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Letters of Not Lite
Dale Shaw


A text-only edition of the hilarious Letters of Not. A collection of remarkable and completely made-up correspondence from the great and the good across history.Many books have collated the exceptional letters and personal writing of the famous, offering a fascinating insight into well-known figures’ personal lives and hidden desires. But what of the undistinguished epistles of the renowned? Can their less auspicious musings divulge clues to their hopes and ambitions? Probably not. But they can be quite funny.‘Letters of Not’ assembles the fictional jotted dross that was never before considered worthy of collection. The Post-it notes, the shopping lists, the failed limericks and the birthday card sentiments of history’s most celebrated sons and daughters.This ‘lite’ edition contains 6 never before seen letters.Inside you will find:Werner Herzog’s impassioned note to his cleaning ladyPatti Smith’s gym applicationCaptain Scott’s other last letter to his wifeSalvador Dali’s to do listMark E. Smith’s audio tour of Ripon CathedralHarold Pinter greetings cardsPope Benedict’s handover notesJames Joyce’s out of officeDr Heimlich’s other manoeuvreA letter from the table next to the Algonquin Round TableTweets from the 1966 Newport Folk FestivalInstructions on what to do when you meet Van MorrisonAnd many more, beautifully rendered in their original, blatantly falsified glory and hilariously transcribed for your pleasure.









Letters of Not

Dale Shaw










Copyright (#ulink_044c9609-d8f7-5968-943a-a6932d7d4b8e)


The Friday Project

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published by The Friday Project in 2014

Copyright © Dale Shaw

Dale Shaw asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007533107

Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780008117214

Version: 2014-09-24


CONTENTS

Cover (#u1cd84b00-3e28-59e8-b0c4-da25655a4201)

Title Page (#u267edb30-273d-5c1d-a127-59ae1f1e24a7)

Copyright (#u66d04f80-8ae3-5c33-8eb5-9fd4ae07d0ea)

Introduction (#ud30a9692-03b3-5217-963c-0c89d67582d0)

Dr Heimlich writes to a colleague (#ua8c0517f-af6e-5435-b8ad-fee9024d7884)

Werner Herzog’s note to his cleaning lady (#u31949dac-0b6e-5f04-b889-e36ee9053a80)

Lance Armstrong writes to a fan (#u37dbf143-dc0e-5f81-aa37-81007c08609b)

Pope Benedict XVI’s handover notes (#u5c6e9c2c-3353-5b65-9e91-b98cd2f7d109)

William Burroughs rewrites the swimming pool rules (#ub99283a4-8a4b-5b8d-a8fa-fa112bb28df0)

A model writes to Auguste Rodin (#uc41b2249-c431-5f92-9bb1-f907ef237837)

Lou Reed writes to a television producer (#u596d5413-c4ee-5641-8bc9-c36ba4b125ec)

James Joyce’s out of office (#udb76c66d-2f6e-54af-86ea-1d78ccb1483b)

Orson Welles’ suggestions for The Transformers: The Movie (#u94a4d270-848a-5893-9c9d-2b00500b73f1)

A letter from a wise man (#ub073577b-0d06-5723-8687-327cc4e67e8b)

A doctor writes to Lou Gehrig (#u6d9012d0-7533-59cf-9a6c-12e060ff1828)

Tweets from the 1965 Newport Folk Festival (#u621932ea-72c2-54cf-900c-c08b4dfe8bb3)

A note from Alexander Graham Bell’s business manager (#u49a00921-e526-520e-914f-c6624890105c)

A publisher writes to Geoffrey Chaucer (#u59f09e8e-4b5e-5214-a279-aced1586b692)

Brian Eno’s discarded oblique strategies (#ua884112a-01d2-5481-ae0c-a2781aab678d)

A Christmas round-robin from the Freud family (#litres_trial_promo)

Tim Berners-Lee’s World Wide Web development diary (#litres_trial_promo)

The head of the American Lizard Lovers Association writes to Jim Morrison (#litres_trial_promo)

Albert Einstein contacts a photographer (#litres_trial_promo)

Brian Jones’ hopes for the Rolling Stones (#litres_trial_promo)

A potential competition winner writes to Alfred Hitchcock (#litres_trial_promo)

Neil Armstrong’s letter home (#litres_trial_promo)

Letter from the table next to the Algonquin Round Table (#litres_trial_promo)

Information to all Pizza Archipelago employees on the arrival of Van Morrison (#litres_trial_promo)

Cormac McCarthy gives directions (#litres_trial_promo)

Wilbur Wright writes to his brother (#litres_trial_promo)

