day or perhaps more than once a day.  However, as the most superficial perusal of any teenager’s blog will suffice to demonstrate,  frequency of posting is usually in inverse proportion to quality.  Had an actual human judge proceeded to investigate my Profile Page, the logical place to begin when attempting to glean relevant information about the author or to acquaint oneself, however fleetingly, with the persona they wish to adopt, he or she would immediately have been appraised of my “mission statement”, or my stated purpose in writing: “Redemption Blues was conceived as an autobiography in fragments, but equally as a work in progress not easily reducible to any single (or simple) category.  My hope is that Redemption Blues will eventually attain the status of a ‘blog’ as opposed to a ‘good blog of the hour’ to adopt and adapt John Ruskin’s classification in Sesame and Lilies”.   The quotation from Ruskin which follows would have alerted them to the fact that the blog is not intended as some temporary or ephemeral venting exercise or disjointed series of huffings and puffings about the relentless flow of events, but as a literary/academic work including serious commentary and in-depth analysis.  True, the author’s initial perception of her output was as a “Personal Blog”, but the undertaking grew over time, expanding like a tree trunk, the rings invisible until exposed in cross-section.  This is where I part company with many, if not most, in my appreciation of the potential of the genre as a vehicle of thought and expression.  Its boundaries are not fixed, but fluid, it ought to be able to encompass “art” or at least aspire to, and it should not be regarded as inferior to what actually makes it into print in the bleak, commercially-driven imperative of the contemporary publishing industry.  Why should our views of what a blog should be like be conditioned by the lowest common denominator?  I am quite reconciled to the minute readership my blog commands as I quite deliberately refuse to pander to the tastes of the majority.  Given therefore that Redemption Blues strives for depth, the likelihood of the kind of feverish updating typical of blogs aimed at an average audience is not great to say the least.  Judging it according to criteria that quite self-evidently do not apply is an exercise in futility, if not downright dishonesty.

Then comes the enigmatic “Relevance of Content”, a classification, which begs more questions than it could ever hope to answer.  From whose standpoint?  Is a blog written from a staunchly British point of view to be deemed less relevant than a comparable American one simply because of US dominance of the Internet or because US politics and culture are considered more important by dint of the country’s economic clout and sheer weight of population numbers?  Surely this constitutes a parochial view, further sullied by a myopic and ugly nationalism.  Moreover, what meaning does the concept of “relevance” possess in relation to a “Personal Blog”?  By definition, the content posted on any blog is relevant to the author, otherwise they would not have bothered to write anything at all on the subject.  No external observer is entitled to adjudicate on the question of relevance.  Even if I were to attract a high volume of traffic because of an opinion voiced what is being measured is the interest others show in a topic (influenced by an entire array of factors).  Perhaps a blog that explicitly stakes a claim to being political might at a pinch be graded according to relevance of content in the sense that if the author strays from the narrow parameters defining what constitutes the properly political (a contested category in itself) to talk about the weather (unless the latter is related to anthropogenic climate change) it would not be beyond the bounds of imagination for an excessive and recurrent focus on the natural spectacle beyond the window pane to detract from the supposed “relevance” of the articles under scrutiny, but again exclusively in terms of the individual author’s own stated objectives.  It is, quite simply, nonsensical to try to impose a universally valid relevance criterion to any blog, which fatally discredits the rating system itself.

Next up is “Site Design”.  Blogging has been lauded as a more democratic and widely accessible form of articulating opinion.  Since the vast majority of bloggers are not computer experts/programmers/web designers it strikes me as highly questionable to include site design as a gauge of relative merit.  You really ought to be giving the points to Blogger or WordPress, but not using them as a means of distinguishing between individual bloggers, some of whom might be advanced enough to customise the standard template to add a personal touch.  In so doing, you end up penalising bloggers who might be extremely talented writers, but whose computer skills are more limited, privileging style over substance, slightly odd for a site that purports to direct readers towards quality content.  Then there is the matter of gender bias.  Supposing a female blogger wishes (and I am quite deliberately trading in crass stereotypes here for illustration purposes) to “prettify” her blog with cascades of flowers or a retina-scorching pink background, whereas a male blogger wishes to cultivate an air of “seriousness” and prefers a crisp, austere backdrop to his collected ruminations.  Which of these would yield a higher rating?  Increasing a score on the basis of “superior” site design not only depressingly replicates the kind of snap judgements ascribed to employers when ascertaining the suitability of job applicants (i.e. success or failure hinges almost entirely on superficialities, again surely not the kind of activity any organisation that craves to be taken seriously as a reliable guide to quality ought to be indulging in), but also  rewards those who can afford to pay small fortunes for web designers (in which case it would of course be the latter’s efforts which were being assessed) to impart a polished professional “look” – bringing us straight back to substance versus surface.  How amazingly progressive and enlightened of you.  How profoundly in touch with the spirit of blogging.

Finally, “Writing Style”.  In this context, I decided to check the rating your organisation considered appropriate for another personal blog with which I am familiar, Petite Anglaise.  It trounces Redemption Blues with 7.8 (as opposed to my 7.4).  In many respects, this is analogous to comparing an academic publication with a bodice-ripping bestseller, although both blogs are, it is true, subsumed beneath the same broad category.  You don’t have to take my word for it, simply type the respective URLs into the Blog Readability Test (a blunt instrument, yet instructive here) and you will discover that whilst Redemption Blues targets readers of a certain sophistication, as encapsulated in the “Genius Level” grading (itself an exaggeration betraying a sad decline in literacy levels), Petite Anglaise can be savoured by anyone of “High School” educational attainment.  I am at least somewhat relieved to note that pure readership figures (albeit blogs of stellar renown, such as Dooce.com have obtained remarkably high scores, suggesting that Technorati Authority might be an unacknowledged component of your evaluations after all) do not appear, at least not blatantly, to influence the results, otherwise Petite Anglaise would eclipse Redemption Blues entirely.  Taking raw popularity as an index of quality is extremely problematic.  Although inaccessibility/impenetrability do not betoken academic prowess (particularly to those acculturated into the theory-adverse, pragmatic Anglo-Saxon mindset), widespread appeal does not represent an incontestable guarantee of distinction.  Petite Anglaise does not pretend to be anything other than lightweight (except in the book version, where portentous mentions of posterity recur), profundity is entirely alien to it.  The judiciously edited account of the trials and tribulations of a secretary living in a location steeped in romantic associations in the minds of many of its readers was never going to aim higher than vacuous chick-lit, fit for consumption over a morning coffee, a throwaway piece of entertainment.  Redemption Blues, by contrast, is not hallmarked by either shallowness or pathological self-obsession.  In a nutshell, endorsing Petite Anglaise over Redemption Blues is equivalent to rejecting the Booker Prize shortlister in favour of the sun cream-spattered Mills and Boon beachside distraction.  Therefore it would be extremely difficult to persuade me that your entire rating system is anything other than a hollow, intellectually and morally bankrupt endeavour.

Returning to my initial protest about the total absence of human involvement in the rating process despite avowals to the contrary, the “Related topics” are simply strip-mined from my introductory paragraph and bear no relationship to the actual contents of my blog.  A more refined method of hoodwinking the hapless browser into deluding themselves that an actual person had so much as clicked once on the blog would have been to reproduce the author-devised categories.  This would have included Culture, Sociology and Women and Multiculturalism to name but three.  At least then any reader who might have strayed onto the relevant listing in the Directory might have been given a tantalising flavour of what my blog is about.  As things stand, potential visitors are comprehensively (and reprehensibly) misinformed (I cannot be blamed for this, as by compiling a Profile Page as well as a list of categories, I self-evidently expect curious passers-by to explore further).

I hope that these objections will serve as an inducement not to underestimate the intelligence of blog authors in future and to reflect on the wisdom of remorselessly promoting a hopelessly defective rating tool.  Perhaps they might even prompt you to ponder how best to salvage a semblance of the authority you clearly hanker after by improving it.

Yours faithfully,

The Chameleon

[Footnote for the hard of thinking, orchestrators of two-minute hate sessions, sundry members of Petite's army of (p)sychophants and wilful distorters.  Before hastening to conclude that my aversion to the prose of the Parisian stems from snobbery, spite, sour grapes, bruised vanity or whatever other motive you would seek to impute to me, please recall the vast power imbalance between us, which overshadows all else.  Remember before gallantly rushing to her defence by taking a swipe at me that she is the one who has been able to escape the drudgery of office dronedom with the half a million pound book deal whilst I continue to toil away in obscurity.  There is a certain subtle, self-deprecating (if not masochistic) irony contained in my words.  Like the high-pitched whine of the mosquito inaudible to the elephant it is about to divebomb in spite of the latter's magnificent ears.  The insect's doomed attempt to penetrate the hide so utterly ridiculous as to enter the realm of the farcical.  The mere fact of the inclusion of this piece under Chameleon Lite signals that it belongs to the more trivial postings with a tinge of humour.  Of course, it is quite dismal for me to feel obliged to point out what to a regular reader is insultingly obvious.  Detractors seldom bother with context before launching into invective however and I have already been shunned by the self-proclaimed "cream" of British blogging for the sin of blaspheming against Her Sublime Untouchableness.  I steadfastly refuse to back down from my assertion that marketability does not coincide with merit, a proposition Ms S very vividly illustrates]

If you are going to engage in an act of wanton vandalism, at least ensure that it is guaranteed to amuse the casual passer-by…

The perfect illustration of how to combine the impulse to deflate pomposity with wit is surely this shop front in Budapest (with thanks to Dino, from whom I commissioned this photo, as lugging my heavy bag of equipment to Hungary for the holidays was not a priority).

Hunched over tables in interiors with stained glass and brass angels holding lamps, a peculiar blend of living room intimacy and the detached reverence of the place of worship, the great and good of Waffle Central grey visibly as they sip their cherry-flavoured beers, nicotine-darkened walls now smoke-free, small dogs quivering at their feet, poised to dart out and nip the waiter’s ankle in frustration (instinctively aware of the impunity granted by their child-substitute status, the social and commercial imperative to defer to the big-bosomed, multi-corseted mistress in her creaking finery banishing all other considerations, the most formidable retribution the yapping miscreant need fear a yank on the leash and a scolding). Each brew is served in its own unique glass, accompanied by a tiny bowl of salted nibbles, sörkorcsolya as such an offering is known in Hungarian (beer skates, something to help the liquid slip down even more smoothly), usually dainty pretzels and Twiglet-equivalents. The menu comprises snacks that aggravate hunger instead of soothing it, white-bread toast with a slice of ham and cheese, a lettuce leaf kept artificially crisp, miniature gherkins and pickled onions in that most strident of clear vinegars, which could function as a paint-stripper or hospital corridor disinfectant with equal efficacy.

Several years ago, my friend Dorrit commented approvingly on the custom of placing an individually-wrapped biscuit on the saucer next to the coffee, a pampering of the customer she hoped could be exported to her native land. The quality of the token varies in direct proportion with the sumptuousness of the surroundings (if you visit Wittamer’s café, for example, to take pleasure in demolishing the carefully hand-crafted cakes with their extravagant swirls of pure cocoa butter chocolate you can also expect to be presented with a small plate of truffles with your pot of tea, though the bill matches the polite reception and attention to detail). One biscuit stands out as pre-eminent, however, having attained the status of national icon, the Speculoos. Numbed with the fatigue of a night made restless by the knowledge that I would have to wake up at five in order to make the connection (and that my working day would not end before midnight after the trip), the crisp, slightly cinnamon-flavoured sliver of comfort revived me once I had removed the plastic filter through which the scalding water had already passed (in the days when the buffet car and the trolley service on board the train had not been abolished to staunch the losses, I signed the protest petition and was left to mutter resentfully along with all the other regulars on the route, the ten-minute stopover in Luxembourg main station hardly adequate for procuring warm liquid refreshment when several hundred other caffeine addicts feel the urge at exactly the same time in a mass dash, choreographed by desperation in a display that would put the otherwise breathtaking aerobatics of sky-blackening starling flocks to shame).

