Newspaper Extract 09/03/2025

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….Scarlet Blue actually exists, but an understanding of her work leads one to believe that the possibility of ‘Bottled Greed’ existing is highly likely another of Blues’s fictions. It would not be the first time that Blue courted controversy during her dubious yet short lived career proving herself to be a duplicitous character.
In May 2007 she went missing and was believed to have drowned in a river close to her home in Luddley-cum-Mogwash; her weather-proof jacket, walking cane and one wellington boot were found on the river bank alongside a discarded Campari bottle. Foul play was originally suspected and a local man was arrested….

19 May 2007

Mogs Mill

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Mogs Mill, to be found north west of Mogwash, is a tight knit prosperous community where the mental health problems of the rich and illustrious are referred to affectionately as ‘eccentricities’ and go largely unreported to the wider world. Indeed, this small rural enclave has become something of a safe-haven for disenchanted entrepreneurs and dispirited millionaires; for example, the obsessive compulsive disorder of one particular resident went unnoticed for such a time that he managed to block pave 42 acres of arable farmland before concerned neighbours raised the alarm.
Richard Etherington-Smythe, originally an Estate Agent/Mortgage Consultant/Property Developer/Pension Schemer from South Kensington, was later found roaming the forest unaccompanied, attempting to manicure huge swathes of ancient woodland with little more than a pair of secateurs, daisy print gardening gloves, and a certificate of commendation in rustic handicrafts. Consumed with a pathological fear of darkness, Mr Etherington-Smythe was also responsible for lighting up the night skies with 3,000 energy saving light bulbs festooned across an area of coppice that had been incorporated into his extensive back garden. This proved to be something of a distraction for pilots trying to land aircraft at nearby Gatwick airport…

18 May 2007

Easter at Mogwash Manor

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Glory

And so it came to pass that I considered myself to be something of an archetypal alchemist, a Shaman of the highest order, I was indeed a deity in demand; my alliterative alliterating appreciated from Adelaide to Alabama, Melbourne to Maidenhead, from Hollywood to Hollyoaks. From far and wide people were unravelling the clues from my writings, which would direct them to the heart of Mogwash in search of the elusive ‘Bottle of Greed’. I intended to assist my faithful followers in whichever way I could, to be close at hand when they made the exciting discovery that would change their lives forever. With this in mind I would often head out to the woods, marvellous mutt at heel, thermos and tupperware luncheon box in hand, so that I could sit in the bracken and await enthusiastic treasure hunters.
Sometimes no-one would pass by for several weeks, I would feel myself getting cramp in my right calf whilst losing all hope that the ‘Bottle of Greed’ would ever be discovered. My clues were obviously too obscure, too challenging, too mind-bendingly cryptic or perhaps just a bit too daft for my devoted disciples to decipher. Fortunately, through this fog of despondency, I managed to formulate yet another despotically devious plan. My genius, once again rose, like a phoenix from this ashes of despair…. yes, I had had another idea.

29 April 2007

Please Follow Me

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“Consider one of life’s original situations: that of a ‘Hide ‘n seek’ game. What a thrill to be hidden while someone’s looking for you, what a delightful fright to be found, but what a panic when, because you are too well hidden, the others give up looking for you after a while & leave. If you hide too well, the others forget you. You are forced to come out on your own when they don’t want you anymore. This is hard to take. It’s like turning too fine a phrase, so subtle that you are reduced to explaining it. Nothing is sadder than having to beg for existence”

Calle, Sophie & Baudrillard, Jean (1988) Suite venitienne. Please Follow me. Bay Press

29 March 2007

Seek and Hide

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Truth

Sebastian sat back in his chair and frowned as he read the open Word document on his computer screen, mentally kicking himself for agreeing to help out with the Mogwash pantomime for the fourth year running. Not only was he expected to be in it, but he was now being asked to help out with writing the script as well. Rupert, the Pantomime director and village overlord, had kindly sent him a rough outline of the plot, it appeared to revolve around a series of clues that would guide the hero to a long lost fortune. Sebastian twitched and reached for his whiskey; what was it with the villagers of Mogwash? First it was Scarlet with her bizarre blog encouraging her readers to follow a series of clues to find a mysterious ‘Bottle of Greed’ – as if – and now Rupert had got in on the act with his clues to find a treasure chest in Never Never Land [loosely based on the Australian outback as an excuse to get someone to dress up as a kangaroo]. Had they all gone completely mad? Were Rupert and Scarlet in league with each other? Was Sebastian really nothing more than a fictional character inhabiting someone else’s narrative? Was the postman going to start giving him thinly disguised directions to the whereabouts of his mail? Had the milkman hidden his semi-skimmed and Greek yoghurt in a location yet to be disclosed? It was all getting out of hand. He wanted to lie down and sleep, he wished to wake up in a world without treasure chests, or bottles of greed; he wished to wake up in a world where everyone said what they meant – in a world without a clue.

Be careful what you wish for, typed Scarlet, sometime later in July 2014.

16 March 2007

How to make friends and influence people (Tales from Luddley-cum-Mogwash, part 2)

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For Sale

My newly acquired status as a forlorn, slightly crazed misfit with a bottle fixation, at last endeared me to the bosom of village life, and I became a prime candidate for Sebastian’s care in the community initiative – a vehicle for him to explore the potential creative diversity among the villagers of Luddley-cum-Mogwash. To showcase our talents the first village fete for over three hundred years was organised in the grounds of No.3 Mogwash Mansions, a mock tudor art deco semi to be found at the edge of the village near the skate park.
Prioritising my position, Sebastian gave me a trestle table set back from the rest of the fete – just down wind of the port-a-loo, so that I could display my bottles in an area that, in his own words, ‘would highlight the strong pervasive feel of alienation inherent within my work, encouraging the viewer towards sympathetic generosity’.
From this I could only deduce that he was finally on my side, obviously finding my work as life enhancing and worthy of promotion as I did. I welcomed his support and flashed him a come hither smile; unfortunately, at this very same moment, he must have gotten an insect in his eye as he appeared to recoil in terror in response to my friendly overture.
Evening entertainment was provided by George, a mild mannered post office manager with a large gnome collection, who for this one night made a miraculous transformation into Georgina, a dangerous diva with an unparalleled talent for outdoor operatics. With an ear splitting heartbreaking rendition of Don’t Stop Believin’, he brought the day’s events to a close.
Finally I felt as if I belonged.