Help Yourself - A novel with free answers to the meaning of life.

Help
Yourself
• * ¢ Ψ ? †
CASPAR ADDYMAN

Copyleft 2013 Caspar Addyman
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-
ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/
In other words, help yourself.
Except those bits copyright the philosophers © 2003
ISBN: 1475199465
ISBN-13: 978-1475199468

This book will change your life. But only in subtle and
insidious ways that you may never notice.
~
With a guide to the meaning of life, the universe and
everything, thrown in at no extra cost.
For Ailsa, who wrote the bit about the horse.

1
PROLOGUE
THE FOOL ON THE HILL
•
A man stood on a hill. He looked up at the stars and tried to
remember what on earth he was doing here. Why had he
climbed this hill? Such memory lapses happened to him all the
time when going from the living room to the kitchen, but this
was the first time one had happened at the top of a big hill. It
was a big hill. He was out of breath. Perhaps, he reflected, this
was not the first time it had happened. After all, his memory
was evidently less than reliable.
There was no fridge at the top of the hill, so he did not think
he had come to get something out of it. There was no kettle
to put on and nothing on which to put it. There were none of
the makings of a cheese salad sandwich. It seemed
increasingly unlikely that applying the insights of his previous
kitchen-based amnesia was going to help here. Although, now
that he thought about it, he could do with a nice cup of tea.
And maybe some toast.

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2
The man thought he had better sit down and think things
through. There was a seat - the plastic bench at the bus stop
where he had finally stopped walking. His kitchen would have
been much better but he sat down anyway because he was
tired. He had just walked several miles. Several miles in the
rain and mostly uphill. He sat for a long time.
He soon forgot about his forgetfulness. He was not thinking
of very much instead. Mostly he just sat there. Sometimes he
prayed, sometimes he looked up at the stars, but mostly he
just sat there. However, by the time he stood up he had come
to a conclusion. It was time to stop taking his medication.
Moments later, a bus arrived at the bus stop and stopped to let
two passengers off. The man got on it. He liked buses. Buses
were good.

3
CHAPTER ONE
DEATH
XXXVIII.
One Moment in Annihilation’s Waste,
One moment, of the Well of Life to taste--
The Stars are setting, and the Caravan
Starts for the dawn of Nothing--Oh, make haste!
– Edward Fitzgerald, The Rubaiyat of Omar
Khayyam, 1859
* ¢
John Smith was dying again. It happens to even the truly
greatest comedians. John Smith was not great. Truly, he was
not even good. He wasn’t terrible. There is something
memorable and remarkable about a dreadful comedian. John
Smith was forgettable, anyone who had to sit squirming
through his obvious observations, over-contrived anecdotes
and featherweight punchlines wanted to forget the experience.
Occasionally he would get a few mercy laughs or the
momentum of the previous performer would carry the
audience laughing into his act. But tonight he killed them; he
reduced the whole room to a deathly silence. Yet this would be
the second best performance of his life.
The fantastic acoustics of the Covent Garden Comedy Club
only enhanced the unpleasantness. Tombstones of silence

CASPAR ADDYMAN
4
marked the death of every gasped-out joke. Everyone in the
room could hear everything with crystal clarity. They clearly
wished they couldn’t but no one was intervening to put John
Smith out of their collective misery. Instead one hundred and
thirty seven people squirmed uncomfortably in their seats,
checking their watches or looking longingly toward the exit. In
the darkness of back rows, friends exchanged pained looks
while the people in the front rows, illuminated by the
footlights were finding their shoes very interesting, desperate
not to make eye contact with the condemned man before
them.
The compere stood, sadistically impassive in the shadows,
indulging his long-standing dislike of Smith; a largely
irrational, highly visceral antipathy borne out of personal
loathing and professional derision. Davie Wales had been on
the stand-up circuit seventeen years; he had toiled through the
apprenticeship and was now acknowledged by his peers as a
senior member of their establishment. He was usually a
generous mentor to struggling newcomers. Assuming there
was some talent to nurture. He really hated mediocre no-
hopers who did not know when to quit. He was a professional
jester but he didn’t suffer fools. Fools like Smith. He could not
stand nor understand them. They must know that they were
not funny. Being at the centre of a horror-show like this,
stared down by nearly three hundred despising eyes ought to
work its way into the mind of even the most self-obsessed
egotists. After all, didn’t they claim to be good at observation?
Attending your own funeral was an unusual thing to do
voluntarily. It might be a thrilling experience, just once to dig
your own grave and deliver your own death sentence in front
of dozens of stony-faced mourners. Mourners whose only
wish is to bury you quickly and piss on the grave. But why put
yourself through repeatedly and why should everyone else
suffer too? Why spend ten minutes every Saturday night

HELP YOURSELF
5
making strangers hate you? Normally losers like Smith were
only inflicted on small groups in tiny basement clubs or the
upstairs rooms of pubs. Tonight, for some inexplicable
reason, he was being allowed to make over a hundred new
enemies all at once.
Davie could step in at any point and win the crowd back at the
drop of a hat. If he wanted, he could do it at the expense of
Smith and having the whole room laughing with him before
he had even said a word. All he would have to do would be to
walk onto the stage at a dead march. The tension would be
burst as everyone felt the relief of release. He had done it
many times before and it never failed. Tonight he was going to
let the corpse swing a little longer before he cut it down.
He was not typically malicious but something about Smith got
up his nose. Nothing in particular distinguished John Smith
from any number of other unfunny wannabe comedians but
Davie had taken an instant dislike to Smith when they had first
met a few years ago. Perhaps it was the slight air of superiority
and awkwardness with which Smith failed to fit in with the
other comedians waiting to perform. Or perhaps it was that he
was wearing on of those pathetic, supposedly amusing t-shirts.
Davie could not remember but thought that this was exactly
the sort of thing Smith might do. When Smith turned out to
be as crap at telling jokes as he was wearing them, it had only
cemented the hatred. Two years later and if anything, Smith
was a shitter comedian but with a thicker skin that kept him
coming back. Still, this was his biggest gig and this was the
biggest fuck-up Davie could remember, maybe this would
penetrate.
So he let Smith struggle on with some pathetic sequence of
jokes about replacing the pieces in chess with different types
of dinosaurs to make the game more interesting. Chess? For
fuck’s sake! Nobody would blame Davie if he went and broke

CASPAR ADDYMAN
6
a chair over the man’s head. In fact, why hadn’t anyone in the
audience thrown anything yet? Or shouted him down?
The Saturday night crowd at the Covent Garden was comedy’s
bear-pit; multi-millionaire stars of American sitcoms had
come off this stage in tears. Tears that were often mercifully
hidden by the beer dripping down their perfect features. Yet
tonight the audience sat in ominous silence. He hoped that
this was not the calm before the storm, because if it blew up
they might lose their entertainment licence. Westminster
Council would be unlikely to let them continue trading after a
lynching. But if silent treatment was enough to stop Smith
from ever performing again, Davie was going to let the
audience suffer a little longer. The rest of humanity would
thank them in the long run. This first three minutes had been
uncomfortably long enough for most.
Eric Hayle was more uncomfortable than most. Twenty
minutes ago he had done a line of coke as long as his cock
and it was starting to work its South American magic. Or it
would be, if it wasn’t for this fucker on the stage spoiling his
buzz. He was tempted to leave. But gave up on the idea when
he realised how much hassle it would be to try and explain to
his party that they were leaving. He doubted that this Thai
prostitute spoke much more than massage parlour English,
and while Raoul, his favourite Brazilian rent-boy, was a very
talented linguist, he was very petulant and would not leave
without a scene. So Eric gave up and resigned himself to
being trapped in a darkened basement, folded into a highly
unergonomic chair. The Viagra he had popped was starting to
make it’s presence felt too. He tried distracting himself by
texting Hans to see if the party was still on for later. When a
Berlin fetish night comes to London you can never be entirely
sure what might go down. And this was tolerably interesting in
its own way. He had seen and done things a lot more
unpleasant in his long life. As Mih or Liu or whatever her

HELP YOURSELF
7
name was would probably find out later. His night was young.
Eric Hayle was ninety-one years old.
Despite Davie’s doubts, John Smith was not enjoying his
evening much either, and to Davie’s potential glee he was
seriously considering his future. And he seemed to have a lot
of time to do this in the gaps between the jokes. Gaps that in
his interminable rehearsal he had left for laughs. Having
practised so much for what was the largest showcase for his
talent, he was unable to deviate from this timing. This was of
course his problem. One of them. Poor timing was one thing,
lack of decent material did not help, but having no discernible
talent to showcase was the real iceberg to his Titanic comic
pretensions.
Though his perpetual failure was more in the style of King
Henry VIII’s hopeless vanity, the Mary Rose. Never once had
he got out of the comedy harbour before sinking under the
weight of his over-preparation, his archaic jokes top-heavy
with his intellectual arrogance. In real life, Smith had a dry
sarcastic wit, he had the ability to make his friends laugh with
arch and accurate dissection of the preoccupations of their
small circle. This convinced him he was funny, and he was,
though in a particular wordy and unworldly way. Sadly it was a
brand of humour that did not sell well to the customers of
the comedy store. Right now it was selling like hot cowpats.
He noticed the word ‘OFF’ on the handle of his microphone.
At first he saw it just for what it was, a tiny white stencilled
word on a black background. At the same time, he really ‘saw’
it, his vision focused down to a narrow beam, momentarily
unaware of anything else in the room or anything else in his
mind. And then as suddenly as it had arrived this fleeting
moment of intense conscious experience was lost. He became
aware of the room again and of all the people in it and of
how they felt about him. He had lost track of where he was in

CASPAR ADDYMAN
8
his script. It was completely gone. He could not remember a
single one of his jokes. (This was a good thing, though he had
not yet realised it.) He became aware of a panic like none he
had ever experienced before. His bowels had turned to ice
water and his intestines were rearranging themselves to escape
the cold. In the process they bustled uncomfortably against
his stomach and pancreas, releasing acid and bile that rose
alarmingly in his throat. His adrenal glands became aware of
the commotion and flooded his body with adrenalin. It was
this that saved him. And made him famous.
The audience had noticed that John had not said anything for
nine seconds and a second is a long time in comedy. For the
first three seconds they had assumed this to be an over-long
pause. For the second three seconds they struggled to work
out if this was some joke that they were failing to get. After
sitting through the last three minutes, it was a feeling they
were becoming accustomed to but they recognised this as
something new. In the final three seconds they divided evenly
between two camps. Those who thought and prayed this was
the end and those who had registered the panic spreading
across Smith’s face. The second camp split into a faction who
were feeling dreadful, stomachs knotted in sympathy with the
poor performer and a faction of those who were starting to
get excited in anticipation of an on-stage breakdown. Davie
Wales and Eric Hayle were both in this last category but they
would be disappointed and delighted respectively.
“Whoa!” Smith broke the silence but not the tension.
“A few moments ago I was wishing I was dead. I would have
given my life to be anywhere but here, but now I am not so
sure. I can feel my heart racing, like I have just escaped a race
with a leopard. I feel great. I feel alive and I like it. I had a
scare and I survived. But this is what I am wondering; Why is
it that this is what it takes?” John knew that he had not quite

HELP YOURSELF
9
worked out what he was trying to say so he went slowly. He
saw it clearly in his head but had to untangle the thread to lead
himself logically through it.
“Why is it that this is what it takes to make me wake up?” he
continued. “To make me stop and look? To really look. I want
to be clear here. I want to try and tell you what I mean
because it has amazed me. Amazed me that I have never
noticed this and I want to know if you are the same.”
The uncertainty in the room indicated that, by and large they
had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. It is unlikely
that Smith had noticed this and it was even more unlikely that
it would have mattered to him if he did. He was at this point
mainly talking to himself. He carried on regardless, picking up
the pace and pacing the stage.
“I have awoken to the moment. In my plodding life from past
to future, I had never noticed ‘now’ before. Not before now,
not properly. I had always gone along reflecting on what was
going on or reacting to whatever had happened. But when you
are reflecting or reacting you are attached to the past. Your
attention is engaged with events that have already occurred.
You might be getting something right, but you are lost to the
world as it unfurls around you.” Smith did not know exactly
where he was heading but he had found his feet and was
starting to warm to his theme.
“If I was not looking back, I was preparing to act. Planning
for the future, which might be ten minutes from now, it might
be next week or a couple of years. You are laying down
waiting for the world to wash over you. Between the past and
the future there is a tiny sliver in which we live. Except we do
not use it to live, the present does not get a look in. We stand
here, arranging the remains of the past into what we would
like for our futures.” He looked around the room. One usually

CASPAR ADDYMAN
10
could not see much beyond the stage lights and John could
not see the people looking at him. But he knew from the
silence that everyone was attending to his every action. It
made him even more aware of himself, of what he was doing
right at that moment. Everything was beyond real. Exactly the
same but different, as if he had been seeing the world in black
and white and the colour had switched on.
“I have just woken up to the present, I had always been absent
from it because I was not paying attention to myself. Nor to
the world. And it took the visceral shock of this death by
comedy to make me spot it. I am not talking about living your
dreams. That is trite American trash. Your dreams will always
be implausible and distant.
Or else I was frozen in the amber of experience. You are
either observing the world or looking inwards. It seems very
hard to do both simultaneously. Yes, we have times when we
are living ‘for the moment’, but these are the times we are
most likely to be lost to ourselves. We are so wrapped up in
our enjoyment of whatever intense pleasure it is that is
pleasing us to reflect on the self that is experiencing this buzz.
We do not pause on the dance-floor to take stock of our
mental state; we do not become contemplative in the middle
of the plunge of a bungee.
Or just now, as you were sitting there in the audience enjoying
some comedy. Or you were originally back then before I
messed it up. But after that, after it stopped being a
performance. Then we’ve had to do something new and that
has woken us up.
To put it another way. What is like to be you, sitting there right
now, staring out of your eyes, thinking your thoughts? I
cannot know, but most of the time you don’t know either.
Because most of the time, it is not like anything. You just are.

HELP YOURSELF
11
But you are unaware of who you are. You do not look inwards
because the world is rushing past so fast on the outside that
you are caught up in the experience of things rather than the
experience of experience itself.
Do you know of anyone who has had cancer and has not had
their life changed by it? Tragic isn’t it, that it takes the face of
death to wake people up to life. It would be more remarkable
to find someone whose outlook on life wasn’t changed by
cancer. Who took it in their stride because they knew they
were liable to die anyway.”
John Smith was starting to enjoy himself. He was getting a
reaction. He was figuring things out and able to explain them
to the people in the audience. He took the luxury of looking
round the room, becoming aware of his surroundings. He saw
the ‘OFF’ switch again and stopped. It was turning back into a
performance.
“No! Stop! Look, you are all getting comfy in your seats again.
I am getting relaxed into telling you this shit. We are back to
the beginning where you’re the audience and I am the
performer.” He looked around. “Just a few moments ago we
were all uncomfortable. It was not ‘nice’ but at least it made us
think. Even if all you thought was ‘I wish this idiot would quit
it.’
“The rest of the time we are not really here to think. We
prefer to play mental games. The comedians make you laugh
and some of it may stick with you but mostly it’s just a way to
fill an evening. To take your mind off things. Well, it’s a waste.
But I am not saying it is the opposite either.
“I am not saying we should be alert and questioning at all
times, going though life thinking about every little detail. It
would be exhausting, impossible.

CASPAR ADDYMAN
12
“Just as there is more to it than material goods, than power,
status or even spiritual enlightenment. There is also more to it
than that rational sense of purpose and need for explanations.
There is something simpler; there is a need to be alive right
now. To live for the moment, in the moment, of the moment.
“It is unrelenting and, as a consequence, we get tired, we get
lazy. Lying in bed all day is one kind of laziness, but lying to
yourself is far worse. We get swept up in the humdrum, the
comprehensible and the everyday and our lives slide by
without is even realising we are alive.
“That is all I have to say. All I should need to say.”
The audience did not know how to respond, the whole event
was unlike any performance they had ever attended. Their
repertoire of ways to act in social situations did not provide a
script that fitted what they had just witnessed. It was certainly
not comedy and nor was it theatre so they did not think they
should be clapping. And though it had something of a sermon
about it, it was too impassioned to be left with respectful
silence as they reflected on what they had been told. Likewise,
it wasn’t rabble rousing. This was more complex than
something you’d get from a showboating politician
deliberately inviting audience appreciation. So they dithered,
they looked uncertainly about to see if anyone else would take
the lead. For a few seconds nothing happened, and then one
member of the audience started clapping. This was joined by
someone else clapping faster and more enthusiastically.
Eric’s companion Liu had not understood a single word of
what had just occurred and consequentially was a good deal
less confused than almost everyone else in the room. There
was a lot she did not know about British culture. She had
arrived here a year ago from Thailand on a student visa but

HELP YOURSELF
13
never studied. Even before she arrived she had known that
was sham; six months working in a Thai brothel teaches you
to be realistic. Equally, she was pleased to have come, virtual
slavery in England was far much preferable to virtual slavery
in Thailand. When Eric had started to clap, she understood
this must be the end of the show they had just seen and so
joined in with the ostensible enthusiasm of someone whose
profession is to please others.
Davie Wales did not really know what to do either. As the
clapping died out, he went onto the stage, but arriving at the
mic, his mind went blank. He could not think of anything
more to say. There was one more act, the headliner, but during
the clapping he had been signalling frantically to Davie that he
did not want to go on. Davie could see his point; there was no
joke that felt appropriate to the moment. In any case, some
people had already decided that this was the end of the night
and were getting up from their seats, manoeuvring themselves
into their coats.
“That’s it, thanks folks. See you next time,” he said and left the
stage.
Eric, tall, skinny but far from frail, elbowed his way through
the crowds who were milling around the stage finishing their
drinks. He approached the curtained doorway to the backstage
area where John Smith, still in a daze, had not quite made it
off the platform.
“Mr Smith, I have one very important question and I want
you to answer me truthfully. Was that performance rehearsed
or for real?”
“It was.. I.. well no, it just sort of happened, I guess. I said
what I saw as I was seeing it.”

CASPAR ADDYMAN
14
Eric fixed him with a bright penetrating eye as he considered
Smith’s answer. He had been surrounded by ingratiating liars
and yes-men for his whole life and he knew their sort. At
times his own life had depended on being able to tell who to
believe and who to trust. This lifetime of experience told him
that this hapless buffoon was telling the truth. He was not
some amazingly talented actor working from a dazzlingly
original script. He really was a hapless buffoon who had in a
moment of deep crisis stumbled across a profound personal
insight and had the intelligence to express and communicate
his experience. He was the genuine article, and that could be
very marketable.
“Excellent, excellent! That is what I had hoped. I will be in
touch, Mr Smith.” And with that, the conversation was over.
Eric’s own highly developed sense of the preciousness of time
had him impatient to get on to Hans’ London Extravorgasma.
“Raoul, tell that dumb bitch we are leaving.”
Smith was left standing even more bewildered than he had
been thirty seconds previously.
“You don’t know who that was, do you?” asked Davie Wales,
who had been hovering nearby.
“No”
“Eric Hayle.”
“Fuck me.”
“Yes, he probably would.”
•

HELP YOURSELF
15
The man had spent Saturday night laughing. He was
rediscovering the world. He had forgotten what a wonderful
place it was. What a funny place. Earlier in the day he had
been to the supermarket. He had been there six hours and had
a wonderful time looking at all the super things they were
trying to sell him.
In fact, he had spent his afternoon in two different
supermarkets. After a couple of hours they had thrown him
out of the first one. Even though he had shown them his
loyalty card. He wondered if, with that sort of treatment, he
would remain loyal after all.
When he had first arrived at his regular supermarket it was
almost overwhelming. How had he not noticed this before? It
was so colourful and had so many different things. Or they
had seemed different. He wanted to buy some toothpaste, but
with so many choices he wondered how anyone ever made up
their mind which kind they liked. He watched other shoppers
for a while, but there was no brand that was universally
acclaimed. People would hurry along the toiletries aisle, scan
for the one they were looking for and hurry on. They were
extremely sure of themselves. It would be a shame, he
thought, if all your life you had stuck to using one particular
toothpaste and never discovered another that you might have
liked more. So he tried a few. This was when they had thrown
him out.
Upset that they could treat a loyal customer in this way, he
went to a rival of his normal supermarket to see how he
would be received. The second supermarket was even bigger
and no one noticed as he had spent four hours roaming its
aisles. Here, he had chosen to try something new and take a
trolley. It had been a revelation. He had spent the first hour
just learning to drive it; gliding up and down the aisles, sliding
it round corners, spinning it on the spot. You could not do

CASPAR ADDYMAN
16
any of this with a hand-basket.
The trolley solved the problem he had at the first place. The
choice was overwhelming him. So many brands, so many
variations within a brand. Would he prefer his toilet to smell
of pine forests or of lavender? Would he prefer his Ribena to
be reduced in sugar or with added vitamins? He even had
difficulty with the vegetables. Each red pepper was individual
and unique. Each aubergine bulged in subtly different
directions. (Although they all had that pleasing bouncing baby
texture and soothing hollow wobble as you tapped it.) He
knew he would never get away if he was forced to choose. But
with the trolley he could at least sample some of the vast
range the world had to offer. He could take one jar of kosher
peanut butter, one jar of diabetic peanut butter and one tub
of organic satay and he would be able to compare them at
home. Spreading them on rye bread, seven grain granary baps
or poppy seed and loganberry bagels. One day his toilet could
be lavender whilst his air was a refreshing pine, the next it
could be the other way round. He man was carried away by
the new opportunities and yes there were still choices to be
made, even more of them in fact, but none had to be final.
For every satsuma he selected, he was not forced to deny
himself a pomegranate, as he might have done back in his
basket days. He could have tinned peas and frozen peas. He
could even have fresh peas but he did not like fresh peas. He
was happy and four hours of the afternoon flew by as he
granted himself all his wishes.
His trolley completely full, it was only as he stood in the queue
to the checkout that he thought about the cost. Looking in his
purse, he saw that he had seven pounds and a little change. He
realised that this selection would cost more than that but
fortunately he had his plastic. Unfortunately the shop did not
accept any of the cards he tried to give them. It seemed that
this chain would not accept any of the credit cards he tried to

HELP YOURSELF
17
use. In fact they had kept quite a few of them, saying that the
credit card companies had cancelled them. The man could not
understand this because he never normally used any of these
and so they should be as good as new. He filled in any form
that got sent to him and had received five or six credit cards as
a result but he never needed to use them. Normally he just got
money out of the building society with his bankcard but the
store wouldn’t accept this either, apparently it could only get
him money directly from his account. His House of Fraser
store-cards weren’t any good in this store either, which was a
shame because he’d never found anywhere to use it. He had
been signed up for it by a salesperson in some department
store but he had forgotten which one and since that time he
had never seen any Houses of Fraser. By this point the highly
aggravated check out assistant had called her supervisor and
shortly thereafter another security guard threw him out of his
second supermarket of the day. Then it was quite late and the
man, tired and distressed by his experience, had to be content
with stopping at the late-night garage on the way home. Here
he had bought a loaf of bread (sliced white being the only
option), Rice Crispies and a pint of milk.
Now it was late evening and all the disappointments of earlier
were forgotten and the man was happy again. For the last
hour he had been sitting at his kitchen table crushing Rice
Crispies. There was something so pleasing about picking up a
single Crispie with your fingertips, something endlessly
fascinating about bringing it up really close to your face and
rolling it gently back and forth between your finger and
thumb, studying at its uneven surface; where had it puffed up
the most? Which end was bigger? Which was the biggest
bubble? Some of the bubbles were so delicate that you could
see through them into the middle of the Crispie and if you
were not careful they could break. Of course, some of them
had broken already in the bag; sometimes it would only be
half a Crispie. There was not a lot you could do about that.

CASPAR ADDYMAN
18
That is just the way the world is.
He liked looking at the little Crispies, but even better than that
he liked to get one of the good ones and squeezing and
squeezing it until it collapsed in on itself in a cloud of Crispie
dust. He liked the dust. Sometimes if he thought a particular
Crispie was going to be a good one, he would put it on the
kitchen table and press down with his thumb. Now when it
burst he would not lose any dust and he could look to see
what was left behind. Crispies are a pale yellow colour, when
you crushed them you got Crispie crumbs and some white
dust, but if you looked at the dust in the bottom of the bag it
was all yellow. He spent a long time wondering about this. A
lot of Crispies were crushed as he tried to figure out the secret
of the dust.
Each Crispie was crushed individually. Each was a separate
entity. For each he constructed its history, its Crispie
biography. This turned boring very quickly as all the Crispies
had a similar tale to tell. Born in a paddy field far, far away,
living the simple rice life for a season before being harvested
and transported overseas to a Rice Crispie factory. Where they
were fortified with seven vitamins and iron, and baked in an
oven till they bubbled and popped. Packed into bags and
transported to the shop, some settling occurred in transit but
it was an unremarkable part of their trans-continental life
stories. The whole thing was, no doubt about it, a great
adventure for an individual Crispie, but it was wearying to hear
it so repetitively.
And yet they all popped so differently and he did not know
why, they all lead similar lives and yet they bubbled up with
great individuality. It was another Crispie mystery and many
more Crispies were crushed as he tried to spot the patterns
behind their variety.

HELP YOURSELF
19
He hit upon the idea of pretending they were little Crispie
people. He had even tried drawing faces on the individual
grains but this was not a success. He satisfied himself naming
the ones that he thought would crush especially well. He gave
them names of people who he would especially like to crush,
the names of his enemies, names from The List. The List was
his liturgy, he repeated it to calm himself down and because it
had power. The List had begun a long time ago and the start
of it was worn into his memory from thousands of
repetitions and not even his more vibrant mind could confuse
him on this but it was always getting longer. There were a lot
of these people, too many to remember especially at times like
now when he would get easily confused. But that’s why he had
his notebooks. He gave the Crispies names off The List and
then he crushed them. There were a lot of Crispies but luckily,
there were a lot of names on The List and it was being added
to all the time.
He knew it wasn’t really his place to smite them but he just
playing God not Playing God.
*
John had spent much of Sunday staring at the ceiling of his
bedroom. After his rousing call to action and experience the
previous night, he felt dazed and unable to face much more of
the world than the crumbling and discoloured plaster of his
rented roof.
Partly he was exhausted by the bombshell of the previous
evening but also by the need to attempt to watch the workings
of his own mind. To try and reconnect with the immediacy he
had felt on stage. The intense and singular sense of being
himself right at that moment. He concentrated but every time
he thought he had captured that feeling, it evaporated and he
had to begin again.

CASPAR ADDYMAN
20
In other cultures, his introspective sloth might have been
called meditation and respected as a valuable tool for self-
analysis. Brought up with the protestant work ethic, John
merely felt guilt about his sojourn. He gave up chasing after a
perfect crystalline appreciation of the present moment and let
his mind wander more slothfully through his past. He
wondered how he had ended up where he was now. Lying in a
single bed that hadn’t been changed all month, in a rented two
room basement flat in a less pleasant part of Brixton.
John had always been differently motivated. Not exactly lazy,
he was conscientious but unambitious. To him the phrase
‘being driven’ conjures up chauffeured limos rather than
psychotic over-achieving. (Often, of course, the two go
together.)
His childhood had been a happy one. If he stopped to think
about it, this was a bit suspicious. It did not fit in with how his
friends claimed they felt. The older they all got, the more
dissatisfied they were about their childhoods. Which was
another mystery. Surely the problems of an unhappy
childhood should grow smaller as one moved further away
from it in time?
Like a river flowing down from the mountains, he had always
taken what appeared to be the path of least resistance,
heedless of the rocky path and sudden falls this would lead to.
He had often wondered at university and in his first years of
work quite why it was that some of his contemporaries strove
so very hard when there really was no immediate need. It was
not until half a dozen years down the line when they were
four levels above him in their careers that he realised that
there really is no alternative to hard work. The trouble was
that by the time he realised this, it would have taken even
more hard work to have any chance of catching up with them.

HELP YOURSELF
21
So until he had decided to try to turn himself into a stand up
comedian, he had drifted moderately successfully through the
world of offices.
A vocation was a weird and wondrous thing that in his mind
was only possessed by priests. Even the word sounded
ecclesiastical. There was, he always thought, something of the
kindly parish priest about the earnest medics, vets and
engineers who came to university having known for years
what career they wanted and who happily shuffled towards it.
Then there were others among his university contemporaries
who were pathologically ambitious and had a definite air of
zealotry about them as they chased after their perfect careers.
John was definitely more a career agnostic than a career
atheist. He was put off applying for the investment banks, the
management consultancies and the advertising agencies not by
any strong political principles more by a dread of the
company he would keep. A career with any of these large
firms was the ultimate prize of a group of people whom John
despised; the shiny-eyed capitalistas and proto-politicos who
knew where they were going and so screw you. The law
school had the lion’s share of them but every course and
subject had a couple of scarily serious careerists who always
wore ‘business casual’, sat at the front in lectures and who by
now, a decade out of college, probably sat on top of the
world. Or, at the very least, they were firmly establishing their
base camps, sucking up to and supporting the lofty careers of
the rulers of the world.
At the time, he consoled himself that by resisting the bland
attractions of accountancy, he would not gradually get drawn
into this world and its way of thinking. But with the lack of
any well-defined alternative he had in the end, with his fingers
crossed behind his back, filled in a few application forms. It
was only going to be temporary so it did not count. His first

CASPAR ADDYMAN
22
and only full time job after leaving university was with a
medium sized global mega-corporation. An empire that sold
groceries as if it were a military operation. Albeit with better
technology and far more impressive logistics.
John had put on a grey suit and began life as a faceless drone
toiling away in the trenches of ‘the retail sector’. A foot soldier
in the supermarket wars, doing his bit to help Sir Harold
McIntyre and his band of bloated pinstriped sociopaths in
their campaign to control the wallets and shopping baskets of
the nation. He got the opportunity to travel to far away new
towns and meet dull people. He had attended meetings with
them. Long, dull meetings. John contributed to the dullness
too; it was what was expected of him, what you were
supposed to do. He did not think he was a dull person but
that was the role he was expected to play. Occasionally, he
thought he was being unfair to assume that his colleagues
were no less bored and out of place than he. But stilted
conversations in the gaps between meetings proved this to be
untrue.
The job was easy but everyone he worked with had a very
inflated sense of their own importance. John found it very
difficult to build this false consciousness. Primarily, this was
because his work compiling statistics on people grocery
shopping habits was a continual reminder of the pointlessness
and repetitiveness of mundane, everyday life. Each week he
would produce another report on the regional whims of
consumers. He would combine sales figures from across the
regions into colourful pie charts that purported to explain why
fish-pies were not selling in Cardiff, proposing patterns in the
popularity of Rice Crispies or presenting figures showing
which was the nation’s favourite toothpaste. As one-off
exercises these analyses were fairly meaningless snapshots of
random local fluctuations. But to his managers they
represented windows into the minds of their customers. Each

HELP YOURSELF
23
week’s figures were treated like holy scriptures and were
analysed for their gnostic significance.
One day someone might come along and extract a lot of
comedy from the office environment but John was not that
person. Having lived through it, he felt that it was no laughing
matter and besides as, he proved beyond question in the last
two years, he was not a comedian.
Now, as of the night before, he was not even going to do
unfunny impressions of one. Having failed at these
diametrically opposed career paths. John did not know what
he was going to do next but he did know that it would not
involve travelling up and down the country trying to make
people either laugh or yawn.

CASPAR ADDYMAN
24
CHAPTER TWO
TRAINS
Rail Haiku
Light showers leave pools.
Laughing ducks paddle past us.
How I love the spring!
Sunshine bakes the rails.
Stuck! Seat heaters still heating.
How I love summer!
A single leaf falls
and we pause to admire it.
How I love autumn!
These snowflakes look wrong
and they frighten my iron horse.
How I love winter!
– Caspar Addyman
Ψ
Some people hate travelling by train. They see it as an
unreliable, uncomfortable, and slow way to get from A to B.
They are not without reason. Train companies do a lot to
encourage this view; they continue to use forty year old trains
that break down in the platform at station A, they leave
rubbish aboard from the previous journey from station B to

HELP YOURSELF
25
station A, once under way they go out of service at some
station C which you had never heard of but at which you will
spend the next hour waiting on the platform while they find a
coach to take you the rest of the way, the coach will be
unheated and the driver will have been specially instructed to
drive slowly, taking the scenic route to try to make everyone
feel better. Or, if by some happy accident it appears that your
train may arrive on time, it will stop mysteriously for an
impassive red light, just four hundred yards outside station B
until the requisite two-thirds majority of passengers are
crimson with fury.
Of course, there is absolutely nothing a traveller can do except
console himself with exorbitantly overpriced cans of
Tennent’s Extra or start meticulously plotting the kidnap and
torture of the fat controllers who run the railways. Those rich
and doughy men who come on television to lie about ‘every
effort being made’ and ‘continual programmes of
improvement’. Before being driven away in their chauffeured
Jaguars to supervise the swimming pool installation people
involved in the very real continual programmes of
improvements to their country homes, paid for out of the fat
productivity bonuses they made every effort to award
themselves. And that portion of the travelling public that lets
itself get madder and madder.
Having just picked his way through previous passengers
detritus, David Gardner was in this category before he had
even left station A (which in his case was London.) He had
been down to the capital on business and had already today
suffered one travelling incarceration at the hands of this rail
company on his much delayed journey down. Then a day of
hostile jostling in the energy-sapping metropolis had kept his
anger and resentment alive and now he faced the prospect of
returning slowly home on an antiquated train that had not
been cleaned since the age of steam. He took the empty crisp

CASPAR ADDYMAN
26
packets off his chair, saw that there was no way to fit them in
the minuscule inter-seat bin and so reluctantly threw them
under his seat. He flopped down fuming.
There are other passengers who are more sanguine; they view
each journey as an adventure, each setback and breakdown as
an added amount of excitement and the long unexplained
waits as an opportunity to bond with their fellow travellers.
They love the uncertainty of an hour outside Stevenage with
no information on the tannoy (sometimes because it is
broken, but mostly because the crew have not got a clue
either.) If these happy-go-lucky types are forced to get off the
train at some place they have never heard of, they let the other
two hundred passengers attempt huddle into the two
replacement buses with seats for fifty, while they happily
spend three pounds on a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit at
the improbably named Ye Merrie Wayfarer station café. Then
they attempt to engage in conversation the bored teenager
who has just served their tea half in the cup, half in the
saucer. Quizzing the resentful and monosyllabic teen, ever
keen to find out all about the local area. At least this is better
than having them sat next you on the train, their gleeful
bonhomie throwing your own seething rage into sharp
contrast and making everything ten times worse.
But as the perpetual optimists would be the first to point out,
whenever these two types of traveller meet, it is always
‘interesting’. Hazel Cole was one of this band of merry
wayfarers and she had just sat down next to David.
“Wasn’t that lucky? I was running late and I needn’t have
hurried anyway because they had cancelled my train,” she
offered.
“Me too but I was here on time,” he threw back.

HELP YOURSELF
27
“There is probably a very good reason why they are having
problems.”
“If there is they are not sharing it with us, there have been no
announcements whatsoever.” David said with an unfriendly
finality that he hoped would end this annoying conversation.
There was indeed a silence from the grey haired old lady next
to him as she started rummaging in her huge handbag. But
that was not the last of her conversational gambits by any
means.
“Need a light?” Hazel asked.
If this had been any other carriage on the train, such a mark
would have met with righteous indignation and any other
opening gambit with feigned deafness. In the smoking carriage
the rules are different. One is allowed to smoke (obviously)
and by some other unwritten rule, one is allowed to talk.
Which is to say that, for whatever reason, people in smoking
carriages are more chatty (and coughy and wheezy.) And
although David was in absolutely no mood to be civil to
anyone, something about the convivial atmosphere of smoke
filled rooms and his need to let off some steam got his chin
wagging. That and the fact that Hazel Cole was an utterly
unthreatening looking old lady who happened to be able to
get a conversation out the corpse at a Trappist funeral.
“I shouldn’t have come by train, I knew it would break down.
It only makes me mad, bloody useless.”
“Ulcers?”
“Yes, as it happens.”
“Ah, so you are an executive monkey”

CASPAR ADDYMAN
28
“What?”
“Do you have ulcers?”
“Yes”
“Well there you are then!”
“I don’t see how that makes me a monkey.”
“In 1958, a man called Brady performed a very infamous
experiment, where he had two groups of monkeys, Workers
and Executives They lived in adjoining cages and every so
often they would get an electric shock. The executives had a
button in their cage to make it stop. That stopped it for the
workers too. Both groups got exactly same number of shocks
but it was the hectic executives that developed ulcers.”
“You are saying I work too hard.”
“Not quite. A man called Weiss performed another more
subtle version of the experiment on rats. He divided them
into several groups. Some getting inescapable shocks, some
not, some could control their destiny and others were there as
a ‘control’. Their job was to do absolutely nothing and get no
shocks and report how they felt at the end. These lucky rats
probably thought they had died and gone to rat heaven. But
chances are someone used these ones for some cortical
dissection experiment where they see how well the rats
function without large lumps of their brains. At which point
they really would have died and gone to rat heaven. You
wouldn’t believe how many rats it takes to tell something that
is kind of obvious with hindsight. In this case, they learnt that
a combination of unpredictable stress and the illusion that you
could do anything about them that had the worst effect.”

HELP YOURSELF
29
“Like travelling by train?” David concluded, at last realising
why this sweet if hectoring little old lady was telling such a
gruesome story.
“Yes, And?”
“And so go by car?” he said, proving that he had not
completely grasped her point just yet.
“That is along the right lines but that is not what I was
thinking,” she offered encouragingly, “What happens if you
hit a traffic jam?”
“True! True! Well maybe I am screwed whatever I do?” David
ended uncertainly, worrying if he should say ‘screw’ in front
of this woman, who was clearly a schoolteacher, headmistress
or something.
“Yes, maybe. But what you got right was that the way to deal
with things you cannot control is to change your behaviour.
There is nothing you can do about the state of the trains.”
“Well, not much” David interrupted, his head filled with
images of him kidnapping and torturing the rail executives
responsible for this mess.
“So you have to change how you view of the problem. You
change your behaviour in this situation.”
“You are telling me I should not get mad? I can’t help that!
They do this every God-Damned time I travel.” David
snapped, starting to get mad again and not even caring if this
headmistress slapped his wrists. In fact, maybe he would quite
like it if she did. She was not so old as he had first thought;
she had grey hair but it was still shiny and full-bodied and she
had a lively face with bright hazel eyes, a clear complexion and

CASPAR ADDYMAN
30
what wrinkles she had, were more likes lines from smiling. She
paused, watching him as his anger dissipated somewhat.
“But yes, if it is always like this I should be used to it by now.”
Once David had let his guard down the rest was easy. Between
London and Stevenage, Hazel had shown him that his real
unhappiness came from his feeling that he was not in control
of his own time. The demands of his job and his family made
him feel that he had no choice about anything he did and so
when things went slightly wrong and in ways beyond his
control, like today with trains, it was too much. He snapped,
he stressed and, as he now saw, he wasted even more energy
railing against something implacable. Trying to rush in
situations where it simply was not possible.
Now that he saw it in this light, he saw the same pattern in
other low points in his life. Supplier delays that set his
contracts behind schedule, clients who changed their minds,
drivers who were moments too slow to pull off at traffic
lights. He even realised he was furious about the rain delays at
Wimbledon. He was unsure if he would quite follow this
headmistress’s advice about taking each delay as a little holiday
for himself, but he conceded that his own fury was not
helping him. It was amazing how, now that she had pointed it
out, it was all so simple. He wondered why he never stopped
to question what he was doing before. He supposed he had
been in too much of a rush. But now thanks to Hazel, he was
starting to realise that his life was not in fact a sequence of
cruel tricks and it was mostly only his treating it as such which
had made it such a trial. Taking a step back to include himself
in the picture, he saw quite how much he contributed to his
own unhappiness and in turn saw the opportunity to improve
his own state of mind. As he thought some more, he got a
little dizzy. It was simple to lay out in objective terms but as he
switched from examining a situation to examining his reaction

HELP YOURSELF
31
to it, he felt like his mind was getting tangled. It was like trying
to see the back of you own head when standing between two
parallel mirrors. It ought to be easy but every time you look
round to one side, your own reflection gets in the way.
“You know, this has been a revelation to me. I had never
thought about my life in these terms before. You know what
you should do you should write a book about all this stuff.”
“I have. It is being published this week.”
Ψ
When Dr. Cole held the first copy of her book in her hands
she allowed herself to feel proud. Throughout her career she
had been published many times but only ever in academic
journals and tomes. When she retired two years previously she
had decided to write something more accessible.
She shuddered at the thought that is would be mistaken for a
self-help book. She shuddered more that this is exactly what it
was. It did not help her that she had lost the battle with the
publisher and against her every wish they had called it ‘Help
Yourself’.
It attempted to demythologise the whole genre. To remove the
cult of the personality from personality profiling. She did not
want people to do what she told them because she had all the
answers (which she did not) or because she had three degrees
and two doctorates (which she did) nor because she was a self
made millionaire with perfect teeth (which she wasn’t - she
wore dentures and had a clinical psychologist’s pension). She
wanted people to stop expecting to be given simple answers,
to realize that the world is actually an extremely complicated
place and that no expert could possibly know them better than
they knew themselves. She hoped her readers would realise
this and thank her when she told them that her book did not

CASPAR ADDYMAN
32
have the answers either and she was not going to solve their
problems. That was the main problem with her book: it
ultimately removed its own foundations. She hoped that she
would succeed in being supportive enough that it would
convince people that they could indeed support themselves
but not so forthright that they dismiss her advice as an
exercise in circular argument.
Though of course all these problems would only be problems
if anyone actually buys the book.
~
And buy it they do, in their thousands. A goodly legion of
others are more literal minded and steal it. Though she does
not know this yet because it has not happened in her
subjective time-line. I can tell you because we are floating
above this book and you could have guessed anyway that a
character would not appear here unless there was not some
point to their existence from the point of view of plot
development. Obviously this nice old woman is a
counterpoint to that strange young man you met in the last
chapter. Heck, it probably even tells you this on the fly-cover.
(If it does, I lost my battle with my publisher.) So it is not as if
I am giving away any surprises. If on the other hand, I told
you that at the climax of the book he pushes her off a tall
building then that would spoil things, so I will not do that. I
cannot really tell you much about the man who pops up from
time to time slightly unbalanced and confused by things. It
would only confuse and unbalance you. However, do pay close
attention to the duck in chapter five.
A note to the reader:
You are still with me this far in, for that I thank you.
Especially now that I am trying your patience with these little
asides. I am afraid there will be more interludes in the pages

HELP YOURSELF
33
that follow. I did try to avoid it but in the end I was not clever
enough to write it in such a way that everything flowed
happily along from one phrase to the next. Therefore, all too
often I shall interrupt myself and break my stride with trivia
and digression that I have been too stupid to work into the
body of the text. When you encounter a discontinuity such as
this, I beg your indulgence and your pity. I hope that you will
forgive my failings as an author and acknowledge that while he
may not be the sharpest pencil in the case, at least your author
is trying his feeble best. I hope also that you are able to follow
the thread that I keep laying aside.
Ψ
If she was honest with herself, Hazel welcomed the
opportunity to get out of the house. Since she retired two
years previously she had nothing to do. One day she was
visiting lecturer at two local universities and a clinical
consultant in the mental health sector. Now she was talking to
her plants and going half crazy. Writing a book about how to
stay sane had been her way of staying sane.
Writing it had been hard. At first she had been too highbrow.
She was oblivious to her own academic jargon. It seemed
obvious to refer to hypotheses, experimental paradigms,
neurotransmitter modulation, cognitive dissociation,
existential self-actualisation and social constructivism. Fine for
textbooks and journals but it would have been utterly
discombobulating for the audience it was intended for. It
needed a more popular tone.
She started again. This time she dictated it, imagining she was
talking to someone like the man on the Great North Eastern
Railway. She was all chatting to her fellow passengers and her
book needed a more chatty tone. So she had imagined she was
explaining her subject to him, or someone like him. Random
imaginary train passengers seemed like the ideal test

CASPAR ADDYMAN
34
population. But this still didn’t quite work.
A journey by train tends to be slow and seems to set the mind
on train tracks too. Like David on her journey to York, doctor
Cole’s imaginary audience threw up a lot of objections to her
helpful advice. Which she answered, at length. Her second
draft had been far too long-winded. She needed another
imaginary reader.
It would not have got through to the man on the proverbial
Clapham Omnibus. Nor any other hassled commuter hurrying
to work. He would not have time to listen as she attempted to
patiently expostulate a complex but accessible story of how
the world around us makes our minds out of the material of
our brains. Before she even got beyond even a simple
introduction, the man on the Clapham Omnibus would have
leapt off the back of the still moving omnibus as it slowed
somewhere along a busy high street, heading to work in a job
he hates muttering about how one always gets the seat next to
nutters on buses.
True enough, buses and nutters go together like horse and
carriage. But there aren’t nearly as many certified crazies
amongst them as we think. It is just that types of normal than
we are used to. Although, with the end of comprehensive
mental health care, there are plenty of card-carrying service
users out on the streets. And they do seem to share the
impulse to hop on and off the buses whenever they can,
entertaining the rest of us.
Her third draft was her last. Again, she had dictated it. Her
breakthrough had come when she had visualised as her
audience an archetypal television weatherman (or
weatherwoman or weatherperson or whatever they were
calling them these days).

HELP YOURSELF
35
She had never met one but had a clear image in her head. An
amiable, slightly camp individual, a little too keen on clouds
and knitwear, or at least able to fake enthusiasm for cumuli
nimbi and hand-worsted merino for professional reasons.
Her everyweatherman, her man for all seasons was imagined
as an intelligent person who could handle the ideas of
interacting cycles of cause and effect, who understood that a
certain level of unpredictability was inescapable but who
needed the technical explanations in warm, reassuring sound
bites.
He would be curious about the world around him but with
only limited time and attention to give her because he needed
to keep his eye on the sky, excited about a building storm.
Fortunately, at its heart, Hazel’s message was short and simple:
You are the best person to help yourself.
As she saw it, everyone was a psychologist of sorts and an
expert on their own condition. Even her most troubled
patients knew themselves better then she ever would. Sadly
that familiarity breeds contempt. The tricky bit was always
persuading people that they could help themselves.
Weathermen were optimistic by temperament, it is an essential
talent if you are to keep doing a job where every day your duty
was to disappoint the British Public with the same depressing
message; that they live on a wet and windy island in the North
Atlantic that only gets two weeks of summer and one day of
snow. That their island’s weather is about as dull and
depressing as you will get, absent of all extremes of summer
heart and winter cold, no hurricane wind nor monsoon
deluge, every day just another wet miserable Tuesday
afternoon.
The message in a book about the human brain was essentially

CASPAR ADDYMAN
36
the same. Although great extremes of genius and retardation
occurred, mostly we were average. Although we were capable
on occasion of rare acts of compassion or aggression, mostly
we were more temperate. Although we may be visited by
extremes of sadness or joy, mostly we were slightly miserable.
The forecast in her book was not one of outright depression
but it could be a disappointing one for someone who
presumed to find the islands of their minds located in the
Caribbean of existence. Likewise anyone hoping that a mere
book might provide easy solutions was as out of their mind as
someone who hoped to tow Britain south in a pedaloe. Help
Yourself was a dose of reality and anyone who had
understood it would probably come away with more questions
than they started with.
So when Hazel rewrote her book for the third and final time,
the long winding yarns of version two were trimmed down to
size and her potentially depressing message was delivered in
the cheery tones of Michael Fish or John Kettley.

HELP YOURSELF
37
INTERMISSION
TRAINSPOTTING
Trainspotting is not a lifestyle choice. You do not wake up one
morning and decide that it would be cool to start spotting
trains. It is something you feel from the very beginning. You
are not interested in girls, you like trains.
It is not a phase, a rebellion or a form of mental illness. It is
just a simple fact of nature. There are those people who like
to watch trains and those who do not. As it happens, the
trainspotters are in a minority and like all minorities they are
victims of unwarranted prejudice. What the majority do
determines what is ‘normal’, but ‘abnormal’ is not the same as
wrong. Albert Einstein was abnormally good at sums and his
sums were right. Isambard Kingdom Brunel was abnormally
good at building bridges, viaducts and railway stations but no
one ever laughed at him.
For a long time society has frowned on spotting. It is ridiculed
and abhorred. Spotters are verbally and physically abused. All
the social pressures are anti-spotting. People point and jeer.
And yet still they spot. People laugh and novelists make cheap
jokes about the anoraks and stereotypes. And yet still they
spot.
Even among children the prejudice exists. It is an insult
thrown around the playground. There are endless jokes and
taunting accusations. A child who knows he is a trainspotter
keeps quiet about it. Known or suspected spotters are always a
target for bullying.

CASPAR ADDYMAN
38
Parents are not much better. They can be highly
unsympathetic. It is the last thing they want to hear, their son
telling them that he is a spotter. They will angrily deny it or
denounce their own flesh and blood. Or they may be more
calm and outwardly supportive, but it still remains a family
secret. And often the boy knows that deep down they hold
onto the hope that it is just a phase. One day their son will
meet a girl and his days of spotting will be forgotten. Just a
youthful experimentation.
But if you are a trainspotter you know it is not like that. You
know your love of rolling stock comes from deep within you.
You see the numbers on that extra car in the Pullman’s service
and it excites you. You just cannot help yourself. You know a
truth that other people cannot understand. Will not
understand. They try to imagine what it must be like but the
idea just disgusts them. You are not like them. Except you are
just like them but for one simple fact; that you see something
in the serial numbers of trains that they never will. This makes
you an outsider.
One does not get seduced into the spotting lifestyle by its
glamour, by the clothes or the accessories. Older boys do not
pressure their younger peers into joining them down the end
of the platform. It is not the allure of the large and shiny
locomotives or the atmosphere of the station platform,
though with time these become the things you love. The
memories and associations they hold. But originally you go
there because you cannot help yourself. You need it. You want
it. You spot and it feels right. That number was what you
needed.
Trainspotting is in the blood. It is biological but you will never
find a ‘spotting gene’. Spotting is a complex behaviour. And it
does not define the spotter; it is just one facet of his character.

