Tuesday, 27 November 2001

 Lunch with Emma at the Broadacres Dining Experience. I had the 'Wishy Wand' (herby duck) & Emma indulged herself with a 'Prancing Frigate' (grilled herring in a quisse of lemon shandy). Some BDE virgins at the next table were complaining about the silly names for dishes & why couldn't they be in French or even just English. Old Carstairs the head waiter strolled over and told them to "F-off out of it" and they did (without leaving a tip I might add). I guess some people don't like the challenge of wondering what a FREASE WILTING STRUG might be, and rather than be enquiring and say, "I think I'll just try it and see!" they start asking questions or make a fuss.

  Emma was looking adorable as always and talked about her continuing success at the BLUEY CAVERN her 'New Age' shop in town. Rachel has abandoned the project and got herself a cosy job in 'Glib Administration'at Hackers, the chain of butchers. Crispin my ex-cat has had a sex change to female (from astrophic) which I think a little drastic. This obsession with everything female should have its limits. If something is born neutral then surely it should be left alone to enjoy its life in that condition and not be made a ploy of by political expediencies. It seems happy enough anyway. I told her about my encounter with DONALD ROSS the notorious bandit/poet. He mugs people then writes poetry about it, an interesting gimmick I'm sure you will agree. Two potential sources of income and mutually complimentary!

  Along the night spotted road

  He danced, I swung

  His brains congealed in a moment

 All for forty quid

 It's as cold as Nigel's trousers

  And they say crime doesn't pay!

  Just pass me the spanner

 These rings are stiff as sugar

  I'll adorn my walls with pride

 And taste the fruits of paradise

 Lop off a leg and give it to mother

  She needs the nutrients, bless her!

  A tad literal for my taste. Amazingly Donald Ross was the perfect host and we had a nice little chat about his life which I wrote up later for the Gazette. It was only afterwards that I learnt through the agency of the Sunday Times that during my visit he was keeping a family hostage (the Dithers' from Penge), and later ransomed them for a tidy sum before clearing off to parts unknown. A poem about the event was handed in to the Sunday Times offices soon after. I Found this rather disconcerting as I told Emma & she was sympathetic but supposed that the Dithers' were well bound up or kept in an outhouse so that I couldn't possibly be blamed for not hearing any moans or suchlike.

 I'm currently preparing a paper which I am to read at the Accrington Intellectuals on Friday. It's entitled EVIDENCE IN SUPPORT OF THE SUPPOSITION THAT I AM THE ONLY CONSCIOUS ENTITY IN THE UNIVERSE. This topic dates back to my first viewing of the film 'The Invasion Of The Body Snatchers' (1965?) and possibly before. I've always felt different from other people, in as much as others seem content with surfaces and living such derivative existences in a sort of haze with a brief flame of recognition just before they pop their clogs and head off to an uncertain oblivion. I can only infer others' consciousness and frankly most people scarcely show real evidence for it. Cats possibly (and maybe Jackson Pollock).