David Simon writes to HBO Enterprises (#litres_trial_promo)

Charles Darwin writes to his American publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Anti Caligula Campaign ad (#litres_trial_promo)

The Mark E. Smith audio guide to Ripon Cathedral (#litres_trial_promo)

Jane Austen writes to a love rival (#litres_trial_promo)

Captain Scott’s other last letter to his wife (#litres_trial_promo)

An eviction notice from St Francis of Assisi’s landlord (#litres_trial_promo)

Patti Smith’s gym application (#litres_trial_promo)

Salvador Dali’s to do list (#litres_trial_promo)

A benefactor contacts Baden Powell (#litres_trial_promo)

Art Garfunkel writes to Vampire Weekend (#litres_trial_promo)

Joan of Arc’s note to her captors (#litres_trial_promo)

Notes for Bill Gates’ first High School reunion (#litres_trial_promo)

Edgar Allen Poe vs. The Baltimore Sanitation Department (#litres_trial_promo)

A lover replies to Vincent Van Gogh (#litres_trial_promo)

Biddy Baxter writes to a viewer (#litres_trial_promo)

Neil Young’s shopping list (#litres_trial_promo)

Agatha Christie’s jury duty notes (#litres_trial_promo)

Galileo gets a reply (#litres_trial_promo)

Gandhi writes to his dry cleaner (#litres_trial_promo)

Bo Diddley writes to his publicist (#litres_trial_promo)

Ivan Pavlov contacts his local pet store (#litres_trial_promo)

A letter from George Orwell’s publishers (#litres_trial_promo)

Harold Pinter moves into greeting cards (#litres_trial_promo)

Beatrix Potter tries to get an overdraft extension (#litres_trial_promo)

Marie Antoinette’s prison letter (#litres_trial_promo)

Correspondence between Warhol Superstars (#litres_trial_promo)

Björk writes to Goldie’s parents (#litres_trial_promo)

Andrew Lloyd Webber’s notes after the first rehearsal of Jesus Christ Superstar (#litres_trial_promo)

A sick note from Ernest Hemingway’s mother (#litres_trial_promo)

Björn writes to Benny (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Introduction (#ulink_9eac7172-338f-5120-998e-51dac86a7926)


April 2014

My friends.

I can’t quite remember why I decided to write a note purportedly from cult German film director Werner Herzog to his fictional cleaning lady. I know where I was: in the kitchen of my flat in Walthamstow, which I was eventually driven out of by an upstairs neighbour with an insatiable love of Speed Garage and lengthy Call of Duty sessions … but that’s another introduction entirely.

Being able to correctly identify the inspiration and mechanics involved in the moment of that letter’s construction would have come in handy when I had to write a book full of similar material (spoiler alert: It’s this book). But anyway, I couldn’t. Though the moment definitely happened, because I wrote the letter, had it rejected by someone, felt a bit sad, then wisely sent it to Sabotage Times, where it quickly ‘went viral’, as I believe the young people say. I had no idea people are as enamoured of Herzog as I am, but it seems the masses can’t get enough of that crazy Bavarian and his delightful antics.

What baffled me most was the volume of readers who thought it was actually written by next to it.

It seemed sensible to try again, so I went on to write ludicrous missives from other figures I have a healthy obsession with, including Mark E. Smith, Brian Eno, George Orwell, Neil Young and more Brian Eno (I love Brian Eno). Soon, I had unwittingly developed into, as writer Joel Morris put it, ‘the BBC4 version of Mike Yarwood’.

However, though a number of these collected letters have been seen before, circulating around the darker reaches of the internet, most are shiny and new. A few didn’t make the cut due to legal issues or for reasons of baffling obscurity. You can find some of these at lettersofnot.com (http://www.lettersofnot.com), where you can also send your complaints and gift baskets.

A hearty thanks to everyone included in the book who decided not to sue me. You are good eggs. To the others – see you in court.

Dale Shaw

P.S. Full disclosure – I was listening to Ram by Paul McCartney as I wrote this.




Dr Heimlich’s note to a colleague (#ulink_102bc58f-ef22-5a15-ad4b-afb3b1b64b71)


Howard,

I’ve had a great new idea for another manoeuvre. This one can be used to pick up women. Pop by the office and I’ll show you how it works.

Henry




Werner Herzog’s note to his cleaning lady (#ulink_8e7a6612-3dd9-50f6-9ebb-dc3a4c70ba79)


Rosalina. Woman.

