New Adventures of the 'Trossachs Seer'

The Christmas Number One Humbug

Sun, 20 Dec 2009 23:59:34 GMT

To my sister's for lunch where conversation was dominated by the battle for the Christmas number one spot. As even I'm aware, a slightly mean-spirited internet campaign has been launched to counter the ubiquity of acts associated with Simon Cowell*. From a distance, this recalls nothing so much as the in-crowd rounding on a naif who's blundered into their vicinity. While I have neither any particular interest nor expertise on the subject, I'd contend that the pop-charts, particularly at Christmas time, reflect the interests of the very young. Sophisticates are notable, if at all, by their absence. Champions of Californian band Rage Against the Machine, the stalking horse contested against X-Factor winner, Joe McElderry, might as well congregate en masse at their local theatre's pantomime and noisily demand a revised programme of Waiting for Godot or the Birthday Party. The spectacle of the superannuated 'radicals', clearly revelling in the opportunity to shout 'f__' in front of disappointed children, is as embarrassing as that of Peter Glaze and Bernie Clifton singing David Bowie songs on Crackerjack.

Today, while Muriel backed Rage Against the Machine, Spencer, ever resentful of notoriety he imagines should be his, came out whole-heartedly in support of the unfortunate McElderry. "Didn't they have anything better to do?" he sneered. "It's not as if there's nothing else happening in the world." He became particularly animated on the group's appropriation of the image of a Vietnamese monk's self-immolation for a record cover. By acknowledging that this might indicate a level of posturing, Muriel betrayed a lack of experience in arguing with Spencer. Having sparred with him on innumerable occasions (sometimes literally), I recognise the importance of denying him access to the moral high-ground: once entrenched there, he'll refuse to budge. "Will you stop going on about the monk?" wailed Muriel twenty minutes later. "It's got nothing to do with monks!" Spencer, normally as sensitive as Robert Mugabe, shook his head reproachfully, a provocation that caused Muriel to retreat to her room where she played the offending song, 'Killing in the Name', repeatedly at full volume.

My expectations of 'pop' acts are occasionally confounded: I recently surprised a correspondent by admitting to a sneaking fondness for Eminem and the late Biggie Smalls. The Rage Against the Machine record, however, brought to mind a belligerent pubescent remonstrating against the demand that he tidy his bedroom. I've yet to hear Joe McElderry's song, but it hardly seems conceivable that it could contain sentiments as banal as its rival's. Later, as Spencer and I walked home, I told him that, in a more ordered universe, he might be the Christmas number one. "F__ off," he scowled, striding ahead.

"Don't give up your dreams, Spencer," I shouted after him as he quickened his pace, slipping on ice and landing heavily on the kerb. My attempts to help him to his feet were resisted by wild, open-handed blows. Reassured that he wasn't hurt, I made my way home, turning at the foot of the road to see him, still sitting where he'd fallen, staring disconsolately into the gutter.

Next year's Christmas Number One - http://www.hamiltoncoe.co.uk/LOTBD.htm

* While Cowell has been accorded an inexplicable renown for the asperity of his put-downs: in reality, he's nothing more than the equivalent of the leader of school clique telling a prospective member that he's wearing the wrong type of shoes. The ghosts of W.C. Fields and Dorothy Parker have little to fear. While his wit might be more aptly compared to a rubber mallet than a rapier, it should be a concern that some of his victims are ill-equipped to endure public ridicule, however lame. It's all very well arguing that individuals are responsible for their own decisions, but in a civilised society we do what we can to coax our fellows away from harm: we don't point and jeer at their folly.

The Creatures of Christmas

Sun, 20 Dec 2009 13:54:35 GMT

(I repost this wonderfully evocative interpretation of a Drumfeld Christmas with considerable sadness. The artist, Douglas Frey, went missing while touring the cathedrals of England in September this year. Days before his disappearance, I responded to a desperate e-mail request by contributing toward his travel expenses. I know that Douglas would be dismayed to leave a legacy of debt - unfortunately, my letters to his estate have prompted allegations of "crass insensitivity". Anyone who knows me must appreciate that I'm more concerned by the possibility of a stigma besmirching Douglas's reputation than the trifling £14.50 I was explicitly promised he'd send on his return to the United States.)

Best wishes to everyone who drops by here for a Happy Christmas and healthy 2010,

Hamilton

http://www.hamiltoncoe.co.uk/The_Creatures_of_Christmas.htm

A Droning Interruption

Fri, 11 Dec 2009 13:20:56 GMT

There's something admittedly comical about the situation in which I currently find myself. Leaving various comments on my plagiarist's page, it occurred to me that I've become the equivalent of a householder, standing on his doorstep and imploring his burglars to let him in. The troll Qardinal, meanwhile, rattled by my frank observations about his conduct, has responded with the sort of lame invective Muriel and her friends abandoned when they were seven. It is at least apparent why he is compelled to trawl through other people's worlds in search of material. The goading witlessness of his retort recalls nothing so much as a child, bereft of a sensible argument, merely repeating his antagonist's point in a voice sodden with feigned idiocy. As anyone who has witnessed a playground squabble will be aware, this tactic has two possible outcomes: the belligerent is punched squarely in the face or his opponent, shaking his head sadly, walks away in frustration. My brother, as might be anticipated, favours the former option.

"Just find him and kick his teeth in," he implored last night, going so far as to offer to accompany me, doubtless anticipating an expenses paid jaunt to the United States. This is exactly the sort of response I've explicitly discouraged throughout my career. Spencer, of all people, I think, might empathise with Qardinal's terrible isolation, the burden of time pressing upon him, causing him to scurry around the internet, sucking the essence out of someone else's marrow. He is one who sits eternally at the far end of the table, tonelessly repeating the punchlines of other people's jokes until the laughter dies around him and the food turns rancid on his spoon. At the moment, there wouldn't appear to be a great deal I can do about his pilfering other than accept the compliment that he's afforded me through the hours spent laboriously copy and pasting my work onto his blog.

On Being Plagiarised

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 16:57:10 GMT

Further to my earlier entry, I'm disappointed to report that a) my archive has been extensively plagiarised and b) the procedure for alerting Blogger to the theft is more complicated than one might reasonably expect. My interest in the culprit, based on the assumption that he was a Moriarty figure or a crazed protege has been confounded by the identification of a grubby specimen known as Qardinal. Dispiritingly, he has pilfered my work in exactly the same spirit in which he presents photographs of glassy-eyed young women, naked and rendered ludicrous by the use of food-stuff as props. I'm no longer intrigued - merely irritated and slightly depressed. While Qardinal is, as yet, a furtive and nebulous figure, he should be advised that the Cash-Cow (or Coe) he's identified might yet trample him underfoot!

An Imitation of Hamilton Coe

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 01:45:40 GMT

As anybody reading this 'blog' is probably aware, I (sporadically) post on both MySpace and Live Journal. This week, I was intrigued to learn that somebody has taken the trouble to copy and paste significant chunks from my archive onto a blog entitled 'Disturbing Behaviour'. Spencer, always eager to anticipate the worst possible scenario, particularly where my well-being is concerned, gleefully predicted that I've attracted the attentions of a "bona fide nut-job". He proceeded to improvise a bleak fantasy in which my protege, summoned to Drumfeld by a subliminal message contained in one of my (discontinued) motivational cassettes, eviscerated me me with a scythe. While I'm, naturally, concerned that someone might be presenting my life and work as his (or her) own, this seems an over-reaction. On the whole, I'm quite flattered by the considerable time and effort expended by the 'author' in transferring material from my blogs onto his. I'd be grateful, though, if, for the benefit of casual browsers, he'd clarify for that some of the less elevated preoccupations evident elsewhere on his page are neither shared nor endorsed by Hamilton Coe.

*The ersatz Coe can be found by typing my name into Google's blog search.

The Seditious Heart (Part One)

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 04:26:28 GMT

2010 marks the centenary of the duel between Francis Middleton and Basil Culshaw, one of the last fought, I suspect, by the stipulations of the Code Duello. New York historian, Helen Curry, Middleton's great-great grand-daughter, intends to commemorate the occasion by erecting a plaque at the scene of their confrontation in Central Park. "It's not an exaggeration to suggest that, had he lived, Frank might have been the equivalent of a John F, Kennedy," she says. "It seems such a shame that, if he's remembered at all, it's for his feud with Basil Culshaw."

Surprisingly, objections to the memorial have been raised by New York artist, Marvin Kelly, a self-proclaimed descendent of Culshaw's, who accuses Helen of defaming his ancestor's memory. "It's ludicrous," sighs Helen. "For starters, I've no idea how Kelly's related to Basil. He was an only child and there's absolutely nothing to suggest that he had any children himself. Nor have I any intention of defaming him, though, to be perfectly honest, if you're presenting a dispassionate account of the affair it's difficult not to."