 Wednesday, 19 December 2001

  Interview with Hugh Grant the famous actor who is currently engaged on filming scenes from his current movie up on the moors nearby. I took him to the 'Fatti Fattwi' Bulgarian restaurant (recently opened to mixed reviews) in Darwin. I had been given a budget of only £75 for expenses by the Accrington Gazette so was skimping a little. Hugh, who was looking rather worn out after a cold day standing about waiting for the light to change, was served with a starter of little sausage type things in a sauce. He looked at the waiter "What am I supposed to do with these ducky? Stick them up my arse? Look like bloody suppositories. God!"
 I was rather shocked by this, used as I am to his benign, charming on-screen persona. I asked him (if only to distract him from his revolted fixation on the dish before him) "So Hugh, how are you enjoying East Lancashire?"
  "Is that where this is? God it's bloody, simply bloody! I was at the hotel reception last night checking in. Took a fancy to the receptionist, Claire somebody. Do you know her?" (I said I didn't) "I came on to her, said to her quite openly I WANT YOU NOW. I NEED YOU! Do you know, the bitch refused. Me! Hugh bloody Grant! Refused. Told her to sod off then. Told her I could have anybody in the bloody town if I wanted but had picked her. Should be bloody honoured. She just looked at me. Obviously a lesbian. Bitch!"
  I nodded politely to all this while chewing on a stick of something gelatinous. I asked about the film he was making.
  "Director's a complete sod. You can print that I don't give a fuck quite frankly, the man's a disgrace, couldn't direct himself to the loo in his own house. Film doesn't have a title yet. I think it should be called A LOAD OF BOLLOCKS FOR MORONS but they won't use that, they'll call it something pretentious like MUCOUS SUNRISE. My co-star is Richard Devere. Heard of him?" (I said No) "Not surprised - he's been 'discovered' by the producer Nick Totter, i.e. his boyfriend. Doesn't know his lines & just swoons about the place like he's Olivier or something. I told him to his face that unless he gets his act together I'll arrange a little rendezvous with some chums of mine who'll give him a going over he won't forget." He called over the waiter. "Get me something suitable for this orifice" (pointing at his mouth) "and bring 3 bottles of wine". This worried me since it looked as if I would have to dip into my own pocket + cart an abusive, drunken Hugh back to his hotel.
  "Do you eat here a lot?" he asked me incredulous.
  "No. First time here actually"
  "I see. Thought you would experiment with a new brand of food poisoning while old Hughy here could call up the medics on his mobile. Oh well! It's in my inside pocket here if I fall into a coma first. Dial 1 - that gets you straight onto my man in Harley Street. First-rate chap at treating anything from Pox to Puppy Fungus. Went to Oxford with the bloke. He fetched me out the Isis one time when I was completely blotto. First rate chap." At this point his mobile rang. He murmured monosyllables and cursed. "Wanted on set old chap, must dash, nice meeting you. Don't tip the waiters, there's a good chap - don't want to encourage 'em" and he was off. I was left mid-chew on a piece of grizzled lamb with couscous ebbing down my chin.

Tuesday, 19 February 2002

  DOG MATTER

  Made myself some pasta with tomatoes, chillies & garlic. Put it all in my big bowl on the floor and ate like a dog, lapping up red wine in a dish. Woof!

  Reeling through town in an alcoholic stupor I came upon the Rev. Badalamino Kippi-Henrys who was elevating a pie to stop it being eaten by leaping terriers. This was clearly a sign. I looked in at 'Moggies' the pet emporium and purchased a quill of chaffing rods at £2 each. With these I subdued the leaping terriers.

  The market in Accrington is a good place to acquire doggy themed produce such as:

  Dog bells - keep tabs on your straying moggy.
  Dog paintings - oil paintings done by dog paws in motion in the fashion of Jackson Pollock, who I believe used various pets to initiate his bigger canvases - budgies (tight crimson squiffs); pog beetles (dark humorous pathways, left to right, top corner); Burmese Python (sensual ochre wave motifs, mid-centre & exiting left) etc.
  Dog clips - unspecified device used in illegal sexual practices.
  Dog money - tokens that can be used to purchase exotic dog food in various unofficial emporiums in the Bacup area.
  Dog haggis - artificially coloured pellets, interestingly textured, that dogs simply will not eat.
  Dog literature - lavishly illustrated cartoons for dogs or illiterate Accrington pensioners.
  Dog froth - congealed dog saliva that can be moulded into intricate designs, painted and mounted on the flank of any pet, turning them into a mobile art gallery.

  Methods for subduing problem pets & naughty dogs - see my index page

  Dog anecdote - nope
  Dog philosophy - don't chase your own tail or you'll look rather silly. Bite before being bitten. Dislike a smug person sitting opposite you? Sit on them. Or if at work - crap in their locker.
  Dog menace - dogs will only attack if they want to & if it's worth the expenditure of energy. Provoke dogs at a distance e.g. across a wide river.
  Dog religion - Buddhistic with a touch of Catholicism (sit around meditating then scoff the host).
  Dog tired - dream of Lassie bounding through a Swiss meadow and falling down a crevasse.