You constantly revile me with your singular lack of vision. Be aware, there is an essential truth and beauty in all things. From the death throes of a speared gazelle to the damaged smile of a freeway homeless. But that does not mean that the invisibility of something implies its lack of being. Though simpleton babies foolishly believe the person before them vanishes when they cover their eyes during a hateful game of peek-a-boo, this is a fallacy. And so it is that the unseen dusty build up that accumulates behind the DVD shelves in the rumpus room exists also. This is unacceptable.

I will tell you this, Rosalina, not as a taunt or a threat but as an evocation of joy. The joy of nothingness, the joy of the real. I want you to be real in everything you do. If you cannot be real, then a semblance of reality must be maintained. A real semblance of the fake real, or ‘real’. I have conquered volcanoes and visited the bitter depths of the earth’s oceans. Nothing I have witnessed, from lava to crustacean, assailed me liked the caked debris haunting that small plastic soap hammock in the smaller of the bathrooms. Nausea is not a sufficient word. In this regard, you are not being real.

Now we must turn to the horrors of nature. I am afraid this is inevitable. Nature is not something to be coddled and accepted and held to your bosom like a wounded snake. Tell me, what was there before you were born? What do you remember? That is nature. Nature is a void. An emptiness. A vacuum. And speaking of vacuum, I am not sure you’re using the retractable nozzle correctly or applying the ‘full weft’ setting when attending to the lush carpets of the den. I found some dander there.

I have only listened to two songs in my entire life. One was an aria by Wagner that I played compulsively from the ages of 19 to 27 at least 60 times a day until the local townsfolk drove me from my dwelling using rudimentary pitchforks and blazing torches. The other was Dido. Both appalled me to the point of paralysis. Every quaver was like a brickbat against my soul. Music is futile and malicious. So please, if you require entertainment while organizing the recycling, refrain from the ‘pop radio’ I was affronted by recently. May I recommend the recitation of some sharp verse. Perhaps by Goethe. Or Schiller. Or Shel Silverstein at a push.

The situation regarding spoons remains unchanged. If I see one, I will kill it. That is all. Do not fail to think that you are not the finest woman I have ever met. You are. And I am including on this list my mother and the wife of Brad Dourif (the second wife, not the one with the lip thing). Thank you for listening and sorry if parts of this note were smudged. I have been weeping.

Your money is under the guillotine.

Herzog.




Lance Armstrong writes to a fan (#ulink_a2bc7656-765f-5b6c-a2e5-35e102c9edb2)


25th July 1999

Dear CINDY,

WOW, I mean THANKS SO MUCH for your letter. It just got me so JAZZED!!!!! I mean, just, God it was AWESOME, so so AWESOME and YES! I do get tired sometimes after a race, but then it makes me feel so ALIVE you know? Do you? YOU KNOW? I just feel GREAT! I’ve never felt so GREAT!!

But thank you for asking me that and THANK YOU SO MUCH for the gift. I LOVED the texture of it so much and the way it felt against my skin that I may HAVE slightly DESTROYED it by stroking it so hard and SO MUCH. I stroked it to pieces. But I still LOVE IT! Even in PIECES!! PIECES!!

Cindy, I mean, like YES!!! You are the BEST!!! I could just cycle from here in Colorado over to you in New Jersey RIGHT NOW! Because I am so JAZZED that you wrote to me.

Oh man, you hear that? Oh man, I feel a bit weird. OK, I better go outside CINDY!!

You RULES!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lance (JAZZED)




Pope Benedict XVI’s handover notes (#ulink_99dec247-06c9-5540-bb29-c57798f98ada)


To his Divine Holiness the Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the Vatican City State, Servant of the servants of God.

Francis,

Buddy, I hope you like shitstorms – because your life just became one.

OK, the van’s about to come and pick up my stuff, so I’m jotting this down quickly …

Get your order in now for some new vestments. Not tomorrow, NOW. I’d expected some fresh ones to be waiting for me when I started, but all I found was an empty closet. And that stuff takes ages to get made up. I’ve left you a couple of spares in the closet by the vestibule. You’re way skinnier than me (you know you are!) but they’ll do in a pinch. The cleaner comes on Thursday mornings and you do not want to be there when she comes. She always wants something blessed. There seems to be a never-ending amount of paraphernalia. She tried to get me to bless one of those mini Pac-Man games; you know, the hand-held ones, for her grandson. I was like, ‘I can bless that thing all day, but it’s still lame. Unless he’s been in a coma since 1989.’ I didn’t actually say it, but y’know. You’ll get stuck with her all morning if you don’t run off and hide somewhere.