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The stereotypes are just stereotypes. They will not all be
wearing the same clothes, sporting the same haircuts. Two
spotters are no more alike than two supporters of the same
football team. They go to the same places at the same times,
dressing somewhat alike and drawn by a common love but
when they leave the stadium or the station they go in their
different directions. Spotters are just you and I, but with
different feelings about trains. You might be sitting next to
one right now and you would never know.
There is nothing ‘unnatural’ about spotting. It is not a mental
illness that can be cured, or a sin to be resisted. What could be
sinful about it? It hurts no one; it does not frighten the iron
horses. Why do non-spotters get so worked up about it
anyway? What these people get up to in the obscurity of their
station platforms is not affecting you. They are not waving it
in your face or forcing it down your throat. They are not
making you and your children join them in their unusual
pastime. Trainspotters are just different and diversity is to be
celebrated.
If you pass laws against it, you will not stop them. They might
go Underground but still they will spot.
Yes, mature trainspotters will welcome and encourage
youngsters. It is good that they do. They have lived it from the
inside. They know what it is like. They know how difficult it is
to be different from society’s accepted norms. To have no one
to turn to, in whom to confide your feelings, your fears. Or to
ask those troubling questions about the transition from
narrow to wide gauge tracks.
We need more spotterdarity. It is a tragedy that through the
prejudices of others, people should become ashamed of who
they really are. That they must hide themselves, remain closet
spotters. Or act shy and furtive. You can spot them; anorak

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40
hoods raised and zipped right up to obscure their faces, they
loiter only two thirds of the way down the platform,
pathetically pretending that they are waiting for their train.
How much more wonderful the out and proud spotter; his
parka flapping open in the wind, pockets bulging with
notebooks and Thermos flasks, he stands proudly at the very
end of the platform a video camera in one hand, his huge
Pentax resting majestically on its tripod.

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CHAPTER THREE
MAGAZINES
Mephistopheles
My worthy Sir, you view affairs
Like other people, I’m afraid;
But we, more cunning in our cares,
Must take our joys before they fade.
– Goethe, Faust I
* ¢
John Smith had never been in a chauffeur driven limousine
before. After yesterday’s phone call from Eric Hayle’s people,
he had been expecting a car to collect him but it was
something of a surprise when he answered the door to a
uniformed driver. Looking past the driver, he saw the elegantly
elongated Mercedes Benz parked in the road, its darkened
glass making it look very glamorous. He followed the driver
down the stairs and exultantly let him open the rear door for
him. He hoped his neighbours could see him. He climbed in
and made himself comfortable.
From the moment the door closed behind him it was obvious
that this was Eric Hayle’s personal limo. The floor of
limousine was luxuriously carpeted in magazines. Thousands
of them, strewn everywhere to such an extent that John could
not see the carpet itself. It appeared that all the titles in Eric’s
stables were here from women’s weekly gossip sheets to brash
and flashy lad’s mags. Pushing through them with his foot,
John estimated that the carpet was four or five editions deep.

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42
Among the more eye-catching were a fair number of more
lurid fare from Eric’s adult empire. And with a little digging
John discovered a variety to these, from fairly tame tits and ass
to things which (once he had looked close enough) John was
sure were not legal in England and even some which did not
seem anatomically possible.
This didn’t seem out of line with what John knew about Eric
Hayle and his business interests. He was most famous as a
pornographer who could make the devil blush. Eric had
originally built his fortune on the sort of filth John’s feet were
now resting on. Starting out as smut peddler in pre-war Soho
and gradually extending his influence out from under these
grimy counters into the more legal realms of the top shelves.
From here he had built a more respectable career as the
publisher of numerous other lower shelf magazines and for
the last forty years he had also been the owner and proprietor
of a national newspaper. A sleazy tabloid called The Clarion.
As might have been expected it was a sensationalist and
scurrilous scandal sheet.
Its stock in trade was the lurid sex and/or drugs scandal. But
unlike its competitors it did not cover them with furtive and
prurient mock-outrage. Preferring instead to condemn the lies
and excuses more than the actual transgressions, which would
be a little hypocritical given the Bacchanalian appetites of Eric
himself. For that reason Eric went much more after politicians
and media personalities than pop stars and footballers but he
did not discriminate. Anyone who was newsworthy was
newsworthy, and just as often Eric used it to pursue personal
vendettas and persecute anyone who he felt deserved
persecution. Nonetheless, The Clarion was very liberal
politically, had been opposed to racism and sexism longer than
any other paper on Fleet Street. (Which annoyed the feminist
anti-pornography campaigners no end.)

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He did not like religion and he did not like hypocrisy. It was
rumoured that he had thrown one employee off the top of a
tall building for printing an obsequious obituary of the fascist-
appeasing Pope Pius XII. Like most rumours, it was the sort
of scurrilous story put about by ones enemies that has just
enough credibility to make people think twice. It was slightly
more believable than the embellishment that he had first hit
the poor man three times on the head with a golden hammer.
Certainly, his editor at the time had fallen from a tall building
and while not many people really believed Eric had pushed
him, they all agreed that he had a very hands-on management
style.
The man himself was fabled to be indestructible; more
impervious to drugs than Keith Richards, more thirsty than
Oliver Reed and with a bigger libido than an Italian football
team. It was rumoured, that, in World War II, he had been
some sort of double or triple agent. No one knew for certain
not least because Eric had started most of the rumours
himself. It was agreed that he had made enemies fairly evenly
on all sides. But he had somehow managed to survive them
all.
Survival came naturally to Eric. Currently into his tenth
decade of life, he showed no signs of slowing down. He still
kept a very firm grip on his business interests and partied just
as hard as always. Nor was he getting left behind the times.
Seven years previously he had been quick to adapt to the
Internet age, moving a large part of his adult empire online
and in the process becoming the world’s oldest dot com
millionaire.
John was impressed that Hayle had sent his own personal car
and driver. There was enough space to seat at lest eight
people, and you could accommodate a baker’s dozen if a few
were prepared to sit in each others laps. (Given who owned

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44
this car, it was not outside the realm of possibility, John
reflected.) At the driver’s end, the partition was built from a
wall of LCD screens. They were all glowing brightly. Pulsing
and flashing as the images continually changed. There was
news, cartoons, scrolling stock prices, at least two separate
computer screens and a soft-core porn channel. Leaning
forward from his seat, John realised that the most boring
programme was actually footage of him leaning forward from
his seat. Looking about, he saw the camera in the upper left
corner. There was another on the right and there were also a
couple of mini-flood lights. These were not turned on at the
moment, but he felt he could make a fairly good guess as to
what they were there for.
It was only eleven in the morning but it was a day that he
thought might go better with a stiff drink for breakfast. He
located the inevitable mini-bar and poured himself a very
large whiskey. He was pleased and impressed to find there was
ice in the icebox. He leaned back in the plush seat and enjoyed
the journey.
They pulled up outside an identi-kit corporate headquarters,
or so Smith assumed because he had only ever been in one
before and it had looked almost identical. He imagined they all
looked like this. A brightly lit foyer with dull blue-grey
carpeting, vivid green plants in large round brushed metal
pots - real, but so perfect that they did a very good of
convincing you they were fakes, just as the all the art along the
grey walls was doing very expensive impressions of the kind
of scribbles that proud parents stick to the fridge. At intervals,
three or four huge black and chrome chairs congregated
round low glass tables, looking superficially comfy but having
been designed by some austere Scandinavian, anyone
attempting to sit in one for more than a minute or two would
discover they were all form and no function. Nothing gave
away what the company actually did, and if it was not for the

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large black E H logo behind the receptionists stealth-bomber
of a desk he could not have said this was even the right place.
He did however wonder if our average multi-national always
had such attractive receptionists.
After a few minutes of trying unsuccessfully make himself
comfortable, it suddenly occurred to John that he had little
idea why he was here. The phone call had said that Eric Hayle
wanted to speak to him and would he come to the offices of
the Clarion. Beyond that there was no explanation. John had
asked but the assistant he was speaking to had pretty much
indicated that she rarely knew Eric’s reasons and that on the
whole it was better not to ask. And it was better not to be late,
therefore she had arranged to send the car. But it was only
now that he was here that John tried to figure out why he was
here. He did not get far before he was interrupted by a very
grumpy man.
Peter Nickles was the most aggressive and obnoxious editor
on Fleet Street. The editor of the Clarion, he was the second
most unpleasant man in the British newspaper business and
one of the poshest by far. He had the appearance of an Oofy
Prosser or a Gussie Fink-Nottle (I always forget which is
which.) One of those frog-like faces with protruding eyes, a
big flabby neck and no discernible chin, his skin has the
unappealing pallor of the undead. Add to that the fact that he
had black brilliantine hair, looking like a nylon wig, its springy
volume combed into a left-parted helmet and that his pear-
shaped frame, was contained in a black three piece chalk-stripe
suit with a red silk tie. It was as if he was a caricature of
himself.
For the editor of a national newspaper to be sent to collect a
visitor that no one had heard of was unheard of. So Peter
Nickles was not a happy man and he did nothing to hide this
from John. Gruffly indicating that Smith should follow him,

CASPAR ADDYMAN
46
he turned back around and without saying a single word.
John followed in silence as they took the lift to the main
newsroom floor. It was noisier and messier than John had
imagined but also in contrast to the offices he had worked in,
there did seem to be a great deal of work going on. Almost
everyone they saw was busy with something; hurrying about
with piles of paper, talking on phones or typing furiously.
They approached the middle of the newsroom floor. Hayle
did not have an office in this building. Whenever he came to
work here, he would pick a place he fancied sitting and throw
its occupier out. Any complaints were always met with the
same refrain.
“You are a journalist, aren’t you? Go out and get me a fucking
story.”
They approached the desk that the tall, white-haired
proprietor of Eric Hayle Publishing had chosen today. Nickles
stood silently behind Hayle. John chose to do the same. He
saw that Hayle was engrossed in some computer game;
looking closer it appeared to involve shooting Nazis. Eric was
enjoying it immensely.
Thanks to his perpetual dissembling and unrelenting refusal to
take himself seriously, it was unclear what exactly Eric had
done in the war. Every time he was asked about it he gave a
different answer, all of them vague, implausible, impossible or
immoral. Any given answer was usually a combination of at
least three of these. What was known was that for the first
few years he continued to produce pornography and did very
well out of the black market but that shortly after the battle
of Britain he was ‘recruited’ by Gordon Fowles, head of the
war office counter intelligence and propaganda unit.
Fowles himself was usually described a ‘bit of a character’:

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unorthodox, unpredictable and amazingly good at this job,
running a department the main activities of which were lying,
cheating, stealing and occasionally killing. He had an intense
dislike of military men, politicians and civil servants. Every
day people like this pestered him, so every day he had
something to be angry about. That he was ultimately
answerable to them made him even more angry. That he was
undeniably one of them made him permanently apoplectic.
Though even his closest friends speculated that he would still
be angry, even absolved of all responsibility and rewarded
with eternity in a heavenly paradise, though they wasted no
time speculating how likely that was.
As much as possible, Fowles tried to staff his department with
people as far removed from the traditional military or
governmental types. And since they were in the middle of a
war on nobody minded much because they had enough
problems of their own. He recruited some of his best forgers,
safecrackers and housebreakers from His Majesty’s Prisons
rather than His Army, His Navy or His Civil Service.
Although Eric had never been to prison, he certainly operated
on the wrong side of the law. Eric, as the author and publisher
of some of the most depraved and debased pornography a
man could hope to buy, was just the sort of chap Fowles liked
to hire. Since being a Soho porn baron was also one of the
most profitable lines a gangster could be in, it was often, quite
literally, a cut-throat business. Given the fierce competition
and the dubious nature of their work, successful smut
peddlers go to great lengths to keep their identities hidden. Up
until then, Eric was one of most successful, so when he
turned up to the print-shop with all set to run off five
hundred copies of his latest offence against decency, a
charming tale of an extremely well-proportioned and
disciplinarian head-master of a girls boarding school, he was
rather surprised to see a tall scowling man sitting on the press.

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48
Fowles made Eric an offer that Eric was wise enough not to
refuse. And he had spent the rest of the war in even murkier
waters than he managed as a black marketeer. Eric enjoyed
himself immensely and increased his wealth in the process.
Whether he helped the war effort of any of the countries that
employed him to do so is one of those hypothetical questions
so beloved of historians that are in reality almost impossible
to answer.
John Smith and Peter Nickles had stood behind Eric for ten
seconds but there was no indication that he knew they were
there. John watched, in fascination, as the famously aggressive
editor of the Clarion stood meekly waiting for his boss to
finish playing computer games.
“Eric?” Nickles eventually said with some trepidation in his
voice. John decided to be even more afraid than he was a few
minutes ago but congratulated himself on having had a drink
on the way here.
Hayle ignored Nickles.
“Eric?”
“What the fuck do you want, nob-head?” Hayle said without
turning round or slowing his slaughter of Nazi’s.
“John Smith is here.”
Still Hayle did not look round.
“Well bring him up here then, you dozy cunt.”
“He’s here.”
Eric Hayle glanced back and noticed Smith, standing meekly

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next to the second fiercest man on Fleet Street. He returned
to his game, dispatched a few more of Hitler’s henchmen and
pressed pause.
Eric stopped and leaned in leeringly close to John. “Have you
been drinking?”
“Yes, er, I had a, er, whiskey in your car,” John offered timidly
back, a tiny schoolboy whose headmaster was about to thrash
him.
“Oh, right, okay.” Eric paused. “Come on let’s go, I hate these
wankers.”
He swept them out of the offices, barking at a few terrified
employees along the way. Back in the limousine he poured
them both whiskeys, twice as large as John had awarded
himself. Tennessee’s finest bourbon was splashed liberally
about the back seat and John’s clothes as Eric added large
handfuls of ice to glasses that were already essentially full.
“Wigmore Street, Dave. Chop, chop.”
“I own the rights to your... performance last Saturday. Did you
know they videoed it?” Eric threw him a gold DVD, “Here,
watch it, it’s good.”
“I am a major shareholder in the Covent Garden Comedy
Club and so I did a deal with them to acquire the broadcast
rights, you obviously have legal claim as the performer but..”
He paused. “But I am getting ahead of myself. As I told you, I
liked what you said. I related to it. I have lived my life like that.
All of it. I feel the passing of time as intensely now as I ever
did.”
“Did you know I’ve faced a firing squad? Twice? A German

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50
one and one of our own. The first time with the Germans, I
didn’t believe they were going to do it. They were
sophisticated, they were officious, when they sprung the firing
squad set up on me, I figured it was all part of their
interrogation technique and I hadn’t told them anything by
that stage so I expected they would wait. Nonetheless, you do
have a moment of doubt, you wonder if they are serious.”
“I was more scared when it was our chaps. There had been a
slight misunderstanding about the nature of my work. War is a
very confusing time, the left hand does not know what the
right hand is doing and everyone is suspicious of everyone-
else, and even more people were suspicious of me, though I
can’t think why. I was in the hands of the regular army; dull,
unimaginative people who follow orders unquestioningly even
unto their deaths. I was on several charges and they would not
let me explain or get a message through to any of my friends
in positions of influence. They were just sleepwalking. They
did not want to think for themselves. They were sleep-
marching me to my death. Turned out all right on that
occasion but it got my heart racing for a while. Anyway, I am
getting off the point.”
“I like what you said. I thought you were very effective when
you were caught up in it. I saw you get through to the people
in that audience. Your message is my message and I want to
spread it. I am very rich and very successful so naturally most
people despise me. That doesn’t bother me because I despise
most people. But, maybe I am getting sentimental in my old
age because I can’t help but think that if these clueless
morons had a little more idea about their one chance at life
they might do something with it rather than wasting it and we
might all fucking better off as a result.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” John managed to interject.

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“No, you have. And what’s more you can be quite persuasive.
My trouble is that no one will listen to what I say precisely
because it’s me saying it. But you are nobody and nobody
knows you so they’ll pay attention if you tell them.”
“I doubt it. Like you said, I am nobody. I’m not famous. And
it was only an accident that I came out with all that on
Saturday anyway.”
“You are not famous yet. But that can change overnight. On
November 21, 1963 no-one had heard of Lee Harvey
Oswald.”
John spluttered through a mouthful of bourbon that went
down the wrong way. “You’re not suggesting I shoot
someone, are you?”
Eric paused as though he might be considering it. “No,
though obviously if you did, you have got to think big. How
about the Queen?” For a moment Eric was lost in reverie
“No, at least not yet, that would get in the way of the
message. Not that Oswald was the shooter but that’s beside
the point. The point is that you can become famous in no
time at all. Give me a month and you’ll be national front-page
news and not just in the Clarion. Give me two months and
you’ll be on the front pages in countries you’ve never even
heard of.”
“And you are sure I don’t have to shoot anyone?”
“No. Just do the same as you did on Saturday and I’ll make the
rest happen. Although there is one thing; just don’t tell any
fucking jokes.” With this Eric climbed out of the car.
At first, John did not realise they had arrived. Not that he
knew where they were going but they had only been in the

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limo a few minutes. From Fleet Street they had turned up the
Kingsway and at Holborn they had turned towards Oxford
Street. But rather than negotiate its buses, taxis and reckless
pedestrians, the driver was double-barrelling along the back
streets. They were proceeding at speed slightly to the north
and mostly parallel to Oxford Street. John had just seen a
street sign telling him they had passed Harley Street and was
thinking that he had never known where it was before now. If
he ever needed to find it again he knew it was very near to
wherever Eric was taking them because seconds later they had
stopped and Eric was already climbing out of the vehicle.
They had stopped about half way along Wigmore Street, your
everyday central London street, the buildings showing a wide
lack of variety, each nondescript office building housing the
unremarkable offices of lots of unremarkable little businesses.
At street level a few Italian sandwich shops sold short-order
lunches to all the financial advisers, market researchers and
accountants, who liked to eat quickly before rushing back to
their advising, researching and counting. And to all the quacks
who popped round the corner from Harley Street between
lucrative appointments. A couple of pizza restaurants and
basement wine bars catered for the more leisurely lunches of
bosses, secretaries and those with fewer work ethics. The same
wine bar provided many a measure of after work relaxation
and hosted all the special office occasions; Ian from sales’
leaving do, Dominic joining from the Watford office, Judith
on reception’s birthday (age unspecified), Simon and Aileen’s
engagement (Karen being notably absent).
The street was also home to a number of unlikely upmarket
specialist shops; a kitchen shop that only sold Japanese sushi
knives and outrageously expensive copper pans (£42.95 for a
coddling pot), a shop selling bathroom lighting, a music shop
that only stocked choral music and recordings of organ
recitals, and most perplexing of all a chandler, a saddler and a

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bagpipe makers, all next door to each other.
The car had stopped about half way along the street outside a
Chinese dentist. Eric had got straight out and was crossing the
road toward an old building that might have been a municipal
library or a registry office. John could not think why they had
come here, but confusion was a state he was becoming
accustomed to, so he followed Eric anyway. Crossing the
street, he looked for clues as to where they had come. The
building Eric was heading for was most likely a couple of
hundred years old, a large stone-built structure with strong
Gothic verticals but only simple ornamentation, built before
the Gothic revival ran rococo out of control. The stone was
blackened by soot but this added more an air of neglect than
menace.
Eric was already at the top of a set of eight wide stone steps
that lead up to the solid double doors. They were almost twice
his height and he had to turn and lean into one to get it open.
The building was only two storeys high with another smaller
floor tucked into the eaves, its attic windows peeping out over
a sturdy parapet. However, such was the scale of the place
that this was level with the fifth floor of the building next
door. This was due in part to the raised ground floor but more
because in the grand and expansive style of the building, both
the first and second storeys were at least double the height of
the pragmatic modern building next door. Clearly the
prosperity of London two hundred years ago had something
to do with this. As the centre of world commerce and the
biggest beneficiary of the industrial revolution, its architects
were clearly required to make everything in giant size. Doors
twice as tall as people and rooms proportioned to match.
John had crossed the street and now saw beside the door Eric
was holding open a mottled and tarnished brass plaque that
somewhat improbably and highly worryingly declared that this

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54
was ‘Saint Helena’s School for Girls.’
•
The man had not liked school. At aged eleven he had been
sent away to boarding school because his mother could not
cope with both him and her alcoholism. His father could not
cope with personal relationships or anything that involved
people showing their emotions. So he had solved half his
problem by sending the boy away to school for someone else
to look after him and ignored the other half by staying late at
work while his wife nursed her demons.
The teachers, the housemaster and the matron were all kind
and understanding of the boy but his fellow schoolboys were
evil in the unceasing but unthinking way of childlike
innocence. (Whoever it was who coined that phrase was never
the slightly odd new boy or girl at an English boarding school.
If he or she had been, she or he might have been a little less
inclined to suffer the bastards.) The man was that boy.
He was an average scholar. He was bad at playing every sport
they forced him to try and was not interested in following
religiously any teams of professionals doing the same thing.
He was prone to daydreaming in class, which infuriated his
teachers, and when reminded where he was, the boy inclined
to make unusual and off the wall statements that served to
remind his peers to be unkind (because he was different). He
had unfashionable enthusiasms. He liked trains and buses. He
preferred chess to television. He could replay in his head all
the games of the Fischer-Spassky match but he could not
recite a single Monty Python sketch.
He was not actively bullied in the way that is traditionally
described in tales of dormitory derring-do and dastardliness.
No breathless wheezes like the ultimately harmless apple-pie
bed and head down the lavatory. Children are more
sophisticated, insidious and damaging than that.

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Yes, there were physical attacks. Times when taunted to
snapping point the boy hit out and was hit back, always
coming out worse. Which was of course the aim of all those
dead arms, wedgies and dead legs. Beatings without bruises
that left him with no option of co-opting teacher intervention
and left him stranded or maddened into unilateral lashing out,
landing him in more trouble than sullen, aching silence.
But that was just boys being boys, far worse is when little boys
(and little girls) turn to the psychological warfare. It is not the
full flush of head held in a water closet that makes them
crack. It is the gentle yet unrelenting tap, tap, tap of a Chinese
water torture that gets results. A whispering campaign, death
by a thousand cutting remarks, the intended victim always
reminded that he or she was not their friend. There is no
escape and no one to turn to.
The unpopular children cannot band together because the
strength in numbers always comes on the side of the strong.
They will set you against each other. You could go along with
it in the hope of acceptance but they will always reject you in
the end. Far better for oddballs to walk alone, each taking his
turn as the figure of fun, unable to understand the inhumanity
meted out to those to march to the beat of a different drum.
The housemaster had noticed that the boy was unpopular but
there was not a great deal he could do. Any intervention
would make things worse. Whatever lecture he delivered the
boy would have to live with its ignorant interpretation once he
was gone from the room. He knew the others did not need
another reason to dislike the boy. So for twenty-four hours a
day, the boy had no privacy and no escape.
The only time he felt anything approaching happiness was in
the school chapel. The one thing he could do well was sing

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and the one place no one could make jokes at his expense was
in the serious atmosphere of a service. Once he had joined
the choir, he was in chapel and in rehearsals more than almost
anywhere else. The highly ostensible religious attitude that the
headmaster encouraged in his school was a probably less a
deeply held moral imperative and more a calculated act of
brand management, designed to keep this middle ranking
public school saleable in the competitive world of private
education. Either way it meant that being a chorister was an
official badge of recognition and the commitment of the
choristers was taken very seriously. The boy was a good singer
and there was nowhere else he would rather be than the safety
of the choir stalls so his attendance was impeccable. His
termly singing report was the only one where his praises were
sung.
He settled down into a defensive existence, not fitting in but
surviving. He could not have fitted in, even if he had wanted
to. It was the way his brain was wired, he would always be a
lone gunman. And anyway, after two years of torment, he did
not want to fit in.
At the age of thirteen, the scope of his concentration
widened. He still obsessed about public transport and chess,
but now in class he found he could now stop daydreaming
long enough to pay attention. His marks improved and his
report began to talk of previously unnoticed potential. In
chapel too, the boy started paying attention, he noticed the
words of the hymns he was singing and then his interest
awakened he finally heard the words of the interminable
sermons. It was Good News. He got religion.
It did not directly help his cause with his classmates. To them,
the Cross was just another stick to beat him with. But now
that he had seen the Light, he had a new way of coping, his
own cross to bear.

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* ¢
Praying this was not what it looked like, John followed Eric
through the front doors of Saint Helena’s School for Girls.
The entrance hall was much as he expected a posh girls’
school to look. High up the walls, the hallway was hung with
varnished plaques listing over fifty years of head-girls, scholars
and captains of the 1st XI dating back to the 1890’s. Between
these a number of stern, stiff backed Old Maids peered down
from dark oil paintings. Former headmistresses, he guessed.
He could imagine the vaulted hallway echoing to the sound of
dozens of girls giggling and clattering their hockey sticks on
the black and white tiled floor as they rushed to morning
service. And sure enough the steps of the curving marble
staircase were worn down as if by generations of hurrying
feet.
Presently, however, the hallway was empty. The lights had
been off before they entered and Eric was currently disabling
some alarm system. John began to suspect that this was no
longer a school for girls. The last entries on the boards of
head-girls and scholars were from the 1950’s and on
inspection closer he realised that the artistic black and white
photographs hung on the lower walls were celebrating the
Sapphic tradition a little too exuberantly for even a British
girls’ boarding school. However, the thing that clinched it was
the large statue in the alcove formed by the curving staircase.
While John knew these posh schools valued a classical
education, he very doubted that any a girls school would have
such a large and detailed marble statue of Leda and the Swan.
This, it seemed, was Eric’s house.
A large closed door leading off to the right was still marked as
the Headmistress’s office. Another to the left declared that it
led to a library and it was in this direction that Eric now
headed. John trailed along.

CASPAR ADDYMAN
58
The library itself had more of Eric’s personality imposed
upon it. A huge, double-height room about the size of a
tennis court, it was filled with a cacophony of incongruous
and inappropriate items. It still retained some semblance of a
library. Oak bookshelves still covered most of the walls,
particularly the upper level accessed from spiral staircases in
opposite corners of the room. The shelves on this level ran
round all four walls and were almost all filled with books and
magazines. On the lower level, however, Eric’s life had taken
over. This was the main room of his house. He used it as an
office, a studio, a bedroom and much more besides. On most
of these shelves the books competed for space with an
unclassifiable range of dubious looking items; small obscene
figurines, large phalluses and other sex aids both ancient and
modern, macabre Victorian medical curiosities pickled in
formaldehyde and a few more innocent bits of modern art.
Along one of the shorter walls, the bookcases had been
ripped out and replaced with a hi-tech zoo of plasma TV’s,
Hi-Fis, computer screens and other expensive looking
electronic gadgetry. Beside this was a fully stocked zinc-
topped bar that John doubted was an original feature. The
opposite end of the room was arranged like a film set. Several
large floodlights stood in an arc around a brightly coloured
bed on a raised platform. Off to one side were various other
large props, several cameras on tripods and a small crane with
a microphone boom stood idle, waiting for another chance to
capture sights and sounds offensive to decency.
A spectacular fireplace dominated the middle of the longer
wall. A large oil painting hung above it and around which were
arranged six massive sofas. It was difficult to determine which,
if any, Eric favoured, as they were all littered with discarded
books, magazines and newspapers. These formed into
numerous piles at the foot of each sofa but many of the piles

HELP YOURSELF
59
spilled like glaciers on the Persian carpet in the middle. A
further drift of paper accumulated in and around the fireplace,
much of it clearly flung there in anger.
Just beside this, Eric’s desk was difficult to miss. A rosewood
behemoth about 12 feet across and at least 6 feet deep. It was
clearly of great age because the woodwork was very dark and
worn and was covered in scars. Its upper surface was inlaid
with red leather, which was also very heavily worn away. The
desk and Eric’s leather captain’s chair was arranged so that he
could watch the many screens on the end wall. Two more
large screens were recessed into the surface of the desk,
heedless of the destruction this had caused to what must have
been a priceless antique. Perhaps the most noticeable things
about it were the matching bondage stockades on either end.
Two short leather upholstered benches to have been bolted on
top of either end of the desk, each with a very sturdy set of
stocks in front of it, and various other fastenings at what
looked like strategic positions around the benches. The stocks
also looked out into the room. Anyone with their head and
hands placed in the stocks would be able to watch Eric’s many
televisions. While their posteriors would be at eye level and
just with in the reach of an outreached hand for anyone sitting
behind the desk.
As John stood staring, Eric had wandered over to the bar and
was pouring himself another large bourbon.
“Another whiskey okay for you?” He shouted over to John.
John was already woozy from two triple bourbons before
noon but thought this question was probably not a question.
Eric handed John an even larger drink and walked around the
desk to his chair. John, ever mindful of the desk’s less
orthodox furniture was care as he selected his own seat
opposite Eric.

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60
“Right, let’s get down to business. I want to make you very
rich and very famous.” Eric began.
“Okay,” John said happily, the whiskey warming him from
inside.
“Careful, people are not usually so quick to make a deal with
the devil,” Eric replied and it was possible that he was joking.
“Okay, what is it going to cost me?”
“Oh, no, I don’t want anything from you. I am doing this
because I want to and because I can afford to. I have money
to burn.” Eric said.
As if to prove this, he reached into his pocket and pulled out
huge wad of fifty pound notes, which he brandished in John’s
face. He removed one and returned the other thirty of forty
to his pocket. He unfolded it that John might study it more
closely. Looking at this large, clownish bright red note, John
tried to remember when if at all he had ever seen one before.
He did not have much chance to study it before, by some
sleight of hand he did not detect; one corner of it was alight.
Eric tipped it down to let the flame catch more effectively and
then used the smouldering sovereign to relight his cigar.
“I will stop burning them when they take that bitch’s head
off,” he explained, leaving it ambiguous if he favoured a
change to the currency or something more Cromwellian. He
dropped the still lit note in a nearby waste-paper basket,
starting a small fire.
“It is one of the few reasons I am pro-Europe. Not that their
monopoly money is much better.’ This lecture on
constitutional politics was also illustrated with visual aids. Eric
had removed a handful of brightly coloured notes from

HELP YOURSELF
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another pocket. He waved them briefly under John’s nose and
threw them in the bin. Eric seemed unconcerned by the small
but costly fire now raging in his waste-paper basket.
Fortunately the basket was not a basket but a metal bin and
judging by the interlinking scorched black rings on the Persian
Rug, it was a trick he done a few times before. It was a trick.
The first fifty quid had been genuine but the Euros were just
monopoly money. The rug was real too, from somewhere and
somewhen in the seventh century Persian Empire, but it was
so old that it could not have been worth all that much.
“It will not cost you anything. I do not want anything from
you. But there naturally are a few small conditions. Very small
in comparison to what I am offering you.”
“What are you offering me, exactly?”
“In cash terms?”
“Yes.”
Eric’s estimate of John’s earnings in the first year was so
obscene that it would double John’s current lifetime income
within a few weeks. He then outlined some of the conditions
John ought to be aware of before accepting the deal. John was
not really aware of these. His head was swimming. All this
alcohol was a much stronger breakfast than he had been
planning and the ridiculous wealth being dangled in front of
his eyes had stopped his ears from working. Eric Hayle had
made him an offer so fantastic that he probably ought to
refuse no but such was John’s shock that it did never crossed
his mind to say no.
Not paid for his stand up comedy, the only current regular
work that John had at the moment was as part of a medical

CASPAR ADDYMAN
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trial on a new male contraceptive. Four months ago he had
turned up at a teaching hospital, where an earnest genito-
urinary consultant had asked lots of personal questions, taken
lots of blood samples and prodded him in lots of
uncomfortable places. Finally he had to provide a ‘sample’. He
was shown into an unused private room with a lock on the
door. He was told there were some ‘visual materials’ in a filing
cabinet in the corner and some hand-cream in the adjoining
bathroom. He had been given a ‘wide-mouthed receptacle’ in
which was to ‘put’ his sample. And when he was done, he was
to hand into the receptionist. Placing it in a discrete brown
jiffy bag to spare both their embarrassment. And he was, of
course, to wash his hands very carefully first to spare even
greater embarrassment.
As he waited for his final tests, a courier came in and collected
the jiffy bag, to whisk it away to wheresoever it was that they
tested that kind of stuff. It turned out that his stuff was made
of the right stuff. He passed all their tests and had been
invited back to take part in the trial proper. A small hormonal
implant was inserted under the skin of his upper arm and
once a month he was to go back to provide another sample.
At one hundred pounds a pop. He was now so nonchalant
about it that sometimes he even forgot to wash his hands.
Despite its great comic potential, his current professional
status was not something he cared to mention to people. In a
rare moment of comic insight he saw that whatever cheap
shots he could get out of it, if the likes of Davie Wales got
hold of it, it would confirm a lot of the things he thought
they thought about him and they would milk it dry. Ironic
really, though the most ironic thing of all was that in the
whole time he had been on the trial he had not had sex with
anyone. But if Eric was serious about the scale of John’s
imminent wealth then, as soon as he started trying to spend it
in any appreciable amount, he would have more trouble

HELP YOURSELF
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stopping people from attempting to have sex with him.
“So what do you say?” Eric picked up a single paged
document from his desk, signed it and handed it to John,
indicating were he should put his own signature.
“No.”
“No?” For the first time today Eric looked intrigued.
“I want twice that.”
“Fuck off kid, I made you a once in a lifetime offer, if you
don’t accept it, nobody else is going to offer you anything.
Without me pushing you there is no ‘you’ and anyway I own
the rights to that performance and without that there is no
story. So, last chance. Take it or leave it.”
“Oh.. okay.”
“Good for you. Wise move, kid,” Eric paused. “But I tell you
what, I thought you were a spineless little loser but that stunt
impressed me. I am going to give you what you just asked for.
I want to turn you into something bigger than a rock-star so
we had better get you acting like one.” He took the contract
back and picked up his pen. He crossed out one very large
number and wrote in one twice as large before handing it back
to John.
“Er.. thank you, thank you very much.” said John and
hurriedly signed his name.
“Thank you very much” Eric mimicked back to him mockingly.
“Do you get what I’ve been telling you? That’s very fucking
rock and roll that is. Where’s your ego? Act like you deserve it.
You’re a fucking rock-star not some mincing social sciences

CASPAR ADDYMAN
64
lecturer.”
“Right.”
“And that reminds me, we have got to do something about
your fucking dress sense. Here take this.” Eric reached into his
other pocket and withdrew a thick clump of (real) fifty pound
notes. He threw these across the desk and slightly
embarrassed to be scrabbling round on the floor for money,
John got down on the ground and picked them up.
“Do you know what it is like being rich and famous?” Eric
called to him over his huge desk.
“Nice?” John ventured, peering up over the screens.
“It is even better than you would ever think. It is better than
sex. Well that’s not true, but it does not matter because if
you’re rich and famous you get more and better sex than you
know what to do with. Which reminds me, there is one more
thing. I want a blow job.”
“Sorry I don’t think I’m very good at them.”
“Suit yourself. Well fuck off then. I have got some work to
do.”
John let himself out of Saint Helena’s school for girls and
flung himself into the Bricklayer’s Arms. He really needed the
comfort of a big drink.

HELP YOURSELF
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INTERMISSION
SATAN WANTS YOU FOR A SUNBEAM
Satanism really gets my goat. It has got to be the most stupid
religion going, and that’s going some, because it is up against
pretty strong competition. After all, before we invented
moving pictures and with it the ‘job’ of being a movie star,
there was no better way your average charismatic egotist could
pass the long dark evenings than founding his own religion.
And it seems there was never any shortage of idiots to follow
them either. Charlie Chaplin and Walt Disney have probably
done more to right religion than a whole crusade of Richard
Dawkins could ever manage. Of course, these days your
average wacko is more likely to want their own daytime talk
show than their own religion, although the most freaked-out
ones usually end up doing both and, hell, one look at the
ratings tells you there’s an ocean of eyeballs out there to just
soaking it up. (Jesus Christ! - who am I trying to kid? I own a
Bible, a Koran, the Tao Te Ching, the Analects and even a
fucking TV!)
I will give them one thing though Your average Satanist is a
good deal more interesting character than the herds of empty-
headed dementedly happy couch-cattle and mooning Bible
bashers who keep sending the cheques that keep Billy Graham
and other crooks cut from the same cloth in the fine style they
have become accustomed to. Those Lear jets don’t come
cheap and just keeping them stocked with champagne, caviar,
coke and hookers costs more than Joe Christian earns in a
lifetime. They all do it, believe me - when did you ever see the
pope on a bus?

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Incidentally, this just shows that Elvis is above all that. My
friend Chip knew this guy who’d seen the King in a K-Mart.
The King is a true man of the people. Who has ever seen
Gandhi dining in Denny’s? Answer me that. And as for the
King of the Kings, no one’s seen him slumming it for two
thousand years.
But I digress..
As I was saying, I grant you that the Devil does have all the
best tunes and his followers throw the best parties. Just trying
scoring anything the stronger Sanatogen at a Cliff Richard
concert and forget about that blow-job in the car-park from
some sweet young thing coming out of a Creed concert, she
maybe filled with the Holy Spirit, but..(well, there’s no need to
get crude). Try telling me that is better than a Iron Maiden rite
or a Black Sabbath Black Sabbath, where the air is chemically
enhanced, people beat you up if you don’t ask them for drugs
and where you’ll have been anally raped before you’ve had
your first speed-ball. I still have the needle marks in my
eyeballs and the bite marks on my scrotum. Oh, happy days!
But it’s one thing to go to the concerts. Joining the Satan fan
club offers a bum deal. Just say no.
“I’ll swap you 24 years of Earthly Power for your Eternal
Soul?”
“Yeah right, sign me up!”
Satanism seems great with its orgies, its blood rituals and those
really cool black clothes, but you would think that folks would
read to the bottom of the contract before signing their souls
away to some swarthy dago daemon with natty dress sense
and prominent eyebrows. Face it, if anyone is going to have
access to good lawyers, it’s going to be the Prince of

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Darkness. You don’t stand a chance. Remember, there are no
‘good’ lawyers. Hell! - to make it easier he doesn’t even make a
secret of being evil - you are bound to be double-crossed. (I
dislike the single-crossed too - but I’m not here to diss the
Christians. Not today, anyway.) So, it has been known for
people to diddle the devil, and if you think you are the next
Giraldus of Einsiedeln, go right ahead. All I can say is that if
you think you are smarter than Satan then you are more stupid
than you seem and deserve the Eternity in torment. Ironically,
“the Cardinal Sin of Satanism” is stupidity! Oops! It would be
a bit late to find that out once you’ve already paid your
subscription.
There is precious little evidence that the Dark Lord delivers.
Where are all these Satanists reaping their benefits and raping
the rest of us? Can you think of even one Fortune 500 CEO
who wears black leather capes and has a pentagram tattooed
on his throat? I’ve checked and there isn’t one. It appears that
none of the world’s richest men needed any demonic help. I
would estimate that there is not one billionaire out there intent
on world domination and in league with Beelzebub to enslave
and frustrate the world. They’re more interested in yachts.
Still, that’s hardly the point. These imbecilic Satanists want to
serve and protect the Evil One. They are aware of his
Darkness and embrace it willingly. They all want to be Satan’s
little helpers. They make a big deal of the will to power, their
innate superiority and their contempt for the weak. How odd
then that they are mostly embittered social misfits and sexual
inadequates. (Orgies are ugly people’s way of getting more sex.
And while they might provide a certain physical stimulation
and hydraulic release - they have no passion, no energy and no
value.) So these Satanists boast about their supposed
intelligence and awareness of ‘reality’, yet they want to use
magick and borrow the temporal power of the malevolent
Lord of the Underworld without realising that there’s no such

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thing as a free metaphysical lunch and you-know-who is going
to want unnatural supernatural payback. Hell, they can’t even
spell magic.
In common with most religions, Satanism has its demonology
and hate figures. Indeed if anything their hatreds and
‘enemies’ are more honest and rational than those of the
many splintered protestants, Catholics, Muslims and beyond.
The Ian Paisleys, the Ayatollahs, the vicars of Rome are never
happier than when denouncing each other for being papists,
abortionists, liberals or unbelievers. (It is not the Satanists who
keep me awake at night, it’s these other guys.) There is no
shortage of hatred in the world. At least the Satanists channel
it into improving their own Earthly existence and leave me
alone. If - God forbid - any of the world’s religions happens
to be right then, whichever one it turns out to be, there will
remain 95% of us who are headed for hell. At least the
Satanists want to come with us!
But God dammit, if you believe you have a soul in the first
place, the decision to hang on to it, in case you may ever need
it, ought not to be difficult one. The whole Christian religion
is set up for lost sheep, repentance and the hypocrisy of
deathbed conversions. And the more you’ve got to forgive the
better. “Without the shedding of blood there is no
forgiveness” (Hebrews 9:22) and there’d be more rejoicing in
Heaven over the last minute admission of a Stalin than there
would be for a Gandhi. At least Satan has standards.
But you need your own soul to join his party, and telling
Lucifer that you have changed your mind about being his
perpetual servant and asking if he wouldn’t be a poppet and
let you have yours back, just isn’t going to work, even if you
catch him on a good day. Indeed - it is for just such occasions
that he practices the deep, mocking laugh for which he is
rightly famous.

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Believe in evil and you are believing in good too. Once you
believe in absolute values and judgement, then it’s obvious
that you have to behave. Just as you can’t have dark without
light, you can’t have good without evil. But if so, it shouldn’t
be too difficult to choose the right one. [Hint: Look up their
dictionary definitions.] When picking your team, it is worth
noticing that all major world theologies have happy endings.
That is the point of them after all, reassurance that the world
isn’t a cold, impersonal rock floating in empty space. If you
seek to rebel, seek to think the unthinkable. That might be a
challenging place to start. What sort of loser doesn’t want to
be on the winning team?
Of course, maybe there are no Satanists? Maybe there isn’t
anyone that idiotic? Maybe it is all fear and propaganda put
about by god-mongers intent on subjugation of credulous
masses? Maybe Satan himself was created by those so intent
on righting wrongs that they wrongly see rites?
I don’t want to come over some hand-wringing theist moralist
or supercilious nihilist belittling the little people. I have been
to Dark Masses and ritualistic orgies, I’ve seen the Temple of
Set from the inside. Sure - I signed something on the way in,
but it was perfectly innocent, just a standard disclaimer; You
can understand how Black Mages want to protect themselves
against frivolous lawsuits from prissy pseudo-Satanists suing
because they got the blood of a virgin on their black Armani.
I’m not stupid - I read it and there was nothing duplicitous
about it - all pretty standard stuff. - ‘I disclaim this…’, ‘I abandon
that…’, ‘I submit to the rulings of Azrael’, ‘My immortal essence is
thine in perpetuity’. Blah! Blah! Blah! Typical legalistic mumbo-
jumbo! Totally anachronistic really. Parts of it were in Latin,
for Heaven’s sake! I signed it but I doubt it has any legal
validity and besides it wasn’t even in my own blood.
Daed si laup .. Daed si laup..

CASPAR ADDYMAN
70
CHAPTER FOUR
TELEVISION
I find television to be very educating. Every time
somebody turns on the set, I go in the other room and read a
book.
– Groucho Marx
Ψ ?
Hazel Cole had never been in a chauffeur driven limousine
before. After yesterday’s phone call from Shona’s personal
assistant, she had been expecting a car to collect her but it was
something of a surprise when she answered the door to a
uniformed driver. Looking past the driver, she saw the
absurdly elongated American beast parked in the road, its
darkened glass making it look very menacing. She followed the
driver down the stairs and reluctantly let him open the rear
door for her. She hoped her neighbours could not see her. She
climbed in but could not make herself comfortable.
From the moment the door closed behind her it was obvious
that she would not be able to travel like this. Unable to find
the door handle, she tapped on the darkened window to the
driver, not realising straight away that he could not see her.
She fumbled with the door some more and succeeded in
opening it and climbing out, just as the driver had got round
to the other side of the vehicle, climbed in and closed his own
door. He took off his peaked cap, placing it on the seat next
to him, fastened his belt and turned the key. He checked the
offside mirror out of habit and was leaning forward to peer
out of his window and check that it was safe to pull into

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traffic when he found his view was obscured by a person. The
same person he had just seated in the rear of the car. Doctor
Cole was tapping on his window. The chauffeur pressed the
button to lower it.
“I don’t suppose you would mind if I sat up front with you
would you? I did not like it back there.”
He was delighted. Brian had got into driving because he
enjoyed talking to people. When he started to get bored of the
short hops and repetitiveness of taxi work, he had discovered
through a friend that he could make a similar living driving
fleet cars for a private hire company. A lot of it was dull too,
but for the last year he had regular work for Shona’s television
company. He enjoyed ferrying minor celebs and other daytime
guests to and from their homes and the studios. The studios
were north of London, just beyond the M25, and it was a rare
journey that did not take at least an hour. Since he also drove
the same individuals home, it was wonderful to be able to
continue his interview after they had appeared on the show.
And because it was television, there was no shortage of
interesting passengers, always welcoming another chance to
talk about themselves. Tales he could then re-tell to his friends
down the Flying Pig. It was Brian’s dream job. At least it used
to be when he drove a simple executive saloon, but as her
ratings had grown Shona had started having delusions of
Oprah and had insisted all guests were collected in American
black limos. Brian was cut off from conversation by the
formal atmosphere and the privacy divider.
“I know what you mean. Hop in,” he said cheerfully, removing
his cap from the passenger seat.
At the studios, Shona reviewed the running-order for this
morning’s show. It was all the usual crap. Slightly famous
guests with something to sell or promote: A soap star

CASPAR ADDYMAN
72
discussing her first serious role, an obscure shrink with a book
to plug, and some reality-TV D-lister having to come to terms
with the reality that most of the country hated him. It was not
exactly Oprah, but she knew that people tuned in to see her,
not her guests. Shona preferred it if none of them could
outshine her. That did not look like it was going to be a
problem today. But it meant that Shona would have to carry
the show herself. That was fine. She was as hyped as ever.
The journey from Hazel’s house in Peterborough to the
studios flew by. Hazel and Brian hit it off instantly. She tried
to tell Brian about the psychologist who had put several taxi
drivers in a brain scanner. They each had an enlarged
hippocampus; the organ of memory, that holds the knowledge
of locations and directions. Naturally, being a taxi driver, Brian
had heard all about it and this triggered his own reminisces
about his early days learning the routes round London. From
there, their conversation took many twists and turns.
Brian was having such a good journey that he got carried
away. Forgetting that he was talking to a grey-haired old
professor, he accidentally told her the story of having to carry
a paralytic Spice Girl into her flat and help her change out of
her vomit splattered clothes. Hazel did not mind. It took her
mind off the butterflies in her own stomach.
•
The man had been a London bus driver once. He had driven a
Routemaster. It was a London icon, and he had really enjoyed
the job, pleased to be associated with this moveable capital
landmark and proud to be doing an important job, carrying
London to and from work. Working for London Transport
was one of the first times in his life he felt that he had friends,
that he was accepted. He got on with his colleagues but he
appreciated the distance. He would only see his fellow bus
drivers occasionally in the depot or as their paths crossed out

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on the routes. The conductors he was paired with were
generally busy on the runs so he had privacy during the day,
sitting up in the cab of this large, useful and friendly machine.
He even joined an break-time chess league that ran at the
depot. There were some strong players and the man enjoyed a
friendly rivalry with several of his fellow drivers. For several
years he was very happy.
Unfortunately things turned bad for the man when the buses
were deregulated. A private contractor took over the man’s
routes and depot and, although initially they all kept their jobs,
matters went rapidly off the road. The company rearranged
the shifts and the timetables so that the drivers had to work
harder and had less chance to fraternise with each other. It
was only about twenty minutes longer on the road each day
but it was that little bit too much. Many of the drivers felt they
were pushed too far and were more exhausted than they had
been. The changes also meant that shifts often began or ended
at the other end of the route. Meaning a driver would have to
travel home on his own time. Drivers usually lived near the
depots, which was how they had been assigned when they first
got the jobs, so starting and finishing work at the depot left
them close to home. The new scheme effectively lengthened
the working day for the already over-worked drivers.
It did, of course, mean the company needed fewer drivers and
initially they were able to reduce the numbers through early
retirements and voluntary redundancies. Thereby increasing
the profits. But whatever they did one year just raised the bar
for their productivity the next. The new bus company was
always looking for ways to cut its costs. Naturally enough the
Routemasters and their costly surplus headcount were the next
to go. Half the Routemaster fleet was replaced with driver-
only buses. Conductors were given the choice of retraining as
drivers or talking a walk. As a relatively new driver, the man
was transferred to the driver-only buses. And it was this

CASPAR ADDYMAN
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change that led to him getting the sack.
Ironically for someone who would shortly later be locked up
in a secure mental unit for aggravated assault, the man had
lost his job as a bus driver for being too nice. Although the
new buses were ugly and utilitarian, they were no harder to
driver than the Routemasters. The man quickly adapted to the
new vehicles. He could not however adapt to his new dual role
as driver and conductor. Firstly, he lost that meditative privacy
of a separate booth, where he could concentrate solely on the
driving, now he was far more easily distracted by passengers
talking to him or merely standing close by in his peripheral
vision. He had a couple of accidents and a few near misses.
Worse yet, the man was a not man to be dealing with the
general public. He tried to be friendly but he never quite got
the tone right. All to often he would misread a passenger’s
cheery hello as an invitation to start a conversation and the
bus would often be held up as the slightly bemused passenger
tried to cut him off. By far the greatest concern to the bus
company, the man was terrible at dealing with fare-dodgers. A
victim of bullying all his life, the man had no experience of
standing up for himself or telling people what to do. If
someone wanted to get aboard his bus without paying, he was
happy to let them. The company, however, were not happy
and after two warnings and two failed opportunities to adapt
the company’s ‘productivity centred ethos’, the man was
sacked. It was to be the last time the man ever worked for The
Man.
Ψ ?
Shona’s assistant, Alice, had talked Hazel through everything
carefully. Hazel would be asked a little about the book and a
little about herself. There was always the chance that Shona
would latch onto something she said and launch into an
anecdote of her own, reinterpreting whatever the guest was
saying in terms that related better to her. Apparently the

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audience related to this too, or at least didn’t seem to tire of
Shona’s unhappy childhood. So if a digression came, it was
best if Hazel were to go along with it and just agree with
everything Shona said. A look of panic that flickered across
Alice’s face as she said this. Hazel took careful note.
“Thank you, Maggie Daniels. Later on I will be talking to
‘Orrible ‘Enry recently evicted from ‘The Oil Rig’. But right
now I am pleased to welcome onto the show, Dr. Hazel Cole.”
Shona said, standing to greet her guest and giving her perfect
TV smile. She wasn’t in the least bit pleased. These shrinks
always made her uneasy. You never knew how much they
knew about you.
“Dr Cole is a psychiatrist, who..”
“Psychologist actually, it’s slightly different.” Hazel
interrupted, smiling sweetly.
“Oh God,” thought Shona, “Not one of these pedantic
medical types. They are always uncooperative, monosyllabic
and make crap television.”
Shona smiled sweetly back. “I’ve just finished reading your
new book, ‘Help Yourself’ ” She hadn’t. In fact, she hadn’t
read any of it; she hadn’t even seen it before picking it up just
now for the benefit of camera three. At lunchtime yesterday,
the show’s producer had flung a copy at some flunky with
instructions to read it and prepare some intelligent questions
for Shona to ask.
“Did you like it?” Hazel asked. This was not right. It was
Shona who asked the questions and the guests who replied.
Those were the rules of the game and any guest desperate
enough to appear on this kind of show should surely know
that?