The flavour of the Speculoos is singularly appropriate to its context of net curtains, tall city houses, unremitting respectability (the neighbour below when I first moved here made my life a misery by banging up every time my baby wailed with colic, accusing me of child abuse because no infant makes such a racket unless it is being systematically tortured and sending the concierge around if I had the temerity to speak to my parents on the phone after ten in the evening, the cut-off point for noise of any description – at the weekend woe betide the suburbanite who dares mow the lawn on a Sunday, there are helicopter patrols that check for such heinous crimes as well as illegal bonfires on the Day of Rest), sickly, sugary guilt to banish the burden of unimpeachable conduct, of sitting knees sternly and uninvitingly clamped together because any other posture would mark you out as being of questionable virtue, of the rain-drenched drabness, which is the natural hue. A hint of spice, of exoticism, of escape, but nothing too adventurous, nothing that would make you question why you were still here, why you put up with it all. A fragrance of rebellion, of subversion, yet paradoxically also of cocooning, retreat to the parlour and convention, a tumult of contradictions and hypocrisies melting on the tongue. An immature taste, forever soothing in its childish immediacy.

Responding to the endless appetite for innovation and confident that we have all been adequately trained to succumb to the impulse buy at least once, the makers of Speculoos have devised a fresh aberration. In Britain, it would send the anti-obesity killjoys into self-anointing paroxysms of righteous indignation, eyes rolling, foaming at the impudent and unapologetic obscenity of it. A spreadable biscuit paste! Speculoos concentrate to trowel on to the morning roll, to alleviate the constant, throbbing pain of a transitional period stretching endlessly onwards through a thousand rainy afternoons cleaning up after the neighbour’s pug as it leaves a not-so-pleasantly-odoured deposit in the lavender patch. At least stripy Milky Way possesses some justification, the logic of sticky fingers in the summer sunshine.

Having dispatched the Hungarian to the local supermarket to obtain a sample purely as a nod to the possibility of a less onerous form of cultural assimilation, I unscrewed the lid, pierced the waxy, hymen-like seal with my knife and plunged the blade in. Regret can only sometimes be anticipated, and always vaguely, as acknowledgement in advance would lour like a bouncer leaning against the entrance, sniffing the pheromones of the nervous. To have discovered, after all these years, something to like about this miserable, petit bourgeois cesspit, the chief virtue of which up to the moment when the evil concoction assaulted my taste buds was the ease with which you could quit its confines (no more than a couple of hours in any direction).

Whatever next? Squirting mayonnaise over my chips instead of ketchup?

Anthropologist Kate Fox in Watching the English (London, Hodder and Stoughton, 2004) carefully dissects every foible of the nation’s behaviour, investigating the minutiae in a spirit of scientific rigour, uncovering vital clues in the most unlikely of places: “We read compulsively, anytime, anywhere.  In many English homes, you will find what I call ‘bogside reading’: piles of books and magazines placed next to the loo, or even neatly arranged in a special rack or bookcase for reading while sitting on the loo” (pp220-1).

There is a gender-specific dimension to this (though I would note, on the basis of having shared a home with a Hungarian for over a decade that this phenomenon would appear to be cross-cultural – apart from the customary stack of computer gaming monthlies, he has snaffled my son’s copy of The Book of General Ignorance to keep himself entertained): “There are many English people – particularly males – who find it very hard to defecate at all unless they have something to read.  If there is no proper bogside reading, they will read the instructions on the soap-dispenser or the list of ingredients on the spray-can of air-freshener” (p221).

Whilst the body is under strain, the mind should be otherwise occupied in the sanctum of solitude, preferable to the ignominious fate of an aneurysm from unseemly haste: “The unwritten rules of bogside reading state that the books and magazines should be of a relatively unserious nature – humour, books of quotations, collections of letters or diaries, odd or obscure reference books, old magazines; anything that can be dipped into casually, rather than heavy tomes requiring sustained concentration” (p221).

Indeed, Fox gleans valuable information concerning social class from the loo library (you may be a self-conscious and meticulous image-manager with pretensions to gentility, but, like Hyacinth Bucket, your true origins will be painfully revealed if you allow a sociologist to relieve herself): “Working-class bogside reading tends to be mostly humorous, light entertainment or sports-related – books of jokes, cartoons, maybe the occasional puzzle-book or quiz-book, and perhaps a few glossy-gossip or sports magazines.  You will also sometimes find magazines about hobbies and interests, such as motorcycles, music or skateboarding.

Lower-middles or middles-middles are not so keen on bogside reading: they may well take a book or newspaper into the loo with them, but do not like to advertise this habit by having a permanent bogside collection, which they think might look vulgar.  Females of these classes may be reluctant to admit to reading on the loo at all.

Upper-middles are generally much less prudish about such things, and often have mini-libraries in their loos.  Some upper-middle bogside collections are a bit pretentious, with books and magazines that appear to have been selected to impress, rather than entertain, but many are so eclectic, and so amusing that guests often get engrossed in them and have to be shouted at to come back to the dinner table.

Upper-class bogside reading is usually closer to working-class tastes, consisting mainly of sport and humour, although the sporting magazines are more likely to be of the hunting/shooting/fishing sort than, say, football.  Some upper-class bogside libraries include fascinating old children’s books, and ancient, crumbling copies of Horse and Hound or Country Life, in which you might come across the 1950s engagement-portrait of the lady of the house” (pp221-2).

I should point out at this stage that I am a Scot (hence many of the classificatory indicators deployed by Fox do not apply), an academic of staunch peasant/working class roots (my family on my mother’s side were itinerant agricultural labourers, whilst on my father’s side they were tenant farmers of the Duke of Atholl, the principle reading matter in the cottage in which they shivered the sun-yellowed newspaper pages from the 1920s covering the interior in lieu of wallpaper), whose upward mobility depended on study.  The very idea of polluting sacred tomes by lugging them into the most profane of spaces fills me with horror and revulsion.  One of the great pleasures of ex-pat existence (though not quite enough to compensate for the dreary flatness of Waffleland or quell homesickness altogether) is the separation of the room for expelling waste products from the room in which cleansing and restful soaking occurs.  The most magnificent example of bogside bliss I have yet encountered did tend to corroborate Fox’s analysis.  In the downstairs toilet of a maison de maître owned by a Tory colleague I was confronted by a splendid array of volumes on fitted shelves, so compelling that the guest cannot help but agonise over making a selection, legs crossed, buttocks clenched.

Why dwell at such length on an inescapable necessity that unites the most humble shelf-stacker and the exalted ermine-trimmed peer of the realm (and I am not talking about reading)?  Because in a personal communication the author of My Boyfriend is a Twat (London, Friday Books, 2007) self-deprecatingly described her “manual about recognising, dealing and coping with a complete and utter twat” (px) as a “toilet book”.  Consisting of witty, episodic snippets, it can be consulted for entertainment to banish the dullness of a commute (never a bad thing when the person sitting opposite you on the retina-scaldingly bright orange seat of the metro carriage happens to be a stern bourgeois matron with a face next to which that of the pampered pug in her lap appears both cheerful and oddly attractive).

For the benefit of her female readers who, in the throes of the initial rush of tender affection, might be contemplating throwing in their lot with an average bloke, Zoë conscientiously and candidly urges caution by offering insights into the workings of the male mind: “I don’t regret my decision to take a twat under my roof; in fact, he has made a rather interesting contribution to my household and for that I thank him.  It’s the rest of the things that he does that I don’t thank him for, such as breathing.  And farting.  Especially the farting.  What can you do when you live with a man whose idea of cultural sensitivity is being able to fart along to the Belgian National Anthem?  Or who thinks of me as someone who: every 28 days has her period, every 21 days renews A Suitable Boy at the library and every 1,825 days gets her coil replaced?” (pxi).

Interspersed with the accounts of the perils of shopping, satellite dishes and sheds and of accommodations such as resigning oneself to the fridge being in a state of permanent, post-scavenged emptiness apart from the jars containing fossilised sediment of what was once jam or Marmite (the curry sauces having been more carefully excavated) is the occasional anecdote about the inconveniences and frustrations of life in exile: “As my boyfriend hardly knows Europe, he was far from ready to find himself living in a country where the shops are shut on Sundays and the offices are very fond of their bank holidays.  During the Twat’s first year here, he found himself getting very frustrated due to the lackadaisical lifestyle that the Belgians appear to have adopted.  I very clearly remember the Twat getting into the car one Saturday announcing that he was just popping round to see his doctor for a prescription renewal as he had run out of Ventolin.  I replied by saying that you have to have an appointment first, and besides, it being a Saturday, the doctor wouldn’t be at the clinic.  Not only that but, unless he could find a pharmacy ‘on call’, or was prepared to venture into the centre of town, he’d be out of luck as most pharmacies are shut over the weekends” (pp19-20).

Waffle Central can hardly compete with the cachet, romantic associations or bombastic self-confidence of Paris (beyond chocolate and beer, probably the only connotation is that of abject and irredeemable insignificance, although I believe Zoë when she assures us that she can indeed name ten famous Belgians), but the contradiction between its claim to being the (administrative) heart of Europe and the inferiority complex concerning its diminutiveness and cultural backwater status does give rise to some interesting tensions and at least the Twat has not adopted the entire gamut of local eccentricities.  For example, the somewhat disturbing propensity of native males to whip out their manhood unabashed in the most public of places (it really isn’t confined to an emergency watering of the lay-by’s grassy verge) in search of relief.  Their lack of inhibition or embarrassment in this respect is quite mind-boggling to the outsider (I have more than once considered snapping the worst offenders and posting their images in an effort to shame them into greater modesty as they direct their mictural flow onto the neighbour’s hedge in full view of our living room).  Whereas this might in part be attributable to the chronic under-provision of appropriate facilities (certainly true of the accumulation of retail hangars beyond our garden boundary), I suspect that it reflects something dark and unsavoury buried deep within the national psyche (or maybe symbolic revenge, “You refuse to take us seriously, but we piss on your opinion”).  After all, the most famous monument here is the Mannekin Pis (with a wardrobe of more than 600 costumes, including an Elvis number in rhinestone-studded white leather), whose image is ubiquitous (its latest manifestation is on the Coke vending machine at Zaventem Airport, the stream worryingly aimed straight at the delivery slot – no wonder the recipe remains a closely guarded secret).

For all his faults, the Twat was quick to discover the country’s chief merit, namely that if you travel for two hours in any direction you will have left its borders behind: “When our car was still running, the Twat found it incredible that he could, if he fancied, visit five different countries in one day without either having a passport or having to change currency.  In fact, you can visit three of those five countries and speak French in all three of them, although it is one of the Twat’s major achievements that he manages to get by with speaking English in any European country, including France.  He simply plays the village idiot again, which is neither a hard task for him nor is it far from the truth” (p24).