The tragedy has its origins in the meeting between Doctor John Holloway and Caroline Culshaw some fifteen years earlier. Holloway had only recently lost his wife to typhoid; Mrs Culshaw, fifteen years a widow, had endured her husband's suspected suicide months after the birth of their only son, Basil. "By all accounts they were extremely well matched," says Helen. "They were nice people and easy in each other's company. It was a second chance for both of them." Within six months, they had announced their engagement. "It seems a bit rash by our standards, but there was nothing unusual about it. Marvin Kelly refers to Dr Holloway as if he was an austere, domineering figure, but there's no evidence of that all. I think he imagines that any man of that class and period behaved like Mr Murdstone or something. It's simply not the case. If anything, he was remarkably tolerant."

Holloway's indulgence of his step-son certainly indicates an almost saintly level of forebearance. On being informed of his mother's engagement, Basil, only fifteen at the time, accused Holloway of drugging her and threatened to have him horse-whipped. Over the course of the month leading up to the wedding, he fulminated against the doctor in letters to various newspapers. In these hysterical diatribes he levelled allegations of general negligence, poor standards of hygiene and performing surgery while drunk. At around this time, Basil was also suspected of attempting to poison Holloway's household staff, presumably in the hope that suspicion would fall on the doctor. Fortunately, a vigilant house maid insisted on an autopsy being performed on a plateful of mutton pies around which Master Basil had been hovering. Despite being handsomely bribed, he then ruined the wedding service by pelting the couple with coins (possibly a reference to Judas Iscariot's pieces of silver) and responding to Holloway's nephew's protestations by setting about him with a home-made cosh. "Basil was a brat," says Helen. "There are no two ways about it. He was an only child and, since his father's death, he'd been indulged by his mother, his grandparents.... everyone. For some reason a myth persists that he was precociously gifted but there's no evidence to support it whatsoever."

The situation would have become unmanageable were it not for an affinity developing between Basil and Holloway's daughter Eleanor. "She was two years younger than him," says Helen, "but cetainly more sensible. Their friendship might have been the making of him, unfortunately, he fell in love with her." With an unerring instinct for an inappropriate gesture, Basil decided to declare himself at Eleanor's eighteenth birthday party: Arriving drunk, he pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket and, after demanding silence, recited the first seven stanzas of a poem he had written in her honour. "I can hardly imagine how embarrassing it must have been," says Helen. "Honestly, it doesn't bear thinking about. " After sitting through several stanzas of escalating intensity, Eleanor, covering her face with her hands, succumbed to a nervous compulsion to giggle. "At first, Basil thought she'd been moved to tears. When he realised she was laughing - that everyone was laughing - by all accounts, he just froze - It must have been terrible. Eventually someone, I think it was a waiter, in fact, took him by the shoulder and, not unkindly, led him to the door."

Dr Holloway found Basil a position in Maine where he sulked for the next four years. "He's supposed to have worked as a journalist," says Helen, "but I can't find a single piece of evidence to back it up. As far as I can tell, he lived on hand-outs from his mother's family and - incredibly - his step-father. Throughout his life, Basil had no compunction about accepting the charity of people he detested." Helen isn't being entirely fair: for the duration of his tenure in Maine, Basil was fairly prolific, though his output seems to have been restricted to letters sent to New York newspapers excoriating Dr Holloway (of which he wrote several hundred) and meandering poems reminiscent of Edgar Allan Poe. The occasional impenetrability of the latter might be attributed to the opiate based medicines he was prescribed for severe stomach pains.

In January, 1900, Caroline Holloway died after a short illness. Basil, convinced that his mother's death would remove any possible objection to his romantic aspirations, returned to New York in the highest of spirits. On the evening following the funeral, he demanded an audience with Dr Holloway and requested permission to propose to Eleanor. "It's bad enough that, despite everything, he imagined his affections would still be reciprocated," says Helen, "But it seems inconceivable that he'd play the dutiful suitor for someone he'd libelled and flagrantly despised." Holloway, grief-stricken and possibly alarmed by irrefutable evidence of his step-son's derangement, prevaricated, suggesting that Eleanor be given time to recover from her step-mother's death. Basil, mollified by an invitation to remain in the Holloway house, agreed to bide his time.

Marilyn Manson: The Missing Weeks

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 01:02:18 GMT

Marilyn Manson, then known by his given name, Brian Warner, first came to prominence as a teenager in his home town of Canton, Ohio. When his high school, Glen Oaks, launched a radio station, Warner, who had previously worked on the school newspaper, was invited to host the lunch-time show, 'What's Happening, Canton?' "I knew Brian from church youth groups," recalls high school contemporary Tracy Ebert. "He was incredibly po-faced but essentially harmless. Given the choice, you probably wouldn't have wanted to listen to him but, at that time, I don't think anyone found him especially objectionable. You wouldn't have wanted to punch him or anything." Ensconced in his basement studio, Brian spent his lunch-hours warning his fellow students against the consequences of glue sniffing or skate-boarding down the corridors. "He had all of these catch-phrases," remembers Tracy fondly. "He'd always say, 'You know folks, that's not a rule someone's just made up to annoy you - if you think about it, it actually makes a lot of sense!' It got that most of the kids could anticipate what he was going to say and finish his sentences for him. They'd shout back at him or throw things at the speakers. He wasn't exactly hated at that point, though. I think most of us kind of liked him, really. That was before Michelle Studmeyer got involved and ruined everything. She was his Yoko."

Michelle's initial contribution to the radio show, a semi-improvised horoscope, was abandoned after three weeks. "It was full of right-on stuff about self-empowerment," recalls Tracy. "Like, 'Leo, today you conquer your inhibitions' or 'Sagittarius, how can you expect to be loved when you refuse to love yourself?' It was actually kind of creepy and hateful." The slot was cancelled after pressure from the school's Aquarians who had noticed that premonitions for their sign were invariably baleful. "Every day it was, like, 'Aquarius, why do you keep ignoring the voice of your conscience?' Everyone else was beautiful but Aquarians had to take a long, hard look at themselves." Responding to complaints, Michelle apologised for an "unintentional bias" tearfully acknowledging that "someone has hurt me very badly". This was assumed to be a reference to (Aquarian) ex-boyfriend Terry Hibbert, who cheerfully admitted responsibility for breaking Michelle's heart, adding in mitigation that "she's a fruitcake". The daily horoscope was jettisoned, but Michelle lingered.

Surviving tapes of the show provide an emphatic, if indistinct, record of Michelle's escalating influence on proceedings. Her initial interventions are hesitant: "Do you mind if I add something here, Brian?" she asks on an early recording as Brian, somewhat awkwardly, alludes to the short skirts favoured by prominent female clique. "Shelley Robson's a lovely girl and, personally, I think it's terribly sad that she feels she has to flaunt herself." Weeks later, she interrupts an admonishment against rowdy behaviour in the male toilets to fume, "When Mike Fischer sticks someone's head down a toilet, it reflects badly on the entire school community." After a crackling pause, Brian adds, "Well, Mike Fischer can consider himself named and shamed," the first use of the phrase with which Marilyn Manson is still primarily associated in Canton. Over the course of one episode, he uses it on twenty seven separate occasions. "I'm afraid some characters will never learn," he starts with sombre relish, the falteringly pedantic delivery of earlier shows replaced by a grim self-assurance, "so they'll just have to be named and shamed." He then proceeds through a list of scofflaws and details of their offences - ranging from reckless skate-boarding to subjecting his grand-mother to prank phone calls - while Michelle eggs him on in the background, her voice occasionally rising to a squawk of indignation

"It was classic case of folie a deux," recalls Tracy. "Without Michelle's encouragement, Brian would have just bumbled on endearingly. Unfortunately, he became a monster. I actually tried to warn him, but he named and shamed me. Honestly, he was hated. Kids would be pounding on the door of the studio, looking to lynch him - the police were called more than once - but he kept right on talking." Matters came to a head over the course of a momentous week in April, 1986. On the Sunday morning, Michelle, an avidly proselytising vegetarian, woke up to find her front porch spattered with what police later identified as animal viscera. "It was like Altamont," she wailed the next day on a show dominated by the attack. Tuesday's show was similarly themed, though Brian briefly digressed to name and shame a school caretaker Michelle had spotted leafing through top-shelf magazines in a 7-11 ("and what I want to know, Brian, is how I'm supposed to feel if I see Eric looking at me"). Glen Oaks principal, Michael Stone, later conceded that, had it not been for the "meat incident" he would have taken them both off the air immediately. Instead he demanded that they broadcast an unequivocal retraction and, for future shows, specifically forbade any combination of the words 'name' and 'shame' in the same sentence. His half-hearted intervention came too late: on Wednesday, making his way home, possibly still brooding over the mortification of having to deliver an on-air apology, Brian was seized by two men and bundled into the boot of a car.