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“I loved it!” How could she? But it was another rule of the
show to be uncritically gushing about everything. Anyway the
junior researcher’s questions would let Shona bluff her way
through. She consulted the bullet points.
“So you are saying we can all be thinner, fitter, better people?”
“No, nothing like that,” said Hazel.
The office junior hadn’t read it either. He had been out
extremely late the night before to some newly opened club
and got lucky with a stunning girl who worked in public
relations. He had not slept at all last night and he was hoping
to see her again that night. To be prepared he was planning to
hide in a guest dressing room and spend the afternoon
catching up on his sleep. He had flicked through Help
Yourself, but the words were floating off the page, so in the
end he had just copied and pasted the questions from the
notes for another self-help guru they had had on the show
half a year ago.
“Treating yourself to a new outfit improves your self-
confidence,” Shona asked uncertainly, having scanned down
her crib for something in the summary that seemed most
likely to her.
“You haven’t read it have you?” Hazel suggested, still smiling
sweetly.
From there, it degenerated badly. And unfortunately for
Shona, having just come back from the commercial break,
there were many awkward and uncomfortable minutes before
the producer could come to her rescue. (What she never
found out was that he let the section run on longer than he
needed to because car-crashes were always such compelling

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television.)
The final section with ‘Orrible ‘Enry had gone moderately
well and coming off the set Shona was slightly calmer than
she had been during the debacle with the head doctor. But
now as she played back the show in her mind she relived the
bad bits. Her stomach dropped as she recalled how Hazel had
made a fool of her. Shona did not like being mocked. She
channelled her anger at her perceived humiliation into
righteous indignation and very quickly had turned the
situation round in her head. She picked up the copy of the
accursed book and looked at the gentle smiling face of Hazel
on the back and read the blurb beneath that listed Hazels
many qualifications and her time working in psychiatric
hospitals.
Slowly it began to make sense to Shona. That shrink had
deliberately set out to make Shona look stupid. On her own
show! Just so people would think how clever the doctor was
and buy her stupid book. The scheming and devious old
biddy. You would never suspect it to look at her. But this was
so clearly what happened. She would not get away with it. You
did not get your own show on daytime television without
knowing how to stand up for yourself. Shona was not about to
let this insult pass. She grabbed the offending book, had a
short scream and stomped out of her rooms and down the
corridor.
Shona exploded into Hazel Cole’s dressing room.
“I suppose you think it’s clever to trick me on my own
television show, do you?” She screamed, brandishing ‘Help
Yourself’ as if it were damning evidence.
Hazel Cole had lived through stand-up shouting matches with
psychopathic multiple murderers, so she was not intimidated

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by a furious chat show host.
“I wasn’t trying to trick you. I think there must have been
some misunderstanding. I am sorry. I expect you get a lot of
guests and it must be hard to keep track of everything?” Hazel
asked in a clear and steady tone that calmed Shona somewhat.
“Yes, I have to do everything round here or, as you see, it all
goes wrong. So it doesn’t help if you try to catch me out!”
Shona added, remembering that she was still mad.
“I am sorry.” Hazel knew better than to argue the point.
Instead, she changed the subject “But I bet you’ve always had
to do everything haven’t you? Were you the oldest of your
brothers and sisters?”
“Second. But my older brother was no use. Just like my dad.”
“And it was a big family?”
“Two little brothers, four little sisters and just me and my
mum to look after them.”
“Yes?” Hazel had calmed the woman in front of her and now
sought to draw her out.
For Shona, talking about herself was one of her favourite
ways to pass the time but it was rare to find anyone who
actually listened. Properly listened and knew when to ask
questions or when to let her carry on. Hazel had forty years
of professional experience of doing precisely that. Shona
talked for a long time. Hazel listened.
•
The man did not own a television that worked. The eight he
did own had fallen victim to his inquiring mind. This was

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probably a good thing because television was not good for
someone in his condition. There was too much happening at
once. He had always had trouble concentrating and television
seemed to be edited to make it impossible for him to follow.
The constantly changing sequence of shots and scenes left
him reeling. Especially all the hidden messages.
He had once videoed the news and very carefully gone
through it using the pause button. He had filled a whole
notebook from just the secret codes hidden in that one 15
minute morning news program. He often wondered who the
messages were for. It was too much for one person. It had
taken him a whole day to go through that one program and
there were more news broadcasts almost hourly.
Maybe each code was just to communicate with just one
group or person and they were all unaware of each other?
How many people was that, out there receiving these
instructions? How many more were there these days of
satellite and cable? Back when he had done his investigation
there were just four television channels and the computer
graphics were very simple. Now there was far more crammed
into each frame of each program and there were hundreds of
channels readily accessible. As he understood it there were
over six channels that showed nothing but news twenty-four
hours a day. It made his head spin just to think of it.
Ψ ?
After leaving Hazel’s dressing room Shona had gone back to
her own room, hurrying so no-one would notice her tear-
stained face. She locked the door, blew her nose and opened
her copy of Help Yourself on the first page. She finished it
that same night and the next morning she arrived at the studio
carrying two dozen copies. A dozen were given out at the
production meeting and everyone on the show was ordered to
read it. The other dozen were couriered to (in this order) her

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agent, her two best friends, her mother, several other friends
and two of her sisters. Her other sister, her brother and her
father did not receive a copy. (She had learnt a lot from Dr.
Cole’s book, but it would not work miracles.)

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CHAPTER FIVE
CLUBS, A DUCK, TWO WHORES
AND SOME DRUGS
I wouldn’t recommend sex, drugs, alcohol or insanity
for everyone, but they’ve always worked for me.
– Hunter S. Thompson
*
Eric had asked John to meet him at his club, Black’s. John had
a great deal of trouble finding it, hidden away at the centre of
the maze of Soho. He had even more trouble persuading the
openly incredulous bouncers that he was actually supposed to
be there. Black’s was a club of the very darkest night.
Although it was not a nightclub as such. So black that it was
off the radar of most of the party crowd.
The footballers and soap stars did not like its poshness,
preferring places that were more classy*. Truly huge A-list
celebrities eschewed it too. At least it was avoided by those
global superstars who burned brightly in the oxygen of
publicity. They found its strict privacy policy suffocating. It
was the sort of place that River Phoenix wouldn’t have been
caught dead in. It had its fair share of famous patrons but few
of them ever appeared on the front pages of tabloids. And if
they came here to party it was because they preferred to keep
it that way. Black’s celebrities were known for their cerebrity.
* An oxymoron if ever there was one.

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On any given evening it was a lot more tedious than the
gullible readers for star stalking magazines would care to
believe. And if ever they went there they would hate it. The
dance floor was only open from Thursday to Saturday
evenings but the well-stocked, oak-panelled library was open
twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Black’s did have a
first class cocktail bar and an excellent private restaurant that
served the best confit of duck in the whole of London.
Whatever that was.
Once John had negotiated the distrustful door staff things
went more smoothly. Like those who had successfully
convinced Saint Peter of their credentials, John found that on
the inside, everyone was falling over themselves to help him.
A liveried concierge, familiar with his kind, took this confused
soul under his wing. Delicately interrogating John he
ascertained who he was and what mistake had let him into
Elysium. He informed John that Eric had been here earlier but
had been called away. He guided John gently into the bar and
entrusted him to higher powers.
The barman wore a different uniform. He was clearly in
charge of the next cloud up. A plush, well-appointed cloud
with thick black carpets and deep red décor. In contrast to the
sparking lights of the bar with its smoked glass counter and
mirrors, the rest of the room appeared very dark. There were
lots of little lights cleverly hidden in the moulded fittings but
the subtle light they seemed not to travel very far before being
absorbed by the soft dark furnishings. The big dark suede
sofas, gathered in four or five well spaced groups, looked too
comfy to get up from. Although it must have been possible
because currently they were all empty. There were about a
dozen stools lined up along the bar; two were in use. Other
than John and the barman (the concierge having evaporated)
the only occupants of the bar were two young women. Two
beautiful blonde angels, who were drinking cocktails at the far

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right end of the bar.
Out of instinct John headed to the furthest stool on the far
left end of the bar. Nevertheless the woman facing his
direction caught his eye and smiled. Her smile dazzled and
discombobulated him. She leaned into her friend and
whispered something. Now her friend also turned round and
having to work a little harder also caught John’s eye and
offered him an equally dazzling smile. John was still too
disorientated to react so cast around for assistance. He found
it in the form of the cocktail list. He studied it intently
without taking in a single word.
“Good evening, sir. … Sir?”
John became aware that the barman was talking to him.
“Hello.”
“Your first time at Black’s?”
“It’s that obvious?”
“Not at all, but you do seem a bit confused by our drinks
menu.”
“Yes, what would you recommend?”
“Will you be dining with us, sir?”
“Yes, does that matter?”
“The food at Black’s is very rich so you would be advised to
start with a short, sharp astringent drink like a whiskey sour or
our pomegranate margarita?”

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“Erm,” John stalled as he hunted these on the menu.
“Or perhaps a simple gin and tonic?”
“No, a whiskey sour sounds great.” John had never had either
of these but thought that a whiskey sour sounded safest.
The barman moved away and proceeded to make an elaborate
fuss over the preparation of his drink. John remembered how
to read and found his drink in the menu. Whiskey and lemon
juice didn’t sound too bad. Though perhaps there were secret
unmentioned ingredients because the barman was making a
surprising amount of fuss. But maybe that was what made it
cost fifteen pounds a glass.
John was ready with his wallet when his cloudy brown drink
was placed in front of him.
“Don’t worry sir, it’s on Mr Hayle’s account.”
“Right, thank you.”
John’s first tentative sip was of a drink that didn’t really taste
of whiskey or of lemon juice. In fact, it tasted fantastic and
his second mouthful was more ambitious. He was fortunate to
have swallowed it before he noticed that the two blondes had
walked over to where he was sitting.
“Hello,” said the blonde on the left.
“Hh,” said John.
“Hello,” said the blonde on the right.
“Hh,” said John.

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Jayne and Sam taken individually were far beyond any ordinary
man’s hopes even to fantasise about. For it would be too
unrealistic, too far removed from his experience for him to
extrapolate into this stratospheric league. That they were
enthusiastically introducing themselves to John, who until a
few weeks ago had been an ordinary man, was not getting
through to his higher brain at all. Some dusty circuits in a
primal part of his brain, starved of sexual contact of any kind
for the last six months, had blown. From the moment his
cognitive functions had registered that they were talking to
him, he’d become paralysed from the neck upwards.
Jayne was a natural blond, as she would gigglingly offer to
prove to John any number of times more that night. Sam told
him later that she had gone blonde for professional reasons
but for other reasons connected with her profession she had
no means of proving this. They were both much more
intelligent than either men or women normally gave them
credit for. Whether for this reason, or some other, they often
found that men’s intelligence dropped considerably in their
company.
“I’m Sam,” said Sam.
John managed to nod.
“I’m Jayne,” said Jayne.
John managed another nod.
“You’re that philosophy friend of Eric’s aren’t you?”
continued Sam.
“He told us all about you,” finished Jayne.
“You know Eric?” The shock made him forget that he’d

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forgotten how to speak.
“Oh yes! Of course,” said Sam and for some reason Jayne
found this very amusing.
“We were just talking to him now. He was very insistent that
we should meet you.” Now it was Sam’s turn to laugh. “He
said he wouldn’t be gone long, why don’t you join us until
then? We can introduce ourselves.”
“We don’t need Uncle Eric to look after us do we?” said Sam.
“Yes, good idea. I’m John, by the way.”
“Yes, we know.” They said it in unison and broke into
simultaneous laughter.
•
It had started out as a good idea. The man was sure of that.
His flat was a mess and that was making him uneasy. He knew
he was prone to getting confused especially once he was
already confused. He knew his own mental state just as well as
any of his many, many doctors. He disagreed that it was a
medical condition. Tidying the flat would be a good way to
clear his mind. And once his mind was clear, he would be able
to think straight again. Simple really.
The trouble was that his flat, in reality no more than a bedsit,
was as cluttered and confused as he was. And it wasn’t very
easy to know where to begin. It had been getting harder the
longer he left the problem. He’d wanted to be methodical.
That was important, he’d learnt that from the doctors. But the
lack of space made it difficult to keep things orderly and the
problem fed on itself. An empty room is, to a first
approximation, tidy. A nearly empty room isn’t that far off

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either, whichever way you arrange the few things it contains.
But each new thing you add to a room adds exponentially to
the ways they can be arranged. Collect any items over any
length of time and you will have untidiness. And all the while
the second law of thermodynamics is adding dust, decay and
disorder to the pile. Housework is a never-ending war with
entropy. And entropy will always win in the end.
Nature abhors the vacuuming.
The man did not even own a vacuum cleaner. But he intended
to bring order to the chaos. He could see that his sanity partly
depended upon it.
His flat was in even greater disarray than normal. The five
broken televisions were lost under shifting strata of
newspapers. The floors and all the other surfaces were
carpeted in an autumn forest of free leaflets and flyers,
collected on the man’s daily perambulations but mostly
unread. From the waist upwards, his kitchenette was not too
bad. The tiny dining table regularly got swept clear for the
man to unfold his treasure maps. The cooker and kettle were
accessible and the tiny amount of available work surface was
too small to support major chaos. Sure, the sink was full of
dirty crockery but it wasn’t overflowing and it wasn’t full of
dirty dishwater. (The man had lost the plug for the sink ages
ago.) His cupboards were a terrible mess but that was why
cupboards had doors.
The kitchen floor on the other hand was not for the faint
hearted or the barefooted. Toast, crushed up Crispies, teabags
that had missed the bin and other interesting detritus all
jostled together with a growing community of stains. The
black and white floor tiles were occasionally visible but it was
an even bet which was which.

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We shall not speak of the bathroom.
The man did not consider himself an untidy or unhygienic
person. But the medication made it hard for him to keep on
top of things. It meant that he had lacked the energy. But he
was getting better. Now, energy was pulsing through him; if
anything he had too much of it. This made him a busy person.
His time was limited and he had a lot of important things to
do. Cleaning could normally wait. But he was starting to feel it
get away from him. There were too many wonderful things
happening all at once and he was starting to lose track. He was
starting to lose focus. He needed to be organised, to stay on
top of things. Coming back to this chaotic flat after each day’s
amazing adventures, he was finding it difficult to get
organised. How could he draw up his plans if he couldn’t find
any paper? How could he write in his journal if he couldn’t
find a working pen or an empty journal? How could he unfold
the maps if there were no flat surfaces available?
He couldn’t, of course.
But neither could he carry all this around in his head. There
was too much. It got jumbled. He fumbled and his head
jangled. Before he made any more plans, he needed a plan
about making plans.
And this was it. He had to admit that his flat was a tip. So he
would have to tidy it. And this time he meant it. He had
started several times earlier in the week but little problems
always seemed to get in his way. The sink was full, so was the
draining board, and all the crockery cupboards. There was no
clear space on which to start re-stacking his newspapers. The
bin was too full to be moved but there were no bin bags to
transfer the rubbish to.
He had forgotten to get them again today and the shops

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would be shut by now but he wasn’t going to let that defeat
him. His mission was too important to be foiled by petty
problems. He would just have to set his newly tuned creativity
to work.
* ¢
Absorbed into the soft clutches of the dark suede sofa, Sam
and Jayne had John surrounded. He had floundered through
the conversation for an awkward twenty minutes. He’d been
letting Sam and Jayne quiz him on his life so far. And although
he was passing the quiz, he was failing the conversation. They
both seemed very interested in getting to know him but he
had trouble making an interesting story out of his own
history. There was little in his life so far that impressed him so
he was having a hard time trying to sound impressive.
Disconcertingly this wasn’t putting them off which in other
circumstances could have boosted his ego but right now
merely served to make him feel even more awkward. He knew
nothing about either of them but he was too overwhelmed by
their double-barrelled assault to attempt to turn the tables.
Besides, he didn’t know which one he fancied more.
His whiskey sour was almost gone but it had yet to turn into
Dutch courage. He had some catching up to do; Sam and
Jayne were clearly not on their first cocktail. He necked the
last mouthful. The empty glass provided an escape. He was
attempting to stand up when Eric steamed into the room.
“Don’t get up. Ah, ladies, you’ve met Mr Smith, excellent.
William, a bottle of champagne and four glasses if you please.
The good stuff.” Eric threw himself and his briefcase on the
sofa opposite. “So has he told you that I’m going to make him
world famous or is he being his usual modest self?”
The champagne was bought and Jayne moved over to sit with
Eric, draping herself comfortably across his long body. For

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the brief time it took them to finish the bottle, Eric held forth
on the nature of celebrity and how John could provide an
antidote, an interesting alternative. He also set out some of
the things he would be doing to make this happen. This was
the first John had heard of many of Eric’s plans, so he
listened as enthralled as the girls. Apparently, tomorrow he
was being interviewed on the Radio One drive-time show.
“I didn’t know that,” John said.
“Well, you do now. Come on keep up at the back. I can’t stop
and explain everything to you. We’d be here all night.”
•
The man had been here all night. He wasn’t yet making
progress. He had had some interruptions: a couple of crucial
notes for his journal, a siren outside the window. He had
thought he wanted music while he worked and had turned on
the radio. It was still tuned to the news channel so he was
going to switch it over but they had a very interesting
programme about an East African micro-finance project and
he sort of got swept up in it. When it ended half an hour later
he remembered what he had been doing and tuned into some
bland commercial station that would serve nothing but
pabulum. Much better for working. But this was going to be a
long job so he thought he should eat something first.
So that was that, whether he wanted to or not, he’d have to
start with the sink.
* ¢
Back in Black’s, another liveried member of staff had
shepherded them through to the restaurant. Passing through
the over-brassed swing doors it was clear they were moving up
to the next realm of heaven. Everything sparkled: the mirrors,
the chandeliers, the glassware and the knives and the forks.

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Several trolleys supporting silver domes. Even the cakes on
the many-tiered cake-stand seemed to sparkle, glazed
strawberries glistening like rubies.
“Sam Spade tells me you’re no longer a vegetarian, is that
right?” Eric directed his question at John, who nodded a
confused consent. “Good, in which case, young Mr Smith and
I are having confit of duck, you ladies choose whatever you
like. The sole and the hake are great. But perhaps you’ve had
enough of wet fish?” Eric said, merrily jabbing a fork in
Smith’s direction.
“A private detective?”
“Yes, I had you investigated. I want to know about all the
skeletons in your closet. The more I build you up the more my
competitors will want to tear you down and we’d like to stay a
few steps ahead of the pursuing hounds.”
“Couldn’t you have just asked me?”
“I could do that, I suppose. If I wanted to be bored out of
my fucking mind. And that’s not going to tell me what dirt
other newspapers could dig up on you. They’ll be going
through your bins and interviewing every girl or boy whose
heart you’ve broken. If it’s out there someone will find it and I
had rather that someone was me.”
“So you hired private detectives to investigate me?”
“Of course, you don’t think I could’ve trusted this to any of
my journalists do you?”
“And so what have your detectives found?” asked John,
slightly angry but confident that ultimately he had nothing to
worry about.

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“We’ve got a big, big problem. They haven’t found anything.
You don’t appear to have done anything wrong or interesting
your entire life.” Eric pulled a red folder from his briefcase
and held up a flimsy report just a few pages long. “If we’re
not careful, I am going to have to start making things up.”
John looked terrified.
“I’m joking, I’m joking. But perhaps you can help me check to
see if they are doing a good job. Eric turned with relish to the
executive summary. For the second time that night, John had
to suffer through a catalogue of his under-achievements.
~
If good foie gras depends upon on an unavoidable amount of
cruelty to geese, the secret of duck confit is killing them with
kindness. Not for nothing is the best restaurant in the world
called the Fat Duck. The fatter the duck, the better the confit.
And whereas the geese must be force fed to selectively screw
with their livers, for a good duck confit one needs a happy,
well rounded duck. A duck that leads a full but not that active
life, fed all that his heart desires (and yes it is ideally a he-duck
because drakes taste better)
But if it is the happiest ducks that are destined for the highest
tables, it is not a long life that they lead. For these ducks are
rarely out of adolescence before their time must come.
Mercifully, it is a swift death. Stress hormones break down the
fat so the ducks are killed with the minimal of shock or
warning. Chopping their heads off after a hearty meal usually
works here. Life as he knew it is no more for the duck but his
lifeless body will hang around for a little while longer before
his true purpose is fulfilled. The fat, lifeless bodies are hung
up to let the blood drain out. No sooner than two weeks but
no later than a month and a half he can be confited. The need

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to be kind has now passed but no less care must be taken if
one is aiming for the best.
The legs and thighs are jointed from the body and seasoned
with sea salt and black pepper. A large number of garlic cloves
and some thyme and bay leaves are placed on top of the duck
legs and the whole thing refrigerated for half a day or so.
Then the legs are removed and placed in a heavy covered pot
with a further amount of fat taken from the carcass. These are
then braised in a low temperature oven for up to eight hours.
This preserves the legs in a milky bath of their own fat and
they can now be kept refrigerated for several months.
Eventually the duck will have his day. And upon that day, he
shall be taken from the fridge, roasted until crispy and deep,
deep brown and usually served with a selection of vegetables
roasted in his bounteous fat. And he will, if treated to a happy
life and a dignified death, taste absolutely delicious.
* ¢
By the time the food arrived, Eric had got bored of teasing
John and had started regaling the girls without outlandish tales
of the many celebrities he had met and disliked. It seemed to
be most of them but his greatest hatred seemed to be
preserved for Hugh Hefner, the Queen and the Pope. Though
the latter two were conceded, at least, to have some good
taste.
“The problem with Hugh Hefner is that he has absolutely no
soul and minimal charisma. He wouldn’t know kitsch from
cubism. He’s okay with curves but he can’t cope with crinkles.
He airbrushes all the character out of his starlets. He wants to
hide us from life’s ugliness – perhaps it’s because he looks like
a failed experiment to cross a coconut with a pumpkin?”
Sam and Jayne were clearly enthralled. John, relieved to be out
of the spotlight, started to relax. He’d even managed to chip

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in with an occasional joke. To John’s surprise Eric had laughed
and so had the girls. Maybe he was still in with a chance. He
still couldn’t decide which girl he liked more. Though his
choices could be dwindling. Jayne barely noticed he was there
and Sam just seemed slightly uneasy.
•
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
The man had decided to start with the newspapers and
pamphlets and he knew that it wasn’t going to be a
straightforward task so, very wisely, he had broken it down
into stages. First he would sift all the paper into piles, then he
would sift the piles into smaller piles and from those he could
start to get things organised, sorting by their important
properties like resonance and portent. The first order of
business was to have three piles, newspapers, magazines and
pamphlets. The pamphlets pile could also include leaflets and
flyers. (This wasn’t ideal but he could deal with that later.)
First, he needed some space for the piles. The drifts of paper
were not so built up beneath the window. The man would
often stand there to look out at the world. He would start his
sweep from here. He scooped up a clutch of clutter with both
his arms and carried it carefully to the bed.
He managed to move a couple of armfuls and now almost
had clear spot by the window to start from. As he went he
couldn’t help reading the topmost sheets. This one announced
a meditation class at his local community college, he
remembered picking it up; he was going to go. How strange
that he had forgotten all about it. This was important. It had
better not get lost again in the big sweep. Maybe he needed
another pile just for the really important things? It would save
time in the long run. He let the other papers drop to the bed
and looked around for another spot to clear.

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* ¢
When the main courses had been cleared, Eric ordered
champagne and coffees all round. A few minutes before, a
valet had come and whispered something in his ear and now
he pushed back from the table and stood up.
Eric gestured to you John. “You, come with me. Ladies, I am
not much of a sweet person but perhaps you can find us a few
nice things to share? We’ll be right back.”
John followed Eric out of the dining room. They went back
down the magnificent balustraded staircase and across the
black marble hallway, into a thickly carpeted corridor leading
to the rear of the building. They came to some heavy wooden
doors with a plaque that proclaimed ‘Private Dining’. They
entered a room that was more muted than the main restaurant.
Dark oil paintings hung on the walls and a large mahogany
table with twelve matching chairs dominated the room.
Seated in one of them had been a tall, dark-complexioned
man, who now unfolded himself to make their acquaintance.
“Mr Smith, allow me to introduce Mr White, my pharmacist.”
John took the proffered hand. Mr White looked Russian, but
was in fact seven-eighths Inuit. John assumed that Mr White
was not his real name but it was a fairly accurate translation of
his Eskimo name. Disconcertingly he had a strong Welsh
accent.
“All right there, Mr Smith. Eric here tells me you’re planning
on having yourself a wild night, are you?”
“Yes” John replied for the lack of anything better to say.
“So what do you need?”

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John stalled, not wanting to reveal his pitiful ignorance of all
things illegal, “I’m not really sure,” he offered weakly.
Eager to collect his own order Eric rescued him. “I’d say he
needs Mister White’s All-Night Bag of Shite, wouldn’t you,
Arlvik?”
“Right you are, Mister H, though I prefer to refer to it as
Mister White’s Original Miscellany.” Arlvik started to bring all
sorts of bags, packets and bundles out of his many pockets
and dropped them on the mahogany table. From deep in one
of his inside pockets he got another slightly bigger packet and
slid it across to Eric. “And while I’m about it, there’s yours
Eric.”
Eric wasted no time in tearing open the packet, which seemed
from where John was standing to contain half a dozen smaller
plastic pockets of white powder. Eric stuffed all but one of
these into his jacket. He tipped the contents of the final one
onto the smooth French polished surface of the table and
began making geometrical patterns in the dust. This unnerved
Mr White slightly and he went over to bolt the door.
“So where were we?” he said coming back to the table. “You
will need a lot of that, obviously,” nodding at Eric and passing
John two bags of white powder. John guessed these were
cocaine.
“Some of these.” Lots of little white pills that reminded John
of his ex-girlfriend’s pointless homoeopathic chalk tablets. He
imagined that these would be marginally more effective.
“Although these have more of a kick” A slightly smaller bag
of green ones.

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“And these,” (pink ones), “are more mellow, you know?”
“Yeah” John lied, hoping to sound knowledgeable.
“Be fucking careful with this,” (some dirty brown powder), “It
is stronger than you’ll be used to.” John did not contest this.
Next Arlvik handed him a bit of paper folded into a small
rectangular parcel. “This will help you out if your horse gets
sick, if you know what I mean.” John did not know what this
meant. But coming from a drug dealing Welsh Inuit, he
doubted very much that it was the number of a good
veterinarian.
Finally, Arlvik placed two other small plastic bags on the table,
one with a colourful selection of pills and capsules in it, the
other with a few more little white parcels. “Then these are
your medicine cabinets, Traditional and Western.” He gestured
first at the white parcels. “A range of Mother Nature’s finest
psychedelics. They are all labelled and they are all divine. So
enjoy the ride.” He handed the bag to John with some
ceremony. John tried to look suitably cosmic. “And if you
crash we’ve got western medicine to pick you back up. Vallies,
Viagra, Codeine and a few jellies.”
“Thanks,” John took the pills and added them to his pile.
“And I nearly forgot, some of this.” He reached into yet
another pocket and handed John a small sack of dusty green
buds. The first thing he had been able to positively identify
since arriving.
“Did you need anything else?”
John could quite honestly say that the large collection of
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sufficient. A lot more than sufficient. He very much doubted
he would take any of it but not wanting to hurt the drug
dealer’s feelings, he merely smiled and nodded.
He had tried weed a few times at college and fallen quite
peacefully asleep. But woke up deciding that on the whole he
preferred alcohol. Of the others, he had only ever taken
cocaine. Even that had been only once, at a house party, where
he had done it to attempt to impress the bright and perky
Australian girl who had offered it to him. And while he had
enjoyed the sensation, it didn’t have his intended effect. The
girl had become even more bright and perky and very quickly
wandered off to find other people to talk at.
Eric had not been idle. He had shepherded his white cloud
into an intricate geometric pattern that looked like this:
(but in white on mahogany).
Eric stared at it for some time as if mesmerised. Then he
reached into his pocket and retrieved what looked like a small
silver candelabra. Just right for two of those birthday cake
candles. It must have been hollow because having put the two
prongs to his nose; Eric was able to rapidly hoover up most

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of his construction. He had good lungs and very clear nasal
passages.
When he straightened up just two lines of the figure
remained.
“They say I should not keep punishing my nose like this but I
figure on getting at least another 10 or 20 years out of it yet.”
He moved away from what remained, offering it to the two of
them. Fortunately for John, Mr White stepped forward. He
took a miniature single candlestick holder out of his own
pocket. In one smooth practised movement, he bent down,
brought it up to his nose and, blocking his other nostril with
the same hand, he guided the little silver tube along the left
hand line. When it had gone, he straightened up and passed
the metal tube to John and once again John found that he was
taking drugs purely in order to look cool in front of other
people. Peer pressure doesn’t stay in the playground.
With one hand John brought the tube to his nose. He tried to
imitate the others but this was a little more difficult than the
experts made it seem. Seating himself in the nearest chair and
using both hands, John managed to seal one nostril while
sniffing through the other. It took him only a couple of
attempts to clear the table. There was a tingle in the back of
his throat but it wasn’t all together unpleasant. He handed
back Mr White’s candlestick holder and tried to compose
himself into a cool posture. He just about had it settled when
he blew everything by sneezing violently.
Eric snorted at John’s poor snorting.
Mr White was more diplomatic. “When you need any more
just give me a call.” The Inuit handed him a business card. At
first it looked blank but as he took it, he felt raised lettering on

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the front. Holding it up to the light he saw that there were
words embossed in white ink on the card.
“Very cool,” John had to admit.
“Hey man, I’m an Inuit, we know all about cool.” This was
clearly a favourite line of John’s new friend and despite
himself, he found he was laughing quite hard at the cheesy
joke.
•
By the third or fourth sub-clearing and on about his thirteenth
fish the man spotted that he was going wrong again. He had
been making fine progress. He had a clearing by the window
to get started in and in addition had cleared several new area
in case he encountered any more interesting titbits. He had the
space by the window for everything he was going to keep, a
space on the sofa for paper that was too important to lose, a
space next to that for things that were not only too important
to lose but were also extremely urgent. Finally, there was a
space in the corner of the room for funny pictures of fish.
One needed to keep one’s sense of humour or you might go
mad.
The fish had been an inspired idea that started with the
scissors. They had been discovered when he was lifting yet
another armful off the sofa. They had been missing for weeks.
He had dropped everything else and done a little dance.
Scissors would really help right now. He could chop things up.
If he just kept the essential articles and pictures, it would cut
his collection right down to a manageable size.
Obviously he mustn’t lose them. They needed a very special
place. He put them in his pocket while he looked around for
somewhere suitable, which was when he spied the goldfish.

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It was on the cover of a computer magazine. A big shiny
goldfish. It was the only reason he had bought the magazine
in the first place. He had no interest in computers and didn’t
entirely trust them. But he did like fish, they were soothing
and funny.
This was such an obvious first use for the newly found
scissors that he set straight to work, tearing the cover from the
magazine, then carefully cutting round the fish to free it from
the page. It looked almost alive.
He cleared a space in the corner and put the fish there. But it
looked lonely. So, scissors in hand, he went fishing. Trawling
through seas of paper for further fish. There was less fish
related news than you might expect. But after an hour of
determined effort he had a goodly catch. Though by some
miracle the front room now seemed more untidy than ever.
He was back to square one.
Absently putting the scissors down, the man sat in the middle
of the sea with his fishes and had a little think.
• ¢
From there the evening picked up pace. The beautiful desserts
were demolished for a few tiny tastes and the coffee was left
to go cold. They let the champagne take the strain. With some
prompting from Eric, John had passed a bag of cocaine to the
girls, who needed none.
All too soon they were leaving the club and climbing into
Eric’s limo that had pulled up right in front of the door. And
then inside there was some hilarity as Jayne and Eric scrabbled
and scrambled on the floor, trying to find a magazine with her
in it. This was the first time that it connected in John’s head
how these girls knew Eric and mostly he was surprised at his
own innocence.

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From an evening with Jayne it should have been obvious. It
was Sam who didn’t quite fit. She had been a bit anxious
throughout the meal and now rather than joining in with Eric
and Jayne’s games she sat quietly on the seat beside him,
leaning in and giving the occasional shiver, although it wasn’t
cold. John put his arm around her and his kindness seemed to
do the trick. She huddled in closer and seemed to relax as they
enjoyed the floorshow.
In short order the limousine reached its destination. Another
club, judging by the large gentleman who helped Sam, Jayne
and John out of the car and onto the waiting red carpet. Eric
remained inside. He waved them off with instructions to
abuse his bar tab, while he excused himself to get back to
work. Rarely was there a night where he let his editor put the
paper to bed without interference. He made vague promises to
return in time.
White’s was anything but pristine – on a bad night it could
actually be quite grey. Infamous as the exclusive haunt of film
stars and minor royals, of rockers and high rollers, it was more
usually filled with bored and boorish young aristos, uncouth
city millionaires and whichever subset of the jet set happened
to think they were the only ones who knew about it.
Footballers and soap stars felt comfortable here. No-one
would fail to recognise them and no-one would ask them their
opinion on anything more challenging than what they thought
of each other. Occasional American A-listers would
splashdown at the end or more often the beginning of a
publicity tour. The door policy was exclusive but nobody
stopped the paparazzi from camping patiently on the
pavement. A well-timed telephone call from your publicist
and a carefully choreographed stumble into a taxi at four AM
was all it took to appear in the party pages of the tabloids and

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the free-sheets. Everyone knew it and they were all happy with
the arrangement.
With Eric gone, and with a little assistance from the marching
powder and support from a beautiful woman on either arm,
John was able to step into the shoes of an alpha male. They
were an unfamiliar fit but with each step they felt more
comfortable. They were the nicest new shoes he’d ever had.
He tried to guide his girls to the bar but a woman with a
cream cocktail dress and a big black ear-mike intercepted them
and guided them to a private table; A black marble disc with
three ice buckets in the middle. They were expected and they
were important.
John slid round to the middle of the white leather seat and
Sam and Jayne slid in on either side. There was easily enough
space for ten very important people and all their egos.
Nonetheless the girls both squeezed in close to him.
There was champagne waiting for them but the waiter who
opened it wondered if they wouldn’t also like some shots.
Which of course they would.
Moments later a bottle of frozen vodka appeared with three
squat shot glasses nestling in a brick of solid ice. The vodka
was a brand he’d never heard of and had a flavour like satanic
snowflakes. They had toasted themselves and slammed their
glasses back down while the freezing liquid warmed them
from inside.
“So,” Sam asked, “what exactly is this big idea of yours? I
didn’t really follow when Eric was explaining and you didn’t
get a chance to say for yourself.”
John paused as he thought of the best way to answer. He felt

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as clear-headed as that night on the stage. That was a long
time ago and in the blur of that time he had been asked many
times. But this was the first time since then that he actually
had an audience. He was very glad she’d asked.
•
The problem was that rearranging the chaos never actually
decreased it. In the closed system of his bedsit, he could only
bring order to any one part at the cost of disorder elsewhere.
And since the room was so small that, even when he had done
that, it was all but impossible to keep the two from mixing
together again.
He needed to be able to remove the unwanted noise and
extraneous information to leave him with a clearer signal and a
view of his own carpet.
But how?
His bin was already full and he could not burn things because
he didn’t have a fireplace. Then he saw the solution. It was
crystal clear and had been right in front of him the whole
time.
Getting up from the floor, he went over and threw open the
window.
*
It was only when Jayne’s mask slipped for a second time,
letting her boredom creep through that John slowed down
enough for the irony to catch up with him. For the last half
hour he had been sitting here holding forth, talking non-stop
about how life passed people by, that there was so much to
experience and enjoy in every singe moment. He had been
witty. He had been entertaining. He had made the girls laugh,
at first.

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Sam was still with him but somewhere along the way Jayne
had fallen behind. She did a good job of hiding her boredom,
at least from John. But this time last time he had finally
noticed. It stopped him short. His personal revelation held no
interest for Jayne.
Realising the mistake she had made Jayne needed to fix it. The
usual small talk wouldn’t help but she had plenty of tools to
her trade. This was her job and she was very good at it.
“Come on, let’s all have a dance.” Grabbing John’s hand she
pulled him from his seat and she and Sam escorted him to the
dance floor.
On any other night John might have put up more of a fight
but in the hands of two professional escorts he didn’t stand a
chance. Not that he knew this or perhaps he might have put
up a fight. It was the sort of this that would have pricked
John’s conscience as a polyester liberal*. But, even, then he
would have lost, in the end. Besides he was a polyester liberal
but he was also a man. Sam and Jayne were very, very
expensive call girls and they were being paid for with Eric’s
money. It wasn’t a fair contest.
But part of the job of being a very, very expensive call-girl is
to assuage the guilt with subtle assurances. She’d made it
obvious that was an independent woman for whom this career
was a personal choice. She’d lead you to believe that the
money was largely irrelevant, that, right at this very moment,
she was choosing to spend her time (and your money) being
with you. If this still would not work, she had a whole arsenal
* Polyester liberals are like woolly liberals but with a greater dependence
on petrochemicals. They would like to do the right thing but are a bit
too comfortable with their lifestyle, so rather than changing it they just
feel guilty about it.

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of less subtle tricks that are known to any woman with curves,
a cleavage and the confidence to use them.
There were two things that made very expensive call girls
different from merely expensive ones. Firstly, they charged you
more. But more importantly they made you believe they were
worth it. Like all the best high-end retailers they made you feel
good about spending your money.
Jayne was doing it because it suited her personality and
validated her opinion of men. Sam was doing it because she
found it less demeaning or depressing than any other job that
was available to her as a tri-lingual humanities graduate with a
Masters in Anthropology.
Although Sam and Jayne’s time had been bought and paid for,
and although they could fake it expertly, they genuinely
seemed to be enjoying John’s company. The cocaine currently
cascading neurotransmitters through his brain gave him the
confidence to feel he deserved their attention. And he was not
far from wrong; Sam and Jayne were both intrigued by this
somewhat artless young man with rich and famous friends. It
was a lot less tedious than their usual daily grind.
The three of them danced just for the sheer joy of it.
A text message had come through from one of Eric’s
assistants. Eric would not be re-joining them but by way of an
apology for springing the radio interview on John
unannounced he had booked John a suite in a hotel on Park
Lane.
Several songs and a couple of lines later, Sam moved in close
to John, he felt her breath on his cheek and her hair brushing
against her face.

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“Maybe we could go back to your hotel now?”
“You and me?” John asked redundantly.
“You, me and Jayne.”
So there he was lounging in a large armchair in an even larger
hotel suite that cost more per night than he used to earn in a
month. A tumbler of brandy in one hand and his legs spread
wide, so two gorgeous girls (who also cost more per night
than he earned in month) could stand in front of him,
wriggling their hips and removing each other’s clothes.
If only Kate could see me now, John thought and quickly
imagined exactly what might have happened if Kate was here.
She would have walked straight out again. Or maybe not. She
might have screamed or thrown something first.
John’s most recent girlfriend, a serious minded corporate
lawyer, had left him about four months after he had quit work
to pursue his comedy nightmare. They had never been terribly
close to begin with, coming together because they were
among the final few of their mutual friends who had not
already formed a couple. They ambled ambivalently into their
relationship. They stayed together in mutual desperation. Low-
level fear that maybe this was the best they could do for
themselves.
Kate ended it when John’s best had gone from being a
moderately ineffectual junior corporate grocer with some
prospects to being a highly effectual comedy straight man who
worked alone telling obscure jokes about Moliere to people
who did not care. Once she realised that John’s new vocation
wasn’t some elaborate joke she walked out of his feeble
performance. Making the break she reassessed the rest of her
own life and let herself be seduced by one of the middle-tier

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partners at her practice. It was a mistake she forgave herself
for making.
John had felt inadequate and envious when he had first heard
that Kate was dating some creep with a corner office and
Chelsea flat that was still unfurnished because in the year he
had been there he had not had chance to leave his desk long
enough to unpack. But by chance he had bumped into them in
Soho one evening as he headed home after another unfunny
night and they were coming out of some incredibly expensive
restaurant. They spent no more than three awkward minutes
on the street as Kate and her boss’s boss waited for a cab. It
had changed his opinion completely. The guy was a balding
beanpole with no chin and all the charisma of a middle-tier
corporate lawyer. He called her Katherine.
After that, John went from envious to angry. Mad that Kate
could fancy something like that. He’d thought she’d have more
taste, more class.
A gentle tugging brought him back into the room. Sam and
Jayne had run out of clothes of their own to remove. So they
were starting on his.
•
The man watched the flyers fly.
He set his freesheets free.
He shed his leaflets and some many newspapers were now
yesterday’s news.
Suddenly it was all so easy. He dragged the bed across the
room to speed up the sifting. There, where the bed had been,
was a nice clear space to restart his filing.

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*
This was all a wild adventure. For hours now he was exploring
uncharted waters, weighing anchor at one paradise after
another. Though their ship was largely navigated by the more
experienced members of the crew. Or were they mermaids?
Sated but still buzzing, his mind drifted off, wondering what
had got him here.
His attention was drawn back to the room,. Sam was shaking
him awake and, with the Viagra doing the rope work to raise
the main-sail, Jayne was encouraging him to negotiate the
Northwest Passage.
So this was sex, drugs and rock and roll.
•
It taken some time but the man had brought order to the
chaos. Banished nonsense to the outer darkness.
He could see his carpet. He could see all five of his broken
televisions. He had about ten piles of paper of varying
importance.
He was done. He went over to shut the window when one last
thought came into his mind. Did he really need five broken
televisions?

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INTERMISSION
NECKER
In my professional opinion, this is the best optical illusion in
the world. It’s certainly the only one that I would have
permanently tattooed on my body. It is a Necker cube. A
wireframe outline of a cube. But look at for a little while and
you should notice something strange. Whichever way it
appeared at first, it seems to flip and change, a little longer and
it flips back again. One moment you see the front face is
coming out of the page upwards and rightwards. Seconds later,
it is the opposite way around. The other square is now the
front face, coming out downwards and leftwards. Then back,
and so on ad infinitum or at least ad nauseam. The flipping
never flipping stops. Trust me, I have had the tattoo for over
five years now.
So what is happening? First, let’s be clear that they really are

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different. These are not two different views of the same cube.
There’s one seen from above and one seen from below.
So which is right? Obviously, they are both right and that’s
because in fact they are both wrong. What we are actually
seeing isn’t a cube at all. It is some connected lines on a flat
page that give the impression of a cube. Two cubes. The
original figure is ambiguous. So on one level, the fact that
what we see flips between these two possibilities is a fairly
ordinary neurological fact. The visual parts of our brains see
the lines on the page. They try to interpret this two-
dimensional pattern. Elements of it are strongly suggestive of
depth and what we construct is the cube that fits this. There
are two possibilities so that’s what we see.
I don’t think anyone knows quite why it flips at that particular
speed. But it might be more than a coincidence that 2-3
seconds is also the length of the personal ‘now’. The moving
window in which we are constantly experiencing the present.
Two seconds ago is the past, in two seconds time the future
will arrive but right now this thin sliver of existence is
happening. Or so it seems to feel.
There is only one window that you are looking out of. The
Necker Cube suggests there can only ever be one. Try and
divide your narrative into two conflicting frames and you’ll

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find it can’t be done. At first glance this is so obvious that it is
often overlooked. But the fact we experience a unified self
provides absolutely no explanation as to why we experience a
unified self. Or why, as in the excluded simultaneity of these
cubes, we can’t experience anything else.
At least not with a normal healthy brain or while trying to stay
sane. Slice the huge bundle of fibres connecting the two
hemispheres together and amazingly you’ll survive but there
will be two dislocated parts to your personality rattling around
inside you. It’s very hard to imagine what that feels like but
take the right drugs and you can safely experience the
disorientation of a kind. Dissociative anaesthetics can give you
out of body experiences or twist time and space, while
something as simple as too much alcohol can leave gaps in
your memory of the night before. You were clearly there
experiencing it, so why can’t you remember?
If you are unlucky enough to develop schizophrenia or even a
simple skunk-induced psychosis, you can experience a
disorientation of not knowing that your internal voices are
your own. The illusion of a single-self is so strong, so
essential that these experiences can drive you mad. Even when
you know the cause, it doesn’t seem any less real. Self-
knowledge doesn’t stop the depressed from feeling down. It
doesn’t help someone with psychosis get a grip on himself or
herself. Which self?
The Necker cube gives some clues as to how this self-
governing mechanism is supposed to serve us. A well
functioning consciousness balances the up with the down, the
top with the bottom. Out there in the world is a single
ambiguous figure that feeds into the system from the bottom
upwards. A flat figure is passed up to higher dimensions,
which use their knowledge to impose a fuller form. This
happens with everything but rarely do we notice. Most things

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seem to us to have only one sensible interpretation. But this
unruly cube breaks that illusion. Here it is clear that our brains
have imposed the sense. Some abstract concepts have been
handed down to ambiguous perceptions to tell them what we
think of them. Many possible interpretations are always
bubbling under the surface but only in rare circumstances
does the debate take place before our very eyes.
It’s worth thinking about.

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CHAPTER SIX
RADIO
In real life, [Diane] Keaton believes in God. But she
also believes that the radio works because there are
tiny people inside it.
– Woody Allen
• †
The man had woken up early, his brain buzzing with strange
and wonderful thoughts. He was definitely getting better.
The man went into the kitchen. He put the kettle on. He was
God’s instrument. He would do what was required of him, he
would be vigilant, wait for the signs and when the time came
he would be ready. He sat down at the table, bit into his toast
and turned on the radio.
“The time now is ten to eight. In a few minutes, I will be
speaking to the Education Secretary Carey Espedair about the
government’s plans to introduce compulsory IQ testing for all
PE teachers. But first here is the morning thought with the
Right Reverend Donaldson Cake, Bishop of Enfield and
founder of the Families First campaign and pressure group.”
“Thank you Peter and God bless you, and good morning
everyone and God bless you too. On my way into the studio
this morning, I passed through Kings Cross station and I
happened to stop at the newsagents to purchase my morning
paper, and as I did so, I had cause to reflect on what an
impermanent and transitional time we live in. A month ago,

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no-one had heard of John Smith. Now he is on the cover of
every magazine and newspaper. Especially those of Eric
Hayle.
“In the last few weeks, in this case, we have seen, like never
before, the cynical power of the media to manipulate the
public and the unalloyed lure of celebrity. A man with nothing
complex to say is elevated to the level of a sage. And then by
some strange circularity, because he appears in our
newspapers, what they say about him must be true. (For why
else would they print it?) To me, it seems that here is a man
that is famous for being widely seen as wise. And who is seen
as wise because Eric Hayle has seen to it that he is famous. He
is offered to us as wise man, a prophet, and yet his message is
empty and all we are presented with is packaging and
personality.”
Having worked himself up to quite some pace, the Reverend
Cake took a second’s break, after thirty years in the church, he
knew how to deliver a sermon.
“I cannot help but think how different this is from the story
of Our Lord,” he continued. “He did not have a public
relations team. He did not grace the cover of lurid tabloids.
He didn’t hang out in smoky nightclubs mocking everyone.
He was not even very widely recognised in his own lifetime.
But his message is not instant, it is timeless. A profound and
lasting truth that has been preserved and handed down
through the authority of the church.”
“It could not be otherwise for it is a message that is the Truth,
the Light, the Way. But in these darkened times, that Truth is
often obscured by the lies of the media, that Light is obscured
by the dazzle of celebrity and that hard Way is shunned for
the path of pleasure, of instant gratification. But these things
will fade and die. Only Jesus Christ can offer eternal and

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lasting salvation. He is still the prophet for our generation.”
Again the Reverend paused,
“God be with you.”
“He is”, thought the man.
Ψ
Why did Phil Collins cross the road?
To get to the middle.
– Traditional
Jonny Lawson was a leathery old has-been. One might have
thought his mid morning show on Radio Two would be a
complete anachronism, the sort of middle of the road, middle
brow dross that one could only have heard in the dark and
hideously tasteless days of the nineteen seventies. That is
exactly what it was. After thirty years of presenting his show,
he was not about to change the formula now. Especially as it
continued to be successful in a way that ought to give pause to
those intellectual commentators who claim we have all
become far more sophisticated over the years.
Given the choice Jonny would not have changed the music
either, but fortunately (or not) Phil Collins, Mick Hucknall and
Celine Dion had arrived to widen the middle of the road into
a treacle tarmac-ed superhighway of schmaltz.
All the same Hazel was looking forward to appearing on his
show. It made her feel nostalgic for the seventies and eighties,
for her time as consultant psychologist on several secure
special units and in-patient mental health wards. When she
had made her morning rounds, Jonny’s show would almost
always be on in the background of the communal area. Its
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soporific effect on the mentally unbalanced. Diplomatically,
she did not mention this to Jonny. She was learning the ways
of the media, though it did not please to see this happening to
herself.
He had a great face for radio. His head was oddly angular,
with a flat triangular nose and a wide line of a mouth. His eyes
were stupidly far apart, almost round the corners of his head
onto his temples. When he smiled he looked like a shark. His
hair was not his own, nor anyone else’s. The last time the
glossy black strands crowning his head had been anything
resembling organic was sixty million years ago, when as
primordial microbes they had begun their long journey
towards the shiny magic of plastic.
However, you do not get to host your own show on Radio
Two for twenty-seven years without something between the
ears of your over-sized headphones. He was an intelligent
man. He was warm and genuine. He was slightly witty. There
was nothing to dislike about him but he was about as thrilling
as Phil Collins’ latest album. Hazel did not like Phil Collins.
Unfortunately, Jonny Lawson was also lecherous old fool who
showed no shame in his pursuit of whatever woman had
caught his eye. It was usually the nearest woman. Though
some adjustment was made to his proximity criterion to
account for age and availability.
Hazel was almost the same age as Jonny. With a well practised
eye, he had clocked the absence of a wedding ring the
moment he had first met her shortly before the show. Now
she was sitting at a microphone four feet away from him and
due to be there for the full two hours of the show. Jonny had
acquired his latest target. In his mind, she did not stand a
chance. The first song of the show was already coming to an
end. Jonny Lawson double checked that he had his own
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smile at his guest.
Hazel smiled back nervously, matching Jonny Lawson’s perfect
teeth with her own. Perfectly fake, she thought ruefully. She
wore dentures after winning one too many arguments with in-
patients on the psychiatric wards. She occasionally forgot one
of the many unwritten rules of the mental health world that
the winner of a rational argument better watch out for a chair
in the face. Hazel felt a lot more on guard at the moment. Her
appearance on Shona’s TV show had not gone well and the
publishers’ publicity manager had been lecturing her on the
need to be more public friendly.
“That was the ever wonderful Barbara Streisand. Now I would
like to welcome my guest for the morning. Dr Hazel Cole.
Author of ‘Help Yourself’, a new book described as a self
help book that tells people that they don’t need one. Hello
Doctor.”
“Hello, Jonny. And thank you for having me. I have been
listening to your show since my first day working in the NHS
35 years ago.”
“Well thank you. Although you don’t strike me as old enough
to have been with me in the early days. But then it doesn’t feel
that long to me, time flies when we’re having fun. So Doctor
Cole, what’s this all about? A self help book for people what
don’t need it. Isn’t that like swimming lessons for fish? Or is it
more like clarinet lessons for sheep?”
“Well, Jonny, it might be more like flying lessons for birds”
Hazel said. “I am not saying that the contents of these types
of book are irrelevant for people, something that can’t be
helpful but more importantly than that I am trying to
persuade people not to rely on experts. I believe that everyone
can help themselves but not everyone knows that they can.”