The window you have to wave out of is in the little study bit. You might know that already but no one told me. First Sunday I was wandering around like Our Saviour in the Wilderness trying to find it. And the Cardinals aren’t a bit of use. Great at ring kissing, lousy at directions.

Nuns. Get used to them. They are everywhere, all the time. If you need some ‘alone time’ lock the door. They have special powers or something and just appear when you least expect it. And they don’t say anything, they just stare at you. It’s creepy.

You’re going to be asked a lot of questions about Dan Brown. Do yourself a favour, read The Da Vinci Code. I know, I know, you thought your trials were over and now you’d be on easy street. But honestly, every state function, visit overseas and post-Mass warm down there will be endless theories about it. People think they’re being cute asking you about it. They are not. And you’ll have to watch the movie too I’m afraid. It’s different. You can probably skip Angels and Demons. You can thank me later. The password for the PC in the office is BONO_101. Don’t ask me why, it was that when I arrived. The IT department might have changed it, in which case good luck. It’s easier changing water into wine than getting an answer from those guys. You need vouchers to use the canteen; I left a few in the desk drawer. God knows why they still use that system. I tried to get it changed – you’d think I was converting to Judaism! The uproar! So anyway, it sucks, but there you are. Think that’s it. No idea where the keys to the Popemobile are. I never knew and no one would tell me. HR should be in touch about your pass. Though they’ve probably sent you an email about it, which you can’t access without your pass, as I found out to my cost. And they tell you that you can’t take your picture again if the first one is terrible, but you can, I promise you. OK, have a blast! Drop me a line when you’re settled.

Benedict P.S. A few people will probably ask if you shit in the woods as well. Just ignore them.




William Burroughs rewrites the swimming pool rules (#ulink_c23fcd79-b722-5fc9-863f-c8ce1db25f1d)


No Running – Unless it’s shit running down good wholesome American legs, forming oily pools of thunder down amongst dark gray tunnels of hopeless, stubborn rectitude.

No Pushing – Because no one likes the pusherman, firing beautiful dreams into dead undersea veins, charred inside like the mind of his degraded and decadent client. His gray, invisible specter that infects his pleasure on the dullest and the damned.

No Acrobatics or Gymnastics – Or the stacking of young malleable flesh on flesh, building a queer ladder to the stars, leading to my waking life, where I sit totally alone.

No Shouting – You never want to attract the attention of the Controller, lest he lets the drip-drip of technological assassination, decontrolling him or herself from some unspecified central point that haunts the horizon like some blood blister left too long to rot.

No Ducking – Certainly not ducking the empty smell of many years, tied into the deviance that can only come through boredom and the parasitic craving that must be fed though a paranoiac insanity of hopelessness.

No Petting – No vetting, no fretting, no bedwetting. Cut off all biological necessity, it will only make you hard and unsound. Sadistic faces beaten with spiritual famine, hell bouncing off the walls, sickness welcomed like a damaged organism.

No Bombing – We need to suffer to show that we are alive and feel that needless, dead-eyed pollution that atrophies and seals off the seductions of the skull.

No Swimming in the Diving Area – Hanging off the board with our ghost fingers, the pink blood filters releasing the odor below you, waiting for you to drop. Above you your enemies circle, waiting to control, like a stuffed animal with glazed eyes bearing down from the wall of a gentleman’s club. Below a pool of savage, distended insects all with the face of a burnt nun.

No Smoking – You enter the Smoke Shop and then you see them. Princes of the spirit, arbiters of pang, bureaucrats who equivocate the past, judges who pass sentence on your future, Gods of Zogoth with fiery temples and split, bitter eyes, doctors turning disease into customary abuse, sick children playing with the larvae at their feet, scientists infecting that larvae, the shrill crone beating you for the rent, the bland, majestic soothsayers tearing up your dreams of death and the stiff, sharp seductress squatting over you with their jutting bones and insect ecstasy. Trunk rental available at the snack bar.




A model writes to Auguste Rodin (#ulink_e7d0f69f-a50a-58a2-8202-e6a845a7ad37)


Dear Monsieur Rodin,

This is the lady who recently posed at your studio for your sculpture ‘The Kiss’. Do you happen to have the name of the other model that posed with me? I have some sort of blister that has appeared on my upper lip and I think I may need to get in touch with him.

Warmest regards,

Sophia




Lou Reed writes to a television producer (#ulink_ee8d6af0-60a3-5632-ab37-14dab3be0015)


8th March 1975

Hey Barry, Barry.