"An elderly woman witnessed the abduction from her apartment window and called the police immediately," recalls Lawrence Stokes of the Canton Police Department. "Unfortunately, she struggled to provide a description of either of the men or their vehicle." Over the course of the next week, seventeen individuals including Terry Hibbert, Eric Ross, the pornography browsing caretaker, and, intriguingly, Michelle's father, Roger Studmeyer, were questioned in relation to Brian's disappearance. Speculation about Mr Studmeyer's involvement intensified when officers emerged from a routine search of his house with firearms, a computer and eight large boxes. "When a child goes missing you have to pursue every lead," explains Stokes. "We had it on pretty good authority that Roger Studmeyer wasn't especially thrilled about Brian's interest in his daughter.We also had to examine the possibility that Brian might have been involved in the desecration of the Studmeyer porch." Studmeyer, a high school counsellor, was sufficiently concerned by gossip associating him with Brian's abduction to write to the Canton Repository categorically denying any involvement. Tellingly, though, asked by a Repository reporter to provide an assessment of Brian's character, he replied with a terse "no comment".

Officers working on the case were almost unanimously of the opinion that Brian's disappearance was linked to his relationship with Michelle. "I went through Brian's journals," says Stokes, "and it was evident that he was besotted with her. It might be overstating things to say that he was stalking her but he was certainly more aware of what she was doing than she probably appreciated." Most pertinently, Brian knew that she had secretly resumed her 'friendship' with Terry Hibbert. "He was beside himself." say Stokes who remains convinced that Brian was responsible for the attack on the Studmeyer porch. "On Saturday afternoon, he actually disguised himself in a trench-coat and a fedora and followed Michelle and Terry around the state fair - it's in his journal - when they went onto the Love Train, he was sitting in the carriage behind them. It's like something out of Hitchcock. Hours later, after he's had time to mull things over, her porch is covered in entrails. I'm sorry: this isn't fiction and, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, when a guy wakes up next to a corpse with a smoking gun in his hand, there's no twist in the tale - he's the killer." *

On the second Sunday after Brian's abduction, his parents' church hosted a vigil at which friends could pray for his safe return. "It was surprisingly well attended," says Tracy Ebert. "When something bad happens to someone, no-one likes to acknowledge the fact that they couldn't stand him. If anything, I think everyone over-compensated: it was an exercise in hypocrisy, really, but it was nice for his parents." Only Michelle deviated from the spirit of the occasion, appearing arm in arm with Terry Hibbert. "It was incredibly tactless," remembers Tracy. "I mean, Michelle ticked all the boxes - she lit a candle, she stared at Brian's picture, she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief - but she might as well have brought a monkey with her. Terry Hibbert just didn't know how to conduct himself. He still doesn't, to tell you the truth. Remember, this is someone who once threw eggs at a wedding party. He exchanged high fives with his buddies, he cracked jokes. He actually caressed Michelle's ass while she was trying to talk to Brian's mother. It was excruciating."

The Canton Police Department, meanwhile, had been inundated with reported sightings of Brian. "It goes with the territory," says Lawrence Stokes. "Any cop will tell you that there's direct correlation between one person going missing and a dozen nuts popping up to tell you they've seen him. For whatever reason, the Warner abduction attracted an inordinate level of interest. Of course, you have to follow every lead." Stokes was particularly irritated by the persistent calls of a local woman, Barbara Wallace, who claimed that Brian had appeared to her in dreams. "She was a crackpot, but we had to indulge her because she'd managed to insinuate herself with Brian's parents. Whenever we went to the Warner house, she'd be there with her sketch-pad and dream journal." At Wallace's prompting, officers returned to the Studmeyer house and partially excavated the basement. Roger Studmeyer, dismayed by the renewed speculation, suffered a mild heart attack while remonstrating with a Repository photographer who had followed him to work. Happily, his ordeal by suspicion was soon to end. The next day, exactly three weeks after his abduction, Brian re-appeared.

John and Shelley Palmer, walking their mastiff, Tess, in the woodland that skirts the northern periphery of Canton, were surprised by a the appearance of a face peering at them from the undergrowth. "What a fright he gave us," remembers Shelley. "I can't really explain it, but there was something unnatural about his appearance. Normally Tess was the most placid of dogs but she didn't know what to do with herself. First she growled, then she whimpered and finally she just turned tail." The Palmers, who recognised Brian from photographs in the Repository, alerted nearby park rangers who spent the better part of an hour trying to coax him into the open. "He threw sticks at them, he bit them.... He was pretty much feral," says Shelley who watched the pursuit from a safe distance. "Eventually, they dragged him out of a tree and bundled him into a net."

Malnourished and completely shaved, Brian was otherwise physically unharmed. The only blemish on his body was the letter 'M' tattooed onto his left shoulder blade. The psychological damage, however, was immediately evident. "He couldn't speak," recalls Stokes, "and, what's more, he didn't seem to understand what we were saying to him." For the next six months, he underwent extensive therapy in Madison House, a Maryland institution that specialises in the care of traumatised children. "After a month or so, he started talking again," says Stokes, "but we never got anything out him. I wouldn't say he was unco-operative, but I always got the impression that he remembered more than he was letting on." Brian, recovering steadily, spent the latter part of his stay in Madison House helping in the kitchen and working on a mural that remains on the wall of the facility's east wing. He might have been remembered as a model patient were it not for the occasions on which he was observed slyly goading some of the younger children on his ward. "He was pleasant enough when there were adults in the vicinity," says Stokes, "if anything a bit too pleasant - but, for whatever reason, the staff were wary of leaving him alone with the other kids." This trait, inconceivable to any of Brian's lunch-time listeners, might have accounted for the discharge the senior Warners and his frequent visitors from the Canon Police Department all considered premature.

"Brian once asked me to a Laurel and Hardy movie," says Tracy Ebert. "It was a year or so before he went missing. Marilyn Manson fans might find it hard to believe, but he was crazy about them. He used to go to conventions all over the state with his grandfather. I turned up with my friend Karen Shaw and he was there with all of these old guys in these little red hats, you know, fezes. Karen was beside herself, she was like, 'Oh, God, Brian Warner's a Shriner.' She could hardly stand for laughing. I mean, I was laughing, too. I couldn't help myself. They all started singing this goofy song and Brian looked as if he wanted the ground to swallow him up. We had to leave: it was terrible. If I close my eyes, I can still see him, looking sadly after us. That's the way I remember Brian. I don't know what happened to him, but he changed. After he got back, I used to see him flapping through the mall in his black coat and these enormous boots. I'd say 'hi' to him, but he'd just look through me. It was strange. I don't think he was snubbing me, exactly. I honestly don't think he even knew who I was."

* Tracy Ebert insists that Stokes is mistaken. "A lot of people know who dumped meat on Michelle's porch. I'm not saying anymore but I can assure you, it certainly wasn't Brian Warner."

A young Marilyn Manson

Patricia Cornwell Returns to Drumfeld

Sat, 01 Aug 2009 09:39:00 GMT

I'm occasionally given cause to cringe from the repercussions of what I commit to the public domain. In alluding to Patricia Cornwell's demented vendetta against the late Walter Sickert, I gave Spencer the opportunity to peel the scab from a wound I'd considered healed. Passing his room this morning as he talked on the telephone, I overheard a snatch of his conversation: "Remember Hamilton thought Patricia Cornwell was coming to Drumfeld?" he crowed, his face locked in a rictus of malevolent glee. Overwhelmed by the memory, he then doubled over and emitted a series of guttural 'whoops': anyone unfamiliar with Spencer's response to a situation he considers humorous might have assumed that his room had been leased for the purpose of a seal cull. By the time I made my way back to my own room, he was helpless with laughter, pounding the floor with one palm in the manner of a wrestler imploring his opponent to yield.