Certain aspects of masculinity in its contemporary cultural construction appear to transcend frontiers (taking the old Scottish proverb ‘Where’er ye be, let yer wind blow free’ a tad too literally): “Experience has taught me that most men tend to suffer badly from flatulence, which can not only be incredibly pungent but is often expelled from the body so noisily that even I have been woken up in the middle of the night during one of my boyfriend’s long and loud farts.  This is surprising, as very little wakes me up during the night and it is only on very rare occasions that the DHL flights landing at the airport not far from where we live manage to wake me, by sounding as if they are landing in the bedroom.  But when I say that sharing a bed with the Twat is like sleeping with someone who has a trumpet stuck up their arse, I couldn’t be closer to the truth” (p48).

The predilection for sloppiness extends from selective amnesia (whenever tidying up is involved, in the case of my household, stray plastic bottles gathering dust beneath the dining table and sofa) to dress sense: “Buying clothes for a twat is extremely difficult and could almost be compared to buying a book for a blind man.  The reason for this is because they simply aren’t bothered and can quite happily carry on through life with their existing clothes, or at least, until those clothes fall apart – although a true, thoroughbred twat will not be put off there.

My boyfriend’s tracksuit bottoms have a split seam on the right thigh, a hole where he dropped his ice-pick into his leg during a mountaineering accident, cigarette burns plus burns from burning rhododendrons, and the material covering his arse has worn so thin that it is almost transparent.  But that doesn’t put him off – he even wears them to work” (pp120-1).

In sum, My Boyfriend is a Twat successfully makes the transition from blog to book, combining the chaotic warmth of the original with a refreshing absence of pretension.  

[Perusing the list of ingredients describing the contents of what appeared, at first glance, to be a perfectly innocuous jar of preserved fruits, my appetite suddenly diminished...]

The diffident sunshine did not suffice to banish a tinge of grey from the sky as I boarded the bus, seasonally depopulated of all but the lower income brackets (pensioners, unemployed) and the occasional waif such as myself inward bound to sign the register (timetable vagaries necessitating the trip). The tramp with his characteristically matted hair and copious beard who had so carefully arranged his belongings (mattress rolled up and tied within a protective plastic sheet to prevent its being soaked in his absence, various carrier bags bulging indeterminately) in his modest corner (astutely selected in a part of the city abandoned after the offices close) next to the bridge with its pigeon-spattered pavements, scraggy bushes offering a modicum of privacy at least for part of the year has been definitively evicted by the removal of the bench on which he slumbered so deeply that one of my colleagues phoned the police, believing him dead.

My body trapped here, at my employers’ command, my mind at the cottage, my brother signalling with the headlights to his friends camped on the opposite shore, their bonfire the only visible token of human presence in the all-engulfing blackness. Dropping in on them, he was confronted with Spike, horror film addict with a particular fondness for zombies, recovering from the shock of the bin bag taking on a life of its own. Assailed by visions of dismembered limbs reanimated by canister gas to twitch menacingly, he screamed for a stick before tentatively tipping it on to its side to spew its contents. Poised for the worst abomination, branch at the ready, he sagged with relief when a half-dazed hedgehog scuttled out.

A few hours later, as my brother pulled out of the lay-by, he noticed a prickly ball curled up defensively in the middle of the road. Spike gently scooped up the campsite intruder and proceeded to run it through his hair like a brush. Having deposited it amongst the ferns at a safe distance and satisfied himself that it was not suicidally heading back in the direction of the tarmac he returned to the car where my brother cheerfully informed him that hedgehogs are notorious for being infested with fleas.

One of the lesser known changes the 1956 Revolution brought in its wake was the abolition of the despised “peace loan”, which had involved the deduction of a small portion of every worker’s salary in exchange for a bond, in essence completely worthless. Once a year a draw was held and the winners were paid back its value plus a modest dividend. Shaken by the outpouring of popular resentment and the mass exodus of
Hungary’s intellectuals and middle classes, the regime devised a more palatable method of extracting money from its recalcitrant subjects: the state lottery. The bulk of the revenue was used to prop up the budget, but between fifteen and twenty per cent was redistributed as prize money, the precise amount of the jackpot variable, but hovering around the million mark at a time when the average monthly wage comprised 1,500 to 2,000 forints. Unsurprisingly, the lottery proved an infinitely superior money-spinner for the government than its predecessor.

Having selected the numbers, players posted their tickets, keeping a slip by way of proof, each of which possessed a unique serial number. The draw took place once a week, on a Friday morning. To ensure that the entries arrived on time, they had to be posted by Wednesday evening at the very latest from outside Budapest, although popping them in the box on Thursday morning sufficed for residents of the capital.

Sándor’s colleague in the abattoir office was a quiet man, counting out the notes for the pay packets with nervous, but efficient fingers. He kept himself to himself in the canteen whilst the slaughtermen laughed, appetite not spoiled by the brutal nature of their trade. Sándor, in charge of guaranteeing that most vaunted yet least often attained Communist goal of maximum efficiency through meticulously planning the delivery routes, felt sorry for his reclusive comrade, whose eyes inevitably settled on the spatters of blood the aprons (now hanging on pegs outside the dining area) had not caught.

After many unsuccessful attempts to coax a conversation out of him, Sándor was surprised when, one otherwise dull afternoon, his workmate’s spindly voice cut through the customary silence like a razor blade. Week in, week out he had religiously filled in his chosen numbers, floating to the post box in a pleasant reverie of indolence and escape. He wouldn’t throw his cash around like the vulgar little fellow in the ad. The only visible (and not overly immodest) sign of his new status as a man of leisure would be a Cuban cigar, imported in bulk from our brave fellow-combatants in the Socialist paradise across the oceans, defying the imperialists on their very doorstep. His credentials as a loyal Communist could not be impeached as a result of lighting up: he was, after all, actively supporting their economy. That day, however, everything had conspired to distract him. He had slept in for no reason he could discern and missed the usual tram. Trapped in the rush hour throng, he had been unable to squeeze his way out on time and travelled one stop too far, sprinting back so that he would not arrive late. Flustered at this rude disruption of his normal routine, it was only when he fumbled in his pocket for some loose change that evening that the smoothness of the paper betrayed the presence of the envelope. His heart sank, yet all was not lost.

Brilliant sunshine penetrated the chinks in the ancient shutters, rousing him from a fitful slumber and he leapt out from beneath the thin summer duvet. Gulping down the thimbleful of tar-like black coffee he had sugared and left on the table the night before, he rushed to the bus station as the early coach would pull in early enough for a passenger to pop the slip into the nearest post-box before the first collection. One kindly soul agreed to assist him and he walked through the abattoir gates with an uncharacteristic grin spread over his features. It took years off him.

On Friday, he switched on his set to listen to the results of the draw at the end of the news as usual. His palms grew clammy with excitement as his numbers were chosen in exact sequence. Perhaps the neighbours were puzzled by the single strange whoop from below, but they didn’t report it to the authorities as suspicious.

He could barely contain himself as he queued with his slip to claim his winnings. A thousand unexpected plans had rattled through his brain, banishing sleep. The official calmly looked through every line recorded in the tome. “I’m sorry sir, but we have no record of your entry”. Bright lights like shards of glass obscured his vision. “Please could you check again,” he gasped, proffering the flimsy slip, proof of fortune’s benevolence. “I really am very sorry…” came the reply, as blackness engulfed him. The stranger at the bus station had not been entirely sincere about his intentions.

For three years, he had wandered through the corridors of the asylum in a stupor of disbelief, the irony not entirely lost on him even in his bleakest moments. He would watch the other wretches from an armchair in a daze, until the bitterness slowly began to evaporate like an autumn fog chivvied away by the light. When he was deemed to have recovered sufficiently to function in a normal setting, he was released and immediately started to play the lottery again. As a reminder to himself that he had regained his sanity.

He never so much as recouped the cost of a ticket.

The metallic chirping of the overhead wires announced the imminent arrival of the 7.42. The same committee yet again in the company of DW, whose surfeit of mental energy has to be released in an uninterrupted flow of learned expatiation of the most obscure lexical items in Polish, his current darling (postulating impossible vocabulary connections between unrelated tongues in an effort to gauge whether his audience’s attention has strayed), whose CD player pounds out the repetitive rhythms of folk dances and rap alike on the monthly 500-kilometre pilgrimage and whose novel approach to language acquisition involves grappling with crosswords as opposed to sampling the literary greats of a given culture.

My guess as to the exact positioning of the first-class compartment proved accurate (not always as prosaically predictable as it might seem, this being Waffleland after all, where the stifling unimaginativeness of the bourgeois is surpassed only by the bloody-minded pursuit of causing maximum inconvenience on the part of officials in the state apparatus. If, for example, you have the temerity to disturb the salesperson behind the counter by actually attempting to purchase a ticket, you are greeted by a sullen grunt and eyes flinging a thousand daggers bang on target, customer service being an entirely alien concept, the country having resisted importing the vacuous superficiality of transaction politeness from the States). I do not need to depart so early, but the thought of squeezing in alongside self-important suited bureaucrats who might have gone heavy on the garlic the night before fills me with revulsion.

The stations and shelters a mess of graffiti (my favourite, depicting a parade of militant ladybirds marching bipedally, warm smiles reassuring the onlookers that they posed no threat, the slogan “Cocc’s army, peacelly ready” confirming the impression of a non-violent demonstration, having long since being sprayed over with some inanity), the conductor with his twirled walrus moustache scolding a passenger for not having written the destination in full (ignoring all protestations that there simply isn’t space for the double-barrelled designation). Coffee and couque suisse for breakfast at the bar, before being subjected to the umpteenth paper delivered in a monotone by a non-native speaker (with the concomitant paucity of expression or wit) on the inconsistencies and iniquities of roaming prices.

Halfway through the morning, the lovely and generous AS dropped off a John Lewis carrier bag full of expensive sexy scarlet underwear as well as a few vests for my niece (soon to be flower girl) and a beautiful handbag in shimmering blue to match the silk dress her mother has tailored with consummate skill. DW insisted on examining the contents, his irrepressible curiosity extending to such trivia.

Relief at finally being freed from the obligations of toil (just a couple of sessions on standby duty before departing on leave) and familiarity with the timetable propelled me out of the building and down onto the platform. It was only when three-quarters of the way back that it occurred to me that only one plastic bag, with the day’s newspaper clippings, rested on the seat opposite. Details had fully absorbed my mind, from the favours (small boxes of exquisite, hand-made chocolate and whisky miniatures) to the petals to be strewn in lieu of confetti, rudely elbowing out any thought beyond the normal routine. Several panicked phone calls later, I was trundling back, hoping desperately that the room had not been cleared (I have never forgotten the trauma of leaving a folder with the irreplaceable manuscript of a short story along with some magazines, clearly marked “Please do not remove” in several languages only to return after lunch to find it had all disappeared. A kind-hearted colleague, taking pity on me in my anguish, set off in search of the cleaning ladies who denied all knowledge. She insisted that they rummage through the black bags from the meeting room. Without her stern intervention, the sole copy would never have been retrieved, unscathed, the glossies having soaked up the coffee dregs poured in from the cups).

The male tea servers (whose responsibilities also include replacing opened bottles of mineral water) were wheeling out the stack of trays with dirty glasses and lipstick-stained cups sporting the institution logo, flirting with the cleaning staff. I was poised to intercept them, but the bag was exactly where I had left it, all contents accounted for. Then another dash for the train to make it home in the nick of time for the beginning of my afternoon on-call (fixed line only).