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“So you want to shove us out of the nest?”
“Not perhaps shove, but maybe I can provide some
encouragement to find out for yourself just what you are
capable of. And helping yourself is like learning flying in that
it will not come straight away, it will take practice and hard
work. But it is something we can all do.”
“Apart from the penguins and emu’s amongst us?”
“There will always be exceptions.” Despite the uncomfortable
feeling of his eyes all over her, Hazel was beginning to enjoy
this conversation.
“But the vast majority of us have the ability to get what we
want?” Jonny asked. The tone of his voice was innocent
enough, but the way he held her gaze told a different story.
“What we want and what is good for us are not often the
same thing,” Hazel replied, trying to play the same game. “We
all know that but have difficulty realising that we would be
better off with what is good for us in the long term.”
Listening to what she said, Jonny Lawson realised that Hazel
was onto him. But completely ignoring what she had just told
him, he decided to pursue just like he did with every woman.
He loved the chase and besides this had worked for him for
the last 35 years. It was not like he needed anyone to help him.
“The phone lines are open, if anyone wants Doctor Cole to
help push them out of a tall tree, give us a call and we will see
if she can answer your questions? In the meantime, here are
the Eagles.”
*

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This is BBC Radio 1FM, and if there is any news of
the death of Michael Heseltine in the next hour, we’ll
let you know.
– Chris Morris
In a studio on the floor above, a hung-over John Smith sat
opposite Radio One’s Kevv Clarke, waiting to be asked some
questions. He had been waiting for some time.
If Kevv Clarke were to shut up even just briefly a person in
his company might have some chance to think of some one
thing they liked about Kevin. But he never did and perhaps as
a consequence, he was widely disliked. He was into his early
thirties but acted like a teenager who had just won the lottery.
He had more energy than a caravan of Mexican welterweights
on crack and talked faster than a cattle market auctioneer. The
controller of Radio One, a competent accountant out of place
and out of his depth, thought Kevv was the greatest thing on
radio since Marconi. He had given Kevv the drive-time show
and in the face of all that is decent and good Kevv’s show was
uncommonly popular.
“Hey that was the latest song from Y-chrome. Innit great? I
love it, I’m gonna play it every day until you guys make it
number one. Coming up soon I’ll be talking to John Smith,
literally the ‘man of the moment’. But right now I neeeed
more music. It’s Kylie. Yeah Kylie!”
“You’ve been saying that for the past hour, when am I going
to be on?”
When the songs were playing Kevv would still be talking. He
continued chattering away at the same helter-skelter pace.
Talking mostly to himself but occasionally to his producer Jo
who did not like him and to his mate Si, who probably did but
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indication that he might have an opinion about anything. He
was Kevv’s best mate from way back and part of Kevv’s
contract was that Si must have a job on the show. His job
appeared to involve eating Mars Bars, drinking Diet Coke and
giving Kevv the occasional thumbs up through the glass of
the producers booth. He had additional ad hoc duties getting
in Jo’s way. Making her hard life even harder by getting sticky
thumbprints on CDs she was about to play, or simply being
large, slow and in the wrong place as she rushed about the
booth attempting to keep up with Kevv’s continual off-the-
cuff revision to the running order. Jo liked Si even less than
she liked Kevv.
“Next I’m playing Flow Hectic by Space Noise.. naah, I
won’t.. I ‘eard it on Yozzer’s show this morning. It has gotta
be the end of that. Jo love, let’s have Love Cloud Heart
Attack, at least that’s still cool... In your own time love, we’ll
just talk amongst ourselves shall we?”
John thought this might be his cue and leaned forward in his
chair but Kevv was already off onto some anecdote about the
last time he went drinking with Riboflavin aka B2 the singer
from the semi-autonomous electrobeat collective B-Vitamins
who were responsible for the cacophony that was Love Cloud
Heart Attack.
John worried that he had never heard of any of this music.
What did he have in common with this overgrown teen
adrenalin gland? This blipvert avatar with the attention span
of an electric goldfish in a Japanese arcade game.
Jo suffered the mayhem, kidding herself that she had the best
job in radio.
“Any minute now, any minute mate. I’ve got another hour and
ten minutes. Plenty of time. We’ve got a lot to fit in. It ain’t

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my fault that you come in on the same day as our first play of
new Michelle single AND the exclusive new remix by the
Warminster Posse is it?”
“And haven’t you played both of those?”
“Yeah, but they are so wicked that I am gonna play them
again... Okay Jo, love?.. so as I say there’s a lot to get in. Don’t
worry we’ll get to your stuff in the time we’ve got left.”
John got up and left.
Kevv did not notice. If he thought about it at all, he might
possibly have guessed that his guest had gone to the lav. John
had not said anything to Kevv as he left. There did not seem
any point.
He did tell Jo as he was talking through the producer’s booth
to the exit. Ordinarily she would have tried to convince him to
stay, if she had not been under her desk, scrabbling round to
pick up the next five CDs she was supposed to play that Si
had knocked over seconds before. It was another typical bit of
unpredictability of the sort that Kevv’s show was famous for.
His audience loved the on air accidents and mishaps. Having
retrieved Banal Love Frogs from the floor and cued them up
she went in to tell Kevv his guest had left.
She hated leaving Si alone near the controls but it was the only
way to talk to Kevv; if she tried to tell him things over the
intercom he had a habit of fading her out. When she had
inserted the necessary words edgewise into Kevv’s teletype of
consciousness he could not care less. In fact, he was quite
pleased. It gave him something to talk about in the next hour.
He motored into the final hour of drive-time telling his five
million listeners how this boring person called somebody
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hilarious that anyone could be so stupid as to think they had
anything more interesting to do than to talk to him. To be on
his show.
He warmed to his theme and started doing impressions of
‘the Missing Smith’, having both halves of a conversation with
Smith about what could be more interesting than Kevv. Since
England were not playing football and the Robbie Williams
Wembley Concert was not until next week, he concluded that
there could not be anything and had ‘Smith’ admit that he was
mad.
He continued down this track all the way through to his six
o’clock sign off. He got so carried away he even forgot to
replay the Warminster Posse. By the end of the show
‘Madman Smith, the Missing Smith’ had made more of an
impression on the frenetic consciousness of Kevv than he
would have ever have managed if he had not vanished. His
name would raise curiosity in the minds of Kevv’s millions of
listeners.
Smith himself should have been curious whether this was a
good or a bad thing. But he didn’t feel curious about anything.
He also didn’t feel like going back to his grotty little flat. So he
took a taxi back to the hotel, paid for another night out of this
own pocket and asked not to be disturbed until breakfast.

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CHAPTER SEVEN
NEWSPAPERS
To understand Milton one needs a Bible, an
encyclopedia and at least a working knowledge of
Latin and Greek. To understand Shakespeare one may
occasionally need a dictionary. To understand
Nostradamus one is just as well off with a box of
frogs.
– ANON
•
The man had had to leave the house early. The walls were
starting to sound funny and he did not like the way the fridge
kept inching towards him every time he turned his back. It
was Thursday and it was sunny so he wore his blue sweater,
his green socks and his orange jacket. In case it started raining
he put a spare pair of yellow socks in his left hand jacket
pocket.
He was going to the library. For the last two nights he had
dreamt about a beautiful flying pink horse called Ailsa with no
bottom. It had been a most wonderful dream, so good that it
had woken him up. The first time he simply lay there hoping
to get back to the dream but too excited to go back to sleep.
He never managed to go back to sleep these days, not now he
was off the medication. From the moment he awoke, his mind
was racing. No matter how exhausted he felt, it was always
impossible to get back to sleep. He knew he needed several
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already heading out on its morning run.
Yesterday’s dream had been different. His mind had been
racing but sated. As if it was basking in the afterglow of
vigorous sex. Although sex itself was a distant memory made
indistinct by his many years on medication.
When the dream had returned a second night, it had woken
him up just as quickly but this time around he recognised it
for what it was and desperately tried to recall the details. But
there still wasn’t much more than that, a beautiful flying pink
horse called Ailsa with no bottom. This was surely a sign. But
it did not fit with any of his usual symbology. It did not even
connect to any details or events of the last few days. This was
not something from his own mind. This was something other,
something new, a message sent from a higher power. His heart
was racing. He sang to himself as he hurried to get ready,
trying to block out the cacophony coming from the wallpaper.
Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.
It took him a while to find where the sofa had hidden his keys
this time but eventually he was ready. He left for the library, as
alive as he’d ever felt. He’d been given a message. He just
needed to find out what it meant. He would discover this in
the usual way, by consulting the clues that had been hidden for
him in the headlines of that day’s newspapers.
* ¢
For the second morning running Smith started his day seeing
the lovely faces of Sam and Jayne staring up at him. Although
this time it was more of a shock to see them, barely dressed
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The Scum. The valet had thoughtfully brought him a copy
with his breakfast. Reading the headline it took several
seconds to realise that the story was about him.
He read the whole thing (continued on pages 21,23-24). He
re-read it several times. He looked at the pictures. He sat shell-
shocked for a long time. He had a fleeting moment of pride
that he was famous, that finally people would know who he
was, then he thought about what those people would think of
him and he felt a little queasy. He realised that one of those
people would be his mother and he had to rush to the
bathroom and throw up.
Clearing his stomach cleared his head somewhat and he began
to feel aggrieved that he had been misrepresented. They had
got his age wrong, he only tried about half the ‘cocktail’ of
drugs they had claimed and he was sure they had all got a little
sleep around seven in the morning. “Randy Smith kept us up
all night, purred curvy Samantha.” Well, maybe he did not
mind that but the whole tone of the article made him out to
be a ravenous drug-fuelled sex maniac.
Under those circumstances there was only one person to call.
“Eric, have you seen the front page of the Scum?”
“Yes, good isn’t it?”
“Good!? What is good about ‘GURU GIVES IT GOOD’?”
Smith spluttered, “‘Our night of sex and drugs with sleazy
lifestyle guru John Smith’, £2,000 per night vice girls tell all’“
“Yes, fantastic isn’t it? I couldn’t believe it, the front page,
three pages inside, some good photos of you and they even
used my headline.”

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“Your headline!?”
“Yes ‘GURU GIVES IT GOOD’ – I am quite pleased with
that, it paints you in a very positive light. The rest of the
article is good too, you must like that picture?”
“It is good, but where did they get it?” Smith conceded before
remembering he was still angry. “What is so good about being
labelled a ravenous drug-fuelled sex maniac? And you still
haven’t explained what you meant by ‘your headline’.”
“First of all, calm down. Secondly it is a label that has never
done me any harm. Thirdly, you know the old cliché ‘all
publicity is good publicity’ well, it is a cliché because it is true.
Fourthly, this story is great for you and fifthly, that is why I
planted it,” Eric concluded triumphantly.
“You?”
“Yes, we couldn’t buy publicity like this.”
“Would we want to?”
“Of course! Everyone’s a winner! You get onto the front page
of a national tabloid. Well, those two lovely girls got the cover
but you can’t begrudge them that. Incidentally, they also got
ten grand each and some really great exposure, they wanted to
say thanks.”
“Yes, I can see the ‘exposure’ they are getting ‘continued on
pages 19, 22, 23 and on an’ on an’ on,” John said testily,
feeling somewhat betrayed and that he had been wrong to
think they were just nice girls with nasty jobs.
“The girls told me that you saw a good deal more than that on
Tuesday night.” Eric said, laughing at his own joke.

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“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” John wailed.
“Yes, that’s what they said about you.” John did not even
dignify this with as an reply so Eric continued. “Look, they are
just a couple of nice girls in a nasty world. Now, thanks to you
and I, they can get out of being fucked flat for cash by rich,
fat, stupid Arabs. They have a chance at celebrity status, an
honest living and the chance to start sleeping with rich, fit,
stupid footballers. And incidentally, they haven’t told me
anything about what went on in that room, but I do know you
made quite an impression. They genuinely like you...” Eric
paused “.. Tiger!”
John let the boost to his ego win out over the blows to his
dignity. He looked about the hotel room where the night
before last he had been man enough to please two beautiful
(and extremely self-confident) young women. He felt a little
calmer.
“Okay I take your point. But I cannot help feeling you are
exploiting us for your own entertainment.” John said. “I guess
I should have expected that.”
“This was the best way to get you noticed and I did not force
you to do it, did I? Just like I don’t force anyone to appear in
my magazines. They do it for money. Sex sells, Johnny boy!”
Eric was warming to his favourite theme. “Especially if there’s
a human interest angle. Look at those celebrity sex video. I
make fifty movies a year that are fifty times more filthy than
the Paris Hilton video and yet it has probably outsold them all
put together. It sold millions and was downloaded millions of
times more. That’s the good stuff, because it is real, because it
gives the public access to someone people think they know.
That was great publicity for her and this will be great publicity
for you.”

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“You didn’t film..” John interrupted, in panic, unsure exactly
how far Eric would go. This amused Eric no end.
“Don’t worry, Johnny boy! Your video is for my private
collection.”
Now John was extremely worried. How far had Eric already
gone? He was fairly certain there was no video. But he hadn’t
exactly been paying attention. How, after all, had they got that
photo on page 22? And with Eric Hayle you never quite knew
what he had on you. The only way you would ever find out for
sure would be an unpleasant experience. In all likelihood a
very unpleasant and very public experience. John attempted to
replay the night. He didn’t think there had been a video
camera at any point. Could there have been a hidden one?
“This is why I became a newspaper man to sell stories. True
stories. Pornoland deals too much in fantasy. And I don’t care
much for the pointlessness of Celebrityville either. I prefer
reality. I prefer your version of reality. But those idiots out
there aren’t going to listen to anything we try to tell them,
unless they hear it from someone famous. And now thanks to
the fucking Scum, you will be feted like a rock star.”
Thinking back, John realised that it had been in this room.
Holding Eric against one ear, he started hunting around the
room to see where a camera might have been concealed. Eric
kept on talking.
“Like I said before, trust me, everyone is a winner on this.
Heck, I even got five grand for putting the story their way.
Not that they know it was me. Not yet anyway, I can’t wait to
give that bastard Wallace a call and let him know.” There was a
burst of laughter and John heard Eric shouting across the
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the editor of the Scum.
“Look I’m rambling. I told you I wasn’t going to tell you
everything, didn’t I? So you can’t say you weren’t warned. And
right now I am telling you it’s okay. The message is this; ‘Don’t
worry John, Uncle Eric knows what he is doing.’ Tomorrow,
the Clarion will print your side of the story. You better come
into the office.”
The line went dead.
•
In the library, the man was pleased to find his favourite seat
unoccupied. He took just one newspaper like the librarians
insisted that he should. He got out his four-colour Biro and
his newest spiral bound notebook, already going dog-eared
after just a week in use. He was starting with the Financial
Times. He started scanning the pages, his red pen poised to
mark the significant details.
The librarians had yet to catch him circling words and
underlining sentences, but even if they had, it is doubtful if
they would have stopped him. They only rationed him to one
newspaper at a time to stop fights between the man, the
rocking woman and Dr. Donkey Jacket. The librarians weren’t
that interested in the library rules, mostly they just wanted a
quiet life.
The capital’s public libraries, being indoors and centrally
heated, had always attracted the weird and the feckless. Real
research happens in libraries too but for every Karl Marx
there are at least four Marx Brothers. And since the
government’s Care in the Community innovations there had
been a large increase in the number of certified card-carrying
members of library that the community’s librarians had to care
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librarians were ill equipped for this change to their job
description and valiantly tried to ignore the libraries’ heaviest
users. This unofficial policy worked well.
Mostly the two groups kept themselves to themselves. Rarely
would the librarians bother the loonies; who could usually
while away the day poring over their favourite periodicals or
making complex textual analyses of Barbara Taylor Bradford*.
Likewise, the loonies did not often trouble the librarians,
whom they distrusted for their obsession with silence and
their compulsive need to alphabetise everything.
Occasionally members of the two groups would interact,
when a librarian might tick off a manic depressive for putting
Enid Blyton back in the wrong place or a paranoid
schizophrenic might request help posting his latest black
helicopter sightings onto the internet.
Today was peaceful and the man was able to work
undisturbed. The pinkness of the horse had dictated that he
start with the Financial Times, and this in itself was a pleasing
omen. He liked the Financial Times with its second section
filled with columns and columns of numbers. Normally, he
would flick slowly through the paper, his eyes jumping
randomly across pages. He’d paused to mark the particular
words that resonated with personal occult significance. When
he had gone through the whole thing from cover to cover and
more carefully from cover to cover of the markets and prices
second section, he would transfer his findings into his
notebook, colour-coding them as appropriate and attempting
to make sense of them as he went.
Today had been a very good day.
* Her popularity with this demographic was a total mystery to the librarians,
who observed that the loonies could not stand Catherine Cookson.

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He doubted that he needed to consult any other papers but as
he was putting the red and pink paper back, he caught sight of
the word GURU on the cover of the Scum. He read the
whole story from beginning to end. That never happened.
Normally, the chess column was the only one he read all the
way through or took at face value. Not that the Scum had a
chess column.
*
John Smith came out of his room and bounced off a wall that
had not been there the night before. The wall answered to the
name of Parnell Brockgrove.
“Good morning, Mr Smith. I am here to help you pack your
things.”
“But I’m not leaving.”
“The hotel management would prefer it if you did. They do
not consider you the sort of guest they would like in their
family-friendly hotel.” Parnell had walked into the room,
leaving Smith no choice but to retreat inside or be flattened
underfoot.
“Well, this is not a very friendly way to ask me.”
“Please do not shoot the messenger. Your friend Mr Hayle
sent me to collect you. To make sure you get safely to Fleet
Street.”
“Oh, I see. That’s it, is it? Very thoughtful of him. Kidnapping
me? That is the second ‘favour’ he has done for me today.
What a friend he is, I hate to think how he deals with his
enemies. Probably sends you round to help them down a

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disused lift shaft.”
“I am peace-loving man, Mr Smith. I am here as your
bodyguard.”
“What do I need with a bodyguard?”
“Have you ever appeared on the front page of a national
tabloid before?”
“Of course not.”
“Mr Hayle is something of an expert when it comes to the
gutter press. He thought it best if I look after you. There are
quite a large number of reporters and photographers waiting
downstairs to buttonhole you. I am Parnell.”
Smith shook the extended hand and resigned himself to the
slim hope that this apparently reasonable monster was right
and Hayle did know what he was doing. Within a few minutes
he had packed up his bags and he and Parnell were descending
in the lift.
“Your bill has already been settled and we have a car waiting
outside. There are about thirty or forty gentlemen of the press
between the front door and our vehicle. I suggest you do not
say anything to any of them and stick close behind me.”
Flashes flashed and shutters fluttered. The reporters started to
crowd in all shouting at once. For the first time it sunk in that
his ‘sin’ was not just local gossip filling columns of a county
quotidian, a little thrill next to the picture of little Jemima
winning the gymkhana. He had assumed that the story might
be whispered amongst relatives and passed laughingly around
a few old school friends but this was clearly different. Three
million people were reading this morning’s paper and they

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would talk to millions more. And Eric was intending to at least
double that with his ‘counter-punch’ tomorrow.
People would point at him in the street, dogs bark at his
shadow. John moved in closer behind Parnell and watched
with interest as he cleared a path to their vehicle. It was a
variety of magic. Since coming outside, Parnell had not
broken stride. He had not stopped nor made any sudden
movements, he was not touching anyone, he was not even
overtly intimidating them but bodies were bouncing away
from his presence. Like little magnets flipped into the air by
the invisible field of some strong force of the same polarity.
The crowd had been close around them but as Parnell passed
through it sprung apart. He always inches away from actually
touching anyone and yet they leaned awkwardly back or were
uprooted in their effort to keep out of his strongly bounded
personal space.
John kept as close as he could, filling the gap in Parnell’s wake.
They made it to a large red SUV with darkened windows that
prevented anyone from seeing inside. It had the Clarion logo
printed along its side. Parnell shepherded Smith and his
suitcase into the back seat and went round to the driver’s side.
A few seconds later they were pulling into traffic. It had all
happened so fast that John had barely registered the flashes
and the shouts.
He had been aware of the press. But only as a collective,
crowded around him. No one face had caught his eye. No
individual word caught his ear. Here he was, experiencing life
in the fast lane and it was all just a blur. A thought jumped
into his mind and he scrabbled round to see if they were
being chased. No, that would be crazy right? He relaxed into
the comfy leather seat.
“Thank you.”

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“You’re welcome. It’s my job. You did okay for your first
time.” Parnell glanced back in the mirror. “We’ll be at the
Clarion in ten minutes. Your heart is still racing. Sit back and
count your breaths.”
Parnell was right, John was full of adrenaline. He tried to do
as Parnell suggested. It wasn’t easy but it seemed to help. A
few minutes later they were passing through Trafalgar Square
and along onto the Strand. John was relaxing and as they
pulled onto Fleet Street he was almost enjoying himself. He
half-wished the windows weren’t tinted so that people could
see him.
They pulled up outside the Clarion and Parnell let him out.
John glanced about himself but no one was paying them any
attention whatsoever. Parnell handed the keys to a Clarion
security guard, and taking Smith’s case in one enormous hand.
He led him into the building. This time, they were waved
straight though reception. Waiting for the lift Parnell spoke
again.
“Did you know that in the seventeen hundreds the Fleet was
still an open river? It was London’s gutter, the combined filth
of human and animal population oozed down it into the
Thames. Tanners and slaughter-men dumped the carcasses of
dead animals into it. A goodly number of human bodies
found their way there too. The stench was like nothing we can
imagine. In the end, everyone got so sick of the foul and
disgusting river of filth they buried it underground and paved
it over.”
“Or at least they thought they did,” John said as the lift
opened for him. Parnell gestured John inside but stayed in the
corridor. He held onto John case and with the other hand held
up four fingers. John pressed the corresponding button. “Do

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you ever get used to the stench?”
Parnell Brockgrove shrugged and turned on his heel, a
complex set of movements involving the rearranging of a
large number of very solid muscles. The grace and economy
with which he did it hinted at the secret of his success as a
bodyguard and bouncer. Such was his poise and skill that he
could effortlessly deflect any blows that came towards him.
The slow moving gentleness and deceptive economy of
movement with which he did it left anyone watching with the
impression that the attacker had bounced off some magical
force field that surrounded this gentle giant. People, punches
and all shapes of trouble would literally bounce off him.`
~
The secret of how Parnell did this was open to anyone to
learn. All they would have to do would be to spend ten solid
years paying mindful attention to their every movement and
practising for a few hours each day a simple sequence of
Chinese callisthenics. Anyone could learn it. People often
made the mistake of assuming that the reason he could
perform this magic was because Parnell was a six foot six,
twenty stone natural athlete with a build that would give the
World Heavyweight Champion cause for pause before coming
to blows with Parnell.
The real essence of his methods came from what he had been
taught by a sprightly Chinese dentist and a weedy ex-librarian
from Slough. For the last ten years Parnell had been learning
T’ai Chi Chuan at the school of Master Chou and Master
Phillips. T’ai Chi seen by the uninitiated as the ancient Chinese
art of directing invisible traffic slowly, to its initiates it was the
Chinese art of directing invisible traffic. Having only been
invented in the mid seventeen hundreds it could hardly be
called ancient by Chinese standards and the ‘traffic’ was more
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internal energy to be directed into fluid and effective
movement. It need not necessarily be done slowly, but when
practising a student has so many subtle adjustments to be
aware of that the slower they go the more they can learn and
improve. Parnell was one of the school’s slowest pupils.
In the ten years he had been going to Chou and Phillips,
Parnell had learnt that this size and strength would count for
nothing unless they were properly channelled. He had learnt
this the slow and gradual way of all valuable knowledge. And
if he were to forget to use his mind alongside this body his
teachers would always catch it, demonstrating the power of a
well-placed twitch of the muscle that sent him flying across
the room. Considering that both Master Chou and Master
Phillips were into their sixties and about five foot five apiece it
was a clear lesson.
Master Chou was a direct line pupil of the Yang family. Master
Yang Lu-chan (1799-1872) known as Yang the Unsurpassed,
had learnt T’ai Chi Chuan, literally translated as ‘Supreme
Ultimate Fist’, by peering through a fence at the the secret
practice of a famous martial arts teacher Chen Chang-hsing.
At night he would practice what he had seen, rediscovering for
himself the secrets Chen taught. One day Chen saw this
young man and recognised his own style being so expertly
performed. Ignoring the culture of secrecy surrounding
martial arts at the time, he took Yang on as a pupil but was
very quickly surpassed by his student. Yang left and founded
his own school which flourished and such was his reputation
that he even taught at the imperial court. His sons learnt from
their father but did not always maintain his tradition with the
diligence he would have liked.
His grandson, Yang Cheng-fu (1883-1936) known as Yang the
Invincible, was responsible for popularising the family style
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Following the Chinese revolution, several of these including
Lee Shu-pak and Cheng Man-ching found themselves in Hong
Kong where Chou, then a young dentistry student, started
learning their art.
Simon Phillips was born and lived the first 20 years of his life
in Slough. He had been a quiet, introspective child. He had
first read about the history and mystery of China as a boy in a
dusty old encyclopedia from the era of the British Empire. As
he grew so did his fascination and obsession, and he devoured
anything in print about China. He studied oriental languages at
university and had got a job in the university library to have
access to otherwise hard-to-come-by Chinese literature. He
was too scared to visit the country he loved.
Eventually, in the early nineteen seventies as the Kung fu craze
was sweeping the west following the death of Bruce Lee, a
friend had persuaded Simon that the two of them should go
to Hong Kong. His friend had quickly become bored and after
a month had returned to Britain. Simon stayed for 15 years.
He had only been planning to stay a little while. He only had
money for two months but about six weeks into his visit he
met Chou and fell in love. Simon stayed and Chou introduced
him to T’ai Chi. He fell in love again.
Such was the intensity of their relationship and their pleasure
at expressing their love through the gentle ballet of T’ai Chi
that they almost spent every moment of their time together
sparring and improving the art. Chou wanted to open his own
school but while everyone acknowledged the excellence of
both Masters Chou and Phillips; there was local resistance to
having a white instructor so they continued as they were.
Chou continued to practice dentistry. Simon was unable to
find any purposeful or meaningful work, in they end they
decided that they would open their school back in England.
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they came to London and opened their academy.
Though he weighed more than the two of them put together,
Parnell had never once succeeded in pushing over either of
his two masters. T’ai Chi sparring consisting of two
practitioners squaring up to each other a pace apart and
attempting push or pull your opponent off his feet. The force
of few ounces can deflect a thousand pounds and a
thousandth of an inch is the difference between upright and
off-balance. With a slight flick of his wrist at exactly the right
time a skilled artist could uproot the opposition and send him
flying backwards across the room. At first it seems like some
magic or trickery but it had happened to Parnell enough times
that he realised it was actually the culmination and
consequence of the years of intense learning and practice that
Master Chou and Master Phillips had applied.
Always of a philosophical disposition, the challenge of
discovering these secrets appealed to him and over the next
ten years he became their star pupil. He spent at least several
hours every day going through the slow ballet of the Form;
the long interconnecting choreographed sequence of the
moves and postures of the art. He learnt about breathing,
about how all the necessary muscles must be in alignment to
function at utmost efficiency, that a light floating touch and
posture adapts and reacts to any intrusion into ones personal
space. He learned to think in thousands of an inch. (But still
was unable to catch up with the continual improvements of
Phillips and Chou who spent their mornings and afternoons
practising and their evenings teaching.)
* ¢
John found Eric in a conference room off the main
newsfloor. The table was spread with papers and newsprint.
There were two other people in the room, a scruffy unshaven
man not much older than himself and a severe and smartly

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dressed young woman. The man was seated, flicking through
the folder that Eric had been waving around at Blacks. The
woman stood, waiting to be given a purpose.
“Mr Smith! The man of the moment.” Eric was still just as
cheerful. “Welcome to the Clarion. Let me show you how
newspapers work. We will set the record straight. Let’s hit back
at those bastards at the Scum. Let’s hit them hard.
“This is Jack Harris, one of my finest.” Jack and John
exchanged nods. “This is Eva, she reads my mind and
organises some of my many lives. She’s something of a prude
so she won’t like you.” John and Eva swapped smaller nods.
“But she will bring you a tea or a coffee if you ask her nicely.”
“Yes, tea please.” Eva evaporated.
“Right, let’s not dilly dally. We’ve got to strike while the story
is hot. You tell us your version and we will print the truth.”
“What!?”
“Just the plain and simple truth. You had no idea those lovely
girls were escorts. Those unscrupulous newspaperman must
have set you up. I wonder if you could sue? I’ll get one of our
lawyers to join us. I wonder what other lies they printed? I see
you’ve got the offending filth right there, may I?” Eric was
gesturing at something in John’s left hand.
John looked down. He was clutching a tight furled copy of the
Scum. He’d been holding it since he’d left his room in the
hotel. Slowly uncramping his hand, he dropped it to the table.
All you could read was the single word ‘GURU’. The world
went dark.
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trying to get him to take a sip of tea. It was sweet. He didn’t
normally take sugar but then he didn’t normally faint.
“Too many late nights?” Eric was still there and more amused
than ever. “You should slow down.”
Perhaps John looked like he was about to cry. Eric suddenly
changed tack.
“Look, this is all completely under control. Under my control.
You don’t have to do anything. Jack and I will take care of
this. The mouthpieces of the moral majority, self-appointed
spokespeople for what is True and Right would say with the
absolute conviction of the self-righteous that I am the worst
of the pack. But my papers only print what is true. Or else
what would be funny if it were true.”
“We’ll threatened them with lawyers. It costs them money and
scares them away from anything genuinely controversial. But it
won’t come anywhere near court. Not in my lifetime and I’m
batting for my century.”
Eric was looking forward to his hundredth birthday because
he wanted to see if he would receive a telegram from the
Queen after his extremely anti-monarchist papers had spent
most of her reign being extremely rude about members of the
Royal Family. It would piss him off if he got it from her. He
was dearly hoping to outlive the sceptre’d Hag. He took great
satisfaction each time one of his enemies died before him. In
his long life he had buried a lot of them. But, for some
reason, he was always making new ones at a faster rate.
“Watch this. Some kid made a YouTube video combining your
performance at the club and sound-bites from the drive-time
show, to make it seem like Kevv did interview you. It’s quite
clever.”

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CHAPTER EIGHT
TELEVISION AGAIN
But if oxen and horses and lions had hands
and so could draw and make works of art like men,
horses would draw pictures of god like horses,
and oxen like oxen, and they would make their bodies
in accordance with the form that they themselves
severally possess.
– Xenophanes
†
Today, Reverend Cake was having his busiest day since that
whole gay boy band furore of the year before. He had already
given four interviews (two for local radio and two for local
newspapers). Now he was on his way to do several TV news
segments. Although John Smith was not his usual kind of
bogeyman, there was something about this story that was just
getting bigger and bigger. The Reverend Cake congratulated
himself on being one of the first to spot its potential and the
first and loudest voice condemning the intrinsic nihilism of
the Smith message.
For once the Reverend Cake had found a broad range of
support for his denouncement. The story was drawing a wide
range of commentators both religious and secular, from both
left and right, many uneasy with what Smith’s message
represented. Of course, few of them endorsed Cake’s
conservative Christian position but they all acknowledged the
arguments that he had first articulated against Smith. More
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equally large group of more cynical commentators in the
liberal media, who normally would have never have sided with
Cake against someone like Smith, so clearly one of their own.
Behind the intentions of these talking heads, Cake guessed
that most of the motivation came not from a sense of moral
outrage but from a desire to settle scores with Eric Hayle.
Reverend Cake was out in front in the denouncement of the
Smith phenomenon and from the very beginning he had seen
through to and condemned the malevolent hand of Eric
Hayle. As a result he became increasingly associated with the
story. Each day his phone would ring more often as he
bubbled to the top of the call lists of more and more of the
journalists covering the story. The Reverend was never short
of a new quote to condemn the craze. The journalists were
obviously pleased with his copy because they usually used it
verbatim and never asked him if he thought his own role was
not contributing to the continuation of Smith’s time in the
spotlight. But of course if the hacks started asking questions
like that they would soon think themselves out of existence.
The newspapers left out the Reverend’s evangelism but they
were quite good at crediting him as the President of Families
First.
The Families First group was first and foremost about
attempting to prevent certain people from having families and
indirectly forcing them on others who did not want them.
They opposed single mothers, surrogacy and fertility
treatments. They would not countenance gay couples wanting
to conceive or adopt. They were against abortion - full stop.
They considered both sex education and contraception
inappropriate for teenagers. In fact they could not conceive
the goodness in any baby not born to two monogamous,
married heterosexual parents doing things naturally. That little
baby Jesus was a precedent for artificial insemination and the
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the rule.
The group spent all of its money and most of its time
campaigning against these sins and sinners. At no extra cost to
his organisation Reverend Cake would keep his name in the
papers by regularly denouncing the latest teenage fashion or
promoting with his seal of disapproval the work of
‘controversial’ rap stars and ‘provocative’ pop starlets. It was a
win, win, win situation. Cake got coverage, corporate
controversialists in the music industry got their free
advertising and the media got an easy story.
Unfortunately, this did not bring any money into the church.
The press would gladly have paid Cake for his sound bites, as
would the record companies but Cake was not that stupid nor
that desperate. As long as he kept his church in the news, he
had plenty of funding. The funding had come in secretly from
a similar organisation in the States. That group had been
founded by Christian oil barons who literally had more money
than sense. Following a tour he had done of the Bible Belt,
they had provided Cake with a piddling few million they had
lying around and the transfer was arranged in such a way as to
make it appear that the Families First group had substantial
support in the United Kingdom. It did not. It had Cake, a
couple of his cronies and the embarrassment to humanity that
was his congregation.
If he had not been a fully-fledged Church of England Bishop,
he would have been ignored as just another evangelical crank.
As it was, he was an ecclesiastical disaster to a Church
hierarchy that always preferred to be ecumenical. Only the last
week, the Archbishop of Cardiff had let slip a remark that
was widely interpreted as an admission that he did not believe
in any of those Biblical fairy stories (though he thought
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Cake was a canny enough preacher to know when to preach to
the converted. His appointment to the Bishopric had been
several years ago back when he was still ambitious about
succeeding in the Anglican hierarchy. But once it had become
clear that he would never process any further in the official
family of the church, he had founded the Families First group.
Shortly after he had taken his collection plate on a
transatlantic flight. He came back with much Good News to
declare and several million in secret donations.
Reverend Cake used some of his Southern oil money to
arrange for a clipping service to keep track of his many media
credits and he sent copies of the better ones to his state-side
supporters.
Ψ ?
“Hazel, we’re live in 30 seconds.”
Hazel had agreed reluctantly to take part in this show. She had
felt guilty for inadvertently embarrassing Shona on her own
show the week before. When Alice, Shona’s personal assistant
had called, Hazel had turned them down saying that she did
not think it was a very good idea. Ten minutes later she got a
call from Evelyn, her publisher’s public relations person
explaining loudly and at length exactly why it was a very good
idea. So when Shona herself called a few minutes after that,
Hazel meekly acquiesced to another appearance on Shona’s
sofa.
The format would be very similar to Shona’s usual Friday
show; an open discussion in which unhappy couples and
dysfunctional individuals worked through their issues on live
TV in front of a braying and insensitive studio audience of
equally dysfunctional members of the public. Shona would
moderate and one of the show’s regular experts would offer
empty platitudes. Normally each show had a particular theme,

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eating disorders, compulsive shopping, estranged fathers.
Several misfits would recount their tales of woe then spend
the rest of the show being accused of being liars, malingerers,
perverts, bigamists or worse by the audience. The resident
expert would occasionally try to earn their keep by stating the
obvious. And whatever the topic (with the notable exceptions
of estranged relatives and extra-marital affairs) Shona was
usually unable to resist a game of one-upmanship with her
own tales of personal hardship and suffering.
For today’s show Hazel was acting as the expert and as usual
the problems came from the audience. But this week, fired up
by her enthusiasm for Hazel’s book, Shona wanted to do
things differently. So the chronic procrastinators, who had
been due to appear, were postponed until the following week
(much to their great relief). Instead the problems would come
straight from the studio audience. There would be no single
topic and no pre-selected panel of basket cases.
There were five carefully screened members of the audience
waiting with pre-scripted questions ready to read them out
when called on by Shona, with another two standbys in case
anything went wrong. However, their problems could be
anything and, unlike normally, only Shona would know in
advance what they wanted to say. Fad or no fad, Shona had
learnt something since the week before. She made sure she
had prepared very thoroughly indeed. She wasn’t going to let
this little old lady ambush her twice in two weeks.
“Hello and welcome to Shona on Friday. I am here once again
with Dr. Hazel Cole and today she and I going to be helping
you to help yourselves.”
Suddenly they were on air. Just Shona and Hazel sitting alone
on the sound stage. Hazel was oddly less nervous than last
time but with less clue as to what might happen. Before it had

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gone so awfully wrong, her last appearance had seemed
straightforward and predictable. And the production team had
been highly reassuring. Used to dealing with TV virgins they
had talked her through everything that was supposed to
happen and reassured her all the way along. This week she was
just one of the team. She didn’t feel it but she was determined
to do her best.
“Isn’t that right Hazel?”
“That’s right Shona. I have spent over forty years studying the
mind and the brain but I could not tell anyone here, anything
about their own minds that they could not figure out for
yourselves. Everything that happens to you happens in your
head. It happens to your brain and you are your brain. Events
may take place ‘out there’ in the world but it is how you
interpret them that makes the difference.”
“Can you give my viewers an example?”
“Yes Shona,” said Hazel and proceeded to tell the story of the
man she had met on the train.
Shona cut this slightly short to tell her own anecdote about
how believing in herself had got her onto television. From
that they had gone straight to the first case, an unhappy
looking woman in her late thirties.
“How can I get my husband to love me again?”
“Do you love him?”
“Yes.”
“For how long have things been going wrong?”

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“We have been married ten years and known each other for
nearly twice that. It has been tough and rocky at times but I
still love him. In spite of everything I still get a magical,
special feeling from being with him. But I get the feeling that I
no longer excite him.”
“Have you asked him?”
“No.”
“You are able to come on national television and publicly ask
me to solve your problem for you but you cannot talk to your
husband?” Hazel left no room for an answer. “I am sorry to
say there is nothing I can do in your relationship. But I do
think that if you are brave enough to come here then I think
you can definitely tell him how you are feeling.”
“I can’t.”
“You can tell two million strangers but you cannot tell him?”
Shona winced, wanting to interject that she had nearer four
million viewers but she stopped herself.
“I am being unkind. It IS easier to talk to strangers than to
people who have known us a long time. The longer someone
knows you the less they actually listen to what you say. They
assume they know it all already.”
The woman opened her mouth to say something but nothing
came out. Her brain was too busy thinking. This hardly ever
happened. People came on Shona’s show to argue why they
were right, not wonder if they might be wrong. But Hazel had
just removed all lines of attack. She’d moved past the
confrontations and appeared to have actually helped this first
guest. The woman sank slowly back into her chair. The

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audience at home could see the advice sink slowly into her.
The studio audience saw it too and the atmosphere in the
room became more charged. People shifted, people sat up.
Here was someone who really could help. It wasn’t clear
exactly how she was helping. She hadn’t said anything
particularly unusual or profound but just watch how the
woman had sunk calmly into herself told them that it had
worked for her. And if it worked for her then maybe it would
work for them. Eighty people started mentally rephrasing the
questions they thought they wanted to ask.
In the awkward silence Shona sank too. It wasn’t supposed to
go like this. The first problem was supposed to take them up
to the adverts. Yet here they were, still less than five minutes
into the show and already they were moving to the next guest.
Looking at her notes she hoped this one would be better.
Some middle-aged no hoper worried that he had wasted his
life. Let’s see her fix that in under three minutes.
Shona called the man out and the boom mike moved to hover
over his head. Before Shona could ask him anything about
himself, he had flung himself desperately into the care of the
good doctor.
“Dr Cole, how can I be happy?”
“What is making you unhappy?”
“Life”
“There’s no cure for that but we are all in the same prison.
Life is complicated, messy and unfair. There is no justice. The
best one can do is to understand your own mind. “
“That doesn’t help me much. Give me a specific example”

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“What would make you happy?” Hazel asked
“You tell me.” the unhappy man shot back.
“But it is very different for different people.”
“Money.”
“It can be an answer but you could make yourself more
unhappy as you chase after it. Maybe the best way to be happy
is to think of something you can have and think of a reason
why you deserve it. And it has to be a better reason than
because you are unhappy. You should not be rewarding
yourself for being unhappy, that will just teach you to feel
sorry for yourself and make excuses to indulge. Find a
positive reason, there will be one. Maybe you did something
good at work or for your children. You’ve been on television.
That’s a brave thing to do.”
“Yes,” He had wanted to be angry but it was too difficult
while trying to concentrate on what Hazel was telling him. It
wasn’t what he had expected and yet at the same time it
seemed quite obvious. Besides, something about Hazel
reminded him of his favourite teacher back in school, Miss
Norman. She used to tell him off too. Back in the room,
Hazel was still speaking.
“Then, before opening that bottle of wine, pause to think
about that positive thing. You’ve bought the round. Your son
or daughter made you laugh. If you can’t think of anything,
phone a friend. You have friends and it’s good to speak to
them. That can be the reason in itself.”
“That’s not much,” he protested weakly.

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“No, but it’s better than nothing isn’t it?”
“Yes.” He said it in a very quiet voice and sat down. Only lip-
readers would have noticed the silent ‘Miss’ he added at the
end.
This was bad TV. The studio expert was supposed to provoke
the audience into a stand-up fight not cow them gently into
their seats with a series of verbal hugs.
There was a buzzing in Shona’s ear. Her producer wanted to
know if Shona had lost her voice. The realisation that she had
not interrupted anyone for ages on her own show was like a
shot of adrenaline straight to her heart. She yelped. She
twitched. But no words came.
Dr Hazel Cole, MD, PhD didn’t seem to notice this seizure.
The show must go on so the producer steered her shell-
shocked star through a few more introductions and Dr. Cole
did the rest. She soothed. She calmed. She talked people
through their problems and guided them gently to their own
solutions. All the scheduled guests were dealt with and the
back ups. Plenty more hands went up and plenty more people
were helped. Their problems weren’t solved but their
helplessness was being addressed.
All except Shona’s. She had recovered somewhat from her
earlier fright but this was going from bad to worse. You
couldn’t make good TV without drama and tension, but Dr.
Cole seemed to defuse all the bombs before they even had
chance to start ticking. Shona was having trouble finding
anything to add. Any place to interject with her own insights
and unhappiness. She was not happy about it. But there wasn’t
a lot she could do.

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“We’ve got time for just one more,” the producer’s voice came
into her ear and she echoed it to the audience. Finally some
good news.
It seemed like everyone had had his or her say. But there was a
small, shaking hand half-raised on the back row. The floor
manager spotted this girl, early twenties and quite frankly not
right for television. But by now they were out of other
choices. He whispered to the producer, who guided Shona and
camera two towards the sad and nervous figure.
“Yes, the girl at the back there. Your hand is up?”
“Yes.”
“What is your name?”
“Susan.”
“Hello Susan, You have a question for me and Dr. Cole?”
“For Doctor Cole, yes.”
“And…”
“My baby just died. She was three months old. What can I
do?”
The audience hushed and Shona’s heart leapt. She felt much
better. At last, here was one that Dr. Cole wouldn’t have an
answer for. Couldn’t.
Camera two tightened on the girls face. Camera four zoomed
in on Hazel, who was studying the girl carefully. The producer
cut back and forth between the two. Eventually Hazel spoke.

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“Susan, what was your baby called?”
A strange look passed across the girl’s face.
“Emily,” There was a hesitation in her speech. “She was called
Emily”
“Susan?”
“Yes?”
“You’re lying.”
“No!” said Susan.
“Yes!” thought Shona.
“There wasn’t a baby was there? … Susan? Tell me.”
“No”
“But something is the matter. Please, tell us.”
By now the girl’s face was wrinkling. Her eyes were watering
and fixed firmly on her lap. She wouldn’t look up, trying to
block the room full of people, lights and cameras. After an
age, she looked back to Hazel.
“I’m lonely,” she said and burst into tears.
Hazel was already out of her chair. She was climbing the stairs
beside the bank of chairs. She reached the girl and wrapped
her up in her arms. More tears came. And more. Hazel was
crying too. Members of the audience joined in. It built and
spread. Little embarrassed wipes of the eyes became full
blowing into handkerchiefs. Sobs became howls.

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Shona’s mouth opened and closed. Again and again.
The producer eventually remembered he was human being
and ended the transmission.
The switchboard took lots of calls. Within minutes The
Guardian and the Telegraph had both phoned Hazel’s agent to
arrange interviews. Shona’s station knew a hit when they saw
one. The executive producer was waiting for them even before
they came off air.
~
The procrastinators were put back another week and then
another.
Bookshops found themselves being asked for copies of a
book they had never heard of. They phoned Hazel’s
publishers to moan about how unfair it was that their
competitors were being given early access to this hot new
book but that they had only got one or two copies. Their
competitors phoned up and said the same thing. The initial
print run had been just 5,000, normal for an unknown author
of this type. These had all gone.
The confused but happy senior publishing staff found that
there was not even a copy in the office, they had to laser print
it from proofs to see what their best-selling book was about.
They spent the morning trying to blame each other for not
having been ready for this success and the afternoon fighting
to claim the credit for getting this author aboard. At about
four o’clock a secretary passing through to clear away coffee
cups, asked her boss how many more copies of Help Yourself
they were printing and could she get five put aside?

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Nobody, of course, had thought of ordering the reprint to
commence, but after a further brief flurry of blame-storming
they called the printers to put in an order for another 50,000.
This was not nearly enough.
†
“And finally tonight we have a report on Exocet celebrity John
Smith, who is inspiring idiocy all over the country.” The
Newsnight presenter managed just the right amount of
sneering condescension. “With me in the studio is the Right
Reverend Cake, Bishop of Enfield and President of the
Families First group. But we go first to this report from our
youth culture reporter, Natula Varaskia.”
Natula Varaskia, only 24 herself, and a former child pop star,
was an ideally qualified youth reporter. Although her previous
career was a distant memory and her teenage years had been
almost normal. In her first year at university she had started
producing short news items for student TV. A contract with
small satellite entertainment news channel paid for the rest of
her education and set her on her current path. She wanted to
be a serious journalist but was seasoned enough to play to her
strengths. She went to the BBC the first chance she had to
work in ‘youth programming’. She worked hard not to be
typecast and took any chance she could to do real reporting.
Not that she was called upon much by this very middle-aged
programme, but when she did she made extra effort.
Her report on John Smith was both highly professional and
highly entertaining. The evening before she and her
cameraman had gone her old university bar and found a likely
group of photogenic students. She followed them through the
course of an evening, interviewing them and plying them with
drink, as they went along. The cameraman captured their
increasingly drunken antics and these were edited down to a
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and audio from Smith’s performance. The juxtaposition was
obvious but effective. Here were people who really did live for
the instant, who swept through life with an intense focus on
the immediate here and now. They enjoyed themselves and
little else and this, the report and selective editing implied, was
why Smith’s message was spreading so fast through their
group. Yet Natula carefully left it open whether Smith and his
followers stood for the same thing or whether they were just
hearing what they wanted to hear. Back in the studio, the
presenter turned to his guest.
“Reverend Cake, what is your reaction to this latest youth
craze?”
“I just worry about the example this man sets to our young
people. What he is saying is childish and we all want our
children to grow up. To paraphrase the apostle John, to
become a man you must put away childish things. It is
irresponsible to encourage people to just enjoy themselves.”
“So people shouldn’t enjoy themselves?”
“He-hem, I am not suggesting that, Michael.” Cake replied
with a little fake laugh. This was how the game was played on
Newsnight. “I like music and art. If you came to my church in
Enfield you would find that it is full of both.”
“So you see John Smith as just another pop star?”
“Yes and no. His message is as empty of content as any pop
lyrics and he is clearly as much a manufactured commercial
product as any boy band. But I worry that people won’t see
him for what he is. By standing up there speaking, telling
people what to think, he’s disguising the fact that his message
is essentially empty.”

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“Teenagers should listen to you instead, Reverend?”
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea if they did, Michael. Not at all”
Reverend Cake felt comfortable, Michael Wallis was still
playing straight out of the Newsnight playbook. The
Reverend had been here before.
“But seriously Reverend Cake, couldn’t we argue that this man
Smith is articulate and attempting to engage people in genuine
existential debate? You personally might not like his message
but young people are listening. Aren’t you just annoyed that
you and the church youth club are failing to compete?”
“I think I know which one will still be around this time next
year.” A tried and tested defensive move from Cake.
“So why are so concerned about John Smith?”
“Oh, Smith himself seems to be a nonentity.” At last Cake
spotted his opening. “Nothing more than a puppet for darker,
more malevolent forces. Smith’s message is nihilistic because
he is an empty vessel echoing the words of a dark master. It is
not hard to see that it is the Clarion that has manufactured
this false prophet. It is their agenda which is really behind
this.”
“Eric Hayle is the real villain here?” The Reverend Cake had
pretty much won. Fire and brimstone always made these BBC
types uncomfortable.
“I’m glad we agree Michael.” This was too easy. “We at
Families First have long argued that Eric Hayle is not fit to
run national media and we urge the government to silence the
public voice of this self-proclaimed pornographer. This John
Smith episode is just another example of Hayle trying to rip
apart the fabric of society and destroy good Christian family

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values.” Checkmate.
“Reverend Cake, Thank you.” The Reverend Cake accepted
the resignation graciously.