The source of such intemperate mirth was a practical joke which the most backward ten year old might have considered unsophisticated and pointless. Collaborating with our cousin Pamela (who impersonated Ms Cornwell over a series of telephone conversations) he successfully duped me into anticipating a weekend visit from the author. There was nothing remarkable about this scenario. I'm frequently consulted by novelists and students of criminology. I was aware at the time that Ms Cornwell was researching her book about the Whitechapel Murders: that I consider psuedo-academic conjecture on the subject distasteful is a matter of record, but I hope I'll never be so churlish as to deny someone an audience. Naturally, I set about making preparations to make Ms Cornwell feel welcome. Spencer, who has never been honoured with a civic reception, makes much of the "Drumfeld Welcomes Patricia Cornwell" banner I extended between lamp-posts on the immediate approach to the house. This was, in fact, no more than a common courtesy: I've received similar welcomes throughout the United States and it would have been remiss not to reciprocate. Similarly, commissioning the Drumfeld High School band and Mange Tout Catering for the occasion represented nothing more than an extension of traditional Highland hospitality. Have we become so mean-spirited and boorish that simple gestures of goodwill are attributed to opportunistic toadying?

As the hour of Ms Cornwell's arrival drew closer, I confess to uncharacteristically frayed nerves. Spencer, who had unexpectedly returned for the week-end, vetoed my intention of clearing his bedroom (preserved like the tomb of a sulky teenage pharoah) for our guest. "Why can't she sleep in Hamilton's room?" he suggested. As my room also serves as an office, this was clearly unpractical: our mother, still alive at the time, suggested we convert the attic into a makeshift guest room and I wasted an hour manoeuvering a sofa bed up the Stanley ladder (with no assistance, I might add, from Spencer.) While I was distracted, Mange Tout's representative, Suzanne, arrived with the buffet. The company brochure included a 'small family funeral and christening' option which I anticipated would be adequate to the occasion. As it turned out, this comprised vast quantities of sliced pizza, chicken nuggets and pakora. By the time I finally emerged from the attic, overbrimming platters had been stacked on every conceivable surface. "But this is children's food!" I remonstrated. "And it's stale! I can't give this to Patricia Cornwell!" The ensuing argument was exacerbated by the fact that we had to shout over the band rehearsing outside. Their inexplicable choice of music, a rendition of the theme from 'Starsky and Hutch' had already prompted complaints from several of our neighbours and, had it not been for Muriel's participation on second recorder, I'd probably have sent them home.

As Suzanne concluded the argument with a crudely predictable suggestion as to exactly what I might do with my buffet, I followed her outside to be confronted by a dozen or so members of Spencer's clique, liberally daubed with tomato sauce, who had prostrated themselves around the garden in the attitude of murder victims. "It's a tribute," explained a smirking Spencer. At this moment, Drumfeld's notoriously hopeless community police officer, Paul Jackson, appeared, summoned by an anonymous complaint about the noise. I was beseeching him to take the bogus murderees into custody when I was interrupted by the voice with which I'd been negotiating details of the visit for the previous week: "Hamilton, what on earth is going on?" Turning, I was confronted by a woman in sunglasses sporting a mass of perm that resembled nothing so much as the nest of some vast, prehistoric bird. Discombobulated by a compound of embarrassment and alarm, I stepped backward, inadvertently stepping on one of the 'corpses' and lurching into the hedge. Struggling to retain my balance, I identified a shrill skirl of laughter rising above the general uproar: Pamela! The realisation of being tricked was instantaneous. "Well done, Pamela," I said coldly, attempting to deliver a round of sarcastic applause. Unfortunately, I still needed my hands to steady myself and the gesture caused me to fall over again. "It's just a joke, Hamilton," said Pamela, removing her grotesque wig and advancing to help me up. "No, it's not!" I replied, using my elbows and heels to manoeuvre myself out of range of her assistance. "It's an act of attrition!" As the band embarked on a final rendition of the 'Starsky and Hutch' theme, I finally regained my feet, fixed all present with a withering glance, raised my chin and returned to the house. For the rest of the day, I busied myself with my files, playing Mahler's sixth symphony at a sufficient volume to drown out the sound of my tormentors working their way through the buffet downstairs.

Reposted in anticipation of my cousin's impending arrival from Los Angeles and our tour of the Outer Hebrides.

On Nostalgia

Fri, 31 Jul 2009 09:30:50 GMT

NOSTALGIA - Pernicious compound of senility, surrender and regret. A morbid and addictive tendency to retrospection that condemns the victim to inhabit a realm of ghosts. As I frequently remind my audiences, a man who fixates on the past is unable to fulfil his role in the present. The genuinely creative person doesn't squander his thoughts on issues that are no longer relevant: he's absorbed in the here and now.

Stragglers on the Great Beast Way (Revisited)

Thu, 30 Jul 2009 11:29:25 GMT

Nobody who frequents Drumfeld High St can be oblivious to the impending third anniversary of Lochside Crystals. Illegally posted fliers anticipating the event have defaced the town since January. Spencer, who has whole-heartedly detested the store's proprietor, Malcolm Cooper, since he publicly corrected his pronunciation of Brion Gysin, has made a point of covering the posters with a variety of insults dominated by the words 'hippy', 'moneygrabber' and 'scum'. "Mackenzie and Whyte have been there since 1860," he scoffs, "and they're not making a song and dance about it!" While it's true that Cooper has rarely been reticent about trumpeting the most meagre of accomplishments, it could be argued that convincing the lonely and unfulfilled of Central Scotland that salvation might lie in the contemplation of brightly coloured stones is an achievement in itself. "Mackenzie and Whyte might have dressed the gentry," I reminded Spencer this morning, "But Cooper has persuaded a generation to invest its faith in chuckies." Since the store's recent extension, clients whose problems have proven resistant to the veneration of crystals can be ritually thrashed with rattan canes or isolated within slime filled tubs. Spencer was particularly irritated by the Examiner's uncritical assessment of Lochside Crystals' new facilities. "That's just wrong," he spluttered, prodding Cooper's photograph with a saffron stained forefinger. "I'm glad I broke his nose!" (This isn't actually true. Spencer often inflicts retrospective wounds on those who have somehow offended him. Their brief, undignified altercation didn't so much bring to mind Hearns vs Hagler as two discarded bags being tossed about a gusty lane. The wistful smile that accompanied his false recollection convinced me against correcting his version of events.)

Rather than be rebuked for tormenting the desolate with false encouragement, Cooper was recently nominated for Drumfeld's Man of the Year award and invited to address pupils of Drumfeld High School on the subject of 'responsible entrepreneurism'. This, it should be noted, is the same 'responsible entrepreneur' whose previous ventures include Highland Fling, a service for 'swingers'* that resulted in public indecency charges and the ill-fated Great Beast Way, a fat-headed tribute to Aleister Crowley, more of which shortly. I'm frankly dismayed by the prospect of him being presented to the youth of Drumfeld as anything other than an example of gormlessness and preening self-regard.

I've not spoken to Cooper since I caught him in the act of chalking the words 'Acid is Groovy' onto my bedroom door (his parents' indifference, incidentally, to the revelation that their son was a vandal and a drug abuser augured ill for his future.) Weeks later, he'd committed the Gysin gaffe and been banished from the House of Coe. By the time of the Great Beast debacle, several years later, my investigations revealed him to be an aspiring magician, albeit one lacking the focus or primal energy required to operate successfully. His technique was largely limited to absorbing subliminal messages from cassettes and saying 'thee' instead of 'you' when attempting to attract sexual partners by the application of magic(k). When he somehow acquired a hunting lodge near Loch Ness (where Crowley is still remembered without affection for strutting around, brandishing his swagger stick at locals and threatening to turn tradesmen into camels) he immediately embarked upon the scheme which the most generous assessment might describe as 'hare brained'. Despite objections from local councillors, he established a series of walking trails around the Loch's southern shores, each route identified by markers bearing Crowley's malign silhouette. Within months the area was overwhelmed by unsavoury ramblers, some of whom caused further disruption by experimentally summoning entities. "Do what thou wilt," is all very well until we encounter someone who does. Cooper became a victim of his own stupidity when an ill-judged piece of sexual magic(k) caused his dreadlocks to fall out.

* Swinger: a euphemism for individuals who indulge in a succession of unsatisfactory sexual escapades, occasionally disrupted by the encroachment of dog walkers

On Slander

Tue, 28 Jul 2009 08:17:34 GMT

SLANDER - Despicable aspersions made with the intention of destroying someone's character by rendering him hateful or ridiculous. Occasionally confused with VENTING, the affectionate exasperation with which we discuss the conduct, appearance or personal life of an absent colleague. The accuracy of the definition depends entirely on whether the user is the victim of the former or participant in the latter.

On Gossip Columns

Tue, 28 Jul 2009 07:29:57 GMT

GOSSIP COLUMNS - The 20th century equivalent of gibbets on which human remains are left as an example to others. Recently superseded by internet forums.

