My name is Seth Guichardo Pottlebury.

Marshmount Castle: There is stuff about this on the Inernet about my ancestral home, including a statement that there are no more Marshmounts to inherit the fucking place. Well, I am a bloody Marchmount -- call me Seth the First. My granddad was Guichardo Marshmount and my gram was an Egyptian whore. My Da rose up in the British Indian army milieu until he was killed at Gallipoli. He should of got a Victoria Cross, except that he gave a bad dose of 'cure-all' to Rupert Brook, and that was a bloody shame because even though he was the best bloody camp-orderly doc in the Brit army, he had to make do with home-made remedies (damn Churchill's fault really). My mother was a Turkish whore, which double-damns me on the maternal side, but fortunately WE English go for paternity more than anything else. Anyway the Pottleburys, Guichardo's ex-housekeepers and more than that, adopted me when I was a mere babe. My middle name is Guichardo, so you can call me Guichardo III (Da was christened--well not baptised--as Q'sharto al Sadat, if you want to go on that family bullshit). Thing is, I consider this legacy, the castle, the legend, St. Bob's Bones, and all, my own.

For a time, when it seemed pointless to pursue this thing, I spent a few (many) years prospecting and shit (well, scrounging up anything) in Arizona, Utah, and Texas--just like my granddad would of done. Hey, I get a small annuity every quarter from the post office in Fenton from a little oil well I own in north Texas, not that its anything like what those Arab-people have, so I'm not denuded of means like some of those asses in the town council try to dissemble. I even made out with Debbie Reynolds once when I went to LA though nobody thinks I could of ever done that (ha ha, little do they know). Did pretty good with the bastard-English-lord thing in Hollywood for a while but I got run out of town because of some disputes over gambling debts.

You won't see it on the Marshmount Castle web pages (including the one about my Grandfather's 'Folly'), but there is a building described as 'ruinous' called the SUMP TOWER, which has been my habitation for the last 20 years, while I have been fighting for my true rights in Chancery Court. The executors let me stay there to avoid the hassle, but it is my HOME. Everybody treats me like the local bum/village idiot/drunk, but I have some good things going for me -- and a damn good lawyer who made quite a reputation in the States defending some football player or someone, he even helped me write this, even though his reputation sucks at the moment (hang in there, Lee!)

But I've seen the Marshmount Castle and Folly Web pages and just want to add my own bit. Grobius Shortling, the publicist for the Marshmount Estate, kindly gave me permission to append this article as a link, maybe just to drum up some public interest, but hell, he's a great fucking guy that way! I am not on the Internet, by the way--it was that malicious bitch Sally Gliver down at the Fen and Fancy (who refuses me my 17th pint on annuity days), whose boyfriend has one of these browser things--that got me on to the possibility that there is actually a world-wide tribunal that might give me my due rights even if the goddamn legal system of this country won't. SEND E-MAIL to GROBIUS on this. It might help but probably not.

Anyway, here is the plan of the Sump as it is shown in the official Marshmount Castle guide, where it is described as an uninhabitable wreck. You have to crawl up to it under the ruined bridge (but I have a secret path around the back that involves getting your feet wet unless you know my special stepping stones).

I have lived in it for 20 years and it suits me fine. I have a garden in the courtyard where I grow my own veggies, got a ruined tower I can store things in, got a big living room that has a roof and a fireplace and a WC off to the side (no running water though). Nobody who comes to visit the castle ever sees me -- I flee to other habitudes in the Marsh or hole up in the turret. You read about Tigg's Hole in the Guide? Love that place and I do believe that ancestor of mine is reincarnated in me. All I want is my grandfather's inheritance and to hell with the National Trust or an official Tourist Theme Park.

I might be ugly and smelly and gross but I am a true Marshmount and no stupid ignorant shit either.

Note from Grobius Shortling: Many people in Fenton-on-the-Marsh know who this person is, claim to have seen and dealt with him, but know nothing about him. He is not on any tax rolls or anything like that, and whatever he gets from the post office, if anything, must be under a different name. There is no sign of anybody inhabiting the SUMP (which is a TOTAL ruin, in spite of the attached floor plan, without a single roofed area). I have read stories of alternate worlds that are parallel to our own, with 'gateways' into ours. Do you think this might be a case of that? (Especially since Sally Gliver's boyfriend does not have a computer, and if he did, wouldn't be able to use it -- however Seth got onto the Internet, it wasn't through our approach -- and that raises some interesting speculations about what the Internet actually is and whether it goes beyond our mundane world.)

When you come down to it, the Marshmount Castle thing is also just a site on the Internet and may or may not exist in this real world, unless somebody comes up with proof to the contrary -- such as a photo?

Electrasoft, Goddess of the Web

Latest News on This Subject: Seth has won his Chancery Court law suit finally, and now everything has to be reconsidered. Click here for the latest information.