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CHAPTER NINE
TELEPHONES
Watson, come here, I want you!
– Alexander Graham Bell, making the world’s first
telephone call to his assistant Thomas Watson, on
Friday, 10th March 1876
?
Alice, Shona’s personal assistant, was so excited she was
spoiling her make-up. She burst into Shona’s office, heedless
of the standing instruction never to interrupt Shona’s post-
lunch ‘aroma-therapeutic delta-wave energy realignment.’
“We have just had a call from Marina Allan!” she squealed
excitedly, waking Shona from her siesta. She had to repeat
herself more slowly and in a lower register before it got
though to the bleary eyed eighth most important woman in
Britain.
When the message got through, Shona was as awake and as
excited as Alice. Readers of Chat magazine had voted for who
they thought was the best female role model in Britain. Marina
Allan had come second. Shona had come eighth but there had
been a bunch of pointless celebrities and Olympic medallists
in places three to seven. Which in Shona’s view made her
essentially, the second most important real woman in the
country and Marina Allan, the first. Because second was the
best any ordinary woman like her or Marina could hope to
achieve. No normal woman could compete with Madonna.

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Not that Marina Allan was any normal woman. She was
famous. She had at least two careers and about six children.
She was a very senior figure in the Civil Service and she was
on the boards of directors of several large transport consortia
and countless charities. She was famously clever and had a
style that was all her own. She was also the wife of the Prime
Minister.
It would be to under-estimate the size of Shona’s ego to think
that she herself saw Marina Allan as a role model but more
than anything else in life, she wanted Marina on the show. It
was an article of faith among the staff of the show that this
was the Holy Grail. Shona had interviewed Madonna on three
separate PR tours. But Marina did not speak to the media.
Marina was not to be criticised or joked about. Shona was to
be brought all news items and press photos with Marina in
them.
Shona went to the same clairvoyant and the same crystal
therapist as Marina but she had not yet bumped into her. Or
persuaded either of them to introduce her. She wanted to
suggest that Marina came on the show for one of Shona’s
famous makeovers. Obviously, either Madame Clara or
Madame Amethyst had finally mentioned this idea of Marina
Allan. And now she was calling Shona.
“She wants to come on the show?” Shona asked Alice, just to
confirm she was not dreaming.
“Er.. She wants to meet Doctor Cole,” Alice answered
falteringly.
“On the show?”
“No” said Alice starting to stop and take stock of her own
original enthusiasm for bringing the news to Shona. She had

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overlooked the overriding importance of Shona in Shona’s
view of the world. The show came in second place, nothing
else came close. Alice saw the fury rushing to Shona face,
replacing the all but evaporated elation. And she was the cause
of this reversal. It was another accepted fact of life on the
show that messengers bearing bad news were occasionally
fired.
“They did not say.” Alice said quickly, pleading for her
lifestyle. “It wasn’t her. It was her office. They just said that
Marina would like to meet Doctor Cole. They called us to see
if we could arrange it. Maybe she does want to come on the
show?”
“Maybe” Shona agreed, her internal optimist clinging to this
sliver of hope. It was better than nothing. As well as
channelling her requests through their shared healer and
psychic, Shona had attempted to contact Marina Allan via
other mediums. But in the past, all her proposals had been
rebuffed by Marina Allan’s highly expensive taxpayer provided
personal office. In recent months they had stopped being
polite about it, not bothering to return Shona’s call or even
pretending that her messages would be passed to Marina. And
now Marina Allan’s office was calling her.
Marina Allan was obviously too busy to call in person. As well
as her work in the Civil Service overseeing the drafting for the
government policy documents in the Department of
Transport, she sat on the boards of several of the largest
private companies that through a tangled network of
subsidiary contracts were now running public transport. This
was typical of way her husband’s inner circle operated. This
did not break the letter of her Civil Service employment
contract but it was so breathtakingly in violation of the spirit
of them that people were at a loss as to know how to begin to
denounce it.

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More especially, considering who she had breakfast with each
morning. Nor could they understand how he could possibly
let her get away with it. Whenever any backbencher or
journalist overcame their apoplexy and incomprehension long
enough to challenge the Prime Minister on the subject, he
would always monotonously recite that in his view was no
conflict between the rules governing Civil Service contract
and her outside interests, and that every committee that had
investigated had declared the same. But since every single one
of those committees was ultimately answerable to her
husband, the Prime Minister, their conclusions could perhaps
be guessed in advance. Everyone else reached the conclusion
that the Prime Minister was ultimately answerable to his wife
and was only allowed to get dressed in the morning after she
had finished with the trousers.
Shona was not interested in political affairs. Successful women
were always the victims of envy. She saw Marina as a kindred
spirit. Madame Amethyst had said they had the same chakra
colouring pattern. She understood that Marina might not want
to come on the show right now. But once they had met and
seen how much they had in common, felt the connection,
become best friends it would be a different story. And this
meeting would happen when Shona arranged for Marina to
meet Doctor Cole. And after all, it was Shona that had made
Hazel famous.
What was more, as implausible as it seemed, this highly
successful mother of six, whose husband runs the country,
must have seen the show. Shona perked up considerably at the
thought that this busy woman with several careers must put
aside a couple of hours each morning to watch her show. It
must also mean that her husband had forgiven Shona for her
affair with his (former) political secretary.

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Shona was very happy. Alice was very happy that Shona was
very happy and that she would live to work another day. All
that remained was for someone to tell Hazel the happy news.
*
John was psyching himself up for a long time before he
phoned Eric. He had a question he wanted to ask and for the
fifth time that day, he started dialling Eric’s private personal
line. Eric had given it to him the day before in the Clarion
offices. He’d been in an ebullient mood and told John that if
ever he had a question, he could call any time. This time he
pressed the final number and waited.
“What?”
“Eric?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s John.”
The FUCK OFF that he received was so primal that John
dropped his phone.
¢
“Editor’s office”
“Get me, Nichols,” Eric said.
The editor’s secretary rushed out onto the newsroom floor
looking for her boss. Eric was not very happy about
something. You did not need to be Hazel Cole to tell that. You
did not need even have had to meet him before to tell he was
furious. And if you had met him before, you would never be
so foolish as to ask him what was troubling him. Even with
relative protection of a telephone line between you. Unless

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perhaps if you were Hazel Cole.
He would probably tell you anyway. Or at least you could pick
up the gist by watching to see who was being shouted at the
loudest. And picking your way between the profanities, you
could piece together his reasons.
“Eric?”
“Nichols, you arse. What do we know about this Cole cunt?”
“The head doctor? Appears on Shona?”
“And in almost every paper today except ours. What the fuck
do we know and what the fuck do we think?”
“I don’t know. Daytime TV is not something we follow on the
news desk.”
“Really? Then what the fuck do you do all day long? Cos it
certainly isn’t journalism. There’s something big out there and
your news desk isn’t on it. Wake the cunts up and get them to
work.”
“Yes Eric.”
“Clarke did the Shona and what’s-his-face story. I want you
and him on a conference call just as soon as you’ve found a
fucking clue.”
The line went dead.
*
“John Smith” John answered his phone. He did not recognise
the number and was terrified that it was going to be Eric,
calling back to shout at him some more. But the silence on the

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other end of the line sounded nothing like Eric. “Hello?”
“John... It’s Sam. Look, I am sorry.”
“Oh Sam, Hello... You were just doing your job.”
“Yes, but no.. I really am sorry. Look, I got paid. I was doing
my job. I didn’t really realise..” she paused, “I had a good
time.”
“So you like your job. Good for you.”
“No, I mean I had a good time with you, I enjoyed your
company. And you got what you wanted too, didn’t you?”
“No, I got what Eric wanted.”
“Well, I am sorry. I didn’t know.. I did know but I didn’t
think.. I wanted to say sorry properly. Can I take you for
dinner?”
“Okay, and which way will I have to look for the camera this
time?”
“Please, I am sorry. I like you. I don’t want you to dislike me.”
She waited but John stayed silent. “I feel terrible...”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’ll come. Somewhere quiet?”
“Somewhere quiet. I’ll send you a text. John, thank you.”
She rang off.

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John’s anger with Sam lasted about as long as it took to drop
to the sofa. Nevertheless, his reason to catch up with the
executive decision of his emotions. Was Sam a good person,
he wondered? Your average man can forgive a beautiful
woman a lot of things that must make it difficult to be a
beautiful woman and still be a good person. Sam is very
beautiful, so it must be very difficult for her to be good. She
did seem sorry, so there was some goodness in her. And she
seemed to like him, which showed good taste. Maybe there
was hope for her?
Maybe he could make her his special cause? Being a source of
guidance and inspiration to millions was all very well but it
was very impersonal. He needed to connect with his people.
He needed to help those around him share in his epiphany.
Sam was troubled but with the right nurturing, with his help,
she could blossom. He hoped so. He owed it to her to try.
Besides, he needed to show that his message was more than
story, didn’t he? That it played out in his life, that it made him
happy, as well as successful. Maybe, Sam could help him do
that? She was right; they had had fun last week. Perhaps he
needed her as much as she needed him.
His ridiculous daydreaming continued late into the evening.
Filled with this unexpected new purpose he did nothing all
day. Just revelled in his optimism. But he did not blame
himself. It did not matter; His new life finally had new
meaning.

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INTERMISSION
THE MEANING OF LIFE, THE
UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING
Life, the Universe and Everything. What’s the point?
I have always been interested in this question. I never really
knew what the answer might be. But in 2003, I had what I
thought was a good idea. I decided to write to every
professional philosopher Great Britain and Northern Ireland
and ask them.
It happened slightly by accident. I used to be a trustee for the
New Humanist, which is a sort of parish magazine for
atheists. Despite its name, New Humanist had been around in
one form or another for over one hundred years. It was
getting rather venerable and we were trying to find ways to
boost our circulation. Sending free copies to philosophers
seemed like it might win us some new readers. We had
previously sent a promotional mailing to several hundred
Church of England vicars and despite the fact that New
Humanist is a very atheist publication, the magazine got about
60-70 new subscribers! Which is a pleasing fact about the C of
E and an unusual endorsement for our magazine. Maybe
philosophers would be interested too?
Though I suspect a well written, witty and informative general
interest magazine with a rationalist/humanist tilt is the last
thing they’ll want after a hard day in the office reading dust
dry tracts like The Transcendental Grounds of Meaning and the Place
of Silence, published in the no-doubt excellent Meaning

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Scepticism. But perhaps we wouldn’t be able to tear them
away from the slightly more gripping journal,
Metaphilosophy, which has recently had include ‘Some
astonishing things’ and ‘Some Worries about Normative and
Metaethical Sentimentalism’. Though myself and other readers of
Analysis are more worried about ‘Gruesome Perceptual Spaces’.
But most likely after long hours struggling with ‘Realism
Detranscendentalized’*, in the European Journal of
Philosophy, at work, when they get home, they probably just
flick on the telly or flip through something mindless like Heat
Magazine or the latest Dan Brown. Who knows?
Despite the fine quality of the New Humanist, I couldn’t help
thinking this was a mundane use for a list of all the
philosophers in Britain. I had access to the finest minds in the
country, people who (I imagined) were paid to spend all day
wondering about the meaning of life, the universe and
everything. Judging by the titles of the papers they write, they
don’t actually do so but in principle if anybody knows the
answers to life’s great questions it ought to be these fellows &
fellowesses†.
So I decided to spam them again with a letter of my own. I
did not expect them to be able to provide me with an answer.
Not the answer. But if they could not, I thought that, at the
very least, they ought be able to provide me with a convincing
justification why an answer was not possible. And maybe
provide some mildly satisfying alternatives.
Thanks to the invention of the internet, it was easy for me to
find the names of every member of staff in all the University
Philosophy departments up and down the country. For the
price of a few hundred pounds of stamps, I could write to
* Surely the whole point of realism is that it isn’t transcendental? (Don’t ask
me, I am not a philosopher. As will become increasingly apparent.)
† Or is that fellatrices?

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them all. Never before in human history has a single crank
had this amount of access to professionals searching for the
meaning of meaning. With great power comes great
opportunity for mischief and time-wasting. I did not want to
be dismissed so lightly, I took time to compose my letter
carefully and politely. This is the letter I sent them. It was not
written in green ink.
Professor X / Doctor Y
Department of Philosophy
University of Why
Why-on-Why
United Kingdom
1st October 2003
Dear Professor X / Doctor Y,
As a professional philosopher, I expect that you are often plagued
by cranks and lunatics. I am no exception. I have it in my head
that you might know the meaning of life, the universe and
everything. Therefore, I am writing to ask if you could explain it
all to me? Do not be too flattered, I am asking every philosopher in
the country!
If God were required to explain Himself, I am sure She could do
so in a few eloquent paragraphs on one crisply typeset foolscap sheet,
though as an atheist, I have not tried asking Her. You are welcome
to go further but I would prefer something more like Meditations
than either Either/Or or Being & Nothingness. For the sake of
brevity and convenience, please feel free to merely refer* me to a
paper you have written elsewhere or perhaps something classic by a
dead Greek or German.
One final very mundane point; I am not some highbrow Henry

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Root and, in any case, the laws of copyright are on your side. But,
who knows, if philosophers turn out to be a particularly witty
bunch or if you and your peers disagree strongly then I may collect
the responses I receive and attempt to publish them.
I look forward to hearing from you,
Caspar Addyman
caspar@onemonkey.org
*As you know, any letter from a lunatic ought to at least include
one split infinitive!
I sent it to 644 professors, readers, lecturers, researchers and
post-graduates at 37 different universities. Surely some would
take pity on a humble seeker after knowledge, you’d think?
Surely? A love of knowledge is part of the job description.
In fact, I received only twenty-two replies. It is now over a
seven years since I sent the letter and I’ve moved house three
times so I am not expecting any more. Twenty-two would
appear to be it. Less than 4% of the professional philosophers
in Britain felt interested in answering a polite inquiry about the
ultimate question. Lovers of knowledge they may be, lovers
of sharing they are not, 622 of them aren’t. The 22 who did
reply were great. They took time and pains to explain how
stupid I was and how the question I was asking didn’t make
any sense. But they were kind, funny and thought-provoking
as they did it.
Mercifully, I only received one death threat.

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Twenty-two Nice Philosophers
Presented in chronological order
Here are all the replies I received, unedited and in the order I
got them, with a little information about each of the
philosophers who wrote to me. On occasion my
correspondents did as I asked and sent me a whole paper of
their own to contemplate. I read everything but you don’t have
to. I haven’t included the full papers and I wouldn’t dare to try
and sum any of them up in my own words. Instead I have
where appropriate included some rather lengthy quotations. I
am sorry but I am too stupid to do otherwise and besides,
that’s just the way life works.
Prof. Mark T. Nelson, Westmont College
Mark Nelson was a lecturer at the university of Leeds and has
since moved on to become a professor at Westmont College
in Santa Barbara. He specialises in Meta-ethics, Normative
Ethics, Epistemology and the philosophy of religion. His
reply came swiftly by email. It was helpful and informative and
suggested that God might have the answer I was looking for.
That wasn’t the answer I was looking for but it started me off
with high hopes.
From: Mark T. Nelson
Date: Mon Oct 6, 2003 12:25:11 pm
Subject: your letter
Dear Caspar:
Thanks for your letter of 1 October. I’m sorry to
say that I can’t think of any paper of mine that
would answer to your query. I guess I think that a
good account of the meaning of life, the
universe and everything could not be contained
in one crisply typeset foolscap sheet; moreover, I

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think it would end up looking a bit religious.
There are loads of book-length treatments of
this sort, from Plato to Plantinga, but I think you
might find the following an interesting place to
start, as they contain short, biographical essays:
T.V. Morris, ed., God and the Philosophers
(OUP, 1994)
Kelly Clark, ed., Philosophers Who Believe (IVP,
1993)
Not all of the essays are of equally high quality,
but there are some nice essays in both books. In
any case, good luck with the search!
Sincerely,
Mark Nelson
Andrew McGonigal, University of Leeds.
Twenty minutes later I received another email from the
University of Leeds. This one came from Andrew
McGonigal, who had recently joined the department and is
still there as a lecturer. He is interested in aesthetics,
metaphysics, metaethics, epistemology and the philosophies
of mind and of language. He was also honest, helpful and
informative and merely referred me to a couple of articles by
a living American philosopher. Things were looking up.
From: “A. McGonigal”
Date: Mon Oct 6, 2003 12:46:54 pm
Subject: meaning of life
I don’t have much to say that is useful or insightful to
say about this topic, I’m afraid. There are lots of
reasons why life is valuable, and worth living, but

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there may not be any very informative way of
collecting them under a single category or heading.
There are two good articles by Thomas Nagel which
you might find interesting.
Nagel, T. (2000). The meaning of life. In E. D.
Klemke (Ed.), The meaning of life. New York:
Oxford University Press.
Nagel, T. (2000). The absurd. In E. D. Klemke
(Ed.), The meaning of life. New York: Oxford
University Press.
Regards,
Andrew McGonigal, University of Leeds.
Dr. Jens Timmermann, University of Saint Andrews
A quarter of an hour later, a third email arrived from Jens
Timmermann. Dr. Timmermann is a senior lecturer at the
university of Saint Andrews. He too is interested in
Aesthetics, together with ethical theory and ancient
philosophy. He is an expert in the work of Immanuel Kant.
He was the first of my respondents to attempt an answer of
his own. His answer is as satisfying as it is succinct.
From: Jens Timmermann
Date: Mon Oct 6, 2003 1:00:22 pm
Dear Mr Addyman,
The meaning of life? That’s every philosopher’s
nightmare of a question, especially over dinner. As
you kindly give me the opportunity to answer it in
writing, here’s a quick reply: Drawing on Kant and
Aristotle, my quick answer is that the meaning of life

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consists in activity in accordance with reason. So first
of all, we must do things with our lives, be active, not
fritter it away. Secondly, this activity should be in line
with what makes us human: our capacity to think,
reason, act and communicate with others like us. This
kind of meaning is autonomous and does not depend
on God or any supernatural power. Human beings are
in charge of their own lives, but they must obey the
standards of their own rational and moral faculties.
With best wishes,
Dr. Jens Timmermann, University of Saint Andrews
Andrew Belsey, Cardiff University
A few days then passed before I received my very first postal
reply. This was exciting. It came from Dr. Andrew Belsey, a
senior lecturer at the university of Cardiff, since retired. His
research interests include ethics and he was co-editor of the
book, Ethical Issues in Journalism and the Media. I didn’t
know it at the time but he is also a published poet. This may
explain his short but troubling letter.
Dear Mr Addyman
The meaning of life is preparation for death. I hope
that you are well prepared.
Yours sincerely, Andrew Belsey, Cardiff University
So there it was. My very first death threat! I was clearly on the
right lines with this project if it was inspiring such animosity
from professional philosophers.
I am not one to dismiss lightly the words of a tenured
academic so for most of the past nine years I have been on

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my guard. As you can see I am still here, Andrew and his
minions haven’t succeeded in their dastardly schemes. In fact I
am beginning to wonder if he might have meant it
metaphorically. He is a poet, after all. But then again, that
might be just what he wants me to think. I better stay
prepared.
Arnold Zuboff, University College London
Dr Zuboff is an American philosopher, who works at
University College London. He is interested in philosophy of
mind, ethics and metaphysics. His research is refreshingly
modern and no-nonsense. He thinks there can be answers to
the difficult questions and that a philosopher’s job is not to
luxuriate in pointing out the difficulties but to attempt to find
the answers. If I didn’t know better from my short
correspondence with him, I would imagine him as Dirty
Harry, sent back in time to clean up the mean streets of
Athens.
From: Arnold Zuboff
Date: 07.10.2003, 12:39:16
Subject: Explanation
Dear Caspar,
I’m attaching two parts of my explanation of things.
If you’re interested in seeing more, please let me
know.
Best wishes,
Arnold Zuboff
Arnold attached two papers that you can easily find online.
The first was entitled “An introduction to universalism.” Here
I will provide you with just the introduction to that

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introduction.
Brain bisection, the surgical cutting of the connection
between the hemispheres of the brain at the bridge of
nerves that normally joins them (the corpus callosum),
was an operation that gave relief to epileptics. But
experimenters working with split-brain patients in the
1960s discovered an additional result of this surgery
that was startling and disturbing. When they fed
markedly different information into each hemisphere,
the subject would, it seemed, possess two mutually
excluding experiences at one time.
Let me dramatize the puzzle in this by asking you to
engage in a variation on one of the thought
experiments in Derek Parfit’s paper ‘Personal Identity’.
Imagine that by pressing a certain button you could
cause your corpus callosum to be anaesthetized, so that
the communication between the hemispheres of your
brain would be stopped temporarily.
Tonight a concert of your favourite music is going to
be broadcast on the radio, but you have to do some
tedious studying from audio tapes. Well, why not
arrange that the music will go into only the right
hemisphere of your brain while the study material will
go into only the left after the button has been pushed
and the integration of the activities of the hemispheres
has been stopped? But then the big question arises:
what would your evening be like?
The ordinary understanding of what a person is does
not allow that you could be both enjoying the concert
and suffering through the studying, since each of these
experiences seems to exclude the other. Yet it cannot be
that you only enjoy the concert or alternatively only

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suffer through the studying or that you somehow
experience neither. For following a more extensive
anaesthetizing, or a stroke, that completely
incapacitated one hemisphere you would certainly have
had whichever experience was in the remaining
functioning hemisphere. The concert would be yours if
there was only the right hemisphere and the studying
would be yours if there was only the left. In our case
there are both.
The answer must be that you will experience both the
concert and the studying, though each will seem falsely to be
the whole of your experience. I shall contend that it is this
same false seeming, the same illusion, that hides the
fact that all experience actually is yours. This is a view I
call “universalism”. All the experience in all the separate
nervous systems of the world is yours, though what is
discovered in each necessarily seems falsely to be the whole of what
is yours. Next I shall argue for this larger claim, but the
case of brain bisection has shown this much already:
that seeming limits of experience can mislead you into
thinking you are less than you are. Then what is it that
really sets your limits? What, really, are you?
Well, what are you, PUNK?
Arnold’s second paper assumes you have overcome your
problems with self-identity and moves on to tackle your bad
attitude. He wants you ask yourself one simple question.
“Why should I care about morality?”.
Let’s inquire into the nature of morality--and, more
particularly, into the authority that it seems to have in
the judgments of most of us. I think a certain story

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can help us in raising the question of where it gets that
authority.
Imagine that someone we shall call Gyges, after the
character similarly used by Plato in a basically similar
story, is seated at a table. Just before him on the table
is a small console with a single button on it. Let’s say
he knows that if he pushed that button a distant
stranger, who would otherwise be fine, would be
killed. Gyges also knows that if he pushed that lethal
button, he, Gyges, would be given £10 that he
otherwise would not have. We are going to look into
whether Gyges has any reason based purely on
morality not to push the button.
It is vital that we rule out of our story, if it is to be
useful to our questioning of the authority of morality,
any possibility that Gyges be punished if he pushes the
button or that he in some way be rewarded if he
doesn’t push it. For if we give him the fear of
punishment or the hope of reward as reasons not to
push the button, we have not then clearly isolated
whether he has a reason not to push the button in its
being morally wrong to do so. We are wanting to
know whether morality in itself has an authority here
for him, but his own punishment or reward carries
only the authority of the sort of obvious self-interest
that is often distinguished from moral motivation.
Therefore we shall say something like Gyges can be
sure that the death he might choose to cause would
have the perfect appearance of an accident having
nothing to do with Gyges. So Gyges would be
perfectly safe. Let us add that the remoteness of the
stranger ensures that there would be no other
possibilities of personal loss or gain for Gyges in
either the stranger’s death or his continued life.

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The question, then, is this: Gyges has a slight but
undeniable reason to push the button, the self-
interested reason that he will by doing so acquire £10
that he otherwise would not have. But does he have a
reason not to push the button?
In case you don’t know the answer, I won’t spoil it for you by
giving it away now but we shall come back to this later.
Tim Chappell, The Open University
Professor Chappell is director of the Open University Ethics
Centre. At the time I wrote to him he was at the University of
Dundee and he has worked at quite a range of universities in
England and Scotland. As might be guessed, he is interested in
ethics and also in a little bit of epistemology. He’s written or
edited ten books and he also writes poetry. Least you imagine
him trapped in a library, bear in mind that he also likes
climbing some mountains and skiing down others.
From: Timothy Chappell
Date: Tue 07 Oct 2003, 13:33:45
Subject: the meaning of life
Dear Mr Addyman,
For the meaning of life, see the attachment.
Best wishes,
Tim Chappell
His article was entitled “How should we live?” At last, an
answer! And he’d not been completely whimsical. He is quite
courageously trying to provide the Answer. It is only six
pages long so if we printed very small and printed on both
sides we could certainly squeeze it on a single sheet of
foolscap. I’d like to quote it at length but it’s somewhat
technical and so perhaps it’s best to skip over the justifications
and get right to his conclusion:

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How should we live? Well, here’s a framework answer:
respect every good you meet, and pursue any good
you like. That answer’s a bit sketchy, of course, and we
need to add to it some considerations about the
agent’s need to make their own agency coherent over
time, by incorporating each choice she makes into a
continuing narrative of self-creation. Still, the
framework answer will do to be going on with.
Whatever its faults, its sketchiness in general, and my
omission to give any examples of failures to respect
any good in particular, the framework answer does, I
think, at least have one important virtue: namely,
truth.
He sent me that in 2003. But I can’t help wondering what he
would tell me, if I asked him again today. In 2008 while
climbing Ben Nevis, he took a nasty bouncing fall in an
avalanche, bouncing for seventy uncomfortable metres down
into a gully. He was seriously injured but happily survived and
has since recovered. Like any good philosopher would, he
wrote a paper about it*. It is an interesting reflection upon
what it is like to face death. Both what it is like in that precise
moment when it appears to happening and what it can mean
when that fear creeps up on us at other times. Professor
Chappell’s experience of the moment was, in common with
many others, one of calm detachment. He describes his main
emotion as he fell as an admirably British feeling of
embarrassment at making such a fuss.
More troubling for him, as a Christian, was the challenge of
Richard Dawkins and others as to why a Christian should ever
fear death. He agrees with Dawkins logic that there really isn’t
* Entitled, “The fear of death” it will appear in a forthcoming edition of
New Blackfriars. You can also find a copy on his Open university
homepage.

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anything for a Christian to fear on the other side of death.
But, reflecting very honestly on his own experience of fear
while waiting to go under anaesthetic, he wonders if what is
actually frightening them is that loss of control that would
accompany the moment of passing. He concludes, perhaps
surprisingly, that his fellow Christians should take a little more
time to consider both death and Dawkins.
Harry Lesser, University of Manchester
Professor Lesser is based at the University of Manchester. He
too is interested in ethics.
I don’t think anyone has the answer to this or claims
to--as no doubt you know. Nor have philosophers
normally tried--philosophy is normally about the
more modest questions of what we can know and
what we ought to do, and has not solved either of
these, though I think it has made useful contributions.
Incidentally, there is no reason to think that the
contributions of dead men are any less useful than
those of live men. The sensible thing to do, as you
probably know, is not to worry about this, but to give
one’s life meaning by spending it, as far as possible, in
doing things which one finds worthwhile--satisfying
to oneself and helpful to others. Some of us think
philosophy is among these, but because it helps with
some problems rather than giving an overall answer!
Best Harry Lesser, University of Manchester
John Haldane, University of Saint Andrews
Professor John Haldane is director of the Centre for Ethics,
Philosophy and Public Affairs at the university of Saint
Andrews. He is interested in the philosophy of mind and the
philosophy of religion. His home page has some interesting

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pictures of him meeting famous people, including the present
Pope and Madness frontman, Suggs*.
Dear Mr Addyman,
Thank you for your interesting letter. I hope the
promptness of this reply may compensate for its
brevity.
Your question is ‘what is the meaning of life, the
universe and everything?’ Noting that you describe
yourself as an ‘atheist’ I am that the following answer
is one you will reject; yet it is the one I believe to be
true. The universe of things, events, properties and
processes, material and immaterial, concrete and
abstract, is the product of an all-knowing almighty,
all-loving Deity that created human beings in order
that they should know and love it now and for
eternity.
If you are tempted to consider this answer further,
particularly as it relates to contemporary philosophy
you may care to look at the following which contain
my own elaborations of the reasons for believing it to
be true:
ATHEISM AND THEISM, 2nd Edition by J.J.C.
Smart and J.J. Haldane (Oxford: Blackwell, 2003)
and
AN INTELLIGENT PERSON’S GUIDE TO
RELIGION J.J Haldane (London: Duckworth, 2003)
* Not, alas, at the same time.

CASPAR ADDYMAN
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I am sure whether my saying so will bring comfort or
disappointment but I do not regard your letter as
cranky or lunatic and I hope that you receive an
interesting set of replies.
(Incidentally, letters from lunatics are usually written
in green biro or typed in small font running close to
the margins. Also, the contents often continue on the
outside of the envelope.)
Yours sincerely,
John Haldane
Michael Rush, University of Manchester
Michael Rush lectures at Manchester and Bolton and for the
Open University. His research interests are primarily
metaphysical but his Masters thesis was on the topic of
gratitude.
Dear Caspar,
I find myself all too infrequently pestered by self-
confessed cranks and lunatics; your honesty is
refreshing. Or it was, and then I looked at your
website and discovered that the claim of lunacy was
just a subterfuge. Still, never mind. I couldn’t work
out whether your real aim was an answer to your
question or the collective humiliation of all the
philosophers in the country.
If the first, I fear you’ll be disappointed; it’s a pseudo-
philosophical question asked by non-philosophers,
and any philosopher claiming to have an answer for
you is cheeky, misguided or, possibly, both. If the
second, I’m bound to say I hope you’ll be

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disappointed, if only by those respondents that admit
to having no answer for you. This isn’t humiliating
but, in its turn, refreshing. We never claimed (well, I
for one never claimed) to be trying to answer that
question, so you can’t catch us out there. It’d be like
saying, ‘Ha! Bloody useless! No explanation of the
meaning of life, and they call themselves milkmen?’
(to milkmen).
Most people asking for the meaning of life really
want to be told the purpose of life, which is a subtly
different thing. It seems clear to me that there really
isn’t one, but equally clear that we shouldn’t be in the
least bit troubled by this. Anyone tempted to think
that God has a design for it all should be urged to
remember that there is a species of frog that spends
something like eleven and a half months of every
year asleep, buried in the sand in Arizona, or some
such place, because otherwise it would burn to death.
This can’t possibly be in accordance with any sensible
plan. And I’m sorry, boys, but telling me it’s ineffable
just won’t cut it as an explanation. The really
important question is, ‘how should we behave?’ In
this respect ethics is the most important branch of
philosophy, though I think we’ll need to get the
metaphysics sorted out before we can finally do the
ethics properly. Aristotle might just have been right in
saying that politics is the highest of the sciences, but
he failed to add that it is in many ways the most
boring.
I think it was Philippa Foot who said that if you ask a
philosopher a question they talk for a bit and you go
away no longer understanding your question. So there
you go. So, if we can’t ask about the meaning of life,
and if we buy the claim that there’s no purpose,

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what’s left? Only to quote those well-known, kooky
funsters, Bill and Ted: ‘Be excellent to each other,
dudes.’ Aristotle might well have agreed (once we’d
settled on a suitable Greek translation of ‘dudes’ ).
And I think we can all learn a lot from that.
Yours, Michael Rush, University of Manchester
I have been trying to decide who is my favourite philosopher.
But like all things in philosophy, once you examine the
question, it rapidly becomes more difficult than you suspected.
I have always admired the lyrical style of Nietzsche. I like the
outlook of boggle-eyed frenchman, Jean-Paul Sartre. I think
Socrates was a wonderful man. As a result of my philosophical
investigations, I have discovered the wonderful penetrating
clarity of Derek Parfit, and been reminded of the whimsical
wisdom of Thomas Nagel. But they were all good for
different reasons that are hard to compare.
Then I hit on rigorous criteria by which to judge it. Which of
them would be best company on a night on the town? By this
measure, and judging only by his letter, Michael Rush must
rank quite highly
Derek Parfit, All Souls College, Oxford.
Derek Parfit retired in 2010 having spent almost all his
working life as a fellow at All Souls College, Oxford. His 1984
book Reasons and Persons was a hugely influential discussion
of morality and identity that ran to over 550 pages. Despite
the weightiness of his tome, much of his popularity is due to
the clarity of his writing and his vivid thought-experiments
using examples from Star-Trek and other science fiction. He
has just finished another work weighing in at over 650 pages,
provisionally entitled, “On what matters.”

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Dear Caspar Addyman,
As it happens, I have written a paper which could be
broadly said to be about the meaning of life and the
universe. You may have seen this already, but I
enclose it as an attachment in two formats.
There’s nothing wrong with the occasional split
infinite, as Fowler himself said.
With best wishes,
Derek Parfit, All Souls College, Oxford.
Dr. Parfit attached a short paper of his on the existence of the
universe. It’s called “Why Anything? Why this?” The full
version was published in two parts by the London Review of
Books in 1998. It’s worth reading. And it’s worth quoting the
opening and closing at length.
Why does the Universe exist? There are two
questions here. First, why is there a Universe at all?
It might have been true that nothing ever existed: no
living beings, no stars, no atoms, not even space or
time. When we think about this possibility, it can
seem astonishing that anything exists. Second, why
does this Universe exist? Things might have been, in
countless ways, different. So why is the Universe as it
is?
These questions, some believe, may have causal
answers. Suppose first that the Universe has always
existed. Some believe that, if all events were caused
by earlier events, everything would be explained.
That, however, is not so. Even an infinite series of
events cannot explain itself. ...

CASPAR ADDYMAN
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Suppose next that the Universe is not eternal, since
nothing preceded the Big Bang. That first event,
some physicists suggest, may have obeyed the laws of
quantum mechanics, by being a random fluctuation in
a vacuum. This would causally explain, they say, how
the Universe came into existence out of nothing.
But what physicists call a vacuum isn’t really nothing.
We can ask why it exists, and has the potentialities it
does. In Hawking’s phrase, ‘What breathes fire into
the equations?’
Similar remarks apply to all suggestions of these
kinds. There could not be a causal explanation of
why the Universe exists, why there are any laws of
nature, or why these laws are as they are. Nor would
it make a difference if there is a God, who caused the
rest of the Universe to exist. There could not be a
causal explanation of why God exists.
Many people have assumed that, since these questions
cannot have causal answers, they cannot have any
answers. Some therefore dismiss these questions,
thinking them not worth considering. Others
conclude that they do not make sense. They assume
that, as Wittgenstein wrote, ‘doubt can exist only
where there is a question; and a question only where
there is an answer’.
These assumptions are all, I believe, mistaken. Even
if these questions could not have answers, they would
still make sense, and they would still be worth
considering. I am reminded here of the aesthetic
category of the sublime, as applied to the highest
mountains, raging oceans, the night sky, the interiors
of some cathedrals, and other things that are

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superhuman, awesome, limitless. No question is
more sublime than why there is a Universe: why there
is anything rather than nothing. Nor should we
assume that answers to this question must be causal.
And, even if reality cannot be fully explained, we may
still make progress, since what is inexplicable may
become less baffling than it now seems.
It ends like this:
The existence of the Universe can seem, in another
way, astonishing. Even if it is not baffling that
reality was made to be some way, since there is no
conceivable alternative, it can seem baffling that the
selection went as it did. Why is there a Universe at
all? Why doesn’t reality take its simplest and least
arbitrary form: that in which nothing ever exists?
If we find this astonishing, we are assuming that
these features should be the Selectors: that reality
should be as simple and unarbitrary as it could be.
That assumption has, I believe, great plausibility.
But, just as the simplest cosmic possibility is that
nothing ever exists, the simplest explanatory
possibility is that there is no Selector. So we should
not expect simplicity at both the factual and
explanatory levels. If there is no Selector, we should
not expect that there would also be no Universe.
That would be an extreme coincidence.
These philosophers had given me plenty to worry about and
made me fear for my life. But it was probably Derek Parfit
who gave me most to worry about and came closest to killing
me. He almost made my head explode when he handed over
more than the universe in that article. Carl Sagan, the
astronomer and science broadcaster used to make the world
seem small when he went on about this pale blue dot lost

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among the billions and billions of stars in our galaxy. Itself
just one of billions and billions of galaxies in the universe.
Which is big but Derek Parfit thinks bigger, much bigger. He
doesn’t just consider this universe or even a mere multiverse
of similar universes with similar laws and similar physics that
might have existed in its place. He considers every possible
universe, every universe that isn’t impossible, not according to
our local laws of physics but according to the laws of logic
and mathematics. He thinks about them all simultaneously and
wonders innocently if this super-set of universes might
somehow be a “simplest” that one can conceive of and that
can actually have transpired*. Would leaving nothing out
paradoxically be the most parsimonious explanation for what
is left in?
As it happens, no. But I personally haven’t got a parsimonious
reason why.
Stephen Butterfill, University of Warwick
Stephen Butterfill is an Associate Professor at the University
of Warwick. He is interested in the philosophy of mind.
From: Stephen Butterfill
Date: Thu Oct 9, 2003 7:33:25 pm
Subject: your letter about the meaning of life …
Hi Caspar (if I may),
Thanks for your letter of 1st October. I’m studying
questions about belief and action such as “How do
changes in our environment or situation lead to
changes in our views about how things are?” I think
this sort of question ultimately bears on your
* There is a simpler universe of universes, an empty set that never even
existed. But since this place does exist, that is not where we live.

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question about the meaning of life &c, but not very
directly. That said, I’d welcome the chance to discuss
it if you’re interested.
The recent philosophers who I think of as addressing
your question more head-on are people like Bernard
Williams, Tim Scanlon and Chris Korsgaard. My
favourite is David Velleman who has a short piece
from “The Possibility of Practical Reason” (published
by OUP, 2000) on the web at:
http://www.oup.co.uk/academic/humanities/philoso
phy/viewpoint/velleman/
I suppose the meaning of life &c is a problem we all
face in one way or another; what’s your take on it?
Best,
Steve
These days Steve is interested in development psychology, the
beginnings of tiny minds and how they start to form beliefs
about others.
Christopher Norris, University of Cardiff
Christopher Norris is the Distinguished Research Professor in
Philosophy at Cardiff University, He has many interests in the
philosophy of language, the philosophy of science and literary
theory. He has written numerous books on topics as diverse as
quantum theory, literary theory and Spinoza. He sent me a
copy of interview that he had done several years before with
Tetsuji Yamamoto on ‘this, that and the other.’ His summary of
Spinoza gives a good summary of his own perspectives
Pretexts: literary and cultural studies, Vol. 8, No. 2, 1999
CRITICAL RESOURCES
Tetsuji Yamamoto

CASPAR ADDYMAN
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Points of Intervention: Interview with Christopher Norris
Extract:
TY: Which philosopher do you like the best?
CN: Well, I have great admiration and affection for
Spinoza. [...] Spinoza, seems to me a model
philosopher in many respects. He was a highly
intelligent, single-minded and utterly committed
thinker but at the same time live a life of exemplary
virtue. You know, he was never angry. Well, on just
one occasion he did become angry, and I think
justifiably so, when the mob attacked and murdered
his enlightened patron and defender, Johann de Witt.
But he himself was attacked, vilified, persecuted,
excommunicated, subject to constant slander and
abuse at the hands of his religious opponents. He had
to put up with some terrible treatment, and yet he
remained calm, composed, good-willed and forgiving;
and this had a lot to do with his basic philosophical
convictions. Spinoza was a thoroughgoing determinist
and he thought that, insofar as you came to
understand other people and the causes of their
action, you could see our way beyond hating or
despising them for what they did. At the same time
you could reach a better understanding of your own
beliefs, desires, thoughts, and actions, and thereby
achieve the kind of freedom that results from
enhanced self-knowledge.
Jonathan Gorman, Queens University, Belfast
Jonathan Gorman is Professor Emeritus of Moral Philosophy
at Queens University, Belfast, retiring in 2010. He has written
many books on the theory and philosophy of history. He is
also an expert on the philosophy of law and moral philosophy.
He sent me a copy of his entertaining paper, “Some
astonishing things”.

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I believe that, when each of us reflect on the nature
of the particular individual person we happen to be,
we do so in the light of certain beliefs, puzzles,
speculations and feelings. These beliefs, puzzles,
speculations and feelings lie deep within us. Reflection
on our individual nature involves reflection on two
sets of characteristics: first, those which we may
suppose to be common to all individuals; second,
those which are distinctively our own. When we
reflect on our individual nature, it is not, for most
people, for the sake of abstract philosophical interest
or psychological curiosity. Rather, it is as part of the
means of answering the question what we ought to do
with our lives. ...
II The search for explanatory and justificatory
completeness of self-understanding is a paradigm of
philosophical activity. It makes use of analytical skills.
I propose in this paper to examine one particular
problem: the place, in our conception of ourselves
and our relation to the world, of a sense of
astonishment at our existence... [Gorman1991]
Jonathan Gorman, Queens University, Belfast
Michael Proudfoot
Michael Proudfoot retired as Head of Philosophy Department
at the University of Reading. He is interested in aesthetics and
Wittgenstein. And as a former international competitor in the
Modern Pentathlon, he also has an interest in the philosophy
of sport. It is unknown to me how much he applied this when
he coached Team GB in both Modern Pentathlon and
separately in water polo. But one of his Pentathlon teams won
gold in the Montreal Olympics. It is always good to find
philosophers who lead interesting lives.

CASPAR ADDYMAN
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Dear Mr Addyman,
As you suggest, I receive a considerable number of
unsolicited letters from members of the public, of
varying degrees of sanity.
I would recommend to you a book by one of my
colleagues, here at Reading, John Cottingham. The
book is appropriately titled ‘The Meaning of Life’: it
is available in paperback at around £8 and was
published last year by Routledge.
Yours sincerely,
Michael Proudfoot
Norman Geras
Norman Geras is a emeritus professor of Government at
Manchester University, though his interest in Karl Marx and
politics does not preclude him from being considered
philosophical. Similarly, retirement in 2003 did not slow him
down. He started blogging and has been widely read on the
internet ever since. He has written ten books, some of them
about The Ashes test cricket matches.
From: Norman Geras
Sent: Sat Oct 11 18:23:18 2003
Subject: your letter
Dear Caspar Addyman
Thank you for your letter of 1 October. On my
weblog, which you can find here:
http://www.normangeras.blogspot.com/ I offer daily
reflections on this and that. You might even call them
meditations. Please feel free to visit it and sample
them whenever the mood takes you. Whether I’ve
managed to crack the meaning of life, the universe
and everything is not really for me to say. But you
could try the item ‘I can’t blog a rainbow’ which I
posted on October 5 and is here:

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www.normangeras.blogspot.com/2003_10_05
Best wishes,
Norman Geras
I read it. It’s a sweet story of a football fan disturbing a
passing motorist. I guess the message is that some profound
feelings aren’t always easy to communicate. Although I could
have got that completely wrong.
Max Steuer
I was also slightly wrong to write to Max Steuer, who turned
out not to be a philosopher but an economist and world
record breaking hot-air balloonist. He was born in New York
City but has been based at London School of Economics
since 1959. Nonetheless, as he himself says, why should the
philosophers have all the fun and get all the glory?
From: Steuer, M
Date: 15 Oct 2003, 17:40:28
Subject: Life’s Meaning
Dear Caspar
I’m an economist, not a philosopher. But it is not for
that reason only that I wonder if philosophers are
either particularly privileged or interested in the
question of the meaning of life.
In my view, words and other symbols mean
something, but being alive is not a word or a symbol.
Last weekend there was a conference here on the
Place of Values in a World of Facts. That might have
been right up your street. Perhaps you attended.
I think the universe came about through natural
causes, not divine or conscious creation of any kind.

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These causes are understood by some people better
than others, and even the most informed probably
know little compared to what might be known. But
still, I’m pretty sure that it is natural, not magical.
I think ‘values’ is more to the point than ‘meaning’,
and for many purposes nearly the same thing.
We all know the difference between pleasure and pain.
I know what I prefer. At the same time, most, not all,
of us have views about right and wrong. We can
debate about these matters by making reference to
some agreed objectives and observations.
You say you want humour as well. So solving the
riddle of the universe is not enough!
Bye, bye
Max
David Harvey
David Harvey is a professor of Agricultural Economics. I
can’t quite remember how I managed to include him in my
original cast of philosophers but he and I are both glad that I
did.
From: David Harvey
Date: 16 Oct 2003, 13:13:11
Subject: The Meaning of Life?
Caspar,
In common with at least one other respondent, I now
understand why a free copy of the New Humanist
arrived on my doormat, so thanks for that.

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In exception to at least one other of your
respondent’s, I do not accept that the question is
beyond the scope of philosophical inquiry – if that
were to be so, then there are limits to the scope of
enquiry – what are these? Are the answers to this
question then some form of answer to your question
– a matter of faith and belief, but not of sensible
enquiry? This answer, then, is: whatever you want to
believe.
Finally, I’m impressed and not a little flattered that
whatever search engine or method you used should
identify me as a practising philosopher. I am trying
(very, according to many of my colleagues) – though
without the benefit of any formal specific training in
the art.
I am also trying to creep up on an answer which
satisfies me (if no one else). You can find the
products of this creeping search at:
www.staff.ncl.ac.uk/david.harvey/DRHRootFolder/
DRH_research.html#Concept
I suggest that a starting point in this rubbish might be
found under the ESRC/Prospect sub-heading,
especially “Knowledge: How do we come by it and
what does it mean? – an essay on the origins of
everything submitted as the second of a quintet of
essays to the Prospect challenge (but rejected, of
course).
On this basis, my provisional answer is: To self-realise
within the patterns and fabrics of universal self-
realisation, – meaningless unless you follow the story
and find it at least partly credible.
Good luck with your search, and let me know if you

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find anything useful.
What a nice chap.
David Papineau
David Papineau is Professor of philosophy at Kings College
London. He is interested in the philosophy of science and the
philosophy of mind. He is the author of seven books and
over seventy papers.
From: David Papineau
Date: 16.10.2003, 15:13:50
Subject: the universe etc*
Dear Caspar Addyman
Thanks for your odd letter. If you are really interested
in how I think the universe might be, you might look
at ‘David Lewis and Schrodinger’s Cat’, which is on
my website in the KCL Philosophy website.
Best wishes
David Papineau
Again the paper was quite technical but the summary is simple
enough to read, if not necessarily understand.
In ‘How Many Lives has Schrodinger’s Cat?’ David
Lewis argues that the Everettian no-collapse
interpretation of quantum mechanics is in a tangle
when it comes to probabilities. This paper aims to
show the difficulties that Lewis raises are
insubstantial. The Everettian metaphysics contains a
coherent account of probability. Indeed it accounts
for probability rather better than orthodox
metaphysics does.
* I wish I received more emails with titles like ‘the universe etc’

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For more accessible versions of the same ideas visit his
homepage at Kings College London. David maintains a large
audio and video archive of his public talks and radio
broadcasts.
Mark Sainsbury, University of Texas
Mark Sainsbury is a professor of philosophy at the University
of Texas. His main interest is the philosophy of language.
Caspar,
Life has no meaning, but individuals can make their
lives meaningful by thinking what they would most
like to achieve and then trying to achieve that. Self-
awareness among cranks and lunatics is a rare and
valuable quality indeed!
With good wishes,
Mark Sainsbury, University of Texas
Fiona MacPherson
Dr. MacPherson is senior lecturer in philosophy at the
University of Glasgow, where she is also Director of the
Centre for the Study of Perceptual Experiences. She is
interested experience and its discontents; illusions and
hallucinations and things like ambiguous figures.
Dear Mr Addyman,
Thank you very much for your letter asking about the
meaning of life, the universe and everything. I cannot
provide you will an answer but I hope to show in
what way philosophy tries to contribute towards an
answer.

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Philosophers investigate questions about the nature
of many different things, such as, what exists, what is
possible and impossible, the nature of mathematics,
logics, ethics, value and knowledge, to name but a few.
I am a philosopher of mind and I study the nature of
perceptual consciousness. Thus, I do not directly
address the question of the meaning of life, the
universe and everything. Nonetheless, I believe that
my work has bearing on this issue, as I shall explain.
How would one arrive at an answer to your question
(if indeed there is one)? I suggest that we would need
to know what everything was (that is find out what
exists) and find out what the nature of the universe is
(that is find out the nature of everything that exists).
We have a good idea of what life is from science, but
life seems to get much of its meaning from an aspect
of life we know very little about, namely,
consciousness. Find out answers to these sub-
questions is often what philosophers attempt to do.
The frustrating thing is that investigating answers to
these questions often raises many other and equally
difficult questions.
As you will no doubt be aware, in The Hitchhikers
Guide to the Galaxy, where the question of life, the
universe and everything was famously posed, the
answer was said to be ‘42’. In the book, those who
had asked the question could not see why this was the
answer, so they set out to investigate in more detail
what the question was. I think there is a moral in this
story, as I hope is brought out in this letter.
In my work I investigate the nature of perceptual
consciousness. I don’t know what it is but I am trying

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to find out by asking questions about the relationship
between intentionality and consciousness and about
the differences and similarities between the senses. I
hope that some to the answers I get will be a small
part of the larger puzzle about what the meaning of
life, the universe and everything is. I am not
optimistic that an answer to the big question will be
reached at all soon but answers to parts of the
question are valuable in their own right, which is why
I study them,
Yours sincerely,
Fiona Macpherson, Girton College, Cambridge
Nancy Cartwright
Nancy Cartwright holds a professorship at the Institute of
Advanced Studies, London School of Economics and another
at the University of California, San Diego. She a recipient of a
MacArthur Fellowship and is world renowned for her work on
the philosophical foundations and implications of quantum
mechanics. Her first book was entitled “How the Laws of
Physics Lie”. If anyone could answer my question.... Surely..
Dear Mr Addyman,
I’m sorry. I haven’t a clue how to help with your
question!
Yours Nancy Cartwright,
London School of Economics.
Ay Carumba!