On Fire and Folly

Sat, 25 Jul 2009 15:00:31 GMT

On the 12th of November, 2004, an awards ceremony hosted by the Scottish Labour Party at Edinburgh's Prestonfield House Hotel was rather spoiled by an act of wilful fire-raising. At approximately two a.m. an alarm was raised that curtains in the hotel's reception area had been set alight. As staff members extinguished the flames, they were alerted to an identical offence in a lounge known as the Yellow Room. Fortunately, this was also dealt with before it blossomed into an inferno. The arsonist, however, made good his escape, stepping into the chill of the Edinburgh evening amidst the throng of departing guests.

The next day, the front pages of Scottish newspapers were dominated by a ghostly image captured by the hotel's internal security cameras. The kilted man responsible for the fire-raising appeared in a succession of pictures. In the first, crouching at the foot of the curtains, in the second, walking quickly away from the nascent conflagration and in the third (and perhaps most sinister) returning moments later to check on its progress. As the picture quality was poor and male guests were almost uniformly clad in formal Highland attire, it was impossible to positively identify the figure. One improbable suspect, however, was already the subject of dark speculation by staff and fellow guests.

As he came to on the morning of November the 13th, one can only surmise as to how much Michael Watson, or, to give him his full title, Lord Watson of Invergowrie, recalled of the previous night. By all accounts, he had behaved churlishly from the evening's outset, his escalating belligerence finally causing bar staff to refuse to serve him any more alcohol. I've seen my brother subjected to a similar snub on more occasions that I care to mention. The difference between Lord Watson and Spencer, it goes without saying, is that my brother is accustomed to being the cause of irritation and disappointment. Their response to rejection in this case, I suspect, was similar: a chaotic succession of emotions encompassing embarrassment, indignation and excruciating shame. The last of these was in all likelihood pre-dominant as Watson, chastened and hungover, struggled to reconstruct fragments of recollection into a coherent whole. "I'm sure there was something else," he might have muttered to himself, cringing from the insinuating shadows clustered around the periphery of his consciousness, still oblivious to the full horror that awaited him on the front page of his newspaper.

"A moment of madness" is often cited in instances of inconceivable folly. In Michael Watson's case, this seems completely inadequate. His years of public service instantaneously forgotten, he was reborn in the public consciousness as a skulking, nebulous figure, casting a backward glance toward his potentially murderous handiwork. For months he protested his innocence until, overwhelmed by the evidence against him, he changed his plea midway through his trial in order to negotiate a reduced sentence of sixteen months, of which he served eight. He has subsequently returned to the House of Lords,but his contributions have, understandably, been minimal.

Ronald Hawthorne's Research on Internet Hauntings

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 01:38:58 GMT

It would be an overstatement to suggest that poltergeist activity has become a significant on-line menace. Most social-networking sites and independent safety watch-dogs are, quite rightly, preoccupied with the dangers presented by sexual predators, con-men and bullies. It's interesting, though, that in the wake of the Caroline Haan affair described in my last post, administrators of both Facebook and MySpace confessed to having consulted exorcists (though I'm not sure if the ritual was actually performed or, indeed, how.) Nearly every aspect of the Haan phenomena, of course, might be attributed to pranksters. While decent people find it inconceivable that anyone would assume the identity of a recently deceased friend with no purpose other than to frighten mutual acquaintances, the seasoned investigator recognises that human malignancy is often most pronounced in trivial endeavours. I've not entirely abandoned my initial suspicion that human agents were responsible, but various factors continue to confound me. The inability to trace the source of Haan's messages is the most significant of these but equally troubling is the gradual decomposition apparent in her icon pictures and the co-incidental misfortunes endured by those 'befriended' by her.

Astonishingly, the most worthwhile study into haunted websites has been conducted by 'celebrity' psychic, Ronald Hawthorne. As regular readers might recall, I've little time for Hawthorne's antics. Banished from the salons of Mayfair after being identified as a persistent source of gossip column fodder, he was reduced to trawling crime scenes, a vocation for which he had neither the sight nor the stomach. His technique never varied. On arrival, having attracted sufficient attention, he would sink to his knees, never missing his strategically placed towel, clutch his temples and softly gibber while his 'personal physician' took notes. These performances invariably conluded with Hawthorne, completely overwhelmed, screaming and gnawing on his trademark beret. Eventually rendered housebound by the accumulative effects of trauma and disgrace, he devoted himself to the investigation that might yet rescue his reputation from the peculiarly British purgatory reserved for spivs and poltroons.

Hawthorne identified seven hundred and fifty six instances of what he referred to as "inexplicable phenomena", mainly websites or messages without a logical source. He considered fifty seven of these "potentially harmful" and twenty-three "unequivocally malign". Of the latter, he was particularly concerned by the circulation of an unidentified picture unsuspecting recipients of which, he feared, "are in grave danger." Several paintings exist with evil reputations, but I have a hunch that he's referring to Oswald Perrin's 'Hilary'. It's unfashionable to advocate the destruction of art-works, but nothing produced in a malevolent spirit can do anything other than replicate that ill-feeling in others. Perrin's apparently unremarkable portrait of his sister has been associated with illness, suicide and murder. One former owner reportedly suffered a seizure after the subject of the picture suddenly raised her head and stepped toward him. Others claim that Perrin himself lurks somewhere in the painting's periphery. The original was destroyed in a house fire in Dublin in 1970 and, while prints are rare, I know of several that remain in circulation. Without wishing to cause undue panic, I'd strongly recommend that anyone receive such a picture (or, indeed, anything else that causes them instinctive unease) delete it immediately.

On Facebook

Thu, 23 Jul 2009 11:44:36 GMT

FACEBOOK - Social networking site through which subscribers can keep tabs on the activities of acquaintances whose actual presence would cause them to feign serious illness or run into traffic. Friends of Caroline Haan were alarmed by the regularity with which she continued to apprise them of her moods and interests for months after her death. Her refusal to conform to Facebook's unyielding stance on posthumous postings eventually caused site administrators to cancel her account. Undeterred, she continues to circulate under a variety of pseudonyms, all linked by the same untraceable IP address. She also maintains a presence on both Bebo and MySpace where her Blake's Seven fan page enjoys an appreciative audience. An urban myth has evolved that anyone 'befriended' by Caroline will die within a month but the, admittedly high, mortality rate of her subscribers might be attributed to any number of factors.

On Flatulence

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 18:57:23 GMT

Some might consider it prissy, but it's been my lifelong habit to retreat to a toilet or, at the very least, leave the room before breaking wind. My sense of humour is robust but, frankly, I would as soon expose myself as playfully subject my company to my feculence. Christine and Spencer attribute my fastidiousness to the influence of our Grandfather Sneddon (as, indeed, they do many of my personality traits they consider peculiar.) Certainly, with the benefit of hindsight, Grandpa's aversion to flatulence seems indicative of what what Muriel knowingly refers to as 'issues'. The mildest of whiffs was sufficient to trigger an instantaneous transformation from jollity to nostril-flaring rage. At my fifth birthday party, having identified a bewildered Billy Ure as the source of an insidiously pungent odour, he threatened to confine him within my sister's rabbits' hutch reasoning that, "if he wants to act like an animal, he'll be treated like one." Only my mother's intervention prevented Grandpa from making good his threat. The image of Billy's tear stained face, plaintively protesting his innocence still hovers around the periphery of my conscience. More than thirty years on, I blush to acknowledge responsibility for the impropriety. An analyst might argue that repressed guilt has contributed to my own subsequent attitudes: having spent a lifetime examining humanity at its most egregious, I still wince before even typing the word "fart".

The latter part of Grandpa's life was beset by various health problems. My sister frequently attributes the mild intestinal disorder that left him at the mercy of involuntary lapses to 'poetic justice'. His unfailing response to this recurring mortification was to excuse himself from the company and, at the first opportunity send a written apology to his hosts. It should be noted that these displays of self-abasement often provoked more concern than the original offence. Unless the circumstances are particularly inappropriate, etiquette demands nothing more than an acknowledgement and sincere verbal apology.

On Stockholm Syndrome

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 08:05:43 GMT

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME - A psychological response to the trauma of being kidnapped in which the victim develops feelings of affection or loyalty toward his or her abductor. The symptoms were most famously exhibited by Patty Hearst who became an enthusuastic member of the Symbionese Liberation Army, the agitprop theatre group who held her hostage. A closely related condition is suffered by participants on reality t.v. shows who desperately attempt to ingratiate themselves to the very people presenting them as lickspittles and numbskulls to a national audience. This condition was recently coined Ben Clarke Syndrome after the dementedly bumptious Apprentice contestant consigned to psychic destruction for his excruciating efforts to impress Alan Sugar. Typical symptoms range from subservience and a masochistic willingness to be bullied to misplaced self-confidence. Victims, in the erroneous belief that a readiness to be insulted is evidence of a sense of humour, subsequently commit themselves to a succession of talk shows on which they're subjected to further indignities. Oblivion follows the realisation that, regardless of any subsequent accomplishments, mockery will forever be their portion.