The Hungarian awaited me, a bemused smile on his face. I was not immune to the stress of the occasion in spite of a lack of obvious nerves. In the car, my mobile rang. It was DW, one of the recipients of my numerous distress calls. He had been the last to gather his bits and bobs together and I had left him a message in case he had noticed my oversight. Like a true gentleman, he had come to my assistance, immediately heading back to the room in search of the lost property. On finding the booth empty, he ran after the cleaners, enquiring if they had happened upon a plastic bag. They shook their heads, asking what had been inside it. “Items of feminine apparel of an intimate nature, in ruby lace,” he stammered. The raised eyebrows accompanying the sympathetic shrugs brought a blush to his cheeks. It was obvious that they had him down for a man caught out. I did not press him over whether, in his opinion, they thought he had bought them for a mistress or to try on himself in the privacy of his own home.

[Because the last paragraph simply doesn't work in writing...]

Develop a magpie instinct, picking up pieces of knowledge no matter how obscure, from Middle High German proverbs to solar panel technology, from condom thicknesses to mother boards.

Have a few stock quotes from the Bible and Shakespeare at your fingertips, as clients are fond of displaying their erudition (King Lear, Act One, Scene Four’s “Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well” an excellent solution for the perennial brain bender “the good is the enemy of the best”) and a few innocuous “filler” phrases when you need to play for time, taking that split second to dredge up the choice piece of vocabulary from the depths of your memory (a favourite of some being “We ignore this at our peril”). Avoid Spoonerism-prone expressions, such as “shed light on”. Once the penny has dropped, you will experience a pre-emptive shudder of mental mortification every time you contemplate using it.

Be prepared for the frustration of outsiders (especially those who should know better as they depend on your services on a daily basis) assuming that anyone with the most superficial of nodding acquaintances with languages being capable of doing your job. You may have a doctorate in nuclear physics (one of my colleagues does), but you are still pigeonholed as a linguist and looked down on accordingly. Of course, they are secretly jealous that they have been excluded from such a “cushy number”. “I could do that,” the glittering Eurojugend clones with their instilled sense of entitlement and superiority secretly believe behind their strained smile of absolutely insincere politeness. Whereas in truth even the perfectly bilingual are less likely to possess the rarefied aptitude than those brought up without such an advantage. This attitude is exacerbated by the fatuous claims printed as a marketing ploy on learning discs (“Learn Hausa in a week!”) so popular at the moment as holidaymakers contemplate alternative sunny climes. Worse, you are a parasite, an expensive frippery, a drain on taxpayers’ money, a glorified secretary, a menial to be shunted off to a cheap hotel miles away from the venue whilst those on an equal (or greatly inferior) footing in the official hierarchy are allocated doubles in situ (the cost of hiring fleets of coaches to ferry you back and forth is somehow mysteriously omitted from the calculation, what counts is the genuflection towards economising).

Acquire a taste for gin and tonic and always make sure you order doubles when it is your round. Insist on more than one slice of fresh lemon being slipped into the glass, even if the barmaid has to go to the fridge and retrieve the dimpled citrus.

Always respect the Magnus Magnusson principle (“I’ve started so I’ll finish”). If you embark on a sentence you are committed to finishing it or else you will undermine the confidence of your listeners. This is why it is never a good idea to echo the speaker when she or he says “We have a saying in Estonian that goes something like this and I’m not sure about the English equivalent…” (the advice in paragraph one notwithstanding). Waiting for a few seconds will allow you to determine whether a similar phrase does indeed exist in the target language and save you much grief. However, your voice must not waver in the meantime. Waiting just long enough without creating the impression you have lost the plot is a skill that can only be acquired with practice. Hesitation is not automatically equated with incompetence, but the line between keeping and losing your audience’s faith is fine indeed. If the chairperson is champing at the bit to grab the mike you can omit the last sentence or two provided they are merely closing platitudes and do not contain any information of substance. Alternatively, if you know the chairperson is listening to you direct you can pointedly carry on to the bitter end. Discretion is called for and familiarity with the chairperson’s personality does not do any harm.

Judicious editing is one of the most important aptitudes at your disposal and should be nurtured accordingly. Interpretation is not a mere slavish rendition of every word, but a distillation of the message, a processed essence purified of all extraneous verbiage, a concentrate of the speaker’s intentions. Ideally every utterance should be faithfully rendered (and the true interpreter will capture the speaker’s style and delivery as well as content), but this is not always possible. In that sense, interpretation is a highly pragmatic art. No matter how repugnant the views articulated might be to you personally, your presence is required as a conduit, a filter of concepts, a role, which does not entitle you to distort or maliciously interfere with the original message. The phrase “says the speaker” is handy in two instances: firstly as an exclamation mark to dissociate yourself with the content when the speaker has made a glaring error of substance (so that listeners are alerted to the fact that a lack of comprehension on your part is not to blame) and secondly to distance yourself from the most repellent of statements (although the latter should be used sparingly and many would argue that it is never acceptable to deploy it to voice a distaste, which is incompatible with our professional ethos). You communicate the thoughts and thought processes of others: you are only a participant in proceedings by default or proxy, an impartial witness, an arbiter of content at a linguistic level, but not a judge. If all else fails and you really have not understood either because the acoustics were poor (the sound cuts out with monotonous regularity or the expatiating customer has an irritating habit of turning round to joke with his friend in the row behind and the mike does not pick up the words clearly) or the point genuinely went over your head, there are two fallback tactics, leaving the offending word or phrase out altogether (which can prove fatal or impossible if everything hinged on that one component – all too often the case) or bluffing with a meaningless substitute (the indispensable padding phrase again). Clarification can always be requested by the delegates themselves. They have the advantage of being in a position to ask. You don’t. The true last resort is tactical mumbling. Speaking indistinctly won’t endear you to colleagues depending on your for relay, but mumbling the names (the problem usually arises because the individual giving the floor mangles the pronunciation so badly that only the most mentally agile, seasoned interpreter who can reel off the list of members of the body in question has a remote hope of deciphering them) or making a valiant attempt to mimic accurately the sound emanating from the chairperson’s lips at least opens the possibility that someone out there might be able to put two and two together.

In a spirit of collegial solidarity when (as will inevitably occur, and in the overwhelming majority of occasions unfairly) accusing eyes peer in the direction of the booth because a delegate regrets a slip of the tongue or unguarded remark and prefers to deflect attention onto the interpreters (in the knowledge that we are not allowed to answer back or rebut the charge), replace the “I heard over my headphones” or the “The interpreter fucked up” with “I’m sorry, but I must have misheard you” or “A wire got crossed somewhere” or “I don’t think I understood you correctly”. Never give them ammunition.

Always modulate. There is nothing more dreary than hearing a bored voice drone on through the headphones. Even if the topic is accrual-based accounting systems remember it is your duty to make it sound interesting. It will warm the cockles of some little stuffed shirt’s heart. You are the speaker for the duration. If she is angry, you must convey that rage. If she speaks with passion, you must reflect that enthusiasm. Your voice is your precious instrument, your greatest asset. Flaunt it.

Resign yourself to never being able to read a newspaper again (not even in your mother tongue) without underlining interesting or unfamiliar words. Tabloids are every bit as useful as broadsheets in this respect, as you can stripmine them of vocabulary items in a different register. The printed columns are a tool, not only in terms of gathering information, but also in terms of providing you with the basic raw materials of your craft.

If you are young, female and straight either resign yourself to permanent celibacy, serial affairs conducted on mission with married colleagues or import a partner or lover to Waffle Central with you. Love seldom blossoms at work. The hours are too irregular for a social life or any kind of fixed routine. Our profession, reputed to be the second oldest, is too often confused with the oldest. You will be deluged with unwanted and unsolicited propositions from all and sundry until you hit forty as of when you will no longer be noticed, considered out of the running (which may be a source of blessed relief or resentment, depending).

Cultivate a neurosis, such as fiddling with the light bulbs or haranguing the maintenance men about the inadequacies of the air conditioning. It will help you to fit in and give boothmates something to bitch about other than your imperfect grasp of the past historic whilst you fetch them a lait russe as a bribe to look upon your shortcomings with less acerbity.

Pursue an outside interest, preferably one that can shield you from the burden of unwanted conversation with colleagues you despise. Being cooped up in a confined space day after day takes its toll and the chemistry just isn’t there with everyone. Aversions can be so strongly felt that the interpreter sitting next to you might disinfect the headphones with alcohol and a paper handkerchief rather than don headphones that could have been polluted through contact with your auditory organs – nothing elicits disgust liked caked-on earwax. Especially if it originated from your sworn enemy.

Learn to ignore the implied insult of clients adjusting their toupees in the pane of glass separating you from them as if you were not there. Like it or not you are part of the furniture, part of the technical equipment and what you do is as enigmatic to them as how a mobile phone functions or how a Jumbo jet manages to haul its astounding bulk into the air.

Do not be alarmed at the shift in perceptions that comes from being exposed to an uninterrupted stream of sound day in day out. A person’s attractiveness will be conditional on the quality of their voice. Nothing will put you off a person more than a shrill, hash or in any way grating vocalisation. Your tolerance for extraneous noise will gradually diminish the longer you are bombarded with other people’s utterances. This is an occupational disease and will sneak up on you unnoticed. It may even extend to music.

Finally, one ineluctable paradox is built into the very nature of our art. We have to process complex information instantaneously. We must have honed analytical skills. We must have a flair for communicating across cultural barriers. In order to perform our job well we must possess an innate creativity that must always be harnessed in the service of those who by definition cannot appreciate our flashes of brilliance. We might pull off a linguistic salto mortale every second sentence without the reward of applause. We might unravel the most tortuous logic with perfect clarity yet our efforts go unnoticed. The brutal truth is that if they could appreciate us they wouldn’t need us. We only ever impinge on their consciousness if something goes wrong. If you are expecting gratitude or admiration in exchange for your intellectual fireworks, for the sheer amount of mental and emotional energy expended you will be sorely disappointed. The primary compensations are to be found in being present whilst history is made (or at least having a ringside seat whilst the swarms of journalists hang around the bar for the merest scrap of what you have heard in detail, although our “superiors” are currently plotting to deprive us even of that minor satisfaction) and the more modest consolation of being able to walk away at the end of the session and leave the day’s work behind you.

The skeleton of a nestling on the veranda pane slid down the incline before being tenderly blanketed by snow. The gruesome reminder of mortality and nature’s cruel indifference had gone unnoticed for months. Spikes of green emerge once again as the covering retreats, paw print evidence of feline intrusion by the hedge likewise melting. Sleep has evaded me, chest heaving with the effort of drawing breath, eyelashes caked in the morning with stale secretions, the knowledge of five hundred ineluctable pages awaiting my attention driving me back upstairs where triple layers of clothing do not afford sufficient insulation.