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Tim Mawson
Tim Mawson is fellow in philosophy at St Peter’s College,
Oxford. He is author of one book and over twenty papers, the
most recent of which is entitled “Sources of dissatisfaction
with the Answers to the Question of the Meaning of Life.”
Interestingly that came about some years after I was harassing
him. I hope I didn’t provoke him, he seems so nice.
Dear Caspar (if I may),
Thank you very much for your letter of the first of
October last year. I am sorry to have taken so long in
replying to it. Initially, I had put it to one side pending
a time when I could give it the attention it deserved;
I’m afraid to say that it has only moved back to the
centre of my attention now because I have realized
that such a time will not arrive until the summer.
What delays me is the need to focus on finishing my
book for a deadline at the end of June. I’d like to feel
that I might refer you to this forthcoming book as
itself being likely to contain the answer to your
question, but - to give the plot away - its argument is
to the effect that readers interested in your question
should address it to God, the very procedure which
you - being an atheist, quite understandably - report
yourself not to have tried; and from your report of
not having tried it, one may perhaps infer you will
remain unwilling to try it. In the event of you
considering yourself more flexible on the issue of
whether or not you’d ever attempt this, I mention the
book’s title and publisher - ‘Evidence of Things
Unseen’, OUP - which should be enough to enable
you to track it down in due course.
When my pupils ask me, ‘What is the meaning of
life?’ I tend to say to them, ‘State of functional