Wednesday, 20 February 2002

  PORT & POETRY

  Blustery showers. Punters with umbrellas exiting the stage vertically into pummelled greyness.
  Lunch with Emma & Duncan at Broadacres. The 'winter special' is SPICKLE HEFTY - toad-in-the-hole with peas, which is what I had with a mug of Cravats, a rather muscular Vietnamese coffee infused with gimygim pods. Duncan, hiding behind his new beard which makes him look like Lenin, pondered on his Open University course 'Feminism in the Middle Ages'. I remarked (between belches - the peas were undercooked) that it was amazing how contemporary ideas/philosophies seemed to leak backwards in time to contaminate innocent, pristine history. Emma (chomping on a FARCE DANGLY - octopus in garlic butter) got into gear on Feminism as redefinition of previously unrevealed potentialities (i.e. she waffled in syntax). She's really keen on this new bloke in her life who sounds a complete smarmy prat - seriously moneyed, public school educated, double barrel name (Corston-Nicol or some such putrefaction), deals in conglomerates (visions of the man's face contorted in a frozen scream, trapped in concrete 20 feet below the River Calder). I told her as a friend that she was making a big mistake & she pointed out that I'd never met the bloke, which is true but I have an instinct for these things. For example, she seems far too happy recently which is a very bad sign, sure to lead to remorse & depression. Her 'new age' shop the BLUEY CAVERN which she's currently running on her own, continues to do well, exporting various items to the US such as magic stones from a local quarry that have mysterious visual properties, emitting a purple light. They also sing apparently. In a depressed frame of mind I walked under the viaduct and across Dyke Moor, filling my musky boots with peaty fluid. I spoke to the blasting winds and they answered back. I solaced myself with a half bottle of Port and a large bag of crisps. My cat Pelican sat on my lap and purred some poetry at me - TS Eliot 'The Waste Land' I believe:

   When lovely woman stoops to folly and
    paces about her room again, alone
    she smoothes her hair with automatic hand
    and puts a record on the gramophone

Thursday, 21 March 2002.

MARKET BARGAINS & DEEP SEA FISH

 Trailing around Accrington Market looking for cheap toothpaste - one of my more inane pursuits, I found a 100ml tube calling itself DETROFIL 8 which has added Hydroxallyns & makes claims for fresh breath, frithy frothiness (FF8 supposedly) and the standard claim for enhanced virility in the presence of the opposite gender. It was only 68 pence. Naturally I tried it out on my cat first, but Pelican wasn't too cooperative and struggled against the brush. I myself found it rather astringent and chalky with bits of grit, but it will do ok. Something else which I obtained cheaply down the market was hair oil. Now, I don't normally use the stuff but at 50p a jar I couldn't resist. It has a pungent sickly stench but I can live with it - besides it might keep vermin away (heading express to Portugal no doubt). Suitably slicked I headed for a rendezvous with Alice Mittelfreisch, an actress, at Joe's Fish Bar. The latter, on Market Place, is rather posh despite the name and specialises in deep-sea platters such as the BLIND-FINNY; ODDFISH; GREEN HORSE FISH; BENNET'S FISH WITH HOGWEED etc.
  Alice Mittelfreisch (I had a go at her about the name but she's sticking with it) is unlike any actress I've ever come across, in that her normal speaking voice is virtually unintelligible, like some kind of Welsh German as spoken by a drunk during major dental surgery. For instance, when she ordered the HACKLEFISH WITH PARSLEY SAUCE it sounded like "Ach dry dais Hooklefassst mid Peurly seiss button". Bizarrely though, when she's reciting dialogue she's perfectly clear - she tried out a script on me for its effect, a voiceover advert for some dodgy website that sells indecent books & called wankusnow.com. I think it's American because she put on a Brooklyn-esque accent: "Dese books are soooo obscene, ya get me, know what I'm talking about honey" (chewing gum) "look at these lewd pictures, oh my, oh my, oh myyyy, 000-ooohhh" (cut to cartoon monkey with a spanner) "ggg-eeeeeeee whiz". I confess I didn't understand all the subtleties of it, but she read it well and drew lots of unwanted attention from adjacent tables. So in order to communicate with her I had to keep getting her to role-play which became rather boring after a time, though she was very good as Minny Hemmings in the 'Harmsworth Trilogy' - "I want to see the manager else I'll destroy this tuna baguette!" - quite hilarious. Afterwards on the cold, windy square we shook hands & went our separate ways.
  My liggylip is loads better thanks to the ointment which I'm using (state of the art, with rat pheromones).
  Patrick Denners who was a founder member of the Accrington Literary Club attempted suicide by throwing himself off the viaduct into an abandoned car park but his trousers snagged on a shard of metal and he was rescued. He hung himself the next day. The Accrington scene is not all fun.
  10 transvestites dressed up as the Royal Family rampaged through the town centre the other night, daubing brickwork with slogans -