The Andy Goram Episode

Mon, 20 Jul 2009 20:30:22 GMT

Early in our acquaintance, I injudiciously mentioned to Rob McCaskill that, as an occasional childhood treat, my grandfather had taken me to Ibrox Park to watch Rangers. Rob, determined to engage me in 'banter', seized on this with the hopeless tenacity of a senile dog gnawing a discarded slipper it imagines to be a bone. “Not such a great weekend for the Gers, H,” he'd crow if Rangers had been beaten while their successes prompted a request that I refrain from “any of that sectarian nonsense* or you'll have Big Malky** to answer to.” With hindsight, it might have been better to stick to my guns but it was easier to continue to respond to Rangers' triumphs and failures with muted pantomimes of jubilation and dismay. The charade came to an abrupt and mortifying end when special guest, Dr Bluenose, smirkingly introduced by Rob an “expert on alcohol related offences” turned out to be former Rangers player, Andy Goram. “It's the bloody Goalie , Hamilton!” shouted Rob when it became apparent, even to him, that my confusion was genuine. “But he doesn't know what he's talking about,” I hissed, as bewildered by our guest's meaningless nickname as I had been by his ignorance of his purported realm of expertise.

“Even I know who Andy Goram is,” said Christine later as she drove me home. “What on earth made you pretend to be such a big Rangers fan in the first place?” The honest response, that I was trying to be polite , seemed woefully inadequate. “It's not as if I perjured myself,” I protested. “I'm not a bigamist !” Nonetheless, I was stricken by the knowledge that I'd compromised my credibility in a pointlessly shabby deceit. The extent to which my standing had been damaged became apparent the next Saturday at Radio Tay's annual charity picnic. Sitting down at a trestle table, I was increasingly discomfited as one by one, my colleagues glanced in my direction, quickly walked on and sat at the next available table. “Why is Hamilton sitting on his own?” asked Dr Henry, the station's resident medical expert, one of the last to join the happy throng. “Because,” came back the horribly distinct reply, “Hamilton sat down first !” Feeling my face redden, I turned away and affected absorption in an impromptu football match, punctuating proceedings with perfunctory shouts of encouragement while listening out for further insults from the ‘popular' table. “Come on Rangers!” shouted Rob, before adding helpfully, “They're the ones in blue , Hamilton.” As I turned to acknowledge his lame jibe, the ball hit me on the side of the head, knocking me clean off my seat.

As any semi-competent medic will confirm, a head wound should be attended to immediately. That I was left stricken on the soggy grass for two hours is an indictment against Radio Tay and, in particular, Dr Henry who, according to video evidence, was content to sip Pimm's while I lay motionless less than ten feet away. I was eventually roused by the violent intrusion of nicotine flavoured fingers into my mouth. “His airwaves might be blocked,” rasped a voice, soggy with intoxication. Opening my eyes, I was confronted by a bearded face hovering inches from my own. “Don't worry,” he slurred as I struggled to repel him. “I'm a qualified first aider!” Ignoring the hoots of derision, I called Christine who drove me to the outpatients' department of Perth General where I was thoroughly examined by Doctor Euan Spowart and prescribed a course of Anadin Extra before being dismissed with the stern proviso that I “come back immediately if you feel dizzy or nauseous.”

*For most contemporary Britons, virulent Christian sectarianism of the typeendemic in the immediate wake of mass Irish immigration, is now as relevant as a terror of witches. Londoners, Liverpudlians or Mancunians would regard a violent preoccupation with the Battle of the Boyne or the iniquities of the Black and Tans as evidence of mental derangement. That such attitudes continue to thrive in the west of Scotland can be attributed entirely to the connivance of the country's most prominent sporting institutions, Rangers and Celtic football clubs.

**Rob, whose knowledge of psychopathology has been gleaned in its entirety from Ian Rankin's Inspector Rebus books, was woefully ill-suited to the role of Crime Time host from the outset. An honest and diligent journalist would have acknowledged being out of his depth: “Look here, Hamilton. I've no idea how I'm going to muddle through here, but I'd really appreciate your help.” Instead, Rob retreated behind the haphazardly contrived ‘bampot' persona with which, over the course of three months deputising for the convalescent Peter MacFarlane, he'd successfully alienated 20% of Radio Tay's breakfast show listeners. Reluctant to accept the overwhelming evidence that his favourite alter egos, Big Malky, a Glaswegian hard-case and Aggie MacAnespie, an incontinent cleaner, had already prompted an actual boycott , he allowed them free rein to disrupt my carefully prepared lectures, occasionally interjecting as ‘Rob', the voice of reason, struggling gamely to maintain order. The reader, I'm sure, can appreciate impossibility of discussing Munchausen's Syndrome by Proxy while Rob, his face puce and voice rising to squawk of indignation leaned over me to chastise Aggie for what he invariably referred to as a “ disgusting abandonment of protocol”.

On Passion

Mon, 20 Jul 2009 05:20:02 GMT

PASSION – Word formerly synonymous with ardour and conviction, now commonly misused to condone absence of restraint. In the past ‘passionate' people were recognised by an inner glow, today they tend to be ill-mannered and violent advocates of idiotic causes.

On Automatic Writing

Sat, 18 Jul 2009 15:26:46 GMT

In 1916, W.B. Yeats, having been rejected by Maud Gonne and her daughter Iseult*, proposed to Bertha Hyde-Lees (familiarly known as Georgie). If Yeats was hoping that one or other of the Gonnes, dismayed by the prospect of his imminent unavailability, would finally surrender to his advances, he was to be disappointed. If anything, both seemed relieved by the transfer of his affections. Worse still, Georgie unexpectedly accepted his proposal with the consequence that within months the poet, chagrined and bewildered, found himself honeymooning with a woman whose very presence was a source of irritation. Having already used Georgie shabbily, Yeats, whose advanced years came without the compensation of sensitivity or experience, had little compunction about confessing the cause of his unhappiness. Understandably bemused by developments, Georgie struggled to compose her thoughts by writing them down. Distracted by Yeats's self absorbed interruptions, it suddenly occurred to her that, while she continued to write, the words no longer came of her own volition - she was merely a conduit for some other source of inspiration. Pointing out to her husband the vaguely promising sentiments "With the bird all is well at heart" and "You will neither regret nor repine" she triggered an obsession that would dominate the rest of their lives.

The sceptical reader might find it inconceivable that a fifty one year old man would attach cosmic significance to his wife's scribbled response to crisis. Certainly Yeats, having shattered the mood of the honeymoon might have felt obliged to retrieve the situation by encouraging Georgie's new interest. It should be remembered, though, that throughout his life, his habitual response to a fat headed notion was to lend it his whole hearted approval. Whether as a teenage theosophist or elderly fascist, he evinced an almost heroic indifference to the suggestion that he might be making a fool of himself. There seems no reason to doubt that he was similarly galvanised by this new enthusiasm. Misgivings forgotten, he spent the remainder of their honeymoon badgering Georgie into increasingly intensive periods of communication with her spirit guides. A more worldly individual might have been alerted by the constancy with which they took her side. They chided him relentlessly for his insensitivity, criticised his sexual technique and only stopped short of materialising on Georgie's hands like glove puppets and belabouring him with blows. Meekly, he accepted every admonishment and remained in thrall to his wife's unexpected genius. By the time they returned home she had filled ninety three pages. Hundreds more would follow, their observations informing Yeats's 'Vision' and prompting the productivity that continued through the latter part of his career.

Whether one regards the Yeatses as recipients of secret information or participants in mutual folly, it's evident that neither was harmed by the project. Their apparent successes notwithstanding, I'd implore anyone determined to experiment with Automatic Writing to proceed with caution. As is the case with any system in which a spirit is invited to impart information, it's often impossible to determine whether the driving force is an external influence or a repressed facet of the subject's own unconscious. Nonetheless, experiments should only be conducted in environments in which the author (or conduit) feels entirely comfortable while the hyper-sensitive would be well advised to abstain from the practise entirely.