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activity characterized by organic metabolic reactions.’
And then I follow up quickly by asking whether what
I’ve just said has answered their question. If rather
more is required for an answer to be a satisfactory
one than that it removes from one’s questioner any
desire to ask anything similar, then one might
reasonably think I rather fail my pupils here - just as I
am in this letter failing you. But asking oneself why
this isn’t a satisfactory answer to the question might
in itself go some way towards one’s putting oneself
on the right track to find an answer to it that will be
genuinely satisfactory. That - pending my book and
divine intervention - is the best I can do I’m afraid.
Sorry not to have been more help and best of luck
with your continuing investigations.
I am yours sincerely,
Tim Mawson, St Peter’s College, Oxford
His publishers Oxford University Press changed the book title
to “Belief in God: an introduction to the philosophy of
religion.”
~~~
As you can see, a lot of them challenged me to find my own
meaning and I concede they are correct to do so. One should
not take the word of some professional philosopher, whose
job, career and calling had been to dedicate his whole life to
answering fundamental questions about the nature of
knowledge and existence. Highly trained professionals,
Doctors of Philosophy with genuine, guaranteed, certified
degrees. Each one paid by you and me, the taxpayers, to sit in
a centrally heated office with a big library down the corridor
and free access to the internet. He or she is paid to sit there
and think, to decide what thoughts are possible to think and

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which are impossible. I guess they do this by trying to think
thoughts and when they hear the satisfying thunk, they know
they have thought it. They tick that box and strain and
grimace trying to push another one out. But despite all that,
do not take their word for anything. And especially not about
something as important as the answer to the biggest question
of them all.
Listen to me instead.
I am untrained and highly unprofessional. I am sitting in my
bedroom in my underwear and I am making this up as I go
along. Someone whose only qualification is that he once took
some magic mushrooms and thought he saw it all clearly.
One more thing: If at the end of it, you disagree, please tell
me and tell me why. I am not handing down tablets of stone,
not imparting knowledge granted by God Alone. I am
advancing broken inarticulate hypotheses. If you feel that
these will not work, please do not cast me out into the
darkness, but provide me with some enlightenment. Tell me
where I fucked up. Better yet, suggest an improvement.
In order to keep this short, I have made many assumptions.
The biggest and most dubious one is in assuming you agree
with me about the basics; maths and physics and that kind of
mumbo jumbo. You don’t have to agree on or even
understand any details and there won’t be a test but if we
could agree that in some way or another that these things are
basic, in the sense of being foundational, then we safely
ignore them and move to more interesting things.
The world is everything that is the case but do not take my
word for it. It cannot be proved by anyone less than God and
(even if She were to exist) Her certainty does not translate

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well into human terms. Our world is unreliable. The laws of
nature certainly seem to be law-like. But they are also
fiendishly complex and so our world is unreliable. Our
perceptions of it are fuzzy and vague. Even our minds are not
to be trusted. Operating on our messy biological wetware with
its pragmatic toolbox of some bounded rationality and a lot
of innate heuristics, we fall a long way short of the perfection
conceivable of celestially manufactured automata.
When discussing any of the ‘big’ questions, it is helpful and
important to keep in mind that we are all merely monkeys,
little more than monkeys. Bright monkeys with opposable
thumbs and linguistic talents, but not so far out of the trees as
we would like to believe.
If you want an experimental confirmation of how stupid you
are, take a bottle of vodka & a mixer of your choosing and
work steadily though it. Very soon, long before the bottom of
the bottle, you will be very confused and irrational.
There are three mysteries the origin of the universe, the origin
of life and the emergence of consciousness. What we might
call the why, the wherefore and the why me? The first two are
somewhat mundane questions that are of only academic
interest, the narrow specialisms of two branches of science.
So widespread is the agreement about the basic Darwinian
mechanism that not even the Pope bets against it.
Physicists look after the cosmos. Why is there something
rather than nothing? Why is there a universe? And why this
particular one, one that welcomes life and has this style of
interior décor. These days they see the universe a giant
quantum computer. They are interested in the computations
that it runs.
The origin of the universe is of even narrower academic

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attraction. Only a crowd of mathematicians care about the
nitty-gritty of which inflationary theory kick started the
construction of coalescing clouds of gas that became the stars
we see sparkling in the sky.
To be fair, some philosophers get quite excited about the
various choices available previous to there being a universe
too. They care about how it could all have been so very
different. They do not care too much because at five o’clock
the end of the working day, they lock up their offices and
head home to watch EastEnders. But during the day they
speculate on how the universe might have been doughnut
shaped. Or why we have only one axis for time, when it is
perfectly plausible there were several. It would be very hard to
conceive of what this universe looked like and lunch breaks
would probably quite complex things to take, but is this
because it is an intrinsically implausible idea or is it only
because we are accustomed to and designed for this kind of
existence?
Even the fact of our existence, that here we are and that there
is something rather than nothing is an overlooked conundrum
that they feel we ought to worry about.
Let them worry; I cannot get too enthusiastic about
speculations on concepts with no possible confirmation and
alternatives that I have no opportunity to take. I will forego
the thought of what a luxury it would be to live with an extra
spatial dimension and be able to see into my own intestines, or
know some moments earlier and apart what choice I would
soon make for dessert at a lunch hour spread over two
dimensions of time.
Ignoring all that, as far as I can tell there are three just
perspectives on the existence of the universe that you or I
could take. I call these the Bomb, the War and the Peace. The

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Bomb asks you to think of the universe as a bomb that just
gone off in your immediate vicinity. It helpfully suggests that
asking why this happened won’t help you survive the
immediate aftermath. The Universe has already happened, get
used to that fact and get on with life instead.
But is the universe more like a war? Where the better you
understand the motives of those who started it, the better
your chances of getting out of it alive. The chances are only
marginally better because a war is bigger than you. You may
get swept up in currents that are too strong. However well you
understand them you can’t control them. But the chances are
very high that you will never understand them. And you might
be fighting for a long time.
Peace, for some us, is a preferable alternative to war. In Peace,
the universe is not something to be fought against. You don’t
have to fight a war to win peace. You choose peace and with
luck you get it. Without luck, life may still be yours to enjoy
occasionally.
So what about life? Once the origin of the universe is taken as
given then the origin of life in its simplest form is essentially
inevitable and it merely remains to explain the mechanism. A
handful of biochemists care about the flavour of primordial
slime but I recommend you just accept that there once was
slime.
With a handful of slime, a big enough petri-dish and plenty of
time then the theory of evolution is leads you almost
inevitably to where we are now. It effortlessly assembles eyes,
brains and even wits. Once the struggle commences, the
simplicity of Charles Darwin’s competitive equation almost
guarantees that in the self-replicating arms race, some devious
and ingenious creature will appear afore too long.

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It explains the appearance and genesis of each and every
species we have found so far, circa two million. Not to
mention everything else surviving at the moment and every
fossil we have ever found as well. To some extent it can
explain behaviour too. Evolution has made it much more
obvious why we are so obsessed with sex, status and sugary
foods. Maybe it explains everything else too?
A lot of these appetites arise before you are as sophisticated
as you and I. Over ninety-nine percent of those millions and
millions of species would place sex at the top of their lists of
their most favourite of favourite things. And those that do not
it like it are those boring bacteria and such other tedious
creatures who prefer their own company and can clone
themselves. The rest of life is at it like rabbits. (Especially the
rabbits.)
If survival is a high priority, it is only at the expense of
reproduction. The males of some species put up with getting
their heads ripped off in order to get their end away. And
childbirth and motherhood is always a precarious business.
If you disagree with me and the Pope on this, then in the
words of the Bible, you can go forth and multiply. Or to put it
in the vernacular, Fuck Off.
Sugary foods are popular with energetic, hot-blooded type, the
birds and beasts. Especially with bi-pedal walking super-
computers like us. Feel the heat your desktop computer
generates as it crunches the numbers to enable you surf the
web for knowledge, pirated music and pornography. The
massively parallel soggy calculator that is in your noggin has
thousands of time the computing power. It works slightly
differently or your hair might burn off and your eyeballs
evaporate. Nonetheless it is power-hungry. It enables you to
search the world for knowledge, entertainment and, of course,

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sex.
Your brain is there to solve the problems that matter to you.
This wonderfully simple concept is, of course, spectacularly
complex in practice but even the Pope agrees with the basic
idea. Mind you, it does not quite explain you and I. The
stumbling block is not our formidable intellects but being able
to look out of our own eyes; our subjective feeling of what
happens.
This is the third and biggest mystery. Why am I “me” and
what gives me the miracle of this instant, for it is a privileged
moment in my existence? Of all the time in history I could
have been alive, why now? In all the time of my personal
history why I am currently experiencing this little bit? Why
have I experienced any of it? As far as the notoriously
parsimonious processes of natural selection are concerned
there does not seem to be any need for the little man looking
out. We might just as well be zombies.
Well, we’re not. We’re monkeys. (Remember.)

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CHAPTER TEN
HOUSE OF GOD
Suddenly there came a sound … of a
rushing mighty wind, … And there
appeared unto them cloven tongues like as
of fire, and it sat upon each of them. And
they were all filled with the Holy Ghost.
 Acts of the Apostles, 2: 2-4
†
Traditional Church of England vicars were always very
embarrassed when the subject of God came up. The feeling
may well have been mutual.
Your typical C of E vicar was very happy talking about church
fêtes, harvest festivals, weddings and whatnot. He would
gladly go into an infants school to tell them Bible stories. He
may even offer some grave opinion on the tragic state of
world affairs to anyone who cared to ask, but try to pin him
down on matters of theology and he would likely as not get
very hot under the dog-collar. He would start reeling off a lot
of slack in the lines of thought he professed to follow, he
would wheel out all the best empty qualifications “I may be
wrong..”, “I like to think..”, “It is all very complicated..” With
typical English politeness, the common or garden Church of
England curate was more afraid of causing offence than of
incurring the Wrath of God. (Even the ones who believed in
God in the first place.)

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Maybe thinking that God was just another kindly old parish
vicar who diplomatically overlooks his parishioners casual
blaspheming and heathen lives in the hope that they may at
least come to the Easter service. They probably imagined
Heaven to be a little like Victorian England. Because to the
Monarchy was almost as important as the Almighty in their
pantheon. And the Queen certainly outranked the Virgin
Mary. They believed in the Empire because they believed in
the past, a wonderful time and place where everything had
been wonderful.
Of course, they admitted, not everything was perfect in
Victorian England, but it was being perfected. The principles
and values of those times had been largely right. And it was a
plain fact that the loss of those values to our present society
was directly responsible for the many problems and failures of
our Britain today. If people had maintained the values of
those times, we would not be witnessing the malignant
sickness of modernity; single mothers, insolent youth,
homosexuality, multiculturalism and post-modernism, divorce
and abortion.
It was another Sunday and once again Reverend Cake was
condescending from high up in his pulpit. He told simple tales
and for him, the ends were more important than the means.
Somewhere under the complex hypocrisy of his public
preaching and his private failings was a real faith in God. This
brought one highly simplifying short cut to all life’s complex
conundrums. Given the Gordian knot of some contemporary
moral dilemma, the likes of Cake would tangle for a while,
trying to tease out a straight forward holy point of view
before become frustrated with the fact that life is a little more
intricate than that, and finally slashing out with their Sword of
Burning Gold. Unaware that the delicately woven fabric of

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contract, complexity and compromise is actually what life is
really all about.
He might not be able to reason through stone-clad
justifications for what he believed about gays, unwed mothers
or female priests but he knew that by God’s Grace he had
access to the eternal truth and that excused him from
examining the tedious reasons for everything.
It could get so tangled when you attempted to take on the ‘oh
so clever’ nihilists in their language. They were so self-
evidently wrong in their moral relativism and over-extended
scepticism that it was often impossible to even know where to
begin disabusing them. So he did not. They were already
doomed; the Devil had their ears so Cake did not discourse
with them. Instead, he abused them for the benefit of his less
critical congregation.
He did not believe in the Devil of the literal cloven hoofed,
fire and brimstone school but these liberals were lost to the
darkness. No matter how bright he shone his light they would
never see it. Far more fruitful to work on drawing in those in
the half-shadows and in keeping hold of the enlightened.
Most people want the world to be simple. Some know that it
is not and try not to be too smug about things. Socrates was
one of these; the Oracle at Delphi informed him that he was
the wisest man alive. A shrewd and modest fellow he didn’t
really believe this could be true but also didn’t think it was his
place to question an infallible Oracle. Unfortunately for him,
he solved the conundrum. He decided that only thing he knew
for certain was that nothing was certain. Since no one else had
seemed to have realised, this made him the smartest man alive.
For being called stupid, the rest of Athens turned against him
and he was sentenced to death.

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In many ways the Reverend Cake worked completely the
opposite way round. He was certain that he had all the
answers and that his entitled him to condemn everyone else to
a fiery death and eternal agony in the pits of hell. Cake liked
to think that original sin rather than ignorance was the price
of knowledge. As he often told his congregation, Hell is
God’s kitchen. Before birth our souls are all prepared in the
cooler of Satan’s ovens; Steam cooked in the devil’s bain-
marie. Millions of little souls poaching gently in individual
coddling pots, shielded from the true heat of Hell, but there
to experience a hint of what awaited them if they failed to
lead good lives. The dark, smoky knowledge of right and
wrong infused into them as they cooked.
Satan’s ovens weren’t perfect. The temperature was even and
so we were born with different knowledge of Evil and hell-
fire. A few souls were very underdone, very little right and
wrong got into these half-baked atheists, whilst a handful of
others were overcooked, spoiled and evil through and
through. Most were somewhere in the middle, with enough
evil to be original sinners but far short of perfection. Only
right there at the golden mean were the saints and saviours,
who rose to perfection. Deep down, Cake knew he was one
of these. He had certainty baked into him.
•
The man had been on a reconnaissance trip to the British
Museum. It had gone well. They had everything he needed
and they hadn’t suspected a thing. Had they? He had to been
very careful from here onwards. Perhaps they were going to
follow him home? They were good.
What, he wondered, was his next step. He really should get
back to base to write up his findings while they were clear and
fresh in his mind. But what if they followed him? Everything
would be lost. He had already reached Tottenham Court Road,

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busy with shoppers by the time this thought occurred to him.
He spun round wildly but he couldn’t see anything. No, that
wasn’t the problem. He could see lots of suspicious looking
characters. But he couldn’t see his pursuers. They wouldn’t
look suspicious. This was going to be difficult. Which ones
were ‘THEY’?
He crossed the road and turned north, glancing back as often
as he dared. That one with the pushchair? Possibly. What
about that man with blue hair. Too obvious. Or is that just
what they wanted him to think? No, not on Tuesday, that
wouldn’t happen on a Tuesday. It was Tuesday, wasn’t it?
This was getting out of his control. He was afraid. He wanted
to run but he fought against it. A bus slowed and he ducked
aboard. He stayed just inside the drivers door watching. The
woman with the pushchair hurried to try and catch up but the
driver didn’t wait for anyone else to get aboard. He watched
her into the distance shaking her head and saying something
rude. That had been close. He leant forward to talk to the
driver.
“Thank you. Where are going?”
“Angel. And can you get back please, you’re not safe there.”
“I know,” said the man and climbed the stairs. His good luck
continued. The best seat in the house was unoccupied. He sat
down in the front right seat, just above the driver. It wasn’t the
best seat on the bus, but it was the best he could do as a
passenger.
It was only when the real driver came upstairs to ask him to
leave did he notice that the bus had arrived. The journey had
been calming after the excitement of the city centre but they
had not travelled far. Now the man was standing on an equally

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busy street not far from Angel tube. This was less heavenly
than he had hoped. The buzz of the afternoon crowd all
rushing around shopping and shouting into their mobile
phones was not what he needed. There were hundreds of
pushchairs and, out of the corner of his eye, he started
glimpsing suspicious characters, people watching him.
He had to get away, further away. The buses were once again
his salvation. He was not sure which one he should get. His
head was swirling but he forced himself to focus on the map
and worked out which was the longest route. It was the 137 to
Enfield and he hoped it would turn up soon because he did
not think he could managed to decipher the timetables.
As it was, he only had to wait a few fitful minutes before it
arrived. He practically threw himself inside and hurried up to
the top deck. He was so flustered that he even forgot to watch
out for pursuing pushchairs.
At the end of line, life was more sedate. Having had its
Sunday lunch, most of Enfield was sleeping it off. The man
had a look around. It didn’t take long. There wasn’t much to
look at so he wandered further. In the distance he heard
people singing hymns. He moved towards them and found
the church. Evensong was already underway so he quietly
joined the small congregation somewhere near the back, and
loudly joined the hymn somewhere among the tenors.
• †
The Right Reverend Cake looked up from his notes and down
on his congregation. The usual losers were held rapt by his
performance. He was perpetually disappointed that these were
the faithful. Basket cases, inadequates to a man, woman and
child.
How different it had been in America, thought Cake. In

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America, normal people went to church. Normal, well
dressed, well adjusted people with real jobs and traditional
families. Some of them were millionaires, and even a few
multi-millionaires. (Although most of the multi-millionaires
who went to church had their own churches. Ones they had
started themselves before they became multi-millionaires.)
The church was powerful. The church was influential. If he
was in America, he would be powerful, he would be
influential. There would be some hope.
In the sparse congregation, there was a face he did not
recognise. Not a great prospect, a scruffy unshaven man who
could not seem to keep still. But who was paying very close
attention. He was even taking notes. He would listen for a
short while, leaning earnestly forward in his pew. Then at
junctures that put Cake off his stride, the man would suddenly
start writing very fast, his knuckles straining white as he
gripped his pen and almost tearing through his paper. He
would write about half a side in a battered flip-over reporters
notepad then he would stop and go back to staring at Cake.
The man had burning eyes and Cake could not decide if he
approved or disapproved of what he was hearing.
Cake wondered if he was some sort of atheist news reporter,
here trying to find some dirt on Cake. There was some, but he
felt safe that this man would not find it here. Although
judging by his appearance he was used to digging in the dirt
and raking the mud. He must be anarchist, thought Cake. The
two being close to synonymous in his lexicon. (Along with
nihilist, modernist, socialist and liberal) Certainly there was
something anarchic about his thought processes. The points in
the sermon that set him off on one of his furious scribbles
had no pattern that Cake could make out.
Still at least somebody was listening. The church was dying; it

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was four funerals to every one wedding. And though many of
those marriages begat offspring, there were fewer and fewer
Christenings. So few of those church weddings involved
actual Christians. They had bluffed their way in for the style,
for the venue or simply to please the Bride’s mother.
And one could not help but wonder; of such Christenings as
there were, how many parents were thinking of their child’s
future in Christ’s Kingdom and how many were thinking of
his or her future in Christ’s Kingston, the local church school
with a good academic record and cynical selection policies.
Schools pretended to take children whose parents were of the
appropriate sect (there were Jewish, Muslim and Catholic
schools too) but actually selected on academic ability to keep
high in the league tables. And parents pretended to be
religious but actually cared about the same league tables. The
opinion of the children was not entered into. The government
that is used to saying one thing while doing another declared
the policy a great success.
Today’s sermon had been ‘False Prophets’ - always a very easy
one to adapt and especially at the moment.
“Today, I want to talk to you about False Prophets, about
pretenders to the Throne of God, those who would attempt
to usurp the Crown of Thorns. The Jews and the
Mohammedeans know something of God.” The Reverend
Cake liked to be inclusive. “But they wallow in ignorance of
the Truth.” But the truth was he did not know how.
“They will not hear the Good News that Christ is come. They
are damned.
“Our Catholic brethren have seen His Light, the Glory of
Our Lord, but you must pray for their souls because they
venerate False Gods and raise one man in Rome above all

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other men. That is a sin. There is Our Lord and then there are
all of us. And we are all equal.”
At the end of the service, the congregation was invited to join
the Reverend for an informal chat. It was something he’d
picked up in America. And he’d brought it back in an effort to
be different from his colleagues. They didn’t have the facilities
of those super-churches so a little table with biscuits and a tea
urn were set up at the back of the church. They didn’t have
the numbers either. The attendees were three elderly widows
with no one to go home to and two sets of new parents and
their terminally bored children. Put on display to earn a place
in the borough’s better school. Today, there was also the man.
“I liked your sermon, Reverend. I liked it very much.”
“Thank you, my friend. When I am in the pulpit, I always like
to speak the Truth as I see it. I have to. It is my duty. Up there
is where I am closest to God and where I am closest to these
people, and to you, my friend.” There was something about
the intensity with which the man attended to him that
unsettled the Reverend. Far more than the man from
Newsnight ever could. Cake moved away from the man, and
went over to strike the fear of God into a seven-year-old girl.
Reverend Cake looked out for the anarchist the last of the
congregation came out of the service. But he was not among
those leaving the church. There was no one left in the church
when he and his curate locked up. Cake assumed he must have
missed the fellow and was fairly relieved at the thought.
In fact, the man was sitting in the pulpit. It had long been his
habit to stay in church as long as he possibly could. A habit
from his unhappy school days where Chapel was a haven and
leaving it only returned him to a world that disliked him.
Besides, Reverend Cake’s sermon had given him a lot to think

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about, and unfortunately he had missed a few parts of it. He
had an abundance of questions
He would have asked his questions directly to the Reverend,
but it was too risky. THEY might be listening. Or the
Reverend himself might not understand just who it was he
was talking to. (It had happened before.) Instead the man had
gone up into the pulpit to see if the Reverend had left behind
his notes.
The man was in luck. The Reverend had not left his crib sheet
but that was fairly dull anyway. It was a skeleton script of the
sort handed out in classes at theological college. It was vague
and non-specific and could be adapted to a wide range of
occasions and topics. The Reverend had a collection of about
thirty different ones and for ordinary services like this one.
For big occasions and for his radio appearances he made the
effort to come up with new stuff. But even this was not really
necessary, When you had been doing these things two or three
times a week for thirty years, you could often get by on a wing
and prayer.
For any given Sunday, it was his habit to pick at random a
subject he was fairly sure he had not used in the last month or
so. If he thought of some way to adapt it, to relate it to events
in the news or topical issues he would scribble down a few
reminders of what he wanted to say about it. These were on
the post-it notes. In a typical sermon, he would normally aim
for about seven of these (a good Biblical number) and include
three Bible quotes for the Father, the Son and the other one.
During the course of the sermon, he would peel off the little
yellow stickers as he went along to avoid repeating things and
as a way to pace himself.
It was a great pile of these little yellow post-it notes that the

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man found on the floor of the pulpit. An autumnal forest of
them. He studied them intently. There was a lot to take in.
Too much, it was hard to keep his concentration on one thing,
without some other significant and important but unrelated
thought bubbling up and beginning to clamour for his
attention. He had to write fast to be able to keep up. This was
far better than the way it had been before, when he was on the
medication. When he had been on those powerful pills he had
been tricked into taking. When his own thoughts could not get
through to him because of the Infernal Mechanisms inside the
pills that travelled into his brain and kept locked from him the
secrets of his Destiny
At least Church was a safe place to think. Safer than he
realised. He had so much to think about that it wasn’t until
past midnight that he realised he was locked in. He tried for a
few minutes to find a way out but quickly resigned himself to
spending the night. He didn’t mind.
He ate the flapjack he found in his pocket and had a glass of
water in the vestry. He curled up in a nest he made out of
vestments and surplices and slept soundly
Eight hours later, the Reverend and the curate unlocked the
doors to prepare for the primary school service. Before they
could enter, the man had cascaded out and hurried away at a
shuffling half-run.
Reverend Cake watched him go, hoping he had stolen the
silverware so they could claim on the insurance. (They were
covered for everything except Acts of God.) It would also be
a great opportunity for publicity. The Reverend could
denounce the gays, anarchists and drug-users responsible and
launch an appeal to raise funds for the church.

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He was to be disappointed. The man would never attempt to
steal priceless artefacts from a church. To him they were part
of the church. In any case, he was in too much of a hurry. He
must get home and consult his other notebooks.
And if the man’s plan was true, Reverend Cake need not
worry about his publicity, his collection plate or the churches
worldly treasures. There would be far, far greater revelations
and rewards. (And probably a few Acts of God too.)
Strangely, as he left the man had taken the Reverend’s hand
and spoken to him.
“It says in the book of John. ‘You must be my protector.’“

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INTERMISSION THREE
DOUBLE PLUS UNGOD
Religion bad! Humans good!
In which I disagree that the positive social or spiritual
contributions of religion make any difference to whether it is
a ‘good thing’.
[Note: throughout I use the term ‘you’ but don’t take this
totally personally, whoever you are!]
After all, belief in Santa Claus is a ‘good thing’ for children, it
makes them happy and maybe even makes them less naughty
and more nice (for a few weeks in December at least). As
such, it is a lie adults are happy to perpetuate, but none of
them choose it for themselves.
I think there is a strong parallel to be found in many of the
liberal apologias for religion; ‘it isn’t necessarily true but it’s
good for society’, ‘my own faith is complex but churches
shouldn’t confuse people with subtle points of theology’.
In my view, if you are religious then you are obliged to grapple
with the theology. More than that I’d say you are obliged to be
a fundamentalist. You believe in an absolute, you believe in
good and evil, right and wrong. You ought to be able to apply
this to everything, you ought to try. After all you believe that
there is a hell of a lot at stake (not just life and death, but
eternal life or death.) Your initial assumption, that God exists
(and happens to be of your denomination) is such a massive

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claim. It goes against all the available evidence. It massively
complicates the world around us. Raising extremely difficult
questions:
 how does god fit into a world described by modern
physics?
 how does the soul interact with the body?
 when did souls evolve?
 why are we spending 3 score years & 10 on a quiz to
win eternal life?
 why are you the chosen ones?
 why should you believe your priests?
If the answers come down to a matter of faith, then I have
one more question for you: why should anyone else in the
entire world agree with you? Because it’s true? You haven’t
established that! Either everyone must agree with you or else
no one is obliged to. And if you disagree with the extremism,
then you must retreat to a totally personal religious standpoint.
You may not be totally permissive of other points of view
(I’m not) but you cannot argue from religious premises
(you’ve admitted that people can have their own interpretation
of matters spiritual).
By contrast, if you have no religion you are obliged to be
liberal. All knowledge is provisional. Every decision must be
won by reasoned debate, not appeal to authority. There is a
method for establishing not what is true, but what is our best
approximation to the truth. It’s called the scientific method.
And this is where I get absolutist; I challenge anyone to come
up with some problem not amenable to the scientific method.
I don’t think any moral imperatives need to be predicated on
theological grounds. There are (or at least ought to be) rational
reasons for the laws of the land. Similarly for the arrangement

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of society. Most particularly for your personal conduct. Look
for the human reason for doing what you are doing, look for
your inner motives, question yourself. There is no outside
authority, you are the final arbiter of your actions, you are
responsible. So is everyone else. Society is built up from
personal freedom AND personal responsibility.
“What about the meaning of life?” I hear you cry. (I‘m
sobbing a little myself.) But if living in a godless world means
that life has no meaning then so be it. This doesn’t make me
want to jump off a tall building, it is just another challenge.
After all nothing is certain so maybe I haven’t found it yet?
And if there is no god then there can be no afterlife. This life
is the only place you will ever find meaning. If you get my
meaning.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN
HOUSE ON FIRE
You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain
Too much love drives a man insane
You broke my will, oh what a thrill
Goodness gracious great balls of fire
– Otis Blackwell and Jack Hammer, loosely based on
Acts 2:2-4.
•
What would be ideal for this job would be a milk bottle. But
he had not been able to find one. Last time he had a milk
bottle, although that was a long time ago now. Twenty years?
These days his milk came in cartons or in one of those plastic
bottles. One of those would have to do, and on the plus side
they were bigger. You could get a four pint one. He decided
that this was what he wanted.
He didn’t want to waste the milk but after drinking the first
three pints, he admitted defeat and poured the rest carefully
down the drain at the edge of the forecourt. Filling the flimsy
bottle was more tricky than he’d anticipated but by the third
or forth attempt, he had the knack.
When he went to pay, he had got a funny look from the guy
behind the counter at the twenty-four hour garage. But they
sold him the petrol anyway. It was the same man who had sold
him the milk.

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*
Getting ready to go out, John put his hand in the pocket of
his jacket. He felt something plasticky and pulled it out: Mr
White’s all night bag of shite. It looked up at him. Accusingly
or conspiratorially? He couldn’t decide which. He kept staring
but no answer came. He looked at his watch. He did not want
to be late. Guilty he thrust the bag back in his pocket and put
his keys in the other.
Sam had invited him to the Burlington Grill. He had got there
on time to find Sam already waiting for him at the bar. She
was more conservatively dressed than last time, but still looked
stunning. The conversation was going to awkward wherever
they did it, so they decided to stick to small talk until they
both had a drink and were shown to their table. This
happened swiftly because the Maître D’ had recognised John
when he came in and had been hovering by his shoulder since
he arrived.
They were seated within minutes and sat opposite each other
in silence as the waiter described the specials. Without Arlvik’s
drugs in his system, John was terribly nervous about the
impression he’d make on this date. He also had to stop
thinking that this was a date. Concentrating on the menu and
ordering quickly seemed to be the only way to fend off the
attentions of their over-enthusiastic waiter. Once they had
decided and their menus removed, leaving nothing between
them and the conversation they had been dreading.
“We deceived you. I deceived you and I am sorry. I want..”
John held his hand up.
“I forgive you. I will forgive you on one condition. Will you
tell me your real name? It’s not ‘Sam’, right?”

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“No, it’s not. And yes, I will, I promise. But not yet. Will you
hear me out first? I’ve been feeling terrible about this and I
want to explain as best I can.” It’s true, she did look pale and
ashen. She did not seem to have been crying but her eyes were
slightly pink as if she’d not slept.
“Go on.”
“I am not going to apologise for my job. My conscience is
clear about that but what I did to you went beyond that. I am
sorry about that. I didn’t think it was going to turn out like it
did but even so I didn’t have any business doing what I did.”
“You could have thought it through…”
“There wasn’t any chance. Jayne only called me a couple of
hours before we met you. She was very excited saying Eric
Hayle had a great job and she needed my help.”
John started to speak and it was Sam’s turn to hold up her
hand.
“Just hear me out please? Jayne said Eric had a friend who
needed exposure and needed two girls who would be okay
with a kiss and tell. I’ve never done anything like that but I
have heard about it happening.”
“He didn’t say that I didn’t know about it?”
“Jayne didn’t mention it. Eric told us both when we met him
at Black’s a little before you arrived. It didn’t really have time
to sink in.”
“It’s not a small point.”
“I know, but I was more worried about myself. What I was

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getting myself into.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve been doing the escorting for a while. A year or two. I’ve
never wanted to see my name in the paper.”
“You and me both”
“It was Jayne. It’s different for Jayne. She has been in quite a
few of Eric’s magazines. She has even made a few films. She’s
wanted something like this for a long time… the exposure.
Don’t get me wrong, she is a lovely girl and she’s a good
friend.” Sam paused and took a sip on her wine. “She asked
me to help her out. It was a job, a well paid one too. But it
represented a lot more than that to Jayne. I wasn’t keen. She
knew that. I wasn’t the first person she’d called about it but
no-one else was free. I was her last resort. I actually said no.
This was still when I thought you knew about it, that you
wanted to be in the papers. When she first called I turned her
down. I told her no. She understood.
“But I thought about it and a few minutes later I called her
back. It’s funny. The reason I agreed was because I didn’t want
to be a hypocrite. I’ve always told myself that I am
comfortable with what I do, being an escort. But here I was
not willing to help my friend because I was ashamed. I didn’t
want to be publicly associated with what I do. I realised this
and I called her back.”
“What a good Samaritan” John said. Sam looked pained
“Sorry.. I didn’t.. carry on.” Sam took another sip of her
wine.
“So that was how I was feeling when we got to the club and
Eric told us that you didn’t know what was going on. I should

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have thought a bit more about you but I was confused enough
myself. I couldn’t let Jayne down. She really wanted this. There
she was sitting opposite Eric Hayle, can you imagine what that
represented to her? Well you saw in the restaurant. Eric was
promising her all sorts of things: a front page, a contract at
one of his magazines, a film of her own. He knew how to
play her.”
“I’ve been noticing that.”
“If I am honest, he played me too. He told us that you were
determined to be famous; you would do whatever it took but
that you didn’t really know it yourself. But that’s why you had
put yourself in his hands. He said it would work better if you
were kept in the dark. If you didn’t find out until afterwards.
He said it was just a little trick he was playing on you. He said
you were a little afraid, that you’d chicken out if you’d
known.”
“Yes, I wouldn’t have agreed” John paused. “Is that how you
saw me, a chicken?”
“You were... sweet. Yes, I suppose it was a bit like that.” She
laughed. “You were terrified when Jayne and I first
approached you.” John had to smile.
“Eric also said you really needed to get laid and he was right
about that, wasn’t he?” She laughed again and held his eye.
“You pretty much know the rest.”
“Yes, I was there...” John took a sip of his drink. “But were
you?”
“Yes, no, it’s complicated. There’s a part of me..” She stopped
herself. “Can we not get into that right now? I enjoyed myself,
I enjoyed your company. I’d like to enjoy this.”

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She gestured around them and then held out her hand for
him.
“I’m Natalie.”
•
A more alert shopkeeper might not have sold a box of
matches to a confused and oddly dressed man smelling
strongly of petrol. But then again, he might decide that if he
didn’t, someone else would.
Besides the man had also bought a pocket A to Z. He was
probably just lost.
*
After they had ordered the dessert, Sam/Natalie asked him if
he’d like anything else sweet. He didn’t understand. She asked
if maybe he needed to use the bathroom. He still wasn’t really
getting it so in the end she just handed him the wrap of
cocaine. Embarrassed that his mind had been going down an
entirely different path, John took it and hurried away. He
wasn’t going to take any but, well, maybe just a little. To be
sociable.
They had already been getting on like a house on fire but the
cocaine poured petrol on that. But then Natalie suddenly
stopped talking. John looked round to see what it was that had
stopped her. There were two policemen talking to the Maître
D’. Just at that moment the Maître D’ scanned the room and
pointed out their table. In the next moment, the shorter, fatter
policeman locked eyes with John. And removing all doubt that
it was him they were hunting for, this mean and ugly looking
officer and the Maître D’ started over in their direction.
Feeling instantly guilty, John’s heart leaped to his mouth, he

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was desperate to make a break for the rear door. They could
have made it too if John’s legs had not just turned to jelly.
Some consideration was given to sliding lifelessly to the floor,
hiding under the thick white tablecloths of the Burlington
Grill. This was rejected on the grounds that his whimpering
might give him away. That and a vestigial need not to
humiliate himself in front of Natalie. The small part of John’s
brain that was not engaged in full-scale panic was trying to
persuade the rest of him to keep calm. It was almost
succeeding when another small residual rational corner of his
cortex piped up in a tiny frightened voice to remind him that
he still had over half of White’s Original Miscellany in his
jacket pocket. Those of his internal organs that had not
previously abandoned hope could now be felt jostling and
pushing their way to the lifeboats.
The policeman and the Maître D’ had paused halfway as the
officer asked the restaurateur to leave him to tackle Smith on
his own. The Maître D’ clearly did not like this trumping of
his authority and was upset he would not find out what the
law wanted with this customer. He needed to know. It might
be necessary to bar the outlaw from returning.
Realising he could not get away and having been brought up
to fear and obey authority and especially of the blue uniform
wearing kind, John was ready to launch into his confession.
Hoping that coming clean with an instant and contrite
confession would go better for him. Maybe some crying might
help too.
“Mr Smith?”
“..s”
The policeman was clearly senior, he wore a peaked cap rather
than a helmet and his uniform was not fluorescent blues an

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yellows but still of the heavy old fashioned style with lots of
silver crested buttons. Tucking his headgear under his arm, he
reached in to his upper left chest pocket and removed his
regulation, black covered, fold-over notebook.
“Mr John Smith of 43a Havenhand Avenue?”
“..s”
“Hello, Mr Smith. I am Detective Inspector Lipton from
Herne Hill Police station.”
“..s?”
“Mr Smith I am afraid your flat has burned down.”
“What?”
“It appears someone has set fire to your house.”
“Oh, is that all? Thank God!”
“Sir?” The inspector asked uncertainly.
“Oh, yes, terrible, terrible” Smith said to reassure the officer,
this wonderful policeman who did not want to arrest him.
This lovely policeman who was not going to take him down,
lock him up and brick up the door. This glum looking
policeman who had said something about his house being on
fire.
“Hang on, that IS terrible. What happened?”
“It appears that someone set fire to your house, Sir. I
understand this must be a shock to you.” said the inspector
not really understanding why this odd man was so jumpy but

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reassured that he was now acting the role of the inconsolable
victim of crime more accordingly.
“We are not sure Sir. On first impression of the Fire Scene
Investigation Officer, it would seem that someone broke your
front window and threw a petrol bomb into your front room.”
“I can’t believe anyone would do that!”
“There is a lot of scum out there Mr Smith,” said the
policeman, with the weary tone of a man who a had a lot of
professional contact with the aforementioned scum.
“When did this happen?” asked Smith.
“Mid-morning, sir. We had been trying to track you down all
day. There are quite a few John Smith’s in London.” said
Inspector Lipton.
“Yes, how did you find me?”
As the inspector explained that a journalist from the Clarion
had seemed interested in the story and had helpfully
established his whereabouts. Smith reflected that this was
probably the least bad way to find out your house had burned
down. Sitting on a comfy banquet in a Michelin starred
restaurant, a pre-dinner cocktail swimming up to your head
and an excellent bottle of red recently opened. Much better
than getting home from a hard day’s rat-racing to find you no
longer had a home. Or worse yet waking up in bed, sitting up
just long enough to breath a lungful of smoke, exhale ‘Oh
Bugger’ and expire.
“Tell me the worst, I am ready. How bad was it?” He said,
toying with his chocolate and white truffle ravioli.

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“Very bad, I am afraid Mr Smith.”
“Oh well, pull up a chair super-intendant and tell me all about
it,” said Smith chirpily, the cocktail working its magic and his
heart considerably happier now it knew they were not likely to
spend a night in the cells. “Can I get Marcel to bring you
anything?” Gesturing to the Maître D’, who had all the while
been edging closer.
“Nothing for me Sir, Thank you.” Nonetheless, Detective
Inspector Lipton took a chair and consulted his notebook.
“The front room was utterly gutted. It was burning fiercely by
the time the fire brigade arrive and there was nothing they
could do. Besides the petrol bomb, there was a lot of
accelerant material scattered about the place.” John thought of
all the books, newspapers and pizza boxes that normally
littered his sitting room and imagined how well the room
would burn.
“The bedroom was less badly affected but it is not likely you
will be able to save anything.” The inspector turned the page
but that was all that he had, it seemed that this odd if well-
dressed man who was of interest to the papers and ate in
extremely expensive restaurants with an attractive and
immaculate blonde lived in a one bedroom basement flat in a
nasty part of Lambeth. Maybe he was gigolo, thought Lipton.
“The rest of the building suffered from smoke and heat
damage but mostly your neighbours escaped unscathed. Do
you know who might want to do this to you? An ex-lover? An
aggrieved husband?” The inspector asked untactfully pursuing
his gigolo theory.
“No, no-one I can think of, no-one like that.” John paused.
“Eric mentioned there had been a few death threats but he
said not to take them seriously. God, what if he’s wrong?”

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Inspector Lipton watched as John’s demeanour took another
U-turn. “And who is this ‘Eric’ person?” he asked reaching
hopefully for his policeman’s biro.
“Eric.. Eric Hayle.” For a moment the inspector’s gigolo story
was looking better and better, then two added slowly to two in
his straightforward policeman’s brain. He realised that this
man was the overnight publicity machine John Smith. It
dawned on the inspector that he was dealing with a ‘celebrity’.
No wonder the chief had insisted that he went, rather than
sending a couple of constables. But someone might have
warned him.
In the presence of a personage known or believed to be
famous, the attitude of typical wet behind the ears police
constable changes from the practical but surly menace they
extend to the general public into a helpless slack-jawed star-
struck fawning. With time they learn that celebrities are just
like everybody else except with bigger egos and less common
sense. They also have better lawyers. The attitude of your
seasoned detective inspector changes from his normal
patronising sarcasm and a barely disguised mild derision to
one of debased sycophancy and deeply hidden extreme
suspicion and dislike.
This was why the chief superintendent had sent Detective
Inspector Lipton, a well-salted veteran of many years’ service.
There was no other officer under his command whom he felt
safe sending to interview a man who had barely been off the
front pages of the tabloids all week. Sure enough, D.I. Lipton
rapidly adapted to the situation adopting the ingratiating tone
he saved for his superiors. Meanwhile he tried to remember
why this man in front of him was famous. He could not think
of any reason other than that he was famous and a new
theory started to form in his crime-fighting mind: Smith had

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probably started the fire himself for the publicity.
•
The plan was a good one but the man with the plan had
forgotten a few details. He realised now that he ought to have
waited until the False One had come home and gone to bed
before he had done it. But once he had got into the flow of
his inspiration he had decided to follow it and it hadn’t
occurred to him that the other actors in his drama might not
be hitting their cues as appropriate.
Besides after three pints of milk, he had needed the toilet
quite badly. So he rushed through the attack and rushed off to
find a toilet. By the time he got back there was a little crowd
and big fire. The man felt quite pleased with himself. It was
not until around the time the fire engine arrived that he
realised the Enemy had escaped again.
The firemen were very quickly in control of the fire. The
flames had been pretty but now there was nothing to see. So
he took a walk in the park to think things through. He would
not be discouraged. He was a fool to have thought that
fighting the forces of darkness would be a walk in the park. It
would be tough. It was a challenge and that was why he had
been Chosen. After all had not everyone always told him he
was special? If he was to do this he needed to do it properly.
It was time step up a gear.
¢ ?
Shona had arrived at Saint Helena’s School for Girls by taxi
and paid the driver too much before trying to duck stealthily
inside. The solid and secure school-doors prevented her. Eric
Hayle had answered his intercom promptly enough but she
was kept waiting for what seemed like an age. She was sure he
was doing it deliberately. It was late, past 10pm so there
weren’t many people on the streets, but that made her

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presence all the more conspicuous.
Relieved to be finally inside in privacy, Shona did not take in
too many of Saint Helena’s distinctive features as Eric led her
into his study. Eric, himself, was still in his suit. A soft grey,
pin-striped three piece, but his waistcoat was unbuttoned and
his tie was gone.
She wanted to get this over with but Eric was not going to be
rushed. He took his time preparing her a drink, Chinzano with
ice. She hadn’t wanted to come but was sufficiently ambitious
and astute to know that you didn’t make Eric Hayle any more
of an enemy than he needed to be.
“Shona, out of the harsh glare of those studio lights you look
ten years younger.”
“Please.” Her voice was harsh but she was already resigned to
the fact that Eric was going to have his fun.
When she had taken his call earlier that day, he hadn’t said
what this was about. And while she knew that she should not
even consider any proposal he could make she knew even
more clearly that she would. That decision had been made a
long time ago, well before he called again this evening and
ordered her into the back of a taxi to meet him in his home. It
was as if she and the Devil had signed an agreement in
principle and now were just haggling over terms.
“Do you see much of Nigel these days?” he asked.
“What do you want, Eric?”
“Not much, not much, we’ll get to that. But there’s really no
need to take that tone. Yes, I want some things from you but I
am quite prepared to pay a generous price.”

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“I don’t want your money.”
“Oh, I know … It’s not money that I am offering. Not just
money. I know you, don’t think I don’t. I know your
weaknesses.”
Shona sighed and rolled her eyes. Why did men always have to
be so melodramatic.
Shona’s craving was for fame, and when indulging her vice
was she was not nice. Indeed, it would be a bold or perceptive
therapist who could tell which she enjoyed more the
recognition of celebrity or the opportunity to be bitchy. The
unrelenting niceness of Hazel Cole and the annoyance of
having been upstaged both began to gnaw at her.
Yes, she had resolved, thanks to Hazel, to be nicer but the
thing about resolutions is that they are very easy to make and
very hard not to break. Especially once the craving hits you
and you realise that the self righteousness of doing the right
thing is nowhere near as rewarding or as fun as the vice which
you have been denying yourself. Shona’s heart was already
racing.
“This is about Hazel Cole, isn’t it?”
“All in good time. Come and join me” Eric had gone to sit on
one of the chesterfields. Shona hesitated long enough to make
it see like she had a choice and then went to join him, seating
herself instinctively in the chair on his left. Stage right. As she
walked over, she noticed for the first time that there appeared
to be two people asleep in the bed.
“Isn’t this nice?” Eric asked. “I feel like a guest on your show.
What say we try and solve my problems? You and me

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together?”
“I am listening.” Shona said, though her tone was not one ever
heard on daytime television.
“You have your show and you have a shitty column in the
Scum, how much do you get for that?”
“Two thousand pounds a time.”
“Bollocks, you get six hundred if you write it yourself and
three hundred the rest of time. I will give you two thousand a
go, whoever ends up writing it, and that’s for a weekly not
fortnightly column. And that is just the beginning of what I
could do for you.”
“But?”
“Well there are a couple of things you will have to do for me.”
Shona said nothing but let him continue.
“That Hazel bitch is queering the pitch for my golden boy, I
want her off the field. Her navel-gazing and ‘oh-so-
reasonable’ attitude to everything undermine the tale we are
trying to sell. It just confuses people. The public don’t have
fancy Pea Aitch Dee’s in psychotherapy or whatever la-di-dah
lunacy she psychobabbles. They don’t need some old biddy
opening up their heads and peering inside. They want
something simple, something immediate and direct. Mr Smith
and the newness of nowness not Doctors Cole, Freud and
fucking Frankenstein. I want her out of my way and I want
you to help me.”
“Hang on, she is a phenomenon too. My viewing figures are
huge. Double what they were even at the height of that shit-

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storm your papers stirred up about me.”
“We only printed the truth and look at you now, it didn’t do
you any harm, did it?”
“It lost Nigel his job.”
“Yeah, well you can do a lot better for yourself than a junior
treasury minister. He wasn’t ever going to go anywhere
anyway. And if he did, he wasn’t going to leave his wife. So
either way, I’d say I did you a favour” Eric became more
conciliatory. “Look, I want her finished but it doesn’t have to
be straight away. We play them off against each other and we
can both benefit.”
Shona thought about it. “It won’t work . She loves everyone
and your moon-faced loon is in a world of his own. They’re
both ungovernable.”
“We won’t be working with them, we will be working with the
public’s perception and that is the easiest thing in the world to
manipulate. You could ask Nigel, but I expect you don’t talk to
him much these days.”
“Bastard.”
“Come, come! You do these two simple things for me and you
will not be sorry.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet, but when I do, I will expect you to be there
for me. Obviously I can’t sign you up to my paper while you
are still behind that witch. But I can give you a little taster
now,” he said handing her a folded piece of paper. Glancing at
it, she saw a few meaningless numbers. “You’ll find that

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someone has opened a discreet account for you in the land of
the cuckoo-clock. There is not much in it at the moment, but I
find it is always useful to have a few florins tucked away out
of sight of our wonderful Inland Revenue.”
She gave it another look and tucked safely into her purse, as
she looked back up Eric was adjusting himself in his seat.
“And two things? You’ve only mentioned one?”
“Oh, I think you know” he said, his eyes falling then rising to
meet hers with a cruel sadistic glint.
“Bastard,” she hissed under her breath. But she could see
everything that he was offering her and she wanted it so badly
that she could almost taste it. If you wanted to get ahead,
sometimes you had to make sacrifices. You had to swallow
your pride. This wouldn’t be the first time.
One last swig of her drink and she was down on her on her
hands and knees crawling steadily across the rich carpet to
where Eric was already unbuttoning his flies. All the while
there was a fierce gleam in her eyes, like a panther who sees
her prize.
It was over faster than she’d anticipated. It was bad but wasn’t
as bad as she’d feared.
Eric was quickly to his feet and threw her some handkerchiefs
as he rearranged himself. He moved to beside the door, eager
to get rid of her. She was just as eager to leave.
“Well, that’s all decided then. I’d offer to shake hands but I
don’t think there’s any need. You have your down-payment.
And I have mine. I haven’t decided how this is going to play
yet but when I do, you will get a phone call. And when the

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end game is in sight, you’ll get a contract and then I will want
to collect my full price.”
“But, that … “
“Like I said, that was a down-payment.” Eric was laughing as
opened the front door and ejected her into the night.
Her departing “Bastard” was mostly for his benefit. As she
played everything back, it hadn’t gone at all badly. She’d got a
very good deal and Eric Hayle was better as a friend than as
an enemy. Besides, he wasn’t holding all the cards. He clearly
knew nothing about her blossoming relationship with Marina
Allan.
*
The fire left John quite badly shaken. The policeman had gone
but John’s nerves were still jangling. Natalie moved her chair a
little closer and took John’s hand in hers. She couldn’t think of
much to say so she just stroked the back of his hand. It
seemed to help.
Marcel, the Maître D’ had not been quite close enough to hear
everything but he pieced things together. He did his bit to
help. Two coffees and a large brandy appeared silently in front
of them. And they were left undisturbed until it was time to
close the restaurant.
Natalie took John back to hers. He didn’t object. There was
nowhere else to go.

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CHAPTER TWELVE
PRIME MINISTRESS AND DEATH
THREATS
Most powerful is he who has himself in his own power
– Seneca
Ψ
Hazel did not want to meet Marina Allen. Marina’s husband
was bad enough, his government had come in a massive
mandate and the goodwill to change the way things were
done. They had made some steps towards change, but mostly
they liked it just the way it was. As more time went by it
became obvious that they were just as bad as the last lot:
Acting for ill-defined reasons of political expediency, bowing
to the knee jerk reaction of some fictitious middle England.
The wants and needs of the vast majority of the party’s core
followers were ignored. It looked like Charles Parson thought
they would vote for his party no matter what. The equally
large majority he got at the most recent general election
seemed to confirm that and he moved ever further to the
right.
His wife was not her husband, but she was one of them.
But Hazel would not be intimidated. She reminded herself
that her professional life had fared worse. She had faced down
men who had killed infamously. She had attempted to
understand those whom even a mother couldn’t love. She had
connected with near catatonics and extreme narcissists. She
could manage Marina Allen. Therefore, Hazel prepared for

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the dinner as if this was a clinical encounter. She had read
what case notes she could find. The opinions of Wikipedia
were not quite as good as a consultant psychiatrist but at least
she could read the writing.
* ¢ ?
The day after the fire John had received a call from Eric.
“I thought you’d be calling.”
“Great news about the fire, wasn’t it? I think we must be
getting through to people,” said Eric.
“So you’re calling to make fun of my situation?”
“Actually, you called me about something a few days ago. You
didn’t call back so I assume it wasn’t important.”
“I had a question.” John said. It didn’t seem so important any
more. Not after someone had tried to kill him. Maybe if he
could just get out of this. But telling Eric he wanted to quit
was no better as an option. He’d have to work his way up to it.
“Yes?”
“I cannot understand how you can pay me so much. How are
we going to make any money out of me?” John asked.
“Aha, an excellent question Mr Smith. Maybe we will make a
rock-star out of you yet. Do you know who is number one on
Mick Jagger’s speed dial?”
“Keith Richards?”

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“No, it’s Rupert Löwenstein, his accountant* Come to the
office, I have a surprise.”
In the Clarion offices, Eric was ready with another lecture.
“You are selling a lot of newspapers, which is always good.
We released the video package and license some broadcast
rights we will be doing okay. But as I told you, I am doing this
for principle rather then money. But, there is no reason in
principle why one can’t have both.
“I have a little dirt on just anyone you care to mention.
Though the secrets of politicians and celebrities are not nearly
as interesting as you might think. And you have probably
heard them all down the pub anyway, along with a load of
utter rubbish. That is the difference, I know which tall tales
are true and often I have even seen the pictures that prove it.
But I do not see fit to print this tittle tattle.
“So what if some national television weatherman has a
gambling problem, that spokesperson X of her Majesty’s
Loyal Opposition likes to take late night walks on Clapham
Common, or this disc jockey has a nasty disease? Seventy
percent of any given political party are incompetent and as
many again have abused their authority. Chase after too many
soft targets and you discourage the well meaning from ever
signing up and you’re just left with the real bastards. Only a
tiny minority are pro-actively corrupt or criminally
hypocritical. They are the ones I go for in print.
“I have met Gandhi, Kennedy and Martin Luther King, and
try as I might I didn’t like any of them. They all had the same
flaw: great though they undoubtedly were they could never
* This may or may not be true. But what is a fact is that before the band
took off Jagger had a scholarship to study business and accounting at
the London School of Economics.

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stop being politicians. I think every politician who has
succeeded has the same flaw. However strong your principles
when you start out, once you enter the political game it is
going to change. Sooner or later you are going to have to
compromise one or other of them. And when you’ve done it
once, you’ll do it again. At first, you can rationalise it, because
you can’t change the world if you don’t have power. So a little
idealism must be sacrificed at the altar of expediency. But the
further you go the more you do it. You become a bigger and
bigger hypocrite. I fucking hate hypocrisy. “
Eric paused. If this rant was going anywhere, John wasn’t
aware. Maybe Eric was drunk. Or maybe he was just old. It
was easy to forget that a man was 91 when you had to run to
keep up with him.
“Where was I?”
“I’m not sure. Something about money and principles and
bastards?”
“Ah yes, let’s forget about the bastards. Money and principles.
That was your question wasn’t it? You are big. Just like I said
you would be. A bunch of students in Leeds have renamed
their bar after you and in Dundee University they are
nominating you for Vice Chancellor. Some idiot in Swanage
has got you tattooed on his back. Though you are wearing
England football kit and scoring a goal because he had started
getting Wayne Rooney and changed his mind after seeing a
video of your performance. Apparently there are even a
couple of people have changed their name to John Smith.”
“What? Who? Why?”
“And ‘where’ and ‘when’. You’re getting the hang of this.”

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“Why would they do that? Who would even know?”
“But who won’t know? Meet a new John Smith, there’s always a
chance he’d changed his name to yours. That’s what makes it
great story.”
“So my job is just to keep on selling papers?”
“No, you happen to sell papers because that isn’t a job. You
have principles not a product. The students like you because
they see you as a rebel. They’ll never rebel themselves but they
don’t know that yet. Everyone else wants to know what you’ll
do next, ready and waiting for you to fail. They’ll follow your
story and they’ll pay money to see you because they simply
can’t guess what happens next. Right now almost no one is
listening to what you actually said. Your popularity is your
unpredictability.”
“That’s mostly your unpredictability,” John said.
“Parlour tricks. We need to get their attention before we can
tell anything. Before you tell, another performance, bigger,
better, more shocking. Then people will listen. And everything
else will follow.”
“Money? I don’t see how.”
“The fastest way to make money is to start your own religion.
This is the next best thing. Just ask Jagger. That reminds me,
what music do you like? What bands?” Eric asked.
“All kinds really. Almost everything, except Phil Collins, he’s
dreadful.” John replied unsure what sort of test this was.
“Yes, he’s a cunt. Let me put it another way; who would you
like to open for you at Wembley?” said Eric, springing his

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surprise.
Ψ ?
It was only after long thought that Hazel had agreed to have
dinner with the prime minister’s wife. She convinced herself
that Marina Allan could not be all bad and not very scary. But
Hazel kept coming back to the fact that she was some high
flying corporate warrior queen, who reminded Hazel of Snow
White’s evil stepmother.
Shona tried to suggest that the meeting took place at the
studio. Marina Allan could watch the Friday show where
Doctor Cole and Shona solved the audience’s problems and
she could meet the pair of them after. She was told that
Marina Allan was far too busy. Fortunately the alternative
arrangements that Marina Allan’s office suggested was
extremely acceptable to Shona. Marina Allan would like to
meet the doctor for dinner at some fashionable and expensive
restaurant. And it was suggested that Shona’s company could
pay. (Although she could easily afford it, Marina Allan was not
the sort to pay for her own dinner if she could avoid it.) This
was a perfect compromise for Shona. If Shona was paying
then no one could stop her attending and the meeting would
be highly public. Especially once Shona had tipped off the
press. (Though she did not need it, Shona was not the sort to
pass up the publicity if she were dining with the Prime
Ministress.)
When Marina Allan arrived, she was swept into the building in
a swarm of six or seven menacing close protection officers.
Unknown to Shona and Hazel, there already another eight in
the building. Every entrance and exit was secure, armed
officers sat at each of the tables on either side of them
pretending to be businessmen having dinner. Crop-haired
muscle bound businessmen wearing para-boots and drinking

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only mineral water. To be fair to them, that was their point.
They were there as an obvious deterrent to anyone who might
be looking for them, but not so obvious as to spoil the rich
atmosphere of Crivelli’s for everyone-else. Entering into the
spirit of their roles, they even ordered food. (Which Shona
would be billed for.)
One final officer patrolled the kitchen, alert to anyone
attempting to sabotage the food destined for ‘the baggage’. He
made sure that no ‘terrorists’ or other kitchen radicals tried to
poison her with strychnine, cyanide or balsamic vinegar.
Especially not balsamic vinegar. Her Bach Flower therapist
had expressly forbidden it. In a double Michelin starred
modern Italian restaurant it was a clear and present danger.
His presence also discouraged the deliberate adulteration of
her food with human bodily fluids. A more common
occurrence than you, she and especially her Bach Flower
therapist might like to think.
“Julio, the twins personal fitness instructor, had a copy with
him during their junior Pilates class the previous week and he
was so enthusiastic about it that I asked Esme what she
thought,” Marina explained.
Esme O’Brien was a tabloid editor’s dream. She was Marina
Allan’s best friend and her husband’s worst nightmare. She was
a former glamour model with even fewer O-levels than
Princess Diana, any number of dodgy friends and an outlook
so New Age that it was almost as if she had been born
yesterday. She may well have been - re-birthing was an almost
monthly activity for her. She was Marina’s most trusted friend
and closest confidante. She advised Marina on everything; her
wardrobe, her aromatherapy selections, probably even on
Government policy.
Shona hated Esme O’Brien.

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“Esme said that you possessed deep knowledge and wisdom
but that you repressed your spiritual essence, but then that’s
normal of Taureans,” Marina said.
“Really?” said Hazel biting her tongue, in a way not typical of
Taureans. But then she was not a Taurean.
Naturally, Esme had not read ‘Help Yourself’ but she did like
the title. As someone who did not have the mental capacity to
think too much about anyone else, it had appealed to her. She
worried when she flicked through it and found there were no
pictures. Not one diagram mapping chakra meridians. Not
even any rainbows or flowers. But when she had looked at the
author photograph on the back fly-cover, she had sensed that
Hazel was a good person. (And that she was a Taurean.) And
Hazel was a good mother earth pleasing name, so the book
had passed the Esme test.
Marina Allen reached into her brightly coloured authentic
Bedouin Ha’goof and brought out a copy of ‘Help Yourself’.
“Look, I’ve got your book.” She said to the frosty atmosphere
at the table.
“Have you read it?” Hazel asked politely in a tone that Shona
could not help but recognise. She dropped her fork.
“Oh no, I am far too busy,” Marina replied and the knife went
too. “I was hoping you could tell me about it?”
Shona’s dreams hung on this answer. She saw a pained look
flick over the doctor’s face. Then Hazel glanced fleetingly in
her direction. When Hazel had agreed to this meeting, she
knew she’d have to be on her best behaviour. She smiled a
fake smile and had her first ever go at the cynical art of

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diplomacy.
For the first course she managed it. She spoke in empty
statements. She ignored the absurdities that came back. She
deflected difficult questions. She involved Shona as much as
possible. Her food was most probably delicious but she had
no respite to enjoy it. Her wine went down quickly.
The main course went better. Marina gave up on Dr. Cole and
reluctantly conversed with Shona. To Marina’s surprise they
bonded quite well. Shona was eager to agree with her potential
new friend. They knew a lot of the same people. How funny
that Madame Amethyst, a terrible gossip and name-dropper,
had never mentioned that Shona was a client too. She and
Shona spoke the same language. They talked it among
themselves and left Dr Cole to enjoy her cod and her Chablis.
It was only at dessert that something snapped. Perhaps it was
all the talk of crystals and auras. Perhaps it was listening to the
checklist of ingredients that Marina Allan wouldn’t eat.
Perhaps it was the three glasses of wine. In any event, Dr.
Cole decided that she was a therapist, not a diplomat. The
prime minister’s wife had just said something preposterous
about happiness and Hazel could stay silent no longer.
“I am afraid I don’t agree.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Mrs Allan, Marina, you could not possibly be more
successful. It seems to me that you have everything you could
wish and have succeeded at everything you have attempted
and yet you want something more? If the newspapers are to
believed you go to psychics and healers. But surely you are the
very last person that should need any help.”

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“Oh, I disagree, we could all use spiritual help.”
“What you want is someone to tell you it’s okay? You want
approval? Be successful because that is what you are supposed
to do but when you close the office door and there is no-one
watching, what then? That’s what you are scared of. You’ve
reached the top and there is no one left to set you tests.”
“There’s God.” Marina Allen QC was not about to fold under
cross-examination.
“Oh please, Can’t you see that God is just another father
figure for you? You cling to Him because you need someone
bigger than you, better than you to turn to when it all gets too
much. To tell you it’s going to be okay.”
“I … my husband …” The moment she said it, she and the
rest of the table knew it wasn’t true.
“Mrs Allen, It’s okay …”
There was a very long pause. Shona couldn’t read it at all. Her
nails dug into her palms. At length, the prime Ministress
spoke.
“My father died when I was thirteen…”
“And you still really miss him?”
“Every day”
“What about your mother?”
“She wasn’t really there. She didn’t cope very well.”
“But what about now?”

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“I … We don’t speak. It easier. We don’t get on.”
“Mrs Allen, you have to stop this, stop worrying. You are
doing okay. You are an inspiration to many, many women.”
Hazel gestured at Shona “Shona is incredibly successful and
has an amazing career but she looks up to you. She sees what
you do and it inspires her. It is what you have done. What you
have achieved, yourself.”
Thankful for the attention, Shona nodded earnestly. She crept
her hand up onto the table. In reaching distance, should
Marina need it.
“You have to believe in yourself too, as a woman. No man
will ever replace your father, so there’s no man who’s approval
is going to give you peace. You have to do that for yourself.”
Hazel waited a second. “Your mother must be very proud of
you too.”
There was a silence. And then, Marina Allen, the most
powerful woman in the country, second only to Madonna in
the eyes of Chat magazine, dissolved softly into tears. They
were quiet and they were small but there wasn’t a person in
the restaurant that did not notice.
* ¢
Apparently Eric was deadly serious about Wembley stadium. It
was booked in four weeks time and tickets would go on sale as
soon as they had selected a support act. It was only at the end
of a very long day that John remembered he had another
question.
“Eric, have there been any more death threats?”
Eric sent him in the direction of the letter editor.

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It was one thing to ask Eric but putting the question to a total
stranger, he reflected how ridiculous it would sound.
“Do you have mail for me?”
“Oh yes, so you are John Smith?” the letters editor chuckled
to himself, “You have had fifteen proposals of marriage, and
inevitably a fair number of far more indecent proposals,
which are usually accompanied by helpful explanatory
photographs. That is just the emails, I have not touched the
mail bag, there’s a lot of angry looking ones and some of
those parcels are just a bit too squishy for me.”
“Angry?” John asked worriedly.
“Yes, well there have been surprisingly few death threats.”
“There have been death threats?”
“A few but that is e-mail. Even deranged psychopaths know
not to sign their names to their threats.”
“But there have been some?”
“A handful ten or twenty maximum by email. Judging by the
bad spelling and atrocious grammar, none them would be
bright enough to launch a decent assassination. They might
manage an assault, which could be quite ugly judging by what
they can do to the English language.” With some distaste, he
gave John a sheaf of printed emails and handed him a grey
mail sack.
John took his time to go through everything. It was pretty
much like the letters editor had said. None them stood out as
the sort of person who might set fire to your house. Though

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he wasn’t sure he knew how to spot that. He needed to speak
to an expert. The policeman of the previous night entered his
mind, and was summarily dismissed. John realised he was
putting off the inevitable.
“I wouldn’t take any of them seriously.” Eric said. “But it
shows you are on the right track.”
“For martyrdom?”
“Well, I guess that depends on how serious you are.”
“Death is the proof I’m living, not the prize”
“Okay, okay. Don’t worry about the death threats I’ve been
getting them for years and I’ve not known a single writer who
meant it.”
“But someone was actually trying to kill me.”
“There you are then, the chances of two crazed assassins...”
“And look at this one ‘Life is preparation for death, I hope
you are well prepared.’ What is that? It’s not some froth-
mouthed, arm-chair assassin, this person has an education”.
“Lots of people hate me. I don’t worry about it. Neither
should you.”
“Wait a minute, you drive around in an armoured limo.”
“That’s business. I don’t have enemies, I have competitors.
They’ll only try and take me out if makes sense on the
bottom-line. But the funny thing is, the more ruthless my
competitors the better I seem to be able to do business with
them.”

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“I wonder why”
“You are in the religion business. If anyone wants to take you
out it will be an Al Sharpton or the Vatican. But you are not
even on their radar yet. And I doubt they would write to you
in advance.”
“So, in summary, I keep going until I offend Opus Dei?”
“That’s the spirit. Speaking of which, Wembley Stadium needs
a little more showmanship than a Covent Garden basement.
We’ll need a miracle and a sermon on the mount.”
? ¢
Maybe Eric was right about Dr. Cole. She was dangerous.
Shona dialled Eric’s number.
“I’ll do it.”
“I knew you’d see it my way.”
“I do,” Shona said. “You know how in the films Hannibal
Lecter is supposed to get inside your head? Well Hazel Cole is
a bit like that except that as far as I know she doesn’t eat any
of her victims.”
“Who has she ‘helped’ this time?”
“Well she hasn’t helped me. She made Marina Allan cry in
front of everybody at the best table in Crivelli’s.”
“Really? Perhaps I was wrong about Dr. Cole. Not that it
matters, she’s queering the pitch for my boy and we’ve got to
do something about it.” Eric paused as if checking something
“The money will be in the account by tomorrow. I hope you

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are in a taxi.”
“No, I’m at home already.”
“Well, get in a taxi and get over here. There were two
conditions to this deal. Remember?”

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INTERMISSION
ABSURDITY
Life is absurd enough already without recourse to astrology,
homeopathy and other fantasies. Not only are they ridiculous
but the don’t even offer anything of reassurance in the face of
existential dread. You would be better off climbing into and
eventually out of a nice hot bath and then wrapping yourself
in big fluffy towel.
On one level the world makes perfect sense. The laws of
nature set everything nicely in motion and it all just happens
from there. But on another, it is completely absurd because all
those laws don’t give the place any meaning and when we are
dead we’re gone and haven’t changed the grand scheme of
anything. But if only more people realised this then the world
would be a hell of a lot better place; people would be forced
to stop being so petty-minded. The gods of the Christians and
all the rest are ridiculous simplistic, small-minded caricatures
of ourselves, showing a complete lack of imagination
compared to the grandeur and complexity of the universe
revealed by science. There is no better argument for equality
and morality than the argument from insignificance.
Philosopher Thomas Nagel and many others have pointed out
that life is absurd. Why are you alive right at this point in
history? Any other could have been equally likely, you could
have been alive in the last ice age or living aboard a space
station in the far future. Instead you are here and now and that
is worth considering. Even more absurd, why are experiencing
this precise moment in time? In your life right now? At this

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exact second there is someone looking out of your eyes and
experiencing the world as you experience it, and that person is
you. But you are also the person who experiences your life a
minute ago, or last week or when you were thirteen and it is
the same you as will see the world in a week’s time. Or laugh
and cry in years to come. They are all you, but there must be
something particularly special about the present you. Because
that is the one to whom, right at this moment, I am speaking
to and who is reading these words.
Nagel tried to find what it was that made each instant special
of each of us. Every moment in time is just like any other and
yet there is only ever one present. He concluded that there is
nothing that explains it. Ultimately, it is just absurd.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BUS STOP
Law I: Every body persists in its state of
being at rest or of moving uniformly straight
forward, except insofar as it is compelled to
change its state by force impressed.
Law II: The alteration of motion is ever
proportional to the motive force impress’d;
and is made in the direction of the right line
in which that force is impress’d.
Law III: To every action there is always an
equal and opposite reaction: or the forces of
two bodies on each other are always equal
and are directed in opposite directions.
– Isaac Newton, Philosophiæ Naturalis
Prinicipia Mathematica, 1687
• * ¢
The Mercedes Chancellor is a marvellous vehicle, the best
European made limousine you can buy. More elegant than its
American counterparts and more reliable than its Russian
comrades, it has all the features one would expect from a very
important people carrier. Comfortable seating for four or cosy
seating for six. Eric’s car was the absolute top-end version
with an armoured body and bulletproof glass. The passenger
compartment was hermetically sealed to protect the occupants

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from gas attacks and the car’s fuel tank was specially
constructed to be leak-proof and safe from explosions. The
steel lined tyres could still run flat if punctured and with a 6-
litre V8 beast of an engine, it could outrun most danger if the
need arose. Most European heads of state had one of these,
at least, those that could afford it. Russian billionaires and
Middle Eastern oil Princes were among the few other
customers who could afford such a luxury or could justify
such security. If you wanted to attack someone in a Mercedes
Chancellor, your best bet was to follow along patiently behind
and run them over once they had stepped out of their car.
The London Routemaster was for its time a remarkable piece
of British engineering. Beautiful, functional, robust and built
to last, it symbolises the hectic yet historic nature of the city.
Originally designed in the 1950’s, it was a product of some
highly innovative engineering and proud craftsmanship. The
Routemaster has an integral strengthened body removing the
need for a heavy fixed chassis.
With a 97 break horsepower engine and a fully automatic
gearbox, it could, when London’s roads allowed, attain a good
head of speed. Some of those early models are still going
strong, and they inspire strong feelings in many grease-
covered men who underneath are still small boys. The man
was one of those men. And he was pleased to back behind the
wheel. He had kept a few keys and it had been a simple
enough business to steal this bus.
Thanks to the mayor’s mania for bus lanes, the man had a
satisfyingly clear run now and was able get quickly away from
the depot and into the centre of London, without anyone
being any the wiser. Before setting out he’d changed the sign
to ‘Not in Service’, despite the fact this simply wasn’t true.
This bus was in the service of the Lord. It would smite down
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this happy thought. After about half an hour, it occurred to
him that he had absolutely no idea where the Evil One would
be.
So he did what any sane person would and drove to the
library.
He parked up round the corner and went in to ask at the
reference desk. The librarian on duty recognised him as one
of the regulars and so listened patiently to what he said. None
of it made the slightest bit of sense but there was nothing
new in that. Carefully cross-examining him and employing the
fine mind that she had previously been occupying with a
crossword, she ascertained that he was interested in John
Smith. Knowing him as she did, she found it rather sweet.
She showed him that day’s papers with the lurid story of
Smith’s narrow escape from death. But he seemed to know it
all already. He was clearly quite a fan. The man seemed to
want to know more about Smith than the papers could
provide. There was no crime in that; in fact it was quite
understandable really. She hated to disappoint him, but despite
what he seemed to think the library did know everything
about everyone, if only you asked in the right way. She tried
explaining to him that this wasn’t the case in several different
ways but it didn’t seem to sink in.
Then she had a revelation. Maybe the man wasn’t beyond help.
There was Google.
Within a few clicks she had found the unofficial fan forum
where Smith’s most fanatical fans swapped whatever snippets
and slivers they could find out about their hero. She showed
the man how to navigate the site and where to find the most
up to the minute gossip and speculation. This, at last, seemed
to satisfy him. She left him happily clicking and scrolling and

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went back to her crossword.
The rest of the morning was uneventful and she managed to
finish the whole puzzle. She had only had to google a couple
of clues. Going off for her lunch, she saw that the man had
gone too. He’d forgotten to close the windows he’d opened
on the computer and left the mouse mat at a ridiculous angle.
She quit the browser, straightened up the workspace and
shook her head. These loonies weren’t too much trouble and
one liked to help them out but they sometimes went too far.
ER1C pulled up to the kerb. Not used to waiting for someone
to open the door for him, John had joined Eric in the back
before Eric’s chauffeur Dave could get out to let him in. They
were picking him up from his latest hotel to take him to
Wembley for a look at the facilities. John ducked inside and as
before, the floor was strewn with porn and the resident
pornographer was lounging comfortably with a large whiskey
in one hand and a cigar in another.
“Morning, shithead. Let’s get moving.” Eric greeted him
cheerfully and the car joined the busy morning traffic. A little
distance behind it a big red bus indicated too and pulled away
from the kerb.
The 1965 RML that the man was driving had unladen weight
of 7 3/4 tons and by the time it came into contact with rear-
end of the stationary Mercedes it was travelling at slightly over
thirty five miles per hour. Sir Isaac Newton’s wonderfully
elegant laws of motion saw to it that a large part of this
kinetic energy was transferred into the boot of the Mercedes,
crumpling it’s crumple zones and sending it skidding forwards
through the red light and across the box junction. The equal
and opposite reaction made a few slight dents in the front of
the Routemaster and brought it to halt straddling the
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forwards joining the counterflow of traffic somewhat earlier
than everyone would have liked.
For a few exciting moments, it looked like it would sail
unscathed between the traversing taxis, but one driver was
changing lanes and travelling a little too fast. He swerved but
was unable to avoid clipping the mangled rear left side of the
limo. It sent both cars into a complex sliding clockwise dance
that still obeyed Newton’s laws though the mathematics was
now a lot more complicated. Shortly thereafter, it became an
interesting and non-trivial N-body problem, as any number of
other cars coming in both directions were now unable to
avoid joining the dance.
Piccadilly Circus was busy to start with. The normal
marauding hordes of shuffling tourists and impatient
Londoners all hurrying in every direction. More often, in the
case of the tourists, ambling a few steps one way before
changing their minds, turning through ninety degrees, taking a
few more steps in this new direction before finally deciding
this was a good spot for a photograph and taking a few steps
back to point their cameras up at the bright advertising
screens. All to the annoyance of the gritty and grimy locals
who had just danced this way and that trying to get past and
then at the last moment, just as they sped for a gap, four
hundred pounds of flabbiest sub-prime American bovine
would step back to frame his shot and flatten the slight and
wiry Cockney.
Right now everyone was a sightseer, hundreds of cameras
were capturing the photogenic column of black smoke and
hundreds upon hundreds more people where crowding in
behind these, all eager to see what was going on.
The traffic was jammed in all directions. Lots of the drivers
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these annoyed other drivers, who sounded their own horns in
displeasure, which upset a few more. Others amused by this
music added their own lackadaisical syncopations. The whole
place was chaos. It was like Piccadilly Circus.
The Routemaster’s radiator had broken from its mountings
and water was hissing gently from it. This was hardly
interesting compared to the multi-car pile up in the middle of
London’s famous Piccadilly Circus. None of many the tourists
watching noticed the bus driver hang his jacket on the back of
his seat, climb down from his vehicle and wander off.
* ¢
Things might not have been so bad for the Mercedes and its
passengers if it were not for Eric’s untidy reading habits, his
huge Cuban cigar and a rare lack of ice aboard ER1C. The
first impact knocked his heavy tumbler of neat Bourbon out
of his hand and the next sent his glowing Havana flying after
it. Unadulterated by ice, the firewater caught fire easily and
doused the magazines that littered the floor of the vehicle.
Too many of these caught fire for Eric’s stamping to have any