  PARODY NATIONHOOD NOW!
  DEFILE THE ELITE
  CLOSE ALL WOMEN'S PRISONS
  DRESS MEN AS BABIES



  Monday, 25 March 2002.

  AN INTELLECTUAL ON MARS

  A meeting of the Accrington Intellectuals at the 'Youth Hall', Pierce Lane. The subject for discussion was ARE WE ALONE IN THE UNIVERSE? The usual tripe about UFO sightings on the moors and 'new age' nonsense concerning 'other realms dimly perceived'. Some people in the room actually claimed to be aliens, notably Cliff Whittle, who does certainly smell like nothing on earth. He said his mother was from Orion's Belt and his father a chicken, chickens being a cover for supreme beings from another dimension.
  During the tea break we played 'pin babble', a spiritualist recreation popular in Victorian times whereby the victim is blindfolded, disorientated, then has a pin stuck in him somewhere unexpected. This has the effect of stimulating repressed insights into 'other realms', even possibly 'other worlds'. Several people (enemies) were lining up to stick pins into me but I told them that I got all the insights I required from a bottle of cherry brandy down the 'Pig & Whelk'. Frustrated with this they started jabbing each other with pins in random, unscientific manner.
  The resumption of the meeting quickly deteriorated into a scrum after Dr Pitty slapped his neighbour old Vernon Hissop, who had just jabbed him with a pin. A free-for-all was the inevitable result, an all too frequent occurrence of late, I regret to say. I left in disgust and popped into the Planet Café to read a Jill Theomans paperback 'Nowhere's Tomorrow' which is all about the Intellectual Set in 50's London, swooning about deserted churches (redolent of rats and insomnia) and abandoned Concert Halls (where Chopin once improvised on the piano for pennies and a free haircut) looking for some kind of meaning, but actually finding far more meaning in a boozy rendezvous with obliging Chelsea supporters.
  Looking about me, I noticed at a corner table Roddy Fleck the Accrington Missile Man, a staple subject of local papers, especially when he decides to launch one of his soft toy collection into the stratosphere. Of course what really turns them on is the occasional failure, the missile that defies Fleckian logic & careers sideways into horror stricken spectators. I was tempted to join him to discuss future projects ("anything a bit dodgy on the horizon, Roddy?") but I was too absorbed in my book & welsh rarebit to bother.



  Sunday, 14 April 2002.

