‘Take my word for it, the silliest woman can manage a clever man; but it needs a very clever woman to manage a fool’ [Three and – an Extra]
‘For the female of the species is more deadly than the male’ [The Female of the Species]
‘But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: ‘It’s clever, but is it Art?’ [The Conundrum of the Workshops]
Addressed
I t was perhaps several months later when I awoke to find myself in a hospital bed in Dorchester. I had forgotten everything – Mogwash, the bottle of greed, my dear friend Sebastian and the fact that I was merely a character from a fictional blog. The doctors spent many hours trying to help me regain my identity, all seemed hopeless… I had been found wandering, dazed and confused in The Booze Bucket – purveyors of fine wines and dubious ciders. Chillingly, I had a fatal head wound and a not unattractive limp.
Nationwide television appeals pleading for friends or relatives to come forward to identify me and take me home proved fruitless. It appeared that I had not been reported missing.
To pass the time I spent many happy afternoons in the hospital craft room teaching myself the ancient forgotten skills of calligraphy; hour upon hour would pass whilst I sat at a desk addressing colourful envelopes to imaginary people with made up addresses.
Dr. Clive Mutterfort, DGM, MRCOG, MClinPscychol, MFFP, DCH, PhD, GCSE,
Addressed
seemed convinced that clues to my identity/hometown/bottle of greed were to be found in my inky scribblings, I had no reason to persuade him otherwise.
Patient Name : Unknown
Sex : Male/Female
Age : Approx. 35 – 85
Date of Admittance : 22/06/2007
Patient Notes :-
Patient was brought to us on the evening of 22/06/2007. She was found wearing jeans, sweater [from Top Shop], and only one wellington boot.
Police were called after an altercation occurred in The Booze Bucket off-licence, Dorchester High Street, when the owner of the premises tried to forcibly restrain the patient from emptying bottles of Campari on the floor before placing them in the shop window.
The patient is now under observation at River Piddle Hall House, in the care of Dr. Clive Mutterfort, DGM, MRCOG, MClinPscychol, MFFP, DCH, PhD, GCSE.
Questioning reveals that the patient has no recollection of who she is or where she is from. Her description does not match any missing person records in our missing persons database.
Other than two minor injuries, a twisted ankle and slight bruising to the head, the patient appears to be in good health.
The patient becomes overly distressed and anxious upon seeing a bottle, whether in reality or as a picture in a magazine; although It has been observed that the patient is particularly peaceful when watching episodes of either Eastenders or Coronation Street – despite both these programmes having pubs as their social focus.
25/06/2007 The patient asked for a notepad and pen….
Rage
Desperate attempts to engage my new audience fellow Mogwashians in darkly humorous Boltanski-esque projects, although brilliant, proved to be completely and utterly futile, the last of these projects almost fatally so.
One fateful day in May, I was once again attempting to enlist Sebastian’s help with what I considered to be an amusing artistic pursuit featuring a box of broken glass, a tube of superglue and three cryptic text messages. Sebastian later described my ‘peculiar activities’ to the East Sussex Constabulary as being, ‘gratuitously self-indulgent and devoid of any serious theoretical or philosophical merit’,
Rage
going on to claim that my, ‘continuous and ludicrous characterisation’, of him on my, ‘grubby little website’, had caused him, ‘significant embarrassment’.
My offer to bottle his rage, turning it into an eye-catching ornament for his living room had so overwhelmed him with gratitude, that in his haste to offer thanks he slipped and inadvertently bashed me over the head with an empty Campari bottle….as I sat by the river on my weather-proof jacket, trying to dislodge a stone from my Wellington boot.
21 June 2007
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
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
Wonky Words 