Great meeting you at Andy’s the other week. You said if I had any ideas for the TV I should drop you a line. Well, I was just sitting here at Max’s Kansas City with some friends and we came up with a dynamite idea for a show. Sorry for writing this on bar napkins, wanted to get this down while it was still fresh in my head.

So, here’s the idea – BLADIAC!

I play a hard-bitten New York Cop in a leather jacket called Lou Bladiac who investigates New Wave crimes in the music industry. Bladiac don’t take no shit and plays by his own rules, while also playing some sweet guitar licks.

You know I did ‘Walk on the Wild Side’? So I know quite a bit about the noir stuff and the dark side of life. Well, imagine that song in a TV cop show format. And get this, at the end of each show Bladiac can sing a song about the investigation (which I’ll write and perform). Something like ‘It was the drummer who did it / he just went ahead and did it …’ You see, I just came up with that off the cuff. Imagine how great it would be if I’d put some thought into it. Wait … what … what? Hold on Barry, someone’s shouting at me … what? Yeah, I said about the song …

Sorry Barry, so yeah. And Bladiac is handy with a blade, hence his name. That’s his main weapon in fighting crime, he uses a switchblade. He don’t kill people, just stabs them up a bit before arresting them.

What? Hold on, Rachel’s yelling something. No, we said we weren’t having the Indian Spirit Guide. No! That’s dumb. Oh great, now he/she’s crying …

Forget all that Barry, so yeah Bladiac goes undercover and gets in with all these New Wave groups who are doing crimes or are having crimes done against them. He uses disguises and he’s a real one for the ladies. And the dudes. He has a female alter ego called Shofanna who’s completely convincing. And he has a real great car. And I mentioned the knife thing, right?

God, sure there was more to this than that. Lemme think. Bladiac. Cop. New Wave. Blade. Shofanna. Car. Song at the end. Yeah, guess that’s it.

Oh wait, guest stars! Yeah, we can get tons of guest stars and people to be in it. I can ask Andy, he loves TV. Maybe he can be the police chief or something. That would be pretty funny. Bowie can be like a snitch. No wait, Iggy can be like a snitch, maybe Bowie can be like a jewel thief or something. Then I, like, stab him up and arrest him.

What did you say? I’ll just have a gimlet. Yeah a gin one, they’re always gin. Shit, stop distracting me, I keep writing this shit down. Sorry Barry. People keep distracting me. I look really good as a cop. I’ve got shades and leather jackets, so we can save money on that. And I’m good at playing the tough guy (and the opposite in Shofanna’s case). Think this will be a total blast. Put a record out at the end of every season with all the songs I’ve sung about investigations. Bladiac! I came up with the name first.

Lou Reed

P.S. Wait, what? What was that? Oh sorry Barry, that wasn’t about you.




James Joyce’s out of office (#ulink_0697e691-ccc1-5e8e-bbd1-1d6a24c80c32)


Now, for the weekending and the weekening of the daze and the dillydallying concerning the abstagnation and the never nearlyness, the chump who chunders the pagination of the month and the moth, hovers and heaves into views notwithstanding. Oh yes it does! Trussed up in clingarounds, sandy stones scarring the soles. Banished I have ole Greggster from desked-neighbourly, suffering with his sulphurous excursions and exertions, my nasal hole burnt aron it, ironic and a tonic. Nevermore the tea totalling prowess of old Annie the pro-ess, her Queen of the Prawns and never a round brought in, but always of excepting like a bergamont and a lackspittle. A throat cut! Her sister there, is it hairyditty? A showdow not cross the kettle nor neither. Let the big forms of their bodices be hexspelled from the witchery of my headspace. Oh releaf, under a bough and bow as the branches blanche old Blanche the Blough. But the worms flashed back returned into your binbox? Contrusion puddles the poodle in your noodle, yawcrazy and wisha, wisha, wisha, clamber an ants were. Pitee thee! Petee thoo! Potty too! Mister Typhus! Him clother the dor! In his mitt and ants wer! Cry not yet! A can-on-diced man! Not just a stoutfellow but with that a nascent nearsaint, stars arc when ham-mused but in cups then inn sane. Forward go thee, to the whole inside papyr for reptilecation. His throne will hillruminate my drams, as I squander on the rox, a ail, ailing my day’s tail, ma happydermus toasting a tan, tan, tan. On retrieving, lo a casket, a basket a brisket of bonbons, desecrated with seens of palmed treens and a salty sombrero, nevermore. Bynoon, a dessert in there, hand to mouth and vice and verses, blood boils and black bowls and abasing the baldyqueen. Tails tolled of clemency and awfulas belie from Delie, with knitbrows on the counterstaff when fixings are fist repoached. Efter seems thousand yaws, in reversal my forms, but yat still the gripes limply passus. Bitter ayes on anvil, no you hold the fort, lick the Army Man, a Left Tenant or a Bomb Dadear or a Primate. Met a sternum senorita with the tickle of Madman Rosy Litre. Tack me Rosy Litre! To you shock or hunt or lacked garage. I am hell-lopped alongwith my olive skimmed sad duchess. To an isle land of Kronthos of Polmopus of Gnaccus. Netter agin to the folded card bored of greeting

What now for yew? A nude job of learning?