  NO NUDES IS GOOD NEWS

  There's been a shortage of news in Accrington recently, excepting the inevitable reminiscences relating to the ex-Queen Mother who surprisingly visited the town several times in the course of her long life, mainly to visit the Haworth Art Gallery and to the nearby park to shoot the resident ducks, geese, sparrows, herons and squirrels (grey, blue and the exceptionally rare and now extinct blue). Of course there's a boon on juicy ads & I'm proud to say that I've done my bit with a veritable frookal of orders for Queen Mum shower curtains; fridge magnets (including two dinky ones of identical corgies; oven gloves etc. So the Accrington Gazette asked me to do a documentary piece on the local Fuzz based at Bridge Street Police Station. They were initially cooperative & took me out on patrol in a police car escorted by Detective Inspector Hazey and his sidekick, Constable Dick Donaldson (DD for short). I later found out that this duo were labelled 'The Pansy Set' by fellow officers, owing to their fondness for interior design & objets d'art, not the kind of thing you normally associate with uniformed enforcers. This trait made itself apparent early on when we passed a trim 18th century house opposite Mackenzie's the Butcher.
  "Lovely architecture", piped DD.
  "Just Dandy! Fancy a look indoors?" replied Hazey.
  "Whoopee!" & DD screeched to a halt.
  Next thing I knew he was up the path and banging at the bright red door with a vengeance. No sooner had the door been opened by a frail, startled old lady, than we were forcing entry - "Police Search! Where's the stash granny?" said Hazey, barging into the hallway and then into the living room. DD & Hazey began frantically hunting for ornaments, seat covers, lamp shades, anything, commenting "Ooooo Harvey Nicks! The Bizz! Lucky bitch. Is that Royal Derby?" - Hazey roughly handling a delicate figurine - "Naw naw naw just tat, filthy cheap tat!" and throwing it at a snoozing spaniel who wakes up with a yelp.
  "Leave Fritz alone, you bad man!" says Grannie, but DD & Hazey just laugh and stuff their fat faces with some juicy plums from a blue Chinese bowl.
  "What do you want?" says Grannie.
  "Actually I wouldn't mind a Blue Hawaiian. It's a cocktail that is redolent of the sweet Pacific Ocean. Cleans you out with a potent alcoholic kick." Said Donaldson sprawling on an art deco coffee table.
  "Make that two, Grannie." Says Hazey. "We still haven't found that stash - why don't you just tell us where it is and we'll leave you alone and return to the mean streets of Accrington & catch some real villains. Got any Chelsea Porcelain? That's where we've found a lot of drugs recently."
  This search went on for a good 2 hours including several breaks for various exotic meals and drinks.
  Mid afternoon we were entering a club in Darwin calling itself 'Pink And Friendly' which was full of scantily clad females and one completely nude man who served drinks and seafood on sticks. The Policemen were treated as Royalty and I was eyed suspiciously. "Who's the creep Hazey?" they whispered, and Hazey replied "Just a pimp we've picked up. Treating him to a last taste of freedom before a visit to the Scrubbs." From this point my memory is a complete blank. I woke up upside down in a dustbin. The dustbin was in a seedy alley surreally lit by a morning sunburst. The alley turned out to be in the outskirts of Doncaster. My police friends have a sick sense of humour.



Thursday, 16 May 2002

CON THE MONSIEUR NIGHT

  Connoisseur Night at the 'Bag Of Ecstasy', Colne. I had to endure the MARMALADE STEW yet again - bits of lemony gristle, chewy sultanas, glass sharp over-roasted pecans merged with undercooked fat-infused wilted lamb. The two alternatives were HERRING KOFTAS ON A BED OF RASPBERRIES or VEGETARIAN MOUSSAKA BLENDED WITH ESSENCE OF BANANA. Despite washing my meal down with a plucky damson inspired Chilean Merlot, I came away from the restaurant in an indigestinous stupor and found myself rolling mercilessly down the steep High Street passed a swirl of late night emporiums, passed the 15th century church replete with the slumbering dead 'neath evocative gravestones, passed my will to ever return to another connoisseur night and finally coming to rest against the sordid boot of a grossly fat luminous nazi who was waiting at the bus stop. He would surely have pummelled me into oblivion if his bus hadn't turned up at that precise moment. He looked at me grimly as he wallowed on board, his shining green hair and glowing tattoos a circus in the making.
  I decided to get a taxi home - the only sensible decision I made all evening.
  Jody Brottle had said that she might look in & have a bite of something but she didn't which I take to be a personal insult after I had attended a meeting of the Ardwick Social Club at her request, since she was secretary and, I dare say, wanted to show off her prestige. The event was basically a gathering of the living deceased - TV junkies, crisp talkers in floppy hats who sway from side to side as they leak their bad dialogue - "My friend Jeremy's in Suet. Making an absolute killing! I'm more in the Pelmet line myself. We made a pelmet for Clarence House last year. The Queen Mother wrote to us especially to enquire the precise colour of some floral motifs bordering the cursive repeating chanter and we wrote back and said it was called 'brown' mam, which she thought frightfully amusing. We also wished her a speedy recovery after she had broken her other hip in a nasty sitting incident."
  Shortly after this I made my way through the dense crowd of barking effigies to where Jody was standing and promptly pinched her hard on the bottom. I don't think she has forgiven me.