positive effect and so he satisfied himself with kicking the
burning papers away from himself. This had the effect of
spreading the flames further but it allowed Eric and John to
bundle out of the passenger door without getting too badly
singed.
Out on the road, they shut the door behind them and
surveyed the scene. The back of the Mercedes was slightly
crumpled.
“I still get two or three death threats a month but those are
mostly from fundamentalist Christians and other fruit-bats. I
don’t take them seriously. You should read some of them; they
threaten me with plague, pustules, pestilence, and pillars of
fire. All that Old Testament crap, not much interest in Loving

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thy Neighbour those lot. But they are very funny, I am
thinking of collecting the best and publishing a book.” Eric
looked back at this flaming Mercedes Benz and the slightly
dented Routemaster. “I cannot remember any of them
threatening me with a London bus.”
Eric was the most cheerful John had ever seen him.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Eric asked. “To face death and
feel alive?”
“I can’t decide.”
“Where did the driver go?” Eric was only half listening; he
was hunting around and quizzing bystanders on what they
might have seen.
“Why do you assume it was for me? I would have thought you
would have many more enemies that me? Haven’t there been
several attempts on your life before?” John asked.
“If you discount the war and certain other episodes I would
rather not talk about then yes two or three people may have
tried to kill me. But the last one was over thirty years ago.
Today, I am seen as just another businessman. I don’t have
enemies, I have competitors.”
“I don’t.”
“Maybe you do.” Eric was lost for just a moment. “Anyway
chop, chop, we’ve still got to get to Wembley. Let’s leave Dave
to sort out this mess. Which do you think is quicker, bus or
tube?”
•
The man was as disappointed as when mummy forgot to flush

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the toilet and he found out that Simon the goldfish had not
gone to live with the other fishes in the river.
That day he had also found out about death and how even
people you thought you could trust will lie to you.
Simon the goldfish was the only pet the boy ever had. The boy
had loved Simon. He could watch for hours as Simon swam
from one end of his rectangular little tank and back to the
fake plastic weeds at the other. Each circuit of his home a
little different from the one before never hurried and never
worried. It soothed the boy’s nerves to watch the light
reflecting off Simon’s golden scales. With his inscrutable black
eyes it was hard to tell what Simon was looking at, much less
what he was thinking about. But the boy knew that Simon
could recognize him. And that Simon knew that the boy was
his friend. He was sad when Simon was dead. He kept Simon’s
tank with filled with water. Even without Simon there it was a
special place. It looked so calm, peaceful and colourful the
plastic weeds could not be more green while the pebbles
seemed to have every colour under the sun.
First his own mother, and now that priest. No one could be
trusted. He really was alone.
Somehow he made it home. He lay down and wept.
Eventually, exhausted, he slept.

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INTERMISSION FIVE
CASPAR’S WAGER
Blaise Pascal invented the mathematics of gambling. His own
most famous bet was a pretty big one; commonly know as
Pascal’s wager:
Let us weigh the gain and the loss in wagering that God is.
Let us estimate these two chances. If you gain, you gain all;
if you lose, you lose nothing. Wager, then, without
hesitation that He is.
– Blaise Pascal, Penses, 1670
It is basically the same logic that we use to decide if we are
going to buy tickets in the National Lottery. The prize is huge,
the stake is small. The chances of winning might be slim, but
if you don’t enter you won’t win squat. The clever bit, in
Pascal’s mind, was that however infinitesimal you believe the
chance that there is a God, the jackpot is so HUGE that you
would be crazy not to buy a ticket. Unfortunately, this is
completely wrong.
I propose instead Caspar’s Wager, which runs like this.
Let’s see; a whole bunch of Sundays on my knees, or a
fuller life lived as I please? Good god, I wager that anyone
who keeps herself so carefully hid does not wish to be
bothered by me.
– Caspar Addyman, Help Yourself, 2013
Actually, I made the bet quite a long time ago. A lot of people

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do. Even tiny children will ask the Fathers and Rabbi’s why it
isn’t enough just to live a good life.
Oh how simple life seemed when we were young. I remember
when I was about eight years old and our class were asked by
our sociological jurisprudence counsellor to give three
examples of absolute rules we lived by. I can vividly
remember the answers I confidently provided
Never start a major land war in Asia.
Never have sex and livestock in the same sentence.
and
Never bet against a co-discoverer of probability theory.
Well, time tells that it would have been a nincompoop who
pooh-poohed Pierre de Fermat’s Last Theorem, but I do
choose to take issue with Blaise Pascal’s last hefty bet. I
disagree completely with his reasoning; I’ll wager he’s got it
completely backwards.
In fact, I’ll stake my terrestrial and my eternal life on it. Every
now and again I am reminded, as politely as possible, by my
religious ‘friends’ that unless I repent my godless ways I will
be damned to burning hell for all eternity. I tell them it’s a
price worth paying for my Sunday lie-in. But this irreverence
does little to dissuade them.
Smiling ever more broadly, they casually suggest that I join
them for their Tuesday evening study group, where their
priest/rabbi/Sufi/Baphomet can tell me some really great
things about Jesus/Yahweh/Mohammed/Satan. I meet their
expectant hopefulness with a slight curl of my lip and explain
that I don’t let men in dresses tell me what to do. (Well, there
was that one time, but I honestly didn’t realise he was a man.)
Alas, I tell them, in good faith, I will never be able to join their

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happy band.
But like all purveyors of opiates, they are wheedling, pushy
and persistent and won’t I just think again? I just say no.
Sensing my steely resolve but still possessed of a glimmer of
zeal, they change tack and mention Pascal’s prescription for
people of precisely my persuasion.
No! And I can prove it.
CLAIM: We ought to act as if God didn’t exist.
PROOF: There are two possibilities to consider.
Case 1: Assume God doesn’t exist.
Trivially we have done the right thing.
Case 2: Assume God exists.
Again there are two cases to consider.
2B: God is good.
Not to Be: God is evil.
If God is evil then he’s played the Ace of Spades and
whatever we do we’re going to lose. Again there is no point
worshipping him/her/them/it/us.
If God is good then we’ve been put on Earth to live. Let’s get
on with it. Praising God adds nothing to the worth of our
own achievements. Furthermore, despite an exhaustive
search, there has of yet been no evidence of God’s existence.
Therefore, we might conclude that it is irrational to waste
what little time we appear to have on worship of one
particular imagined incarnation of an extremely elusive deity.
We would decide it was better to try and figure things out for
ourselves, spend the time as if we didn’t have an eternity more
of it to use later.
Of course, if Not 2b then we were wrong, but whatever we’ve

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done, God will understand our honest mistake. And, being
good, he won’t be a dick about it. So that’s okay then.
Q.E.D.
Of course Pascal argued from assumptions in classical
probability whereas I am arguing from the meaning of ‘good’
and ‘evil’. But we can go beyond good and evil because there’s
an even shorter version of this argument that uses Bayesian
statistics. It starts from the easily demonstrated fact that :
“Absence of Evidence is Evidence of Absence.” *
Alas, we don’t have the time nor the inclination for a lesson in
Bayesian statistics. Which is a shame because of this
proposition, I have wonderful proof. And the margin of novel
is too small to contain it.
It’s a better argument too since most of everyday thinking
happens using some unconscious approximation to Bayesian
reasoning. Grossly stated, Bayes theorem says,
“Before you leap to any conclusions, consider how well
they fit the facts.”
Imagine a fearsome creature with talons and leopards spots
looms towards you somewhere dark and gloomy. You haven’t
got time to wait for conclusive proof so you have to act on
incomplete evidence. You have to take an uncertain leap one
way or another, but your conclusion still has to fit all the facts.
Those other facts may change the odds dramatically. In the
forest you might leap one way, in a nightclub quite another.
And knowledge of which nightclub you are in helps you
estimate the probability that this woman is a woman.
Take that Pascal. Take that Original Sin.
* No, it really is. Look it up on the internet.
http://oyhus.no/AbsenceOfEvidence.html

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LOAN GUNMAN
Zeroth Law: You must play the game.
First Law: You can’t win.
Second Law: You can’t break even.
Third Law: You can’t quit the game.
– Ginsberg’s Theorem a.k.a. The laws of
thermodynamics
The man lived at the top of a very tall building. The bedsit
assigned to him on his conditional discharge from the hospital
was on the 19th floor of a decrepit council tower block. It
might have seemed foolhardy to house a former mental health
service user so close to an easy means of suicide. But for once
social services had done their homework. At times a danger to
others, the man was not and never had been considered a
suicide risk. The pills reduced his danger to others and no one
thought he would ever get access to a high-powered rifle with
telescopic sights. The man liked his tiny one and a half room
flat. He liked the views. He liked the pigeons that would sleep
on his window ledge. He liked the relative peace, up here
isolated from the noise of the city. Best of all, he felt was
closer to God.
Eric had investigated the hit and run. Despite his blasé
attitude to the many death threats he received and his gleeful

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excitement at the ram raider attempt on his and/or Smith’s
lives, Eric had been sufficiently interested in who might have
done it. And after trawling his memory through a long list of
his possible enemies he could not think who might be behind
it. So he had hired a little known but well staffed and highly
respected firm of private investigators, Vernon Associates.
God knows how they did it but they tracked down the man
responsible. (I could at this point invent some reason and
could bore you with a long explanation of the native cunning
and hi-tech computer wizardry able to reconstruct a
composite facsimile image of the man as he left the scene of
the crime from camera footage, and then at tedious length
connect up the trail that led them to him. But it would
interrupt the flow of what I want to get to: the meeting of
Eric and the man. Besides by this stage in the book I feel that
I have made enough creative input and so would prefer it if
you invented your own way for them to find out that the man,
former bus driver and more recently former mental patient
was behind the wheel of the Routemaster in question. Do not
worry if you cannot or will not think of a reason either. There
is no right answer and it is not as if it matters anyway. None
of this is real. It is all made up. But if you simply have to
know email me caspar@onemonkey.org and I will tell you
how it worked.)
They had traced the man and let Eric know what they knew.
He let them know that he hoped they knew that he would
prefer it if they did not let the police know what they knew.
But they knew that already. That was the way it usually went in
top end private investigations.
The police naturally had not discovered any of this for
themselves as yet. Although both cases had made the front
pages of several national newspapers, separate teams in the
areas involved were still handling them. As far as the police

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were concerned, one was a traffic accident in the borough of
Westminster, the other an arson attack in Herne Hill. Even
though, after each incident, the deputy Metropolitan police
commissioner had been forced to hold a small press
conference at New Scotland Yard. Once the brief flurry of
interest had died down, the cases sat unprioritised on separate
desks in separate divisions in separate boroughs.
Duffled up against the weather and recognition, Eric had
Dave drive him there, in a spare Mercedes. He climbed the
stairs to the man’s apartment.
Eric Hayle had never backed away from a fight in his life.
More than once, he had crossed the globe to get into one. His
philosophy had always been the best defence is pre-emptive
violence. That there is no problem so complex that it cannot
be simplified by violent confrontation. Now he was standing
at the door of a man whom his investigators informed him
was a schizophrenic with a history of violence. A man who
had already tried to kill him once and Smith twice. There had
been lightness in Eric’s step as he bounded up the nineteen
flights of stairs to the man’s council-provided one bedroom
flat. He had rung the bell merrily.
Eric had read Vernon Associates’ report on the man. He had
been disappointed because he saw instantly that it was John
Smith, not him, who was the man’s target. The extensive
report had listed his times in secure mental wards, sectioned
following violent attacks motivated by delusional religious
mania. With Smith being denounced by Reverend Cake and
other religious loudmouths, it did not take a genius to work
out that this man might jump on the bandwagon. Especially
this man.
Much as he hated all things to do with religion, Eric was an
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mental illness. He knew that the man could not help the way
his mind malfunctioned. So Eric had refrained from sharing
his valuable information with the authorities and chose to
handle this in his own way.
Moreover, his wartime experience in counter-espionage had
taught him that every crazed lunatic was a potential recruit. He
had decided to pay the man a visit. But Reckless Eric was not
being entirely reckless. He had a gun in his overcoat pocket.
When the man opened the door, he was wearing a trilby
coated in silver foil. He was highly suspicion of Eric, as Eric
knew he would be. But knowing enough of the man’s history
from the medical files that Vernon and company had
‘obtained’, Eric knew how to appeal to the man’s mania and
indulge and extend his delusions. He told the man that he had
a dream that he should come here. He said he knew the man
had a mission but he did not know what. But he had been told
he must help the man complete it. He also hinted that he was
not all that he seemed. (This much at least was true, although
not in the way that it seemed.)
The man had not had anyone believe and support his world-
view before. Occasionally, in his time on the wards, other
patients would go along with him a little of the way, but
mostly they were wrapped up in their own complex
confusions. Besides they were crazy. The man was completely
taken in by this tall, extremely elegant white haired figure, who
had been sent to help him. Eric was rapidly absorbed into the
man’s Grand Scheme of Things.
Welcoming Eric into his worldview, the man had explained, in
a highly disjointed and incoherent fashion (for his condition
was getting worse) that he was God’s Avenger. His Holy
mission was to stop the False Prophet, the Anti-John. Eric
hinted that he knew this, and indeed, it did confirm what he

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had surmised. The man told him how Reverend Cake’s
sermon had made it clear that the Non-John must die. The
man told that he must end the False One’s rise and then he
would be recognised for what he was.
Eric reiterated that he was here to help. All this time, they had
been standing in the chaotic kitchen but now the man left and
went into the other room. He returned carrying an armful of
spiral bound notebooks. He brushed the dust of a thousand
dead Rice Crispies onto the floor and laid the notebooks out
on the kitchen table. He began flicking through them,
seemingly at random, to find certain passages and diagrams
that explained everything in greater detail. Eric indulged him.
The man’s plan to kill Smith was as ingenious as it was
unhinged. It could not possibly work but it might have been
entertaining to watch him try. It involved breaking into the
British Museum to steal a special sword, helmet and
breastplate, which been revealed to him as the Righteous
Artefacts of his Manifest Destiny. The sword, a twelfth
century Crusaders broadsword, was the only thing that could
kill John Smith, protected as he was by ‘THEM’, dark forces
that had yet to reveal themselves. The helmet, a bronze
centurion’s helmet from the time of Emperor Constantine,
that would shield his thoughts from ‘THEIR’ mind-satellites
and allow him to get close to Smith without ‘THEM’ realising.
The breastplate was a ceremonial golden breastplate that once
belonged to one of Charlemagne’s infantry commanders.
Somehow its shiny golden brilliance would reflect light and
prevent people from noticing him. Thus, would this
unbalanced and unwashed man sneak up on the unsuspecting
Smith and pierce his black heart with pure and Holy
Crusader’s steel. When Smith was dead, the man would
remove his Righteous Protection and reveal himself. All this
had been revealed to him in a gardening column, a gig review
and the commodities report in the Scum, the Guardian and

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the FT respectively.
Eric listened to all this patiently. He even made a few
suggestions along the way. But once the man had finished,
Eric had an alternative to suggest. He sympathized with the
man’s aims but not with him methods or motives. In fact, Eric
saw the situation exactly in reverse to the man. Black to his
White. Lucifer to his Gabriel. He agreed with the need for
Smith to die, but he had different reasons why. If John Smith
were killed by this lunatic Angel of Death, then Eric would
benefit twice over. The church would be embarrassed and
humiliated and the late John ‘Now and Then’ Smith would
become a martyr. A modern secular martyr, an instant and
enduring cult figure, whose message was exactly one by which
Eric lived his own long, long life.
Eric did not want to found his own religion. What would be
the point of that? He would not be around long enough to
enjoy the fruits. (He gave himself only about another ten or
twenty years at his current pace.) He was not definitely
interested in founding a cult. For one thing it would require
hard work, the crystallisation of fluid ideas into rigid dogmas
and the setting up of a hierarchy to enforce and oversee
everything. That could have been fun. But Eric did not like the
limelight. He preferred shadows, dark corners and dingy
basements. He was a creature of the night. He was doing this
because he believed what Smith had said. That life passes
most people by. All he wanted was people to wake up and take
notice. To see life as it really is.
Granted, Smith would be dead and maybe the man might not
survive either. In fact, that might need to be seen to. But as
Bomber Harris used to say, you cannot make an omelette
without smashing a couple of chicken embryos, beating them
together and burning the bodies in hot oil.

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Eric removed the pistol from his pocket. It was wrapped in an
oil cloth. It was a Luger P-09, standard issue to officers in the
Schutzstaffel. Eric had had this one since 1943 when taken
this one from the still warm hand of Sturmbannführer Müller.
A friend and colleague of his from Hamburg who, for
complicated reasons, he had been required to kill. Eric had
other guns, of course. But, for some reason, this one was the
one he had picked out as his gift to the man. Perhaps he was
getting sentimental in his old age. He placed it on the kitchen
table.
When the man first saw the evil black gun, he had become
frightened and paranoid. But Eric’s soothing reassurance
convinced him to pick it up. Holding it in his hand, the cold,
heavy and slightly oily texture of it brought him completely
into the present. He had never completely believed his own
plan. He could see there were aspects of it that he had not
worked out properly. Which item should he get first; the
helmet to evade them? the breastplate to hide? or the sword to
cut the other items free from their alarmed glass cases?
Holding this gun in hand, he cut the sword from this plans.
He could see a new way. He let Eric explain to him how to use
the Luger.
But he would still need the helmet and breastplate. Eric had an
answer to this too. He explained the man the principles of
camouflage. At least as they related to their particular
problem. Anything more abstract would be beyond the grasp
of the man’s crippled mind. Eric showed him how he could
put the tin foil on the inside of his trilby. He explained slowly
and diplomatically that the best way to become invisible was
to look normal. To blend into the crowd. Maybe he could
have a bath? And a shave and a haircut? And wear clean
clothes, that matched?
Eric was kind, patient and understanding as they plotted the

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murder of John Smith.
The man had just about followed all these new things that his
Guardian Angel had told him. He had to write a lot of it
down so he would not forget. The Angel had left and now he
must wait for the Angel to arrange the time and the place.
Eric went away, well pleased with his day’s work. The whole
thing was coming together better than he had ever expected.
It was almost too perfect. As if someone had planned it.
Which let’s face it, I did!
Eric had never broken a bone in his body. At least, never by
accident. He had once had two of his fingers broken for him.
It was one of those terribly frustrating conversations were the
other chap had kept repeating the same thing over and over
again. “All we need from you is a name” etc. etc. He had said
it a few times in German, and then felt he had to repeat the
question in English. Even though Eric had already replied in
very good accentless German that “Ja, he understood the
question” and “Nein, he did not know the name.” After forty
minutes of this tedious rigmarole, they had broken one of his
fingers. This did not help him remember a name that he had
not known in the first place but they persisted. When it started
to look like he was in for another forty minutes of the same,
Eric had broken a second finger himself to hurry things along.
It did the trick, the shocked interrogator quickly came to
believe that Eric really did not know the name. Perhaps
somewhat foolishly he had also believed many of the other
things Eric went on to tell him and shortly after that Eric was
working for both ‘THEM’ and ‘US’.
In comparison, pretending to be a Angel had been easy.

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INTERMISSION SIX
DEISTS DESIST.
I read about an Eskimo hunter who asked the local
missionary priest, ‘If I did not know about God and
sin, would I go to hell?’ ‘No,’ said the priest, ‘not if
you did not know.’ ‘Then why,’ asked the Eskimo
earnestly, ‘did you tell me?’
- Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, 1974
God knows I pay Don and the boys too much but it is worth
it. Every time there is a knock at the door I give a little prayer
of thanks to the security team, because I know it will be
someone I want to see, not some door-to-door sky-pilot or
some God-botherer bothering me. My doormen are in the
gatehouse twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week and I
pay ‘em double on religious holidays! They work tirelessly to
keep out the hordes of Mormons, Jehovah’s Witnesses and
other morons who roam the streets of my parish.
The way I see it, I am being cruel to be kind. It saves time and
karma on all sides. I have had enough of the flimsy arguments
of the evangelicals, their feeble pleading and beseeching,
seeking my membership for their church, chapel or sub-sect
thereof, but I do not wish to be unkind. They are happy in
their delusion and I have no illusions that rational debate will
deprogram them. So I have given up on the confrontation and
nowadays politely shake my head and mention ‘religious

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differences’ as my reason for not ‘sparing a few minutes’.
Cease your bleating in my ear, I am not interested; I do not
want to hear. I am getting old and not exactly being a
candidate for eternal life after death, I feel my time is too
precious to waste.
Don’t get me wrong; my mind unlike my door remains open.
Within reason. As the idiocy of extreme relativists prove, if
your mind is too open your brain falls out, spludge to the solid
ground beneath your feet, whence the relativist finds its
solidity is more than just a preconception of western
prejudice. The claims of scientists are more valid than those
of your friendly neighbourhood witchdoctor. But I digress.
We will prey for you!
At university earnest members of the Christian Militia often
pestered me. (I must have one of those faces.) Always eager
for fresh blood engaging in a little innocent chit-chat before
somehow or other always bringing the topic round to Jesus
(not so difficult: after all he is supposed to be everywhere!) A
nod, a grin or anything less than an outright “FUCK
OFF!!!!!!!!!!” and they would be off. Telling you about how
fantastic Jesus is and all the fun you have when he’s your
friend.
A helpful aside: I understand how it is when you have such
amazing news that you just want to share it with everyone. It
was like that when I won the lottery, I wanted to tell every
one, (it was a roll-over after all) but I kept it to myself and
ultimately that was far more rewarding!
Jesus loves me (but he hates you)
I found their youthful enthusiasm for smiling stupidly, singing
songs and CS Lewis highly unappetising. We had nothing in

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common; their idea of heaven was my idea of hell, and there
was always that small point that I did not believe in God. But I
egged them on anyway.
I took a childish delight in forcing them to admit to me that
they thought I was going to hell. These happy-clappy moon-
faced loons who wanted to be my friends were backed into
admitting that I was going to burn in hell. Otherwise nice
people, who more than anything wanted to share they joy they
felt, to love me like they claimed Jesus does, were forced at the
same time to concede that he doesn’t like me that much after
all.
It is easy to do. Butter them up a bit then innocently ask the
familiar child’s question “If I live a good life but do not
believe in God, can I still go to Heaven?”
There are two responses
a. Yes - whence you reply ‘Fantastic! No point wasting time in
church then!’, finish your drink and skip off happily to find
your real friends.
or
b. No (it will be b, trust me!) - whereupon you wind them up
further. Gleefully wondering aloud if theirs really is a God of
Love, and if so it is hardly Infinite Love or Infinite Mercy.
Why, if Jesus died for my sins, can I not go on committing
them? Why does an eternity of pleasure or pain get allocated
on the evidence of the blip of three score years and ten? By
the end of your evening they WILL hate you!
Wouldn’t you have thought that eternal life is sufficient reward
for the faithful? Not happy with the flock you already have,
you always want more. For some highly irrational reason there

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is more joy in heaven over the one repenting sinner than the
99 good Christians. (Look it up, it’s in The Book and being so,
of course it must be true.)
And what was my sin exactly? It seems I could lead an
exemplary life but if my omission is not to be sufficiently
grateful by not worshipping God (or not in the appropriate
fashion) then, it appears, choosing not to believe is sufficient
grounds for Eternal damnation. If those ARE the rules then I
would prefer not to keep the company of such a petty deity.
(God’s love appears to be far from unconditional.)
Besides if Big G. does get more delight from repenting
sinners then the more I sin now the greater the delight will be
if I ever really repent. (There must have been angels dancing
in the ethereal aisles when Jeffrey Dahmer & Robert Mugabe
joined the throng. How sad that Hitler & Stalin went
unrepentant to their deathbeds.)
As an optimist with nothing to look forward to but the heat
death of the universe I am disinclined to preach to anyone.
But while we are all sitting here on this small slimy stone
spinning through space we might as well try to be polite to
one and other. Let us rock and let us roll but if you are going
on to the heavenly after party, go it alone. Leave me behind; I
would only hold you up. It is the journey that interests me, not
the chimerical destination. I would be too inclined to dawdle
along the way; pick up rocks, catch bugs, ask questions (& we
know how much the evangelists hate that!)
So any evangelists out there: leave me alone, keep your Good
News to yourself, restrain your pity; it will only rub vinegar in
the wound. Forget about me, I am sure you have enough
problems of your own.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WEMBLEY
They think it’s all over..
– Kenneth Wostenholme, Saturday 30 July 1966,
commentating on the FIFA World Cup Final between
England and West Germany held at Wembley Stadium
Only forty-five thousand people had seen the event.
But not before they had spent an average of two hours
waiting in queues to be told their lives were passing them by.
They had paid between twenty and two hundred pounds to be
told not to let people tell them what to do and think. It is not
known how many of them were aware of this irony. Besides a
certain amount of queuing was inevitable. It is impossible to
fill an arena as large as Wembley stadium quickly.
And, for someone who until two months before had been a
complete unknown, it ought to have been impossible to fill it
at all. But all the original thirty thousand tickets to John
Smith’s one-off show had sold out in less than two hours. A
new licence was applied for and another fifteen thousand
tickets were sold the next day. But that, it was emphasised
would be that. This was a one-off show, never to be repeated.
The chance of a lifetime.
Not all those attending were so keen to see John but by some
Machiavellian manoeuvre worthy of Colonel Tom Parker, Eric
had managed to book DeathStar as support.

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DeathStar were a noise-metal band with two lead guitarists,
two drummers and a reputation for spectacular pyrotechnic
live shows. At that moment, they were the biggest, loudest
band in America and as luck would have it none of the band
were currently in jail or rehab. They had never played in
Europe before. They were due to tour next year, if they could
acquire the necessary safety permits and if their lead guitarist
lived that long. By fair means or foul, Eric had managed to
short-circuit the usually tortuous negotiations and got
permission for them to perform. By even more amazing
magic, Eric persuaded them to appear second on the bill
behind some limey they had never heard of and who was just
going to stand there talking.
Before the show, John had been quite nervous but standing
back stage watching while DeathStar screamed through their
blasphemous and pornographic set had taken his mind off it.
It was too hard to think through that level of noise and you
needed to keep your wits about you, in case a discarded guitar
flew in your direction.
DeathStar went mad. The crowd went mad. DeathStar
screamed. The crowd screamed. DeathStar’s lead drummer set
the rhythm drummer’s drum kit on fire and the crowd
cheered. DeathStar’s rhythm drummer pissed on his drum kit
to put the fire out and then threw a tom-tom at the bassist.
Half the crowd watched more hesitantly. Half the crowd
cheered more wildly.
The next song began with the fight still carrying on. Somehow
the musicians were able to play and hurt each other
simultaneously. It was one of the things that made DeathStar
famous and widely unwelcome. By now, the two guitarists
were getting involved and the singer was encouraging the
audience to throw things at them. Fortunately for Wembley’s

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insurance there was nothing heavier than plastic bottles within
easy reach, although a few enterprising idiots threw their
shoes. This seemed to disappoint the singer, who went off to
join the fight, singing all the while.
Some of the audience wanted to get involved too and tried to
climb on stage in order to dive off it again. But the scowling
security staff seemed to be winning that battle.
The violence reached screaming pitch and the music did
likewise. The two drummers had abandoned their posts
entirely and were wrestling to what seemed like the death. The
two guitarists circled each other like cage-fighters, screaming
at each other. The bassist was screaming at someone or
something that no one else could see, swatting about his head
with his guitar. The singer’s voice, never melodic at the best of
times, now cracked even further, as he collapsed to the ground
in spasms. It was impossible to tell if he was laughing or
crying.
Then it was over. The speakers went silent and the stage was
plunged into darkness. Those at the front could see that the
band members barely noticed. The audience applauded. They
stamped and screamed to fill the void in the noise. Hoping
that the show would go on. But the lights stayed off and dark
burly shapes came onto the stage to drag away the band.
The audience weren’t sure what had happened but they
wanted more. Their loud demands went unanswered and
eventually died out in embarrassment and disappointment.
DeathStar didn’t do encores. Not when they weren’t top of
the bill.
The house lights came up and something more recognisably
musical came over the PA.

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They were a hard act to follow. The interval dragged on. John
waited for as long as he could before stepping out on the
stage.
He started simply enough with a recap of his story so far.
What it was that had got him here. The audience all knew that
already. That’s why they were here too wasn’t it? They wanted
something new. They listened with one ear, waiting to be
entertained. John tried to turn up the pace.
“Today we have learnt that it is best to treat this life as if it’s
the only one you get, because, you never know, it just might
be! Fired up with this precious knowledge, we should never
squander another moment. Boredom is a crime against
existence!”
Though in the minds of 30,000 people it was a crime he was
committing right now, John was anything but bored. He was
terrified.
“Let us not bother with small talk, never again sit through
some dull film, board-meeting or medical procedure. Let’s be
reckless, remembering that we may be hit by a bus at any
moment and that would be it, but take more care crossing
roads for the same reason. We should live as Godless heathens
because God couldn’t really expect us to do otherwise.
Besides, I have plenty of time left to be one of those who
repents too late and is merely destined for purgatory.
“Wait.”
Half a minute passed.
“That was half a minute. How many thoughts did you have in
that interval? It would take you a long time to reconstruct all

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of them and even longer to even attempt to explain them to
someone-else. Your own thoughts are an efficient shorthand,
you use to negotiate through the sum total of your history.
“And yet, that was only half a minute. There are nearly three
thousand of these in every day and each one is just as long.
Where have they all gone? What were you thinking?
“At the corner of my road there is a twenty four hour funeral
service. Yes, people die at all times of the day and night. But
while I can see how you might like an ambulance to get to you
quickly, once it is too late for an ambulance, it is too late for
anything”
This was going wrong. John was delivering the speech but the
audience weren’t really enraptured.
“No-one can be in that much of a hurry once they are dead. It
is the living wanting to remove the evidence of their own
impending demise. But that’s wrong. We need to face death
every day if we want to get the most out of life.”
That’s went something really went wrong.
It must have looked great on the big screens on either side of
the stage. From the moment the gunman had climbed on
stage at its far left hand edge, the cameras had picked him out.
A sharp-witted producer had flicked the pictures onto the
leftmost screen. The gunman cut a stylish figure in black and
white, sporting an eye-catching golden crucifix round his neck
and an eye-disguising caricature mask over his own features.
This grinning Prime Minister appeared to have climbed out of
the audience carrying a silver and black assault rifle that he
had inexplicably got past security.
The audience at the front left could see straight away that this

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man was on stage. It took a little longer for those further away
to figure out that this was not some stock shock footage taken
at another time. The people at the front left could also see the
panic spreading through the crew. They panicked too.
John Smith had not noticed any of this. He was in the flow of
his speech. Right in the middle of a really good bit about how
people should stop and look around them.
“We are blind to the really interesting things going on in front
of our noses and deaf to.. “ he was saying just as he heard the
gun go off.
Anyone with the wherewithal to make it onto the stage at
Wembley armed with a semi-automatic assault rifle would
probably have made sure to learn how to use it first. Sure
enough, the gunman was putting in a workmanlike
performance. He did not shoot from the hip, but had taken
the time to bring the gun up to shoulder height and take aim
at his target before firing. He had sighted Smith along the
barrel and let out three or four sharp bursts of fire in his
direction.
He need not have bothered. The first burst was sure to have
done the job. It had found its target. Smith’s chest exploded
with red and he was thrown backwards by the force, his body
twisting round and sprawling to the floor. The second and
third bursts mostly hit the air where Smith had been before
smashing into a bank of unfeasibly large stage monitor
speakers that DeathStar’s lead guitarist Bloomberg Necessity
claimed he needed to create that unmistakable DeathStar’s
sound. These exploded spectacularly as if this was all in a day
work*. For the benefit of those in the cheap seats, all three
* And working for DeathStar this was not outside the bounds of
possibility.

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screens now showed this scene.
Perhaps pleased with these theatricals, the gunman turned
towards the audience and let out a joyful burst of fire. He was
still careful with his aim and no-one was in any danger as he
fired out and over their heads at the roof. Nonetheless, it
caused a panic. People were screaming and running for the
exits. The gunman was not interested. Already, he had turned
his back and could be seen walking to centre stage in his
workmanlike fashion.
He was lost for a moment as he passed behind an equally large
bank of speakers stage left, which DeathStar’s other lead-
guitarist, Exploding Peter, insisted he have to be able to hear
himself feedback over the din of Bloomberg Necessity’s
competing axe-work. The gunman came up to where the body
was lying. Again he raised his gun and at kicking distance he
fired down at what was clearly an already very dead body.
Each shot sent up sent up shocks of red blood and caused it
to jerk and twitch spasmodically. This was not a residual sign
of life but Isaac Newton’s Laws of action and reaction
coming into what was Smith’s life once again.
The reaction of the audience followed more closely the laws
of Charles Mackay. The crowd went mad. Some screamed
helplessly fixed to the spot, some screamed while trying
desperately to get away. Some turned to run, some ran but not
wanting to risk taking their eyes off the stage they ran
backwards. They tripped over others who had curled up into
balls. Many others further back, who felt there was relative
safety in numbers, pushed forwards for a better look.
On stage the Prime Minister was waving his shiny assault
weapon above his head, Hezbollah style. He made his way to
the vacant microphone.

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“See what happens if you don’t pay attention?” He shouted,
clearly a bit over excited.
He fired his gun into the lighting rig causing a light shower of
sparks and glass to spread from the South East. It quickly
cleared as he finished the last of his ammunition.
“I told you!” He told them.
Gripping his gun by the barrel, he hurled it, Hendrix style, at
the nearest available stack of amps. After the recent
pyrotechnics, it made disappointingly little noise. It is doubtful
whether DeathStar would have approved. Perhaps running out
of things to throw or other ways to show his anger the still
smiling PM removed his heavy crucifix and threw it after his
gun.
“I don’t know why I bother!” He shouted, obviously bothered
by something.
He cast about himself chaotically for a moment as if unsure
what to smash next. Finding nothing he pulled his mask off.
All three screens caught the moment. And the audience
became even more confused when they saw the face of the
man who had just been gunned down. It was Smith standing
up there in front of, smiling and very much alive. The quicker
of the crowd realised that they had just been victims of an
Extraordinary Unpopular Delusion.
It had been a con trick.
“That was all faked, but perhaps you are now awake! Thank
you and goodnight!” he shouted to them before the stage
lights all cut quickly to black.

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The house lights came on and the security formed a visible
and secure line in front of the stage in case the audience got
angry at being tricked. They didn’t, they were too relieved, too
confused. To help defuse any tension, “Always look on the
bright side of life” started playing over the Wembley PA. It
seemed to help and the audience shuffled out in a somewhat
subdued fashion, some of them still sobbing to themselves.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HA HA BONK
XX.
Ah! my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears-
To-morrow?--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand Years.
– Edward Fitzgerald, The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, 1st
Edition
The Sheraton Mayfair was a tall building. A hideously ugly
relic of the nineteen seventies ruining the skyline of the
otherwise extremely elegant area of town. The fabulously rich
and chic residents in its shadow had long ago learnt to pretend
it was not there. That there was not some thirty-odd story
concrete monstrosity spoiling the Georgian charm of their
privileged postcode. Equally rich and chic visitors to London
would also like to stay in the heart of marvellous Mayfair but
having just arrived on an over-night flight from New York,
Los Angeles or Dubai, they had not had time to develop the
necessary selective attention. The simple solution for them
was to stay in the one place in Mayfair where your view was
not ruined by this monstrosity, namely at the Sheraton
Mayfair.
John’s room wasn’t just on the thirty-third floor. It was the
thirty-third floor. For some reason, Eric had installed him in
the presidential suite. Parnell had turned up at his last hotel
mid-morning to evict and upgrade him. As they drove across a
couple of very expensive postcodes, Parnell explained that
Eric was concerned for John’s safety and privacy and didn’t

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want him staying anywhere that the press or anyone else could
find him. He was checked into the Sheraton just before noon
under an assumed name.
Parnell had accompanied Mr Clive Smith to his room, all 100
acres of it. He had told John that Eric did not want him to
leave and then disappeared, taking a tour of the place to see it
was safe. Eric, it seemed, was finally taking the death threats
seriously. Eventually Parnell was satisfied that there were no
assassins and left for good. Leaving John a prisoner until
morning. Albeit in an open prison with room service, no
guards and as many extra pillows as he desired but a prisoner
nonetheless. Not that he wanted to escape. He had no home
to go to and there did appear to be someone trying to kill him.
He tried and failed to relax. None of the very many sofas and
chairs seemed quite right and he didn’t want to mess up any
of the beds. Several times he got out his phone to call Natalie
to come over and join him but he was too nervous about
tomorrow. The show would be on at ten AM and it would be
live.
John hated mornings and he hated Sunday mornings even
more. But the Sunday Show was always on a Sunday and it was
always live. They weren’t going to make any special exceptions
for him.
No more than they had already made. Eric appeared to have
called in quite a few favours to make this happen. The Sunday
Show was the country’s most respected and highest rated
current affairs show. It was broadcast on the BoCorp satellite
network but such was the stature of its presenter, Patrick
Rodero, that it pulled in a wide audience and regularly set the
political agenda for the week to come.
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recover tried to get a spot on Rodero’s sofa. He did not give
you an easy ride but if you survived that, you generally
survived whatever crisis had brought you there in the first
place. The opposite was equally true.
Tomorrow, however, Patrick Rodero would not be on his own
show. God knows how or why Eric had done it but
tomorrow’s edition would be hosted by Shona. And it would
not be a one-on-one interview but a live three-way debate
between John, Hazel and the Right Reverend Donaldson
Cake.
John had never been on live TV before and had never had to
defend his own ideas to an audience more challenging than
the clientele in White’s nightclub. He hadn’t been in a debate
since junior school when he had unsuccessfully tried to stop
Stevie Wonder being thrown from a metaphorical balloon.
He spent all afternoon pacing about talking to himself. Trying
to work out what exactly it was that he was defending. At
about 6pm he had given up trying to do it sober and made
himself large rum and coke. There was no ice.
He thought of calling room service but thought better of it.
He could not face another obsequious servant scampering
around after him. He had called down a couple of times for
room service to bring him up a club sandwich or fruit basket
or whatever. They never merely did what you asked but
would scurry round the place smoothing beds, emptying
ashtrays and scooping up as much detritus as they could carry.
It was positively tiring to watch, especially when there was
absolutely nothing for them to tidy up. Wanting only a couple
of ice-cubes for his rum and coke, he did not want to re-roll
that whole rigmarole. Instead he decided to take his life in his
hands and pop out into the corridor to forage for it himself.

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So John left his room on the thirty-third floor, which in the
Presidential suite was harder than it sounds. The suite took up
almost the entire top floor, and as best as he could tell
consisted of five or six interconnecting bedrooms, hallways,
living areas and one (or possibly more) kitchenettes. Many
movable partitions (some of them electric) increased your
disorientation and behind every second or third door was yet
another en-suite bathroom or walk-in wardrobe. After a few
futile minutes hunting the hallway that lead to the lift, he gave
up and made for the fire escape. With his glass in hand, he
pushed open the door to the fire escape stairwell and went
down to the floor below in search of an ice machine.
Disconcertingly, in the fire escape he could smell smoke. It
was only cigarette smoke. Probably one of the valets had
ducked in here for a crafty fag. He walked down the lino-
covered back stairs, about the only part of the hotel not
bedecked with either thick cream carpet or (like the lobby and
his many bathrooms) dangerously slippery marble. Clearly
guests were not meant to be here, unless the time came that
they had to stop being the rich and pampered, who travelled
everywhere in private jets, limousines and express elevators
and became just another couple of people fleeing a fire.
Turning the corner to the second half of the flight down, he
saw someone sitting on the final step, a cigarette in one hand,
and a small tin ashtray in the other. At the same moment, the
grey haired woman turned round to acknowledge him.
“They won’t let me smoke in my room. Do you want one?”
Doctor Cole said by way of explanation of her presence.
“Thanks, I don’t smoke.”
“Good for you.”
“I am looking for ice.” John gestured to his drink. Hazel

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shrugged and went back to her cigarette. John stepped past
the seated figure and back into the hotel proper on the 32nd
floor. He got lucky. Right next to the fire escape was a small
utility area with two parked valet’s trolleys and a humming ice
machine. It was the first thing he’d seen since he’d arrived that
looked like it had been there since the 1970’s. John reached a
hand into the frosting interior and retrieved a handful of
cubes.
He took a refreshing swig and, for a moment, he stopped
worrying about his problems. Not much more than a moment.
His second swig nearly choked him when halfway through it
he realised whom it was he had passed on the stairs.
A couple of minutes later he had recovered and stepping
bravely into the fire escape saw that she was still there.
“Hazel Cole.” She said putting her tin down and rising from
the step to offer her hand.
Smith shook her extended hand, somewhat bewildered. “Yes,
I know. I’m John Smith. Hello.”
“I know. Bit preoccupied?”
“Yes.”
“Me too. Hence these,” she said indicating her cigarettes.
There was a silence. John tried to think of something to say,
Anything… Anything… Nothing.
“I like your approach to the Hard Problem.” Hazel said.
“The Hard Problem?”

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“It’s what the philosophers and neuroscientists call the
problem of consciousness. They do not know the answer and
yet they know that they are extremely clever so therefore it
must be a very hard problem.”
“I’ve no idea what you are saying but I feel ridiculous having
this conversation in a hotel stairwell. Would you like to come
up to my floor? You can smoke as much as you like up there.”
Hazel followed John back up the stairs and soon they were
seated in highly luxurious but slightly awkward silence.
“Tell me a joke.” Hazel asked
“Okay. Er... Why do the Scot’s get cancer?”
Hazel waited.
“Because they deserve it.” John delivered the punchline and
realised, not for the first time, that he should not have told the
joke. Hazel wasn’t laughing but, after a moment’s pause, a
small smile flickered across her face.
“It is a bit sick,” she said “But I guess that’s the point? Is that
what makes it funny?”
“I’m probably not the best person to ask.”
“What with being a heavy smoker and, well.. other stuff.. I
could have completely failed to see the funny side. But it was
obvious that you don’t mean it.”
“Yes,” said John. “You did ask me to tell you a joke. That’s my
favourite. Not many other people like it though.”
“Do you tell that on stage?”

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“No, it’s not mine. My own are not as good. It is not the done
thing as a comedian to tell other people’s jokes. Not that I’m a
comedian anymore.. or ever was, I guess.”
“No.”
“Now I’m doing this. Whatever this is.”
“I can relate to that,” said Hazel. There was another awkward
silence
“Would you like a drink?” John asked. “I’ve got most things.
Can you believe that instead of a mini-bar, there is an actual
bar? Madness. It still has the giant minibar prices though.”
“Red wine, thank you.”
John selected the dustiest looking bottle he could find,
something French from 1971. This would probably cost Eric
several hundred pounds but John had got used to spending
other peoples money, and feeling like his life could end at any
moment he no longer bothered to worry about what would
happen when Eric discovered. He filled a glass for Hazel. He
had a quick sniff to check that this ancient liquid was still
drinkable. It smelled extremely drinkable so John discarded his
over-strong Rum and coke and poured another glass for
himself. He handed approximately one hundred and fifty
pounds of fermented grape juice to the visiting clinical
psychologist.
They decided to cost Eric another six hundred quid.
“I am worried about tomorrow. It is television, they set things
up for conflict,” John said.

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“No one can make you say anything you do not want to. And
the same goes double for me. I have even wondered if they
want me to do what they do not want me to. Shona’s producer
keeps going on about how different and refreshing I am.”
“I know what you mean I spent nearly three years trying to
give people what they wanted. Provide a full comedy package.
As soon as I start being myself and saying my own thing I am
unwarrantedly famous. That, and being Eric’s marionette.”
“I do not like Eric Hayle,” said Hazel.
“Nowhere near as much as he dislikes you. He really, really
hates you, though I have no idea why. I can understand why
do not like him after what he writes about you.”
“It is nothing to do with that. Sticks and stones and so forth.
There is just something about him that reminds me of the
worst kind of psychopath. I have seen a lot of men like him
locked up in Broadmoor, Ashworth and Rampton.”
“Oh, he’s not that bad. He can be rude and aggressive but he
is charming too. And I honestly do not believe that story
about him pushing his editor off a tall building.”
“I do not know anything about that but most psychopaths are
charming. They are manipulative. They are also completely
without remorse or consideration for others. They have no
empathy. They are impulsive and addicted to risk taking.”
“That does sound like Eric,” John admitted. “But let us not
talk about tomorrow any more. We are still here and now. I am
enjoying tonight.”
“Me too. Cheers,” Hazel said, realising that she was actually
having fun.

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“Cheers. Tell me about yourself. Are you married?”
This threw Hazel. For forty years almost as soon as anyone
found out she was a psychologist, they would wish to lay out
their problems for her to pass judgement on or else get
defensive and strongly deny that they had any problems
whatsoever (which often told her far more than people’s self
serving confessions ever could). Almost never did they ask
about her personal life. Unless they flirting and this charming,
disarming young man could not be doing that, could he?
“My husband died in nineteen ninety five. Though his life
ended about a year before that. He had a malignant cancer, he
was fighting it but it caused him a massive stroke and his last
year was spent in a semi-coma in intensive care.”
“I am sorry. How did you cope?” John asked leaning closer.
He genuinely was interested in talking to her. Her hand went
instinctively to her hair, brushing it away from her face.
“It was traumatic. When it had just been the cancer he was
still himself, he was positive and enthusiastic and doing
everything his doctors recommended. All I had to do was trail
along behind him supporting him. After the first stroke he
broke up, only fragments of his mind remained. His memory
vanished, the world confused him.
“He could understand speech but he could not produce it. It
was as if he knew what he wanted to say but could not find
the words. He would point and look meaningfully at you but
all he could say was “That one, that one.” When he was tired
he would even forget ‘Yes’ and ‘No’.
“If I had not known him for thirty years I would have been as
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“After the second stroke, I do not think there was anything
left of him at all. I did my grieving of his still breathing body.
At the end when he died, it was just a huge relief.”
“So you have been alone since then?”
“I tried dating again but nothing ever felt right. Even the word
sounds wrong to me. Colleagues set me up with a few blind
dates. Not good. It makes you wonder how other people see
you.”
“Did you worry?”
“I didn’t give myself time. My last few years of work were the
busiest of my career. You reach a certain seniority in your field
and enough people know your name that you automatically
get invited to sit on all sorts of committees and attend tons of
conferences. In the year after Andrew’s death I threw myself
into everything that came my way. Saying yes whenever I was
asked. A year or two after that I was involved in all manner of
projects.”
It may have been a rich complex and exorbitant wine that
deserved to be sipped, savoured and favourably compared to
freshly cut grass, with praises sung for its camphor high notes
and its long, long legs admired. But it had simply tasted so
warm and delicious and was so easy to drink that they finished
the bottle before it even occurred to them to commence
penning odes to its nose.
Unused to the effects of uninhibited drinking Hazel became
uninhibited and wanted to drink some more. John offered her
the joint that he had inexpertly rolled. She politely declined.
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others for whom doctors decided that even more complex
drugs were the solution, Hazel had an ambivalent attitude to
recreational drug use. Her general feeling was that proscribed
drugs were bad but prescribed ones were okay. If you got it
from a bloke in a hoodie it was not good but if it was from a
white-coated pharmacist then it must be okay. John was
neither but she didn’t pop pills and she didn’t smoke dope.
Though maybe it might be better than all these cigarettes.
She had another wine instead. John had one too. Still feeling
self-conscious, she changed the subject and started asking him
about his life. He was less screwed up than she had been
expecting. If pressed for a professional diagnosis, she might
have even said he was sane. Though at no point in the
conversation did her inner therapist want to intervene. They
were just chatting.
She was having to do more of the talking. The drugs were
making John somewhat dopey, making it ever more difficult
for him to find his words. In the end, he seemed to have given
up looking for them altogether and just sat there staring at
intently into her eyes. She hadn’t been this close to anyone in a
long time. It was disconcerting, unfamiliar but not unpleasant.
She was only half surprised when tried to kiss her. She evaded
him easily enough. He started laughing. She had to smile
herself. And have another large mouthful of wine. She realised
she was blushing. She reached instinctively for her handbag.
She needed a distraction. She needed a cigarette.
She fished on out and brought it to her lips. John was still
watching her. She knew she should probably go. In the back
of her own mind, she could hear herself telling herself so. But
she was drunk and she was tired of always doing what she
told herself to do. She didn’t have to go just yet.

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A week ago she had been having dinner with the wife of the
Prime Minister and she had been bored out of her mind. She
hadn’t been bored once yet this evening. With a weird
detachment, she watched herself put down her cigarettes and
pick up the half finished joint instead.
She could answer to herself in the morning. But now she
having fun, thank you very much.
Eleven minutes later, they were naked.

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INTERMISSION
THE LAST QUESTION
Here we are in the final interruption. I promise.
People waste their time being entertained by cheap and
obvious films, by books that are nothing more than a chain of
flimsy set pieces, strung out on an ordinary plot and mildly
enlivened with forced jokes, puns and similes so bad they
would embarrass the manufacturers of Christmas crackers. At
least I hope you are being entertained. You’ve read this far.
How many times can people sit through the same film, the
same episode of some nineteen seventies ‘classic’ sitcom, or
worse a season of repeats of an American sitcom where every
episode is essentially the same?
People have no sense of occasion. The greatest day of their
lives was when their side beat another side in some sporting
fixture. It is not difficult to create your own magic moments.
To stop waiting for it to be handed to you on a plate by some
sportsman, film star, musician or bartender.
Yes, these thrills are tried and tested, and can be shared, but it
is a little more difficult than that to obtain some authenticity.
Look at how hard it is for people to turn off their televisions.
You might get carried away by the stories they feed you but
what truly do you get out of it?
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Your life is ticking away and you do not notice.
Maybe I get bored too easily.
Why do we feel that getting through a day of work is an
achievement enough? That an evening in front of the
television is a well-earned and worthy reward?
Reward for what, for having avoided having to face up to the
inevitability of death? Of embracing life’s futility and
accepting that this is as good as it gets?
There is no rush to reach death but would it matter if it
arrived tonight. We have been living by proxy anyway, letting
all the really exciting things happen on the screen. Let
adventures be nice and clean, life simplified.
Straight off the page we find lives that we have the subtlety to
understand and relate to. We are all inside Hamlet’s head but
we cannot look so clearly at our own internal monologues.
They are mostly disjointed daydreaming and self-deceiving
self-justification.
We are even worse at reading the minds of others. We think
we know the thoughts of others. We pigeonhole our friends
according to the simple labels. He is shy, she is judgemental,
he is selfish, and you are so thoughtful. We see these
‘characters’ acted out by a thousand hams, who themselves
think they have a handle on how it all goes. But it is another
form of language, a vocabulary of personality.
Yes, it comes close but this is not definitive, as soon as you
assume that you are in tune, that they are playing only one
melody that you will always hear.
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things you could not have guessed at yourself, remind you that
you did not know everything and suggest new things to know.
There will always have to be a neat ending.
The worst bits are the endings; they never resist the
opportunity to tie things up, to tell us how it all should be.
The Bible has a good ending, or the gospels do, Matthew,
Mark, Luke and John all end their books in an unsatisfying
incomplete way. I like it. They leave a lot hanging, ending on
an inverted deus ex machina. The sky comes down to Earth
and God vanishes up into Heaven, off the stage, never to be
heard from again and leaving nothing explained and everyone
wondering. Is He coming back? When can we expect Him?
What should we do in the meantime?
What a wonderfully ambiguous way to end an otherwise
unremarkable story. Why did it end like that? Why could they
not have been more clear?
And for two thousand years, people who know better than
you (they must do because they said they do) have offered
explanations. They have tried to tied the ends up neatly into a
social and political package that involves a lot of
unquestioning obedience and a long time on our knees.
The best ending is the one that admits our own stupidity. This
takes us back to the story of Socrates. I think the story of
Christ ought to be one like that of Socrates but ends up
looking more like that of Santa Claus.
Belief in Santa Claus is a ‘good thing’ for children, it makes
them happy and maybe even makes them less naughty and
more nice (for a few weeks in December at least). As such, it
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choose it for himself or herself.
I think there is a strong parallel to be found in many of the
liberal apologies for religion.. ‘it isn’t necessarily true but it’s
good for society’, ‘my own faith is complex but churches
shouldn’t confuse people with subtle points of theology’ .
Socrates on the other hand was the Clint Eastwood of early
thinkers. The first person to say “A man has got to know his
limitations.”
Socrates was one the first people to come up against this
question. Someone went to the Oracle at Delphi, and asked
who was the wisest man around. The answer was ‘Socrates’,
and this deeply vexed the great man when he heard of it, for
he was well aware of his own shortcomings. But being a
simple trusting fellow he did not for a moment consider that
the Oracle was mistaken. It was after all the most reliable
Oracle around.
So Socrates set himself the task of discovering why he was
the undisputed heavyweight thinker of the time. (And this was
before Plato’s hour in the sun, so there was in our historical
opinion some justification in the appellation.) What was more,
if he was indeed the wisest of men, then he should, if anyone
could, discover why.
After much thought and discussion on the subject, Socrates
came round to the Oracle’s way of thinking. (That is, if
Oracles can think, which, probably being almost omniscient,
they have little need to do.) He reasoned thus: “I, Socrates,
know nothing. That is I know that I cannot be certain of
anything, and this is the only thing I know. It must be this that
makes me wise, and what is more other men must be ignorant
of their own ignorance, making them, by the judgement of
the Oracle, doubly ignorant. The fools. Right that solves that I

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think I will go off and corrupt the young with these
fashionable theories, and with any luck cause a political storm
resulting in my own martyrdom to my cause and bestow upon
myself certain, if dubious, immortality. “
What happens is you are not paying attention to what is going
on, really paying attention. Now that I think about, that is
going to be hard work. You have a drunken conversation with
someone and if you agree that you will both endeavour to
achieve some grand dream. Yet when you wake up the next
day so many more drinks later although the idea remains a
good one you are not interested. Tipped over into hangover,
you skip over that part of the night. You remember it clearly
enough but you are embarrassed by your former enthusiasm.
You cannot fathom where it came from because right now
you could not care less if your entire family was being
threatened with death.
Sartre said that Hell is other people. It goes without saying
that Heaven is other people too. Life is other people.
Morality is like inertia. A single object alone in an empty
universe feels no inertia. There’s nothing to compare it to, to
be able to tell where it is going or how fast. Add another thing
and then there are relationships between them. But it’s
different every time. It’s only when you add a whole universe
that inertia becomes a universal property.
Morality is the same. It doesn’t exist because of God, It isn’t
decided by a single expert. It’s the emergent property of a
whole load of people trying to get along. If you deny morality
you are denying humanity. If you invoke God, so be it. But
you are just another man.
Or to look at it a different way, is morality absolute or relative?
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consequence of who we are and how we live? Let’s say it was
absolute and one of the rules was that killing is wrong. Would
killing be wrong in the world populated entirely by ants? Are
the ants sinning? You may say yes. I say, good luck trying to
convince the ants.
We think killing another person is wrong because they are
another person. Morality derives from understanding that we
all share something that
This is a little bit simpler than the Golden Rule which states
“Do as you would be done by.” The trouble with that is that
relies on your predilections.
This is more like a Crystal Rule, “Do as someone would be done
by.” It has crystal clarity because it is empty of you. But it is
also like a crystal ball, you have to peer inside and imagine a
morality that works for some unspecified person. The Crystal
Rule is shot through with uncertainty and ignorance. You have
to decide what will be done before I tell you who that someone
is. In fact, philosopher John Rawls’ said we could call this the
Veil of Ignorance argument. Imagine yourself reincarnated
into a society run by your rules. Would you still feel it was fair?
Ideally, it has to be just as fair to a millionaire as to an orphan
with AIDS. Not surprisingly, Gandhi was a big fan.
But even if Crystal rule is an abstract starting principle.
Morality doesn’t involve one rule applied to everything. It’s
everything your society has ever learned. The Ten
Commandments with ten million amendments. It is every bit
of advice you have ever received and every bit you’ve given to
yourself or others. There isn’t a shorter answer than that.
Remember Gyges? He’s still stuck in that room. There’s that
button on the desk. If he presses it a distant stranger dies but
Gyges gets £10 and is free to go, safe from any punishment.

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Gyges seems to be taking a long to do the right thing so it’s
time we helped him out. It’s pretty easy, all he has to do is
remember that there is a world outside that door. Let him take
a step back and ask who has put him in this tricky situation?
If he believes that a God or a Devil has placed him here then
his choice about the button ought to be easy enough. In fact,
the same goes for any third party. He should do the right
thing, knowing that whatever he had done he was sure to have
much bigger problems once he goes outside. The real problem
here is very little to do with the button. It is about working
out what ‘they’ expect of him and whether they’ve really given
him any real freedom at all.
But, more often than not, we get ourselves to these messes.
Gyges most likely put himself in this situation. He is welcome
to my advice but ultimately, he has to make a choice for
himself. He may find it difficult to discern the ‘right’ answer.
But I will tell him this for nothing acting on my advice only is
certainly wrong. If he can’t look around him at everything and
see that some things are wrong and some things are right, then
he must have been living in a box.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SHOWDOWN AT THE TOP OF A
TALL BUILDING
Happiness is not a brilliant climax to years of grim
struggle and anxiety. It is a long succession of little
decisions simply to be happy in the moment.
– J. Donald Walters
• * ¢ Ψ ? †
The BoCorp broadcast headquarters was a very tall building; a
large glass and steel skyscraper that had recently won some
architectural award as the best tall glass and steel skyscraper
constructed since last year. It was a very boring building, fifty
storeys tall with a square floor plan. The architects had won
the prize because they had the revolutionary idea of rounding
off the corners of that square cross section and rotating the
panes of glass that formed it’s ground to sky curtain-wall
through forty-five degrees. Instead of the usual endless sheet
of square panels, the BoCorp building was swathed in endless
sheet of diamonds. These award winning windows were a
tasteful shade of pink.
The obvious phallic appearance of the building was not
missed by its many critics.
Eric’s sleek black helicopter came into land on the
frighteningly small heli-pad that shared the roof with half a
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window-cleaning machine. The man saw it from four hundred
feet below where he was about to enter the building. The man
knew the signs of conspiracy. He knew that Black Helicopters
meant that ‘THEY’ were here; ‘THEY’ were involved in this
situation. It only steeled his nerve. He walked up to the
building’s reception and was directed past the security guards
to the express elevators.
The forty-second floor of a modern office building is the very
last place to put a television studio. The ceilings are too low.
There is no space for all the cabling and soundproofing. There
was no dedicated sub-station for the large power requirements
and not enough ventilation for all the heat from the lights.
You would never put a television studio on the forty-second
floor of anything.
The fact that so many people had told him this was reason
enough for Yegevny Swan to insist that this is precisely where
he wanted the main studio of Mercury satellite news. As the
most powerful man in the Eurasian broadcast market,
Yegevny Swan was used to getting his own way. Today
Yegevny was in Saint Petersburg but that was only 100
milliseconds away by fibre-optic cable, if anyone needed
reminding of that fact. But he wasn’t expecting any more
protests. His staff were used to agreeing with their leader and
doing whatever it took to keep him happy.
Its many critics did not miss that the bland and one-sided
reportage of the Mercury News Network was broadcast from
a rose-tinted building. The only person with any independence
at MMN was Patrick Rodero and the only program with any
integrity was the Sunday Show. At least, that is how it had
been last week.
If the Mercury News Network staff thought it strange that
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they kept these thought to themselves. They didn’t want any
trouble.
Parnell had a philosophy about troublemakers, they would be
making it wherever they went and so were easy to identify by
challenging them and asking a few simple questions about the
purpose of the visit. Your typical troublemaker would often
not be able to help himself and answer such an inquiry with a
question of his own, already intent on starting a
confrontation. More sophisticated nuisances with a degree of
self-awareness would be more defensive and attempt to avoid
the question. Everyone else generally took it at face value. The
man had sailed straight past Parnell. Knowing in this own
mind that he was doing ‘Right’, he had barely registered the
professional suspicion Parnell had sent his way. So Parnell had
no reason to suspect that the man was carrying a gun. He also
had an official audience ticket so Parnell directed him into the
guest reception area.
The man was singing as he went,
A mighty fortress is our God,
A bulwark never failing;
He seemed to have not a care in the world.
The floor manager had plenty. The show was due to start in
25 minutes. A show that he was responsible for, though he
hoped he wouldn’t be held responsible for what was clearly
going to be a total disaster. Apart from the floor manager and
his team of four cameramen, four runners and assorted
technicians, everyone else was a stranger to the studio and
everything was being done differently from the normal
Sunday Show format.
First there was Shona. She had brought her own producers
and her own make-up artists. She had insisted that there was a
live studio audience. She had rearranged the set for her and

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the three guests. Three guests! They never had three guests.
Then there were the guests. Amateurs to a man, woman and
priest. Dangerously unpredictable amateurs who apparently all
hated each other. He sent his assistant to check that they
hadn’t started the fireworks too soon.
And finally, Eric Hayle was somewhere around here too. Lest
he forget. Hayle had not been much in evidence so far today.
But if Yegevny came looking for anyone to blame, the floor-
manager would be first to denounce Hayle. Not that he could
see that happening. Whatever Hayle had on Yegevny, it had to
be huge to be worth all this. Blackmailing Russian oligarchs
shouldn’t even be possible. Especially not someone like Swan,
who had absolutely no shame. The floor-manager couldn’t
begin to imagine.
If a genie appeared right now granting him three wishes that
would be the first thing he’d ask. Then he’d ask to be taken as
far from here as possible. He closed his eyes and reopened
them. The nightmare continued.
John was alone in his dressing room when the runner popped
his head round the door.
“Dr Cole?”
“Last I saw her, she was going to try and meet some of the
weathermen,” said John.
The morning had been slightly awkward, of course, but he
didn’t have any regrets. He didn’t think Hazel did either. They
had both been more worried about all this than all that. This
was the first moment of peace he’d had since waking up. He
thought of Natalie. He was glad she wasn’t here but as soon as
this was over, he wanted to go straight to her. He needed that

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peace.
“Live in ten, nine, eight, seven, six” If it wasn’t his own voice
he could hear, the floor manager wouldn’t have believe they
had made it this far. He wasn’t much more than spectator
from here onwards. He had got everybody to his or her place;
he had got the show rolling. If anything went wrong from
here, it was someone-else in the firing line.
The man was clearly mad. Certainly he had no sense of
drama. He didn’t even wait for Shona to finish introducing
herself before he took out his gun and advanced on his target.
Mercifully for John, he was not aware of the man coming
towards him with a gun until it was too late. The shot was
fired; he did not see it coming and had no chance to move. It
may have been this that saved his life.
The man’s shot had been wildly inaccurate and if John had
moved there was more chance he would have ducked into the
path of death by lead. In fact, the bullet had sailed past him
and spoiled the scenery instead.
“John!” Hazel had reacted faster, she had seen the man get up
and start moving towards the stage. The moment she had seen
the gun in his hand, already coming up to aim, she had cried
out. Her call came too late to change fate with the first shot
but split seconds after it, she called out again.
“John! Drop the gun!” John Smith did not drop the gun but it
drooped as he turned to see who was shouting at him and
second shot buried itself in the studio floor.
“Oh hello Doctor Cole. How are you?”
“I am good thanks, John.” Hazel stalled, looking for clues as

HELP YOURSELF
317
to how to handle her former patient. Her mind trying to
untangle this man from the dozens of others with similar
conditions. Aware too that time would have changed his
diagnosis, his demeanour and his demons. “And how are you?
I hope you are still taking care of yourself? Still taking your
medication? That is very important, you know?”
“No, I couldn’t. I stopped” the man said sheepishly. “The
troxies were confoxing me. They stopped me being me. I
could not see clearly, I was missing what was going off,
missing my mission. I needed freedom from dem Demons.”
“You are off your dopaminergics?”
“I was confoundulised before but not no-more, nosiree.
Gabriel’s instructions are touching my mind gland and his
beams are guiding my holy hand.” At this the gun swung up,
aiming again (mainly) at John Smith. John Smith the impostor,
the false Smith, prophet of nothing.
The False Smith had overcome his perceptual and volitional
blockage. But, perceiving his predicament, had chosen to
remain motionless.
He was not alone (though that is how he felt). Around the
studio no one else knew what to do. Since this woman
appeared to be taking charge and that man was unpredictably
firing a gun, most of the other people in the room who had
not made a break in the initial confusion, were resigned to
waiting to be told what to do either by the woman or the man.
They were acting innocuous, trying not to draw attention or
draw fire.
Shona was half collapsed on the sofa and Reverend Cake was
stuck to the spot. He was not praying. Prayer to him was a
public show of faith, and an essential element in the

CASPAR ADDYMAN
318
appearance of piety. It was for Sunday best, for standing in
front of the congregation, looking out over their heads
mouthing the words and checking their faith. Right now, he
was trying to remember where it was that he had seen the
gunman before.
In the wings Parnell had seen what had happened and though
he still had his wits about him, nothing in his 17th Century
T’ai Chi training was appropriate for tackling a schizophrenic
armed with a World War II pistol. Nevertheless he edged onto
the more brightly lit studio floor.
John with the gun was shaking quite badly, though he wasn’t in
the least bit nervous. Long-term use of dopamine retarding
anti-psychotics had given him pronounced muscle shakes.
Eric, also in the wings, had always been a man of action and
he was also a World War II veteran He even had medals but
‘hero’ was too simplistic a label to apply to his case. He had
been at both ends of the barrel of a Luger 49 and he knew
exactly how many bullets this one ought to contain. He had
been keeping a careful count and creeping closer to the action.
Mainly to get a better view.
“What are you doing here, John?” Hazel asked the man. It was
a risk to draw his attention back to the current moment, but
she counted on his habitual need to explain his mania. It was
obvious why he had attached his delusions to the image of
this other John Smith. But she had only the vaguest of ideas
about why he might be trying to decide to act in this way. His
brain being the way it was now, he would not have any
coherent picture either but he might allude to something that
she could make into an escape from his delusion and if
nothing else it bought time. (For what she did not know.)
Eric had been right. Being shot at concentrates the mind

HELP YOURSELF
319
wonderfully. Right now John’s consciousness was focused in a
tight ball, oblivious to everything but the small dark ring of
the barrel of the Luger, still smoking slightly and being waved
erratically in his approximate direction.
“Camera Four stay on the crazed gunman, Camera Four?”
Camera Four was pointing at the ceiling. The moment he had
seen the gun, cameraman four had dropped to the floor and
started crawling under the audience seating scaffold.
Camera One had been the first person through the fire escape,
his headphone lead bounding along behind him.
Camera Three was getting a good shot, his position was more
exposed than One or Four and making a break for it was more
dangerous and keeping the camera between him and the
gunman was the best way to stay unshot.
Camera Two appeared to have a death wish, he was not
watching the man at all, and he was doing his job. Getting
reaction shots. There were plenty of those.
“John, why are you doing this?”
“He told me to,” the man answered, waving his gun
indistinctly.
Always a man with a guilty conscience, Reverend Cake denied
it immediately. He was in no position to know that Smith was
not gesturing at him but at Eric, who was advancing onto the
set.
True enough, Eric had given the Luger to Smith, but he was
not about to admit it. In fact, for once Eric wasn’t entirely
sure what he was going to do. All he knew was that he wanted

CASPAR ADDYMAN
320
to be in the middle of it all.
John stood facing John. The former comedian was staring
down the barrel of the gun. Here he was facing death in front
of an audience. Granted it was a little more serious this time
but weirdly it had felt much worse the last time. He froze and
then there he was in the moment again. A speech started
forming in his mind. He was prepared, he was ready. He had
three months to practice it and this time it would save his life.
Searching for the first word his eyes flicked around the room.
He wasn’t on stage. He wasn’t alone versus an anonymous
audience. Everyone in this room was in this together. The gun
was pointing at him but that did not make him the centre of
attention. Maybe he could help himself but he did not have to.
Others could help him too. Hazel knew these men, this type
of man, this man. He said nothing.
Hazel started again. “John, listen to me.”
And he probably would have done too but right then Eric had
turned to Hazel and had shouted,
“Oh shut the FUCK UP!”
The man jumped. The gun went off.
Parnell jumped. The man went down.
It all went very quiet.
His breathing was weak now. Less and less oxygen was getting
to his brain, the pain ebbed but perception clouded too. His
vision narrowed to a long, dark, tunnel, his hearing muffled
and his sense of his body left him, space folding up around
him. But he could no longer think clearly about it, about

HELP YOURSELF
321
anything. It was a fight to remain conscious to make each
thought catch the train of the last. In some dim way, he
sensed peace beyond the striving. One last thought passed
through his brain. “I guess this was my own fault.”
With that Eric let go.

CASPAR ADDYMAN
322
EPILOGUE
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.
Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.
-- Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5
There was not a lot more to it than that.
They all lived happily ever after.
After the shooting incident, the police were finally able to
connect the dots which placed John Smith at the wheel of the
rogue Routemaster and at the window of the Other Smith’s
flat, throwing a four pint milk carton of four star in to start a
fire in his living room. Admittedly, the details had been spelled
out for them in large tabloid headlines by journalists who were
quicker off the mark and who did things for the front page,
not by the book. Vernon Associates never mentioned to
anyone that they had known all this for several weeks.
The community at large had once again been found wanting
in its ability to care for the dangerously mentally ill. John

HELP YOURSELF
323
“God’s Gunman” Smith was returned to a secure mental
health unit. He was locked away out of harms way for his own
safety, but not his well-being. Forced to take his meds again,
his more florid symptoms abated and he became the calm,
train enthusiast he sometimes was.
Eric miraculously survived the shooting because no first time
author can bear to kill off their favourite character. Everyone
believed that Eric Hayle had given the gunman the gun. But
there was no proof. It was just the word of a single madman
with a doctor’s certificate versus a multi-millionaire
psychopath with criminal lawyers.
John “The Tao of Now” Smith, remembering Hazel’s
description of classic psychopathic lack of remorse and
having seen the ruthless efficiency of his lawyers, did not try
to take Eric to court or even to task. John shrugged off the
fact that Eric had tried to kill him as just one of his little
character quirks. He continued to collect regular royalty
payments but moved on with his life.
He shambled into a very predictable career, appearing on the
B-list and writing for the Sunday supplements. He didn’t mind
too much. Natalie listened better than any audience. She
appreciated him far more too.
Hazel Cole, reawakened as a sexual and emotional being, and a
newly converted fan of recreational drugs, headed off on an
extended holiday to India, Thailand and beyond in search of
sun, sex and chemical fun. She travelled by train.

CASPAR ADDYMAN
324
APPENDICES
Appendix A –
Recommendations to the panel on
Reassessment of Risk
Report on John Smith by Dr. Hazel Cole, 17th February 1991
Smith has been in the secure unit for seven years following an
aggravated assault motivated by religious mania. At the time
he was suffering an attack of acute schizophrenia, manifesting
symptoms of paranoia, thought disorder, delusions of
persecution and of grandeur.
Currently, Smith has several complex and interacting
pathologies and many insecurities carried over from an
unhappy childhood. His schizophrenia has been in remission
for five years, following successful management with
chloropromazine. He has previously suffered episodes of
epileptic attacks, linked to a focus in his temporal lobes.
The regime of drugs he takes to control his epilepsy restricts
the range and effectiveness of the anti-psychotics he may take.
Tricyclics have been effective in the past but following an
extensive neurological examination, it was the opinion of the
case psychiatrist that this treatment should be stopped.

HELP YOURSELF
325
Appendix B –
Suitability for Special Operations
TOP SECRET - EYES ONLY
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
REPORT OF 17-FEBRUARY-1941
TO: GORDON FOWLES, HA-WOCS
FROM: DR. F.P.R.VIONI M.D.
MEMO: PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT OF ERIC
HAYLE
INTERVIEW WITH E.H. TOOK PLACE 21-FEB AT WAR
OFFICE, WHITEHALL.
E.H. WAS ON TIME AND ANSWERED ALL Q.’S FULLY
AND SUPERFICIALLY POLITELY THERE WAS A
UNDERLYING TONE OF INSOLENCE AND
DISRESPECT FOR MY AUTHORITY.
E.H. WAS ARTICULATE AND INTELLIGENT (IQ 147
ON WISC-1) CREATIVE ON PROBLEM SOLVING
TESTS BUT UNWILLING TO STAY WITHIN BOUNDS
OF MY GIVEN INSTRUCTIONS.
RESILIENT PERSONALITY, LOGICAL IN FACE OF
CRITICISM, QUICK TO ADAPT IN ROLE-PLAY TEST
BUT LACKED EMPATHY.

CASPAR ADDYMAN
326
LIFESTYLE QUESTIONS REVEALED DUBIOUS AND
UNASHAMED PERSONAL CONDUCT. MANY
ANSWERS SHOWED HIM TO BE CALLOUS AND
UNEMOTIONAL. AT TIMES HE APPEARED TO BE
GOADING ME WITH HIS CASUAL CONFESSIONS OF
SOCIAL TRANSGRESSION. HE ALSO POKED
DISMISSIVELY AT THE RULE OF LAW.
POSSIBLE HOMOSEXUALITY.
CLEAR EVIDENCE OF PSYCHOPATHOLOGY.
UNSUITED FOR MILITARY SERVICE.
Appendix C –
Summer term report
John Smith, Form five – Form teachers report, Summer Term 1993
John continues to drift through school, paying little attention
to his work. He is a cheerful member of the class and gets by
comfortably enough but he is wasting his potential. I am not
confident that he will do as well as could in his GCSE’s. While
my fingers are crossed, I think he should brace himself to be
disappointed with his results. A short, sharp shock might be
just what it takes to wake him up and start taking things more
seriously.

HELP YOURSELF
327
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book started very quickly. Most of it was scribbled
during National Novel Writing Month
(www.nanowrimo.org) in 2004. It has been finished more
slowly and painfully, thanks mainly to encouragement from
friends and family. Thank you Ishbel Addyman, Jake Black,
Jemima Cooper, Ana Milusheva, and Róisín Thérèse. Jemima
and Róisín also put in sterling, unpaid service as proofreaders
and cheerleaders extra magna gratias agens to them.
Thank you also to all the philosophers who replied to my
impertinent questions. Your answers increased my confusion
and left me with questions than when I started. So I would say
you have done your job well.
A huge thank you to my first English teacher, John Painter, for
introducing young school children to things that people think
they should not know, like Wilfred Owen and the Rubaiyat of
Omar Khayyam. And to every other English teacher who ever
tried to teach me anything. I did not understand it at the time.
I probably still don’t but it bothers me less and less.
Firstly and lastly, I must thank my dear friend and occasional
dealer Mr White for providing me with some excellent Psilocybe
Cubenis and the good people at the People’s Republic of Disco
for providing an amazing environment in which to be
confused by them. Under the influence of these mushrooms
and those tunes I understood that everything all made sense
and that if you could just explain this to anyone who cared to
ask then you could all get on with experiencing it. Staring at
the vacant stage, I thought of a little story that encapsulated
that moment of vision and clarity. I thought I ought to write it
down. This is not it, but that’s probably for the best.

CASPAR ADDYMAN
328
LEGAL NOTICE
The author could not have completed this book without the
support of a vast network of researchers and reference
checkers. He relied on the expert opinions of many
individuals all over the world; Any factual errors are the fault
of the Internet.
All characters contained herein are poorly executed parodies
of actual people even more poorly disguised. Any
resemblance to any persons living or dead is probably real but
hopefully very hard to prove in a court of law. Although all
the really depressing and depraved bits are based on my own
life.
To confuse things further, since I wrote this my brother Max
has become a stand up comedian. But a real one with jokes
and everything. And those are real letters from real
philosophers!

HELP YOURSELF
329
AFTERWORD
Schizophrenia, psychopathy and all forms of mental illness are
very real and can be very destructive to their sufferers. They
are painful and confusing for all involved. All the more reason
to joke about them. Anyone who thinks that laughter
trivialises the serious is trivialising laughter. Either that or they
are in serious need of a laugh.
Despite the implications of this work of fiction,
schizophrenics are no more violent than anybody else. You
might also bear in mind that the delusions and confusions of
the disease are, to the sufferer, very real.
The author is proud to support www.madpride.org.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Caspar Addyman has a Ph.D. in developmental psychology.
By day, he is a professional infantologist, studying the growing
minds of tiny babies. He is interested in what makes them
laugh and tick. By night he runs YourBrainOnDrugs.net; an
internet and smartphone based research project about your
brain on drugs. At the weekends, he drinks, dances and
sometimes even sleeps. He lives in London.
www.onemonkey.org

Help Yourself - A novel with free answers to the meaning of life.

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