Hold your applause! Wake until the envy lopes at youe scythe. The digdeep into the pocketfold and resurrect the lint laden current see of Kween and co. No, no, no. Strip those from your lobes, the boy is bound to trav well. Be symbthos for this deviated friend. A weigh Iago. Axe Linda no mention be four, be fine, be leave and takes your sweetgum in baresocked supernauts. When tireds reassemble forty times from now then I shall satagin. Be bound and bald to paint aunts or dream and more from commune cayun lines cut. A bottled massage sea perhaps? Never.




Orson Welles’ suggestions for The Transformers: The Movie (#ulink_423ab5a6-031c-5375-8fcf-dc1bce0641e4)


11


August 1986

Dear Barry,

Thank you so much for selecting me to play the role of Unicron in Transformers: The Movie. I have read the script and absolutely love it. (It’s a sort of Lear in space wouldn’t you say?) If you would indulge me, I have a slight addition I would like to make to the dialogue provided. I feel that a brief soliloquy, just prior to Unicron devouring the moons of Cybertron and, as a consequence, Jazz, Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, and Spike, would more clearly frame his state of mind. Please consider the following merely a suggestion.

What do you think?

Yours, Orson

EXT – SPACE – NIGHT

On the point of exhaustion, Unicron turns to his vanquisher Rodimus Prime.

UNICRON

(Weakly)

It’s good to see you Rodimus. You and I aren’t heroes you know, this galaxy doesn’t make any heroes …

Look down there … Would you feel any pity if one of those Autobots stopped activating forever? If I offered you Two Zillion Quazseks for every Autobot that powered down would you really, old man, tell me to keep my money? Or would you calculate how many Autobots you could afford not to transform? Free of Space Tax, old man … free of Space Tax. It’s the only way to save money nowadays. Oh, Rodimus Prime, what fools we are, talking to each other this way. As though I would do anything to you – or you to me. You’re just a little mixed up about things … in general. Nobody thinks in terms … of Decepticons or Insecticons. The Autobot Matrix of Leadership doesn’t, so why should we? They talk about Quintessons, and the Lithonians. I talk about Jazz and Windcharger …. It’s the same thing. They have their plan to destroy Cybertron and its moons … and so have I.

(Fading)

I still do believe in the power of Transformation, old man … I believe in Skywarp and Megatron and all that … The powered down are happier powered down. They don’t miss much here … Oh Rodimus, Don’t be so gloomy. After all, it’s not that awful. Remember in Cybertron, for thirty parsecs under the Decepticons, they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed, but they produced Soundwave, Scourge, and Starscream. In Ceti Alpha Seven, they had brotherly love. They had five hundred Zantrells of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The Scorponok. So long, Rodimus.

[He dies. A hero]




A letter from a wise man (#ulink_e194ac61-757a-5ac0-a4fd-4df3b328e60e)


10th January 1AD

Dear Balthazar,

Hope you got back OK. My journey home was a total nightmare. I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just say I’ve had enough of camels for a while.

Wow, that was some crazy trip wasn’t it? Sort of started out as one thing, then ended up as another thing altogether. The three of us really went through something, right? Weird times.

I don’t know about you, but since I’ve got back and had a chance to think about stuff, I’ve got to say I’m still not altogether sure what went down. Obviously it was a total blast to be out with you guys on this madcap adventure, but on reflection, I’ve started to have a few reservations. Especially about that whole stable/baby scene.

I mean, we didn’t really check these people out before we started bestowing gifts on them did we? Feels as if we all got a bit over-excited with the whole ‘King of the Jews’ angle and lost our heads a little. Just having a bit of distance from it and thinking about it rationally, it seems to me, looking back in the cold light of day, to an impartial observer it could seem as if we just handed over a large selection of luxury items to a bunch of vagrants in a barn.