Thoughts drifting back towards a spring less harsh, my paper on discourses of social class in Hungary between the two World Wars stowed safely in my luggage I looked through the condensation-misted windows of the minibus winding through picture postcard villages in stark contrast to the campus, last unapologetic bastion of Marxism. The Bed and Breakfast establishment had been included on the official list as within easy walking distance. On the phone the owner had seemed perfectly personable, if a tad starched-collar stiff. It was located on the outskirts, stranded amidst a desert of roundabouts and bypasses, pedestrian crossings always inconveniently placed. A nondescript modern house awaited in a cul-de-sac of brick clones. My room was on the first floor just along from the master bedroom with its en suite. No wash basin, a wooden dressing table deep scratches testifying to years of constant use, blankets as opposed to duvet. The nearest bathroom accessible via the landing, past the teenage son’s den. None of this dismayed me, although the couple made my flesh creep.

I have avoided churches, shrinking away from them as the Devil is reputed to do from holy water. The congregations, with their hands stretched upwards in a gesture of surrender to channel the Spirit’s grace, eyes tight closed to cut out distracting stimuli, always cheerful for to be downhearted makes a mockery of the Lord’s mercy extended to the elect, His flock of the saved, swaying in time to the amplified upbeat tunes of contemporary songs of worship, the abandonment of self to a superior power. I recognised the mixture of suspicion and condescension that greeted me. Potentially I could be converted (unlikely, though, as I was an academic visiting the most godless university in the country). Potentially I could be a source of contamination, spreading my sinful ideas like a miasma. Then again, they could always console themselves with my inevitable damnation. As I sipped tea on their flower-upholstered sofa they probably pictured me roasting on a spit, a pack of devils gleefully jabbing away at my seared skin as my trailing locks caught fire. My first encounter with Little England, the red cross of Saint George on a white background fluttering in the landscaped garden as we feasted on cod and chips, gospel channel sermons cajoling and threatening in equal measure. I made my excuses early and sought refuge in the privacy of rented space. The militant middle-class whose sense of entitlement, bolstered by their god-fearing conformism, will forever remain alien to me, their interests confined to monitoring the value of their property, satisfaction tinged with smugness. No throwing caution to the winds, always sensible, no outbursts of anger or joy. They reminded me of exhibits at a taxidermist’s, glass eyes unnaturally bulging, a hint of formaldehyde clinging to their garments. For me the cliff edge, hair lashed by the wind, the thrill of the brink, of oblivion.

After the conference I relaxed in the company of the organisers and contributors bathed in the scent of exotic spices, tearing hunks of garlic nan. I suspected my hosts would retire before midnight and after frantic note-taking and fielding questions was not in the mood for a late drinking session. Two glasses of red, the most I permit myself, adequate to fortify me for my return to the sedate(d) surroundings for polite but vacuous chit-chat.

They dropped me off at the entrance to the road, where only the eerie orange of street lamps staved off the shadows. The silence of the righteous, law-abiding. No abandoned trolleys, no crushed beer cans littering the pavements, not a leaf out of place in the privet. A twinge of panic as I reached the back door, no welcoming light. I checked. It had only just gone ten. I did not want to disturb them, to make him trudge down in slippers and dressing gown. No key on the windowsill or even beneath the mat on the doorstep. Should I check in at the nearby hotel? Some intuition prompted me to grasp the handle and push. To my astonishment the door opened. Such trust would be rewarded by a living room stripped bare of television and furnishings or the chill of a knife blade against the throat in my home environs. Every creak of the stairs reverberated in my ears like a gunshot. I deposited my briefcase, slipped off my shoes lest a trace of mud sully the carpet and headed for the toilet, paranoid that the flushing would cause them to stir.

I could not drift off, too buoyant on the thrill of outshining the opposition, on the display of erudition and the assurance that my article would be included in the volume of proceedings. My bladder filled again within what seemed like seconds. I would not be able to ignore the ache until morning. My alarm clock informed me that only an hour had hauled itself wearily by. I switched on the bedside light, head throbbing with indecision. The tumbler on the dresser beckoned. Surely I could not produce enough to fill it? Crouching, toes gripping on the luxurious fibres to assist in keeping my balance with the shifted centre of gravity, I concentrated on directing the gush, chill glass against my skin. Once the stream picks up momentum aiming is a simple affair, only the grudging initial trickle liable to treachery. So it was that the dribble expanded to a patch before the predictability of the jet, confident and true, permitted greater accuracy. Perilously close to the brim the sour liquid kept obstinately flowing. I clenched hard to break off, terrified of knocking the glass over, uncomfortably aware of the dampness and the absence of toilet paper. Rummaging around in my bag I excavated a half-empty packet of Kleenex, still straining my muscles to hold back the thwarted cascade. I had no choice but to cross to the bathroom yet again, my best intentions foiled. There were no pot plants where I could pour a little off unobtrusively to facilitate the task of transporting the contents of the tumbler to the thirsty porcelain gape. Wiping the bottom and sides of the glass, I checked the coast was clear before venturing out again, no snoring to give me reassurance that I would not suddenly be plunged into the rude light of the hallway bulb and forced to explain myself. Progress was tortuously slow, as I could not afford to spill a single drop. I imagined the boy with his first bristling of stubble being similarly drawn in the direction of the Armitage Shanks, his intimacy with his home territory allowing him to swing open the door and blunder forward as if on remote bumping into me, the ensuing waterfall drenching his pyjamas, my inept apologies awakening his parents who would see me kneeling and dabbing at his nether regions. Cringing, I continued. As I slid the bolt shut behind me relief flooded me.

Back in the room the stain stared at me accusingly. I frantically rubbed it with the paper handkerchiefs, praying that the boasts of super absorbency were not idle. It refused to dry. I had filled the tumbler with tap water so that if the worst came to the worst I could plead clumsiness. Then it occurred to me that one factor jeopardised my intricate deception: the smell. Mind numbed with the prospect of the embarrassment of coming clean, I sat hunched with gloom on the edge of the bed. There was nothing for it, I had to resort to Hugo. Hugo Boss, Woman, that is, a fragrance with an undertone of musk (Gy having advised me that I was too old to wear the lilac perfumes of which I am so fond) in unpretentious packaging. Having sprayed enough to anaesthetise a cat, I abandoned myself to slumber.

After a hearty plate of sausage, bacon and eggs the wife kindly drove me to the bus station. As we parted, she smiled and requested once again that I recommend their humble home to my colleagues at the institutions (their Euroscepticism not so vehement that they would refuse an official’s cash). I have no idea whether they discovered my guilty secret, but in future, no matter how late or how distant the bathroom, I have resolved to avail myself of the facilities provided.

G devises a novel feeding method…

The fug lined my lungs in the restaurant’s warm embrace. Once my favourite haunt (always crowded, the refuge of choice following the midnight shift since it serves food until one in the morning as well as being conveniently located by the river, should one feel the urge to lean over the railings and dispose of the contents of one’s stomach following a bout of overindulgence and within easy staggering distance of late-night watering holes) in the days before we fragmented, our former cohesiveness preserved only in the oral tradition of the group, little had changed, least of all my dish of choice, half a roast chicken and chips. LR ordered a jug of rosé to accompany her ham and eggs starter-portion masquerading as a main course, whilst Olli and I shovelled the crisp potato slivers on to our plates before requesting another salver. I poured on the illicit salt with abandon (only chips and egg cry out for it, which is why I normally abstain), declining every kind offer of noble fermented grape. A homeless man with tangled seasonal beard lurched towards the window pane, having clambered up the embankment from his cardboard mattress carefully stored beneath the red sandstone arches on the towpath. We joked that CM had finally arrived.

I recounted my dinner guest’s tale of life in Africa where the main crop cultivated on the sloping foothills is only tolerated in strictly limited quantities for personal use back home (he sensibly purchased the produce in bulk, a kilo at a time, before dividing it into more realistic doses in airtight bags, which led him to the discovery that the longer it is stored, the stronger it becomes). The long evenings without electricity tended to drag as he allowed his mind to wander whilst relaxing on the porch. He devised a form of entertainment, which proved an instant success with the villagers who would walk for miles to take part: chicken bingo (those of a squeamish disposition would be well-advised to spare themselves the details). Having scratched a grid with numbers into the dirt with a stick, the participants would place bets on the unfortunate bird’s final resting place. Its head would then be severed and the body released to run around until it flopped. The lucky winner took home the carcass for dinner as well as the other proceeds. At this juncture, LR interrupted with an inspired proposal that we introduce a variation on the theme, colleague bingo. One name instantly occurred to all of us (I dare not even mention her initials), although, as LR went on to point out, cutting off her head would make little difference.

I attributed the wooziness I felt the next morning to the handful of cold chips filched from CM. In spite of the chill, a huddle of young men armed with bows and arrows and clad in skimpy felt outfits of Sherwood handed out tracts protesting against the UK Presidency’s stingy budget offer. As the caffeine took effect, CM reminded me of some classic blunders. On a typical afternoon of one dreary press conference after another (naturally with no announcement of the subject or any documentation available) the speaker (a foreigner regaling the assembled journalists with his extensive knowledge of the language of Voltaire) was extolling the virtues of trade before launching into a paean on “les ananas”. CM, logically enough, assumed that he was defending a grower’s organisation, but doubts began to cross his mind when he started railing against the despicable conditions in Turkish prisons and the courage of feminists. Eventually, he had to come clean: “Mr X was not talking about pineapples, but the award of the Sakharov Prize to Leila Zana”.

The monthly journey to S is arduous at the best of times, neither of the main alternatives (rising at 5.45am to haul the weary body into town to catch the 7.24 train or cramming into an overbooked charter with less legroom than the average dodgem) appealing even without the delays and aggression (turfing some arrogant little chancer – and there are plenty of them – from the seat you have taken the trouble to reserve. On the way back last month I witnessed a bloated, wart-ridden little toad of a man refusing to budge on the pretext that he did not understand the extremely polite request on the part of the rightful occupant. Several other passengers had to intervene before the obnoxious interloper could be evicted. The insult to the girl’s intelligence of the transparent ruse of hiding behind his mother tongue left us collectively seething. Should he ever try it on with me, I have already rehearsed my line of attack: “Ah, you don’t speak English, so you won’t understand it if I tell you to shift your moronic ugly arse the fuck off my place”. Or words to that effect). Adverse weather conditions make the whole experience more miserable. Addressing a near empty chamber, the President apologised for the poor turnout, explaining that (as LR swears she heard it) the airport had been temporarily closed down due to “écureuils sur la piste”. Undaunted, she rendered this as “squirrels on the track”, although, admittedly, she did not quite see why the fire brigade had been called in to shoo them away. It was only when CM’s plane eventually landed that the truth emerged. The surrounding fence had somehow been breached, allowing chevreuils, or roe deer to wander over the runway in the dense fog, constituting a serious hazard.

Then there was KC’s slip of the tongue when the reference was to the dark days of the Stalinistic “personality cunt”.

No burnt-out wrecks disfigured the roadside in spite of our fears. Nor did a curfew interrupt the drunken staggering from the late-night bars. A pile of leaves stripped from the pollarded crowns squatted in the square under the watchful eye of the war memorial’s angel, a fresh tribute of wreaths at her feet. A gigantic flag fit carefully measured to qualify it for the Guinness Book of Records devoured the lawn in front of the Council in celebration of fifty years of the yellow stars against a blue background. The department store window displays were London-themed, plastic black cabs, old-style telephone boxes, double-decker buses and teapots, those eternal clichés of Englishness, dangled above the entrance.