The experience of Canadian poet Barry Gulliver should serve as a deterrent to the curious. Barry had no particular interest in automatic writing. His first half-hearted experiment, conducted after consuming two bottles of red wine, represented nothing so much as an attempt to kill time as he waited to fall asleep. Looking over his notes the next morning, he was astonished to find seven pages covered in a barely decipherable scrawl bearing not even the slightest resemblance to his own handwriting. "Midnight in the City of Angels," started the first page causing Barry to momentarily wonder if he was in receipt of some apocalyptic prophecy. The next few lines were illegible but the final sentence of the first paragraph - "It was quiet.... TOO QUIET!!!" - reinforced his sense of foreboding. This turned to bewilderment, disappointment and finally self-reproach as, over the following pages, a story emerged in which the narrator (identified only as 'Steve') became embroiled with an undercover female detective ("A different type of detective!!!"), itinerant Shaolin monks and a drugs cartel. The final page concluded with him chained to a radiator stoically awaiting execution by a man with "the sort of face you only see in dreams... Bad dreams!!!!"

Having attributed the entire episode to over-work and intoxication, Barry was astonished when he woke up the next morning to find more of Steve's adventures scrawled across ten pages of his notepad. Rescued from certain death by the detective, Steve became embroiled in an apparently pointless car-chase which culminated in an explosion and a gratuitous sexual encounter with a glamorous but sassy librarian (A different type of librarian!!!") The rest of Barry's day was wasted as he struggled to find some hidden meaning in the text: was it possible that Steve represented humanity or simply unexplored aspects of his own personality? It occurred to him that a message of genuine significance might be extricated from the intricate banalities of the plot. For hours he pondered the purpose of the monks and analysed Steve's leering asides but to no avail. If he was being tested with a code, it was beyond his powers of interpretation. "Who are you?" he eventually wrote but no direct response was forthcoming, merely a resumption of the increasingly hare-brained narrative.

Over the course of a month, 'Steve' filled seven narrow lined A4 work-pads. Worse still, his adventures started encroaching into Barry's other work, in particular a sympathetic reassessment of the dynamic between Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath. Every morning, Barry scanned the manuscript for the inevitable profusion of exclamation marks and margin notes ("Cheryl Ladd????") that indicated Steve's presence. Barry's intention of rescuing Hughes's reputation from feminist opprobrium was complicated by the appearance of a sub-plot in which the poet pursued a murderous vendetta against prostitutes. Sylvia, meanwhile, ("A different type of poet!!!!") joined forces with a wisecracking American detective determined to enlist her assistance in bringing 'The Hawk' to justice. Around this time, Barry's sleep was disrupted by vivid nightmares in which Ted Hughes, portrayed by the actor David Soul, stalked the Devon countryside clutching a claw-hammer. Visitors to his apartment remarked on an unusual chill while his girlfriend tentatively broached a "body odour issue" that she attributed to his fondness for vintage clothes.

Matters came to a head when Barry's girlfriend, spending the weekend at the apartment, was surprised in the shower by a bearded face peering at her through the partition. Barry, alerted by her scream, hurried to the bathroom where he was confronted by a fat, gnomish figure in a surf shirt. The apparition waved his hands frantically as if to semaphore innocence before dissolving into the steam. Previously loath to acknowledge Steve's existence lest it be attributed to a mental disorder, Barry now confided a full account of his ordeal. His girlfriend, a practising Catholic, flatly refused to remain in the apartment or, indeed, return until an exorcism had been performed. This proved effective, though, interestingly, Barry abandoned his defence of Ted Hughes and, finding himself utterly bereft of ideas, wrote nothing for months.

*Neither Gonne married happily. Maud's husband, John MacBride, was executed for his part in the Easter Uprising while Iseult was treated abominably by the deranged Irish novelist Francis Stuart.

A.A. Milne

Sun, 12 Jul 2009 17:01:49 GMT

In 1923, A.A. Milne wrote Vespers, a whimsical account of his infant son, Christopher Robin, at prayer. "Mr Milne crept in and watched for a few moments," remembered Christopher's nanny, presenting a slightly sinister picture of the doting father. "Then I heard him going away down the stairs chuckling as if he was very pleased about something." The poem, published later that year in Vanity Fair, was well received and Milne, determined to capitalise on its success, immediately started work on the poems that would appear in the volume When We Were Very Young.

It's fitting, perhaps, that the bulk of these poems were drafted over the course of an otherwise disastrous holiday at a country house in North Wales. Bad weather kept the Milnes confined to the house and Milne, whose manner could be prissy and superior, managed to antagonise their fellow guests. Even the butler made a point of serving him last at every meal. When the family eventually left, their car was surrounded by a happy throng eager to herald their departure with a chant of "The Milnes are leaving, Hurray! Hurray!' This memory must have remained with Christopher Robin, though any lasting psychological damage inflicted was to be overshadowed by the creative fruits of the hours his father spent skulking in his room.

When We Were Very Young was published in 1924 and rapidly followed by Winnie the Pooh, Now We Are Six, and The House on Pooh Corner. In 1934, Christopher Robin was listed by Parents' Magazine as one of the most famous children in the world - the others were Yehudi Menuhin, Jackie Coogan, Crown Prince Michael of Rumania and the then Princess Elizabeth. The ramifications of his celebrity from which he'd hitherto been sheltered were now fully apparent. His schoolmates tormented him by mimicking his stammer and endlessly replaying a gramophone recording of him reciting Vespers with its refrain "Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares! Christopher Robin is saying his prayers!" (They eventually relented and allowed him to smash it to pieces. Years later, his cousin Angela allowed her children to use her copy of the record for target practise.)

It hardly seems conceivable that Milne could have remained oblivious to the psychological land-mines he was blithely planting in his son's path. Nothing in his writing or correspondence betrays the slighted concern that Christopher might be overwhelmed by his alter-ego. In 1931, he told an interviewer, "If I make a success of Christopher Robin as a person, I will consider it my greatest creative work." Twenty years later, as he recuperated from a serious operation, he read a Sunday Dispatch interview in which Christopher was quoted as saying, "Ever since I was quite a small boy, I have always hated being Christopher Robin." The remainder of Milne's life was overshadowed by illness and heartache. He died on the 31st of January, 1956. Christopher Robin appalled his mother by attending the memorial service in a shabby rain-coat. Later she instructed that a sculpture of her son's head be buried in order that she never have to see it again.

On Discussing the Life of Peter the Great

Sat, 11 Jul 2009 15:29:02 GMT

In 1698, Peter the Great returned from his first visit to Western Europe intent on modernising Russia. His reforming zeal became apparent almost immediately as officials and boyars gathered to welcome him home were subjected to on the spot shaves. The twenty-first century reader might consider such behaviour inhospitable and eccentric. To seventeenth century Russians, most of whom had inherited the opinion of Ivan the Terrible that "to shave the beard is a sin that the blood of all the martyrs cannot cleanse", it was an inconceivable affront. Unmoved by his boyars' anguish, Peter persisted in his campaign against the hirsute, employing Ivan Turgenev, his court fool, as a barber and, on occasion, tugging off particularly intransigent beards with his own hands. Having exposed the hitherto hidden faces within the Kremlin, Peter imposed a general proscription excepting only peasants and clergy. This ban was eventually relaxed and a Beard Tax introduced with a scale of payment according to means. Merchants paid up to two hundred roubles for the bronze medallion that entitled the bearer to ape the appearance of his ancestors. Anyone flaunting an illicit beard lived in constant dread of discovery. Scofflaws had the unlicensed growth removed without benefit of emollients or even water, a painful and humiliating procedure invariably endured before a jeering mob.

It's easy to dismiss the zeal with which Peter conducted his campaign as evidence of eccentricity or prejudice. In 1682, when he was ten years old, he watched helplessly as the Streltsy (any one of whom might have doubled for St Nicholas) conducted a murderous rampage through the Kremlin. One might argue that the balance of his mind was disturbed by the experience, but it's worth noting that, nearly two hundred years after his death, the architects of Russia's destruction all sported some description of facial growth. A glance through my 'rogues' gallery', provides further evidence that Peter's instincts were sound. Throughout history, villains have attempted to conceal their true intentions behind what Fabrice Dupont referred to as "the mask of Cain". Even putting more serious delinquencies aside, whiskers frequently indicate sloth (determined by discoloration by food stains), vanity or furtiveness. (The presence of a beard, of course, might be attributed to some physical incapacity or harmless affectation, but only the most slap dash investigator will ignore the red flag presented by a naked chin accompanied by a moustache.)