Now, I know we thought they seemed really holy. But maybe they were just really happy? After all, one second they’re bunking down with some farm animals in filth, then we pitch up and start handing out goodies. Perhaps I’m being paranoid, but is it too crazy to think we’ve been taken for a ride somehow? I mean, that star and the trumpets and all that glowing? It doesn’t really add up. We were out in the sun for a really long time, I think we may not have been in the best state of mind to be making those types of judgement calls.

You know, I’ve known you for years, so obviously you are above reproach in my book. But how much do you know about that Melchior guy? I mean Melchior – is that even a name? Of course he’s a wise man – we’re all wise men and it takes one to know one. But being a wise man doesn’t preclude you from also being a con man. Do you think he could have been in on it with them? He was in a bit of a hurry to get away afterwards and I’m just going to assume it was Frankincense in that bottle. Could have been anything. Can you vouch for that guy?

I know we all wanted it to be real. Who doesn’t want to discover a godhead at that early stage? That’s a real career booster. But I realise now that I’ve ended up with nothing to show for it except an empty shelf where my Myrrh used to be. Which wasn’t the easiest situation to explain to the wife. Now it’s not just those folks who are sleeping in a barn.

Anyway, I guess what’s done is done. But I think maybe we should try to keep this whole thing under wraps as far as possible, if we can. If that story gets out there, I’m not sure people are going to think that we’re all that wise after all. But then, what are chances of that happening, right?

Happy Hanukkah,

Gaspar




A doctor writes to Lou Gehrig (#ulink_3db45c87-7b68-568f-be25-a0c80b3ee19c)


19th June 1939

Dear Lou Gehrig,

Your test results have now been returned to us. It seems you have been diagnosed with ‘LOU GEHRIG’S DISEASE’. This could be really bad or possibly really good. Either way you should probably pop by the office.

Best,

Dr Schmidt




Tweets from the 1965 Newport Folk Festival (#ulink_af6ee72a-3a5c-505e-95f6-dbb1f0403b4c)


@pseeger

Good morning. It’s a beautiful Sunday and we’ll have some great tunes from Blue Ridge Mountain Dancers, Cousin Emmy and Bobby Dylan #Newport65

@Ginny

Hey! Anyone got a spare ticket? Love Peter Paul & Mary! LOVE! Just gotta see them #PPMForever

@BuddyBoi

Got fucking mashed at Bikel’s gig last night. Threw up outside some dick’s tent! Psyched for Maybelle Carter. Already drinkin’ #Newport65

@BeatBoy

Heard a rumour The Weavers might do a surprise show. I’ll lose my shit if they show up. #Newport65

@Jojo

@BeatBoy Heard that too! Totally gonna happen! Fucking Weavers! #FuckingWeavers

@Ginny

Hey! Can someone get me backstage? I just gotta meet Peter Yarrow, he’s dreamy. #Newport65

@KlownCar

@Bodge Hey dude where you at? I’m in the acoustic tent.

@Bodge

@KlownCar They are all acoustic, dumbass.

@Venereal

Boo! Boo! Booooooooo! #DylanSux #Newport65

@Rodlles

My wife is in tears. As am I. #FolkisDead #DylanSux #Newport65

@Bloodless

His career is over. This is the last you’ll hear of Bob Dylan. #DylanSux

@Fondo

Appaz Seeger’s going crazy backstage with an axe! #Newport65

@FineFolkFan

@Fondo Good! He can cut these long hairs hair while he’s at it. #DylanSux #Newport65

@Drestles

Did you hear Paul Anka died? #AnkaRIP

@LibbySez

I quite like it #DylanDoesntSuck

@NoSanta

@LibbySez Women will never understand the intricacies of folk music. #DylanSux

@CleftMallet

Next year I’m going to stay at home and wait for the album to come out. #DylanSux

@Magoo

Thank Christ that’s over. #Newport65 #DylanSux

@MelloTunez

Think I’m going to puke #Newport65

@MikeBloomfield

Yeah! Fucking nailed it! See you next year Newport! #Newport65

@Walington

@MikeBloomfield Sir, if you mean the coffin of great folk music, then yes, you certainly did nail it.

@pseeger

Many apologies. Refunds will be available from the lady at the booth. #Newport65

@pseeger

And I did not have an axe! It was my lucky percussion hatchet.

@Walt666

That was the single most horrific thing that has or will ever happen at an American music festival. #DylanSux

@Quango

Wish it had been Dylan rather than the late great Paul Anka #AnkaRIP

@Ginny

@PeteYarrow Pete! Really sorry about that! Didn’t mean to get so crazy! Can you msg me? #SORRY!