For the last fortnight, it has been impossible to avoid being accosted by lobbyists eager to thrust leaflets into our reluctant hands. Initially, they took the trouble to enquire as to the status of each individual seeking entry to the premises, eventually abandoning such discretion for a scattergun approach, the importance of the chemicals directive REACH betrayed not only by their persistence, but also by being graciously granted a passing mention in the British media, famed for ignoring European affairs except where the reviled “Brussels bureaucrats” pose a threat to Prawn Cocktail-flavoured crisps or interfere with the use of isinglass in real ale. A publication discarded on a bar stool expressed its censure by dubbing the institution a “sausage-factory” of unnecessary legislation (indeed, in his speech to the House on Wednesday, Mr. Straw cited a law adopted in 1968 stipulating the maximum number of knots in wood for sale). The most eye-catching exhibit an acrylic painting on the Greenpeace stand depicting the President of the Commission cradling a naked baby in his arms whilst his German colleague tipped a test tube (duly marked with the regulation toxicity-announcing orange triangle and skull and crossbones) of noxious, luminous-green liquid towards its helpless mouth. The caption read: “Dear Mr Barroso and Mr Verheugen, how far will you go to please the chemicals industry?” What the slogan lacked in snappiness, the image more than made up for in emotional gut-punch.

The arduous monthly journey (unrelieved by even the simple pleasure of a morning coffee now that both buffet car and trolley service have long since fallen victim to cutbacks not justified by falling profit margins) often only marks the start of the kind of minor inconveniences that quickly accumulate to render the experience unnecessarily stressful, exacerbating our resentment (and the incomprehension of the general public at the squandering of taxpayers’ money the entire exercise is perceived as being) at being uprooted without rationale (the Franco-German reconciliation that the location on such a disputed territory symbolised a dim memory, whose relevance has diminished as the Union has enlarged). This week the disruption was caused by a taxi strike. Although the local authorities provide us with the sweetener of a free shuttle service between the city centre and our workplace the service is not nearly frequent enough given the swelling of our ranks (ironically, you are more likely to be pick pocketed on board one of the concertina buses supposedly accessible only to those who can prove their affiliation by showing a staff badge than on the lines open to all). Think Tokyo metro in the morning rush hour after the platform employees have squeezed in the last few briefcase-gripping businessmen and you come close to imagining the crush. Under normal circumstances the queue (three or four deep) stretches for a dispiriting distance along the pavement as we are spat out of the buildings in hungry throngs (meetings perversely timed to end simultaneously), impatient to return to the shelter of our temporary lodgings. There is never usually a cab in sight and tempers quickly fray if a single occupant selfishly commandeers such a scarce resource. A fleet of vehicles, chiefly Mercedes and Skoda, snaked along the road, ostentatiously proclaiming, by means of a printed notice on their windscreens, their involvement in industrial action, cocking a snook at us in the bitter November wind.

Sadly, like queuing, “the knowledge” has not figured in our list of exports to the Continent. The average taxi-driver in S. is gruff, his attitude problem compounded by the inexhaustible supply of clients shivering in the cold (his counterpart in Waffle Central illiterate in the art of map-reading, frantically consulting the office via his radio for directions as well as unable to navigate on the basis of restaurant names, although, to be fair there are so many of the latter in the Waffelian capital that I am charitable enough to forgive this one failing). However, in the midst of all the strife, Mary and I were pleasantly surprised one evening. Having taken the tram most of the way to the establishment with baked potatoes as its speciality, we foolishly ventured into the labyrinth of narrow winding streets around the cathedral where we quickly became disoriented. The local grocer could not help us and we were on the brink of despondency when a taxi pulled up to deposit its passenger. Undaunted by the prospect of being brushed off, Mary presented the driver with her slip of paper bearing the address. He informed us that he could not block passage (even in the two minutes taken up by the exchange several cars revved their engines behind him), so he would go ahead to the nearest junction and explain to us how to find our way. Convinced that he had merely fobbed us off (his rooftop sign having vanished from view around a faraway corner), we did not hurry, peering through misted panes to ascertain whether a viable alternative existed in the vicinity. To our utter astonishment, we spotted him waiting, in spite of having informed us that he had another fare. He showed us the location on the map, but on detecting the note of hesitation in Mary’s voice he told us to hop in, as it would probably be less time-consuming to drop us off than to convince us he knew the most efficient route. Without the slightest hint of a grumble, he sped through the thoroughfares, refusing to accept payment for such a short trip. Mary insisted and, rather than turn his nose up at her kindness, he smiled warmly as we clambered out. Ladling melted cheese from the fondue, we praised his unexpected kindness, which did its part to restore, as Mary pointed out, our faith in human nature.

Mushrooms sprout from the lawns, which clog with moss despite our best efforts, the waterlogged soil once split asunder into furrows, now fenced off in neat parcels or tarmaced over to facilitate access to the shops that devoured the fields. Silence. No slamming of car doors or trundle of trolleys, a blackbird perched on the barrier, the merest ripple breaking up the surface of the puddles. Tomorrow the throng will elbow their way to the half-empty shelves, the cash machines will not permit withdrawals, the aggression of commerce return. The dusty strands of a cobweb swing from the shutter, the Hungarian scrapes yoghurt from the plastic container.

Having read the clipping I set aside for him, G clambered up to his nocturnal roost, switching off the light. The conversation turned to his fears. For months he was reluctant to surrender himself to slumber’s caresses, convinced that a malevolent creature would slink down from the attic and climb the ladder to smother him. The gap between the top rung and the bed likewise a cause of dread, as he expected the decaying hand of a zombie to grab his ankle and haul him down, smashing his head off the radiator. Not that terror was confined to his bedroom: he imagined a severed head bobbing in the toilet bowl, explaining that the goggling of its bloodshot eyes would be less traumatic a vision than its slack jaw and gaping mouth. My horror film cliché heart-stoppers of looking up in the midst of cleaning my teeth to spy an intruder reflected in the mirror, a face looming menacingly towards the veranda panes as I drag my weary frame towards the bathroom in the moonlight or the curtain in the window of the garden shed being drawn back by a watcher feeble in my marginally more secure maturity. The nightmare that sticks in his mind involved being attacked by his dirty laundry, the once crumpled socks creeping inexorably towards him, T-shirts reaching out their short sleeves in malice, their necks a dark void of evil intent. The Hungarian’s response laughter: he was not surprised that the offending garments were capable of independent motion given the stench they emitted, it was just a pity that their perambulations did not take them in the direction of the washing machine.

Autumn has spread her russet mantle over field and forest, although in Waffleland her preferred method of announcing her arrival is slightly more prosaic: unremitting drizzle until the branches have been stripped of foliage. The Hungarian emerged from an unusually restful night (indigestion prods him to seek relief in the form of liver salts, the light from the kitchen stirring me as he mixes the powder with tap water). We agreed last evening’s dinner of pork stew and clams in a red wine based sauce must have stimulated his gastric juices as we celebrated BC’s wedding one year on. His wife was elegance personified in her perfectly tailored outfit, the Portuguese restaurant serving no-nonsense dishes in portions so ample that even the Hungarian was forced to admit defeat. Salted cod, jacket potatoes and green beans with garlic, walls decorated with tourist board posters of the Azores. LR and I reminisced about the low points of British cuisine in the 1970s, agreeing that boil-in-the-bag fish (sealed in with finely chopped parsley and a foul white sauce, which she unflatteringly, but accurately, described as “ready-made vomit”) had to qualify as the overall winner. She then recounted the tale of her summer, which earned her an unwanted epithet in the fine tradition of Arthur Two-Sheds Jackson and John Two-Jags Prescott: Lisa Two-Villas R. Escaping to Spain, she had allowed herself to be seduced by the sales pitch concerning the unrivalled merits of the property she was about to rent for a month. “When they wrote in the ad ‘Car recommended’, I didn’t think it meant that it was so remote it didn’t appear on any local map, street names didn’t stretch that far up the mountainside, nor did they warn me that the ‘road’ winding up to it was negotiable only by goats, so that if the taxi wasn’t a 4×4 it couldn’t make it up the track. I don’t drive and my Mum doesn’t drive, there was no public transport and when I complained they wouldn’t admit it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be”. She politely pointed out that their idea of a “lush garden” was “a couple of weeds poking out of the sand” (“And when I demanded a refund they shrugged, telling me, ‘We don’t have gardens in the south of Spain’”). When the firm refused to relent, she embarked on a quest for alternative lodgings, soon finding a superb residence with swimming pool, terrace and greenery. Having spent a fortune, she returned to the former dwelling for one paltry weekend when her cousin, complete with driving license, visited.

As the Hungarian dutifully set off for the next village to pick up the newspapers, G and I watched one of my favourite episodes from Red Dwarf, Polymorph (surpassed only by DNA, in which Kryten briefly samples the pleasures of human existence). The crew encounter a genetically engineered super-warrior, which, as the voice-over informs us: “(…) feeds off the human psyche, seeks out the deranged, the unbalanced and the emotionally crippled”. Finding its reflection unbearable, it assumes the appearance of a white fluffy bunny before hopping in the direction of the habitation decks. In the meantime, Lister carefully balances a heaped tablespoon of chilli powder, muttering “Not too little, not too much” before emptying the entire contents of the tin (about the size of a ground coffee container) into a bowl. Kryten wanders in to give his quarters a “quick tickle round”. Lister watches bemused, as the robotic butler secures the tube and nozzle extension to his nether regions before vacuuming the floor.
“Oh yes, I can plug a number of add-ons into my groinal socket, allowing me to perform virtually any household task imaginable,” Kryten remarks breezily.
“Like what?”
“Oh, you name it, buzz saw, power drill, hedge-trimmer, even an egg whisk”.
Lister’s incredulity at this latter statement is written all over his face: “What, so you just, like, stick the egg-whisk attachment on the end and you can, like, whip up a Spanish omelette?”
“I certainly can, sir, but it’s amazing how few people are prepared to eat them”.
The Cat slinks in for dinner, catching sight of candles in brown beer bottles and certain unorthodox items of tableware, a scalpel substituting for a knife. Lister instructs him to take the onion salads (in kidney bowls) and chilli sauce (in colostomy bags) out of the fridge (the medical unit’s embryo refrigeration unit), dismissing the feline’s protests on the grounds that everything has been properly cleaned. Lister presents his guest with the results of his culinary labours, kebabs, offering the Cat a squirt of lemon from a huge syringe, formerly used for the artificial insemination of cows. His friend, unable to contain his disgust any longer, storms off, hissing “This isn’t a meal, it’s an autopsy” and that he has no intention of hanging around for the main course of “chicken chasseur in a stool bucket”. A basketball bounces into the room, landing on the plate and transforming itself into one of the sausages.

Rimmer’s home movie reminiscing session is interrupted by the ship’s computer Holly warning that she has detected a non-human life form on board. Rimmer greets the news with scepticism: “You mean like last time when you got us all worked up, we went scooting off down to the cargo bay complete with bazookoids and backpacks, and it turned out to be one of Lister’s socks”.
“I didn’t recognise the genetic structure,” she replies in her defence, “Biologically speaking, they were a completely new life form”.