As regular readers of this 'blog' are probably aware, my efforts to engage my niece, Muriel, invariably meet with hostility or indifference. Last Sunday, though, at my sister's regular Sunday gathering, she expressed a genuine interest in the life of Peter the Great. When she was six years old, Muriel watched from her bedroom window as Edwin Watson, an indigent befriended by her parents, danced around a bonfire constructed from a Goodwill Package comprising their own unwanted Christmas gifts. It might seem ludicrous to compare Watson's drunken antics to the depredations of the Streltsy, but, having been menaced by one bearded maniac, Muriel clearly felt a particular affinity to the boy confronted by thousands. Even Spencer, whose complexion betrayed a hangover of unusual toxicity, contributed to the conversation. His suggestion that facial hair be anathematised by a publicly funded advertising campaign met with with Muriel's approval, though I had to demur that civil libertarians would almost certainly object. Only my sister and her new 'friend' Fergus remained aloof from the cut and thrust of debate. Christine attempted to interrupt with various tedious digressions ("So, what about Andy Murray?") while Fergus affected preoccupation with his risotto before abruptly excusing himself to prepare coffee.

"Has it occurred to any of you," asked Christine before any of us could question the presumption with which Fergus assumed control of the kitchen, "that Fergus has a beard?"

I had to confess to surprise that anyone might refer to Fergus's carefully maintained stubble as a 'beard'. "What sort of detective are you? Of course it's a bloody beard," hissed Christine, an assertion in which she was supported by both Muriel and Spencer, neither of whom seemed even remotely concerned that Fergus might have found the conversation offensive. At this stage, I belatedly identified a slyly goading aspect to Spencer's repeated references to the Yorkshire Ripper and the scornful emphasis Muriel lent the first syllable of the word 'beardie'. "It's not Hamilton's fault that Fergus looks like a paedo," she interjected now, an unexpected defence in which she was, astonishingly, joined by Spencer. "You should listen to what Hamilton's trying to tell you. He's spent his life peering into puddles of piss!" Naturally, I objected that I'd spent my life peering into the abyss and wasn't, in fact, trying to tell Christine anything. I also thought it judicious to caution Muriel against the use of the word 'paedo' to dismiss anyone of slovenly or unusual appearance. "Fergus is not slovenly," objected Christine, apparently oblivious to the fact that I was trying to protect him from the sort of aspersions that might attract the attention of self-righteous arsonists.

By the time Fergus returned with the coffee the mood was irretrievably soured. After five minutes of awkward silence, I thought it sensible to gnaw on the bone of contention. "Do you think you have a beard, Fergus?" I asked causing Christine to deal me a sharp kick to the shin and Spencer to regugitate a mouthful of coffee over the table-cloth. Fergus, compressing his lips into a prissy squiggle, shook his head slowly: I'm not sure if he was denying beard ownership or indicating that he considered the question unworthy of a response. His surly demeanour for the remainder of the afternoon suggests the latter. On reflection, aspects of the conversation probably were tactless but any insults Fergus might have imagined obliquely directed toward him (allusions to child abuse and serial murder aside) were relatively innocuous. Later, as Spencer and I shared a cafetiere, we agreed that a grown man should be better equipped for the rigours of family debate. "You've laughed off much worse," acknowledged Spencer with grudging admiration. As we basked in the evening sun, I dismissed Fergus's gloomy presence from the periphery of my conscience and savoured the moment of camaraderie he'd unwittingly inspired.

Skull and Bones

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 14:47:59 GMT

Seven clandestine societies operate within the rarefied confines of Yale University. The most notorious of these, the Skull and Bones, was established in 1832 by William H. Russell and numbers amongst its alumni some of the most prominent figures of the American establishment. Living members include both George W. Bush, his opponent in the 2004 presidential race, John Kerry, and comedian Ben Stiller. Comparisons to the mystical masonic sects of the 18th century and, in particular, the Bavarian Illuminists (or Illuminati) probably flatter the 'Bonesmen' whose initiation ceremonies blend the pretension of cabalistic ritual with run of the mill adolescent fantasy. My own investigations revealed a preoccupation with group masturbation, coprophilia and graveyard desecration (it's rumoured that the skulls of Pancho Villa, Geronimo and Johnny Weissmuller are hidden in the vaults of the society's headquarters.Prescott Bush, grandfather of the last president, was allegedly responsible for the theft of Geronimo's.) This desire to shock, borne perhaps, of sheltered childhoods, is a recurring theme in the Bonesmen's antics. Most recently, they outraged fans of Marilyn Manson after reports that their hero, invited to conduct a Black Mass, was stripped of his robes and forced to participate in a humiliating ritual known as the "chicken run".

Prescott Bush

On False Death Rumours

Thu, 02 Jul 2009 15:31:18 GMT

To date, I have received forty seven death threats, not counting those dispensed by Spencer on a daily basis. For most people, the fear of assassination would cause an intolerable strain which is, nine times out of ten, the entire point of issuing the threat in the first place. To put the matter into perspective, of the people who've promised to kill me, only four have made genuine attempts on my life (not counting the most serious, committed by my Grandfather Coe when I was seven years old and not preceded by a warning.) When some thwarted bully starts bellowing the odds about wringing Hamilton Coe's neck or sewing him into a sack and beating him into mincemeat, I politely repeat the adage of sticks and stones and give the matter no further thought. False reports of my actual death, however, representing as they do, an element of wish fulfilment, have to be taken more seriously.

The death prayers and spells of the old religions, currently enjoying a resurgence through internet access, are based on straightforward visualisation. The bogus obituarists who recently scripted a full stop to the existence of, among others, actor Jeff Goldblum should realise that by creating a belief in someone’s death, they destabilise the very life force that protects them. Whether their intention was to harm Mr Goldblum or, as I suspect, simply to amuse their friends they have unwittingly indulged in a form of black magic and almost certainly attracted the attentions of nemesis. Few modern practitioners of the secret arts possess the knowledge or temperament to successfully ally themselves to hovering entities or the elements. Their efforts invariably rebound with terrible consequences.

Over the years, I’ve been subjected to various false death rumours, most of which can be traced back to my brother. To my certain knowledge, he has informed eight separate people (including our parents) of my demise by causes ranging from plane crash to cerebral haemorrhage. When I returned from my last (aborted) American lecture tour, my appearance in the Drumfeld Spar caused pandemonium among fellow shoppers convinced that I'd perished on the Pacific Coast Highway. Most recently, he collaborated with Rob McAskill in perpetrating a staggeringly tasteless April Fool. Jeff Goldblum, I’m sure, will be reassured that I have not committed suicide (and certainly not for the reasons speculated on McAskill’s spoof ‘tribute’) though I remain convinced that the stress induced by the necessity of refuting the broadcast contributed to a complete breakdown of my immune system from which I'm only just recovering.

Everett, Stephen (An Excerpt from Hamilton Coe's Concise Glossary of Villainy)

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 21:46:40 GMT

When my mother retired, she took a voluntary position in Drumfeld Museum's shop. Typically generous, she also arranged for Billy Ure to help as a guide as he recuperated from one of his sporadic emotional collapses. (Billy retains the position to this day, albeit with a title and honorarium of £1,500p.a.) Around this time I renewed my own acquaintance with the building, keeping tabs on Billy's progress and helping to supervise the Hamilton Coe exhibition in the virtually derelict Scott room.

Three years ago, shortly after Mum's death, the arrival of Stephen Everett spontaneously transformed our sanctuary into the set of some hideous 'sitcom'. An afficionado of practical jokes and sexual innuendo, Everett gradually overwhelmed his colleagues. Apparently impervious to the irritation behind the strained smiles elicited by his antics, he abandoned himself to a frenzy of fat-headed behaviour, removing his trousers, dangling himself from balconies and (as I witnessed through a partially opened door) impersonating Hamilton Coe. "He's quite a character," became the consensus, 'character' now being a routine defence of anti-social personality traits.

Unfortunately, my letter to Everett's employers at Stirlingshire council's department of culture explaining his unsuitability to the position, resulted in my being deemed an unauthorised person. For three months, in fact, until I was cleared by the officious nincompoops at Disclosure Scotland, I was completely barred from the building. By the time I returned, Everett had insinuated himself to the extent that I was made to feel like the outsider. Incredibly, I was even refused access to the staffroom, an insult compounded by Margaret Semple's murmured comment that "he steals our biscuits."

*To add insult to injury, within a month, Liz Bishop, Stirling Council's Director of Culture and Leisure, making good a promise to make the Drumfeld experience more ‘relevant’ to visitors, had ordered the removal of the Hamilton Coe exhibition from the Scott Room, replacing it with a collection of photographs taken by disabled Dundonians. One can only conjecture why she imagined this to be ‘more relevant' to people in Drumfeld than the career of the town's most celebrated inhabitant. The Hamilton Coe exhibits, incidentally, many on loan from the Hamilton Coe archive at Glasgow University, were deposited in bins awaiting collection by the refuse department. Only my unscheduled appearance prevented their destruction.