A note from Alexander Graham Bell’s business manager (#ulink_313e9985-e504-553e-9659-00703a3ee405)


Dearest Alexander,

Don’t feel downhearted. I know that interest and funding for your new device has been scant so far. But I am sure that once its attributes have been fully appreciated by open-minded people, then patronage will surely follow and it is bound to revolutionise the world of communications.

I felt our meeting today was particularly trying. I had it on good authority that Mr Towne was interested in investing and I thought he would have been more impressed by our presentation. But it was obviously not to be and again our efforts were futile. With this in mind, I wonder if a different approach might be called for?

I understand how disappointing it must be for you, enduring these continually fruitless meetings. But I did note today (and I think the estimable Mr Towne felt it also) that a distinct ennui overcame you when discussing the merits of the device.

I’m not a man of fine words, Alexander, but let me attempt to explain myself. It seemed to me as if you were not really trying particularly hard when presenting our prospectus and were merely going through the motions, as it were, without due care or attention. Oh dear, I’m really not sure if I’m getting my point across adequately. I can’t quite seem to find the right expression for what I wish to impart.

What I’m trying to say is I felt you were making a modicum of effort but were not fully invested in the pitching speech. It wasn’t the full-bodied approach I have previously seen you give, but rather a lifeless, ill-defined, subdued version of what I’ve witnessed. It was performed in something of a lacklustre manner, as if the results simply didn’t matter at all.

How best to put this? Again, I feel my words fail me. Perhaps there is no phrase to perfectly describe exactly what I’m trying to say. But let us regroup before our next investor presentation and have a bit of a pep talk. Obviously, I believe wholeheartedly in your invention and in you, Alexander, but I feel it would be to our advantage to avoid another sub-standard, middling effort exhibiting the lowest amount of energy required to get our message across. I wish I could explain myself better, perhaps with your inventing skills you could create a word for that also?

Yours,

Anthony Pollok




A publisher writes to Geoffrey Chaucer (#ulink_f5b02620-251b-5d72-94cd-aed7023c2a84)


14th February 1394

Dear Mr Chaucer,

Thank you so much for letting us have a look at your book The Canterbury Tales. We are returning the manuscript to you at this time.

Even though this is the first writing I have ever encountered in the English language and indeed the first book I have ever actually seen, I have to say I found the whole thing rather derivative.

I just didn’t fully engage with the premise.

All of the main characters suddenly finding themselves together in one location and proceeding to conduct a storytelling competition?

Though this is the first written story I have ever seen, it seemed a bit of a stretch and it was too trite and convenient for me. If there were people around who could actually read at this time, I feel that readers would find it difficult to stomach this plot device. I imagine that the two or three religious types and noblemen who have actually achieved literacy would want to see more of themselves in the story, as opposed to this scattershot approach where Millers, Pardoners and Wives of Bath suddenly converge and begin spinning yarns so readily.

And setting it in an inn is an enormous mistake. Even though the common man in our times only visits taverns, churches or their own hut, the setting completely alienates the teen market that is so important these days thanks to the exceptionally low life expectancy. Maybe try a blacksmith as an alternative? Everyone likes blacksmiths.

The ‘low grade’ humour that was on display was my main concern with the work. These are sophisticated times, Geoffrey. Medicine has proven that we are controlled by a number of humours that provoke illness when imbalanced. Many serfs now employ the use of a rudimentary wooden plough that can sort of move field soil in almost three days. And now one in fourteen of our infants survive childbirth. This level of development should be reflected in our culture. Bottom kissing, sphincter singeing and anal shenanigans do not suit these enlightened times.

There is a lot to commend the work and I don’t want you to get downhearted. The fact that it is a book at all, where there aren’t really any other books in existence, is definitely a plus point. Could I beseech you to attempt a rewrite based on these thoughts? I know there aren’t any other works around to compare it to, but perhaps you could take a look at what other authors are producing and see what’s popular in the market. It’s almost certainly going to be The Bible, so what about something like that? But without the religious overtones? And less farting?

Thanks again for letting us look at it. Hope your plague clears up soon.

Leonard Beauclerc

Random Dwelling Publishers

Only Street

Southwark




Brian Eno’s discarded oblique strategies (#ulink_d64ab86a-fca6-52fb-96fa-69db1950aad3)


BE AN ONION

HOLD YOUR NERVE LIKE YOU’RE HOLDING A CHINAMAN’S BALLS

TURN YOUR ANSWERS SIDEWAYS

TURN THAT FROWN UPSIDE DOWN

TURN YOUR TOOLS UPSIDE DOWN (NOT DRILLS)

IS IT GOD-AWFUL?




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