We switch back to Lister boasting to Kryten about his recipe for the Shami Devil Kebab: “It’s beautiful, man; it’s like eating molten lava”. Unsuspectingly, he sprinkles salt on the polymorph, eliciting a sneeze. It wriggles inexplicably, so he pokes at it with the scalpel. Its response is to leap off the plate and fasten itself to his neck, determined to choke the life out of him.
“You seriously like them that hot?” Kryten enquires.
“It’s trying to kill me!”
Lister succeeds in tearing it away from his throat and it slithers away behind the cabinets. Arming himself with a baseball bat, Lister attempts to flush it out, to no avail. Reaching for his red spotted boxer shorts, he pulls them on: “We’d better get out of here, Kryten, something very weird is going on. Something very, very – oh, a sudden pain in my groin”.
“What’s wrong?”
“Aah, me underpants, they’re shrinking, oh, God! Me boxers are alive, man! They’re getting smaller, help me, please, please help me!”
As he writhes on the floor in agony, Kryten kneels between his legs, desperately struggling to remove the offending smalls (ever-smallers). At this juncture, Rimmer walks in to witness the unedifying spectacle, drawing his own conclusions about the robots compromising position as Lister yells “Pull them down!” Kryten throws a pocket-handkerchief-dimensioned undergarment on to the bunk.

Something I had read earlier in the week had reminded me of the episode, more specifically, the cultural corollary of women’s association with household chores, male slobbishness and a reputedly high tolerance for dirt (self-scrutiny in the unpleasant odours department not their forte). Khushwant Sachdave’s article The underwear that stays fresh for days (Daily Mail, 18th October) extolled the virtues of a revolutionary new product: “Up a mountain and miles from a washing machine, a man could be excused for having less than pristine pants.
But now there’s no excuse for not having the freshest of underwear.
A manufacturer claims to have invented pants which can be worn for days on end without a wash”.

Obviously, given the average male’s purported phobia of a certain white durable with a revolving drum, the appeal to a wider market segment than hardy climbers seemed assured: “However there is little doubt they could prove irresistible for those men in everyday environments who simply can’t be bothered to do their washing”.

The journalist continued: “The pants, which cost £17, have been designed to be light, comfortable and durable enough to last a trip to the top of Everest. But the North Face is expecting that men with less adventurous plans for their underwear will also be popping into its stores to stock up.
Keith Byrne, marketing manager for the company, said yesterday: ‘The fact they resist odour build-up is sure to appeal to blokes everywhere who may be slightly challenged in the washing-machine department’”.

Lowri Turner (Daily Mail, 20th October) could not resist commenting in This idea is pants!: “They’ve been invented for men, but can only have been invented by one as well. A new pair of pants have been designed to stay fresh even if worn for several days. The fabric is coated with tiny fragments of silver, said to prevent nasty odours and the growth of, er, fungus. Blimey! How long do you have to keep your pants on to get fungus? A week, a month, longer?
I don’t know any woman who has even heard of fungal underpants, but then we already have a gadget to prevent that sort of thing afflicting our own underwear. It’s called a washing machine and it’s been around for years.
The new high tech underwear was developed for athletes, explorers and others who might find themselves in a situation where swapping their underpinnings for clean ones might be tricky – clinging to the rock face halfway up the Eiger, for example”.

She endorsed her colleague’s sentiments concerning sales potential: “Teenage boys, students, confirmed bachelors of the crumpled suit, unbrushed hair variety, and just about any chap whose laundry basket (not that he probably has one or even knows what one is) goes unchecked by a friendly female will love the idea of stay-fresh pants.
No need to pick yesterday’s briefs off the floor and sniff them before putting them back on again. He can simply climb into them willy nilly, as it were”.

Beth Hale (Daily Mail, 18th October) in Stop moaning about the housework. It only takes four years, urged spouses and partners everywhere to grin and bear the burdens of domestic bliss: “If it seems you spend your life doing housework, take heart.
It’s really only four years.
Washing and ironing take up nine months, while cleaning takes 16. Another two years and two months slip by while cooking the family meals”.

The latest edition of Geo Wissen had, with admirable Teutonic thoroughness, published the results of research minutely quantifying our daily activities: “Eating and drinking, whether a quick bite on the run or a leisurely lunch, takes up a considerable five years. But the average TV viewer spends six months longer than that watching their favourite programmes”.

As for that other unavoidable task: “It seems just 16 hours is spent having orgasms over the average lifetime. But at least we do spend two weeks kissing”.

Her prose could only ever aspire to the dizzying heights of mediocrity, the printed equivalent of Farley’s Rusk soaked in warm milk, sweet mulch with nothing to sink the teeth into. An arid expanse of bland sentences stretching beyond the horizon, not even the shapely rise of a dune like the promise of an exposed thigh to relieve the monotony of featurelessness. An inconsequential catalogue of mundane incidents with all the intellectual substance of a soufflé rudely punctured by a fork. I know she listens to tracks on an i-pod whilst commuting, but I have no evidence she actually reads any books. Posh Spice recently boasted of never having scanned a page. Obviously this is where I went wrong in life: the moment my grubby fingers were seduced to reach for the then pristine copy of Tootles the Taxi in its Ladybird splendour I was doomed. She did admit to looking up some of the vocabulary I routinely employ (this probably extends to the present title). She claimed to be flattered when I condescended to list her. A purely tactical move on my part, I confess. I compromised my standards to include her and have been rewarded with a snub. Excised, expunged. Not even chocolate can quite compare with the glow of satisfaction I feel when a roomful of listeners incur writer’s cramp as they hastily (and reverentially) scribble down my utterings onto notepads as keenly receptive as a virgin’s moist and aromatic folds when first caressed (last night the first squares of the artery-clogging substance slid down my gullet to settle in my stomach like molten metal, spreading heat to every extremity, every capillary: I restrained myself, only consuming half a bar, knowing full well that I would awaken ravening and that no amount of coffee would satisfy me. Back to the dribble of Gallia melon carved fresh out of the skin). I should respond with disdain, with equanimity’s carefree shrug. There had never been any reciprocity. Her pages were adorned by my wit whilst I have no proof that she ever mustered the courtesy to peruse mine. In real life I probably earn ten times what she does. In our hierarchy (in all its glorious, merit-stifling iniquity), her status would be so lowly as to not warrant her human feelings being taken into account. I belong to the glittering elite, the top of the pile, a caste reviled (but let them foam and froth in their envy, their irrelevant ire). She is competent in a foreign tongue. I dazzle in five, constantly disavowing my sixth (which coincides with her one). My retaliation impotent, her haughty dismissal (smothered in adoration, so many hundred vying for her favours, one spurning would not even occasion the sour aftertaste once the sugar coating has dissolved) corrodes my soul. I did not grudge her the modicum of success she encountered until she brushed me aside in her patronising arrogance (which smarts all the more as she could never hope to attain what I take for granted, her cosseted, middle-class background no doubt sapping her of the drive to prove herself, the unwelcome companion, forever perched on my shoulder wielding its goad). She is blonde, her bony features jutting in the carbon monoxide perfumed autumn air of the hectic streets. The blonde and skinny shall inherit the earth according to the consumerist gospel of hollow superficiality. Inherit she did, ditching the man with whom love had congealed like rancid fat left unrefrigerated too long in the Pyrex long after the meal has been digested for the more urgent appetite of probing fingers, carnal possession in the wake of acquaintance with the mind (men obsessively circle the non-threatening, guttering flame of the extraneously decorative, afraid to stir the fiercely glowing coals even with the distance of a poker; they cannot face the challenge, poor dears, lest their rise metamorphose to droop). I could never be a mirror distorting the blemishes with admiration. The intensity has abated. Her insincere words of appeasement glance off me like sudden raindrops off the drought-parched soil.

Returning to Waffleland’s flat, urban drabness, buffeted by turbulence as we descended through the steely, unbroken layer of cloud, my heart sank. No more lichen-mottled bark, languorous silver birch or drystane dykes clinging to the slopes. No more cattle grids to shudder the car or clumps of bladder wrack bobbing near the shore. Beer cans lobbed over the garden fence, doors slamming and the metallic melody of pushed trolleys on uneven paving.

I never bother with MTV these days, all those lip-glossed girls rotating their hips seductively, frame after frame of buttocks in leather, lamé, silicone-enhanced cleavage, impossibly smooth, unwrinkled flesh on display in the promotional interest. Like the battery, Ever Ready, pouting, a fantasy of being constantly up for it. Strangely bland, repetitive, a depressing parade of perfection, unblemished like their counterparts grinning vacuously from hoardings and the advertising spreads of magazines.

The three examples of the pop video genre, which retain an appeal after the virtually imperceptible elapse of nigh on two decades share a strong narrative element and an absence of lithe and lissom post-pubescents writhing on screen for the viewer’s titillation.

Firstly, Jesse Rae’s Over the Sea, a product, some would sneer, of the heather and haggis whimsy that has dominated the image of Scotland in the (tear-filmed) eyes of gullible foreigners, neatly encapsulated in the scathing criticisms of Colin McArthur, summarized in his concept of the “Scottish Discursive Unconscious – the core of which is an ensemble of images and stories about Scotland as a highland landscape of lochs, mists and castles inhabited by fey maidens and kilted men who may be both warlike and sensitive – which serves internationally to signify ‘Scottishness’” (Brigadoon, Braveheart and the Scots: Distortions of Scotland in Hollywood Cinema, I.B. Tauris, London and New York, 2003, p6). The principle ingredients thereof are Tartanry (“which constructs Scotland as a mist-shrouded land of lochs, mountains, shaggy cattle and alternatively warlike or gentle natives clad in tartan and living ‘close to Nature’. It is this latter quality which – the discourse runs – makes Scots particularly attuned to the supernatural (…) Tartanry has its origins in the Ossian poems of James Macpherson in the 1770s and the poems and novels of Sir Walter Scott in the first third of the nineteenth century, both being phenomena which gripped the consciousness of Europe and its outcrops in the New World and which brought Scotland right to the centre of imaginative life”, McArthur, op. cit., p18) and Kailyard, a literary school portraying the austerity of croft life and the grip of religion (“Anathema to most Scots intellectuals on account of its sentimentality and failure to connect with the modern, industrialising world”, op. cit., p14). McArthur argues: “Literature, historiography, ethnography, drama, the concert platform, painting, sculpture, photography, advertising, right down to film and television today, all have been colonised by Tartanry and Kailyard to the extent that other possible narratives about Scotland, for example as a centre of philosophical enquiry in the eighteenth century or as a source of industrial innovation in the nineteenth century, have largely been evacuated from popular memory” (op. cit., p19). Cannily marketed in an economy, which increasingly relies on lucrative tourism revenues, the scenery and romanticism of remoteness (relative underdevelopment equated with unspoiltness and escape from the oppressive routines of alienated modern existence, blank reflectiveness of office blocks, the exhaust-fume choked winds funnelled through soulless grid squares punctuated by a clamouring of neon) has proved the country’s salvation.

Following the success of Shallow Grave and Trainspotting with their urban backdrops and humour as black as fresh-cut peat, of Rankin’s Rebus series, the arthouse audience for Ken Loach’s wonderful My Name is Joe, the uncompromising Sweet Sixteen and Ae Fond Kiss and even the popularity of the spilling intestinal gorefest extravaganza Dog Soldiers (which, although actually shot in Luxembourg was set in the Highlands), all of McArthur conveniently overlooks, alternative portrayals are beginning to seep through. Whisky Galore-type yarns no longer predominate. On television, Robert Carlyle starred in Looking After Jo-Jo as well as Hamish Macbeth, ousted by the execrable Monarch of the Glen, proof that McArthur’s castigations are not altogether unfounded.

In my partially self-imposed exile I do not hanker after reminders of what drove me away from Scotland in the first place: misogyny, lack of opportunity, parochialism, “See him, ah kent his faither” petty-mindedness. Born in one of the most prosperous cities I feel no nostalgia for rat-infested tenements. Tales of deprivation abound in autobiography, faded photographs of barefoot children skipping in gutters beneath washing hung out across the alleyway. If gripped by a pang of homesickness I do not yearn for the patter (impenetrable to most) of that parody of (an equally constricting stereotype) the Glasgow hard man, Rab C. Nesbitt in his string vest and grimy headband, although I may admire his wily resourcefulness. I prefer the Colin Baxter calendar version of the land I have lost, the lochs and the subtle hues haunt my dreams, not my compatriots with their smug inverted snobbery and disdain for the intellectual (a relatively recent aberration).

Over the Sea draws on the folk motif of lovers parted by cruel circumstance, its dynamic editing cutting between Scotland and New York. It begins with a shot of a drummer boy and a spectacular flyover of the battlements of Eilan Donan Castle (a privileged symbol since Highlander). On the other side of the Pond, another young drummer boy is interrupted by Jesse, attired in his blend of the conventional regalia (complete with eagle feather) for special occasions (so attractively modelled by my fellow ex-pat neighbour at Glyndebourne) and warrior chic, who grabs one of the sticks and flings it high in the air. Back in the Auld Country, Jesse leans against a tree as the object of his affections, a drummer girl, beats out the rhythm for the pipe band. On top of a skyscraper (Twin Towers clearly visible behind Jesse), a banner with a white broadsword against a blue background flutters in the breeze. Jesse’s gloved hand then wipes away a tear from the girl’s cheek as she twirls her drumsticks. This is paralleled by Jesse swinging his claymore above his head. He releases the weapon and it sets off on its epic journey homeward, crossing the ocean, undaunted by distance. Jesse kneels on a mountain peak, sword planted in the earth, alternating with an almost identical image of him bearing his standard. Once again, he comforts the girl, who smiles and kisses his caressing palm as she continues her drumming. Now Jesse whirls his claymore in wide arcs atop the Brooklyn Bridge before the camera shows his arms throwing his helmet skyward (not that we are ever permitted to glimpse his unmasked face). It glances off the pavement near Time Square, the second drummer boy watching it spin as the yellow taxis trundle past. A break-dancer, incongruously clad in kilt and sporran, imitates its motion as, once again, Jesse is pictured on top of the skyscraper, his sword performing the most indecorous and unbloodthirsty function of an air guitar. After the footage of the claymore traversing sea and boulder-strewn, treeless summits is repeated, we are treated to an iconic view of the castle in the distance, framed on either side with gorse bushes in a riot of blossom, the blade landing in the exact centre, swaying as its tip pierces the grass. Unable to resist the lure of his lost love any longer, Jesse pelts along the middle of the road, forcing the traffic to weave its way around the obstacle he represents. Finally, he leaps back into his native surroundings in the identical spot to the sword earlier, the piece closing with an aerial view of him hurtling along the bridge leading to the castle to be reunited with his beloved. It may be true that Jesse cannot sing for toffee (not even the McCowan’s Highland variety), but it satisfies the guilt-ridden longings of the only semi-voluntary migrant.

Secondly, Cloudbusting by Kate Bush. The clip opens with the singer clad in dungarees and jumper, her hair cropped short (she plays the inventor’s son, Peter) straining to push a bulky contraption concealed beneath tarpaulin up a hillside, a patchwork of fields far below. Donald Sutherland is her father, bespectacled and with blond locks flowing down to his shoulders. As they reach the top, the boy collapses in an exhausted heap, laughing, as his father fans him with a handkerchief. He offers the lad his hand, pulling him to his feet before tugging at the ropes to reveal the machine. Adjusting the various dials, valves and knobs, the concentration required etched upon the scientist’s features, his son joining in. The pipes and funnels tilt towards the blue expanse of sky. The boy’s excitement fades as he spots a black limousine snaking along the grey ribbon of road at the foot of the grassy expanse. Her father is shown looking back through the vehicle’s rear window, pointing solemnly upwards. Troubled by this premonition, Peter backs into his father who gazes intently at him, as if sensing what was the matter, before comforting his child with an embrace. The boy fishes a paperback out of his right pocket, Peter Reich’s A Book of Dreams (a reference to the story behind the fictionalized events). They smile at each other before testing the settings again. As they pull the levers, banks of cloud build up and seem to be sucked into the device. The inventor wills his creation to work, leaving his son to take charge. Pulling off his jacket, the man sets off downhill in the direction of the orange and pink hues of the sunset.

The scene changes to a laboratory where a Foucault pendulum swings over a table littered with diagrams. The inventor closes the doors behind him, wipes his neck with the handkerchief and switches on a fan as he takes his seat at his desk. Placing a sheet of paper on the open pages of a weighty tome, he drifts off into a pleasant recollection in which he lights a match to burn through the string holding the pendulum as Peter watches, entranced. Back to the present, he furiously scribbles down notes, but finds it impossible to maintain his focus, gnawed with anxiety. Scrunching the paper into a ball, he gives up, putting the cap back on his pen. Once again, he lapses into a daydream, the memory bringing a smile to his lips. He lowers the schematic of his design for the appliance, Peter beaming proudly as he shows off his own drawing of his father operating it. Bathing in the warmth of the recollected affection, the smile once again fades as the light from his window intensifies to be replaced by the harsh brightness through the pane of en exit where two men in black suits chat. One stubs out a cigarette as they start walking along a marble-tiled corridor tiled and are joined by a third companion. Their razor-creased trousers and immaculately polished shoes fill our field of vision as they walk in time to the music. In the laboratory once more, we see the inventor from behind, as he takes off his glasses and rubs his weary eyes for relief. As the relentless march of the government officials continues, the car makes its way along the road and Peter pauses at the controls, suddenly aware of the danger to his father. The latter turns his head as the doors are flung wide, his peaceful writing forcibly stopped as the agents of doom approach him. Peter runs homeward as his meekly unresisting father is lead away. One of his persecutors wrenches open the drawers of his cabinet, grabbing a sheaf of papers. Peter trips and tumbles down the hillside whilst the agents yank open drawer after drawer. A newspaper headline from The Oregon Times, dated 6th January, 1952 reads Rain Maker Storms Local Town. The intruders are unrelenting in their frenzy of destruction, overturning a box of test tubes to smash them on the floor, tipping up a desk and likewise ruining the equipment and experiments that had rested on it. The inventor is bundled roughly into the back of the black car, the door slammed on him like that of a prison cell. One of his thuggish captors ensures that there can be no escape by sitting next to him, staring sullenly ahead. Peter arrives at the road just as the car drives past, helpless to prevent his father’s abduction. The shot of the inventor urgently signalling is reiterated. Peter looks on in puzzlement to his father’s mounting despair. The man somehow communicates his wish and Peter rushes back to the waiting machine, wisely donning a raincoat.

The boy turns the wheels and the central funnel releases the innards of the gadget, which spurts a jet of cloud. Rain pours down the rear window of the car and the inventor is rewarded with the realisation that his research has come to fruition, he has been vindicated, his detractors silenced. Peter gestures triumphantly from the hilltop, soaked to the skin, whilst in his jubilation, his father mischievously knocks his guard’s hat off. Taking one last look towards the hill, the inventor is forever separated from his son who celebrates their victory as the apparatus keeps on disgorging vapour.

The video taps into one of my obsessions, the deep dread of having what I love most torn away from me. Irretrievably lost. My admiration for Donald Sutherland grew when I heard that he had accepted the role in what many would regard as a lowbrow, ephemeral entertainment. He is perfectly cast with his ability to project mournfulness, a tortured spirit. Although I adored him in Don’t Look Now, I never found him sexier than in this part as the exquisitely suffering inventor wronged by the powers that be.

Thirdly, Hymn by Ultravox. The piece begins with the beam of a projector shining straight into the lens, a sparsely populated cinema auditorium beneath. One of the spectators looks on in rapt attention as the feature closes with a handshake of congratulation over a monumental archway. The usherette, tray of ice-cream and other goodies hanging at her waist, watches impassively as he makes his way out. He glances at her and leaves. The cinema, rejoicing in the appellation of The Screen on the Green proclaims its lacklustre billing as he pulls up the collar of his jacket by way of protection against the chill and heads off, hands in pockets. He walks along the brick-lined alleyway, the epitome of dejection, cars and pedestrians passing him by, emphasising his complete anonymity. A poster for Raiders of the Lost Ark alleviates the gloom as he leans against a lamppost, a menacing shadow drawing near. The unseen figure produces a parchment. He looks up startled and incredulous, as the luminous green eyes of the Devil himself gleam at us. As the shadow retreats, a clapperboard appears. A femme fatale lurks in the shade of the same alley and the director points at a chalk outline on the paving stones, snapping instructions. Crossing the set, the director approaches the star’s chair, his new status confirmed by his name emblazoned across the back of his folding chair. The make-up artist removes the mirror she has been holding up to him and he completes his cop’s uniform with a motorcycle helmet. Taking the girl by the arm, he grins from ear to ear, lapping up every second of fame.

Next we are transported to a street corner where a hapless party foot soldier complete with white rosette in his lapel attempts to canvas for the cause. In spite of the relatively busyness of the spot he has selected for handing out leaflets he is ignored. The Devil, suave and dapper in his pinstriped disguise observes his feeble efforts from the opposite side of the road before looming at his shoulder. The face of the sorry mortal lights up at the prospect of a taker at last, but the Devil politely declines the offer of a propaganda tract, handing over a contract instead. His green eyes glow as we behold the man on a podium behind an array of microphones, now sporting the red rosette of The People’s Party. The lectern and the stage behind him are plastered with huge placards of his own likeness, in best Stalinist tradition. He delivers his impassioned speech to the rapturous applause of a massive crowd, clasping his hands above his head.

The scene shifts to a smoke-filled dive of nightclub where Midge Ure stands at a keyboard balanced on top of three beer crates, the gathered revellers treating the band’s performance with contempt. Unable to contain his disgust any longer, he pushes the mike away and storms off. When he reaches the bar, the Devil intercepts him, smiling sweetly as part of his sales pitch. With a knowing look, the Devil’s green eyes flash and he motions towards a TV set on which an edition of Top of the Pops is being broadcast, the presenter, Kid Jensen, introducing Midge in the studio.

We glimpse the final band member through a door pane, as he pushes a trolley with two urns into an oak-panelled boardroom. Serving tea to the stuffed shirts who despise him, he accidentally knocks over the sugar bowl. As he scrabbles to retrieve the lumps from the carpet, a row of greying male heads turns simultaneously to demonstrate their disapproval. The Devil beckons to him to stand up. He complies and is offered the contract. Escorting him out, the Devil’s green eyes glitter and the camera tracks up the middle of the table towards an open newspaper. There we see the former menial, exulting in his reversal of fortune.

Four entrance doors to a misty hallway swing open and the signatories are summoned by the Devil (sadistic anticipation oozing from every corrupt pore) to fulfil their side of the bargain. The actor is trapped in his chair, the director bawling orders through the megaphone straight into his ear, blood runs down the politician’s picture in rivulets, a bank of televisions faces Midge as he is held by the scruff of the neck and ridiculed for his music, his anguished face squashed up hard against the screen and the businessman is encircled by hordes of angry shareholders burning banknotes under his nose. The Devil’s green eyes survey the pain for all eternity as the contract burns, curling to ash.