  Eating a bag of whelks the other day as I wandered aimlessly through town, I thought how amazing life was, how full of surprises and incongruities, when suddenly I popped a pebble in my mouth and nearly choked.

  A new poem by Duncan:

  Dawn dissipates the cruel mists and
  Accrington town dreams on
  Flirting with new realities
  Bounding ahead in morbid affirmations
  Of its impending doom
  Stripped to a bare loveliness
  That quakes the soul
  Excites the noble Godhead, pring
  Sweats the stain of manhood
  Out of the crust of civilisation
  Tring pring tring pring tring pring

  A classic I think. But I'm no judge.
  In Bodds' the clothing outfitter I was looking at some pants when I sensed a presence which became a tangible reality in the periphery of my vision - a staring static man. I continued to look at pants and he continued to stare at me and I became increasingly annoyed at his presumption. I gave it another minute and he remained fixedly staring, so out of the blue I swung around and yelled at him "who are YOU looking at you……" drawing the startled attention of the whole store, only to discover that my enemy was a display dummy! I'm sure we've all done this haven't we? Anyway I covered up by pretending that my provocateur had mysteriously vanished and frantically tried to search him out. I think I got away with it and received many admiring glances for my boldness.

 Monday, 14 July 2003

 Not hot you say?

 Accrington has turned into a huge barbecue of live human flesh. Topless teenagers idle outside the shops in frozen attitudes soaking up the sun. Dogs howl to be let indoors or scuffle amid the dusty shadows, their scrawny coats silently rubberising. Old people shuffle about the market in thick coats complaining about the increase in frivolous nudity. Distant whistles herald the arrival of the frozen pizza man on his tricycle, skimming frozen pizzas at local wildfowl (he's a local character from the Institute on the hill).

 I had to wear my Hawaiian shirt (blue & purple floral motif), 2 buttons undone at the collar (there's no need to go mad) and a wide brimmed cream coloured cricketing hat with a logo at the front which reads FUNBRO in hostile crimson.

  I took some photos with my new digital camera -

     1. A fruit display outside Budgens swarming with wasps.

     2. An old gent stroking a concrete pillar.

     3. A view of hazy hills fronted by a browning tree containing a Tesco's carrier bag. The bag was full of something.

     4. A small boy with a red cap throwing dirt at a sulky poodle.

     5. Duncan the bad poet coming towards me with 2 hot cups of coffee & wearing an expression which said 'I wish I was carrying 2 ice cold glasses of water'.

     6. Emma & friend Flaggiela (?) animated at an outdoor café discussing whether 'new ageism' has anything to learn from men or vice-versa.

      7. A close-up of Flaggiela sticking a long violet fingernail into her ear.

 Henrik Kloosgeims the Belgian antiquary was in town to talk up his new book 'A New View On Dutch Clogs' and I met him at a book signing in THE BIG DISCOUNT BOOKSTORE on Market Street. I asked him about his new tome but he wouldn't say anything until I'd bought him several double Macallans at the Queen's Head. After talking freely for a while in very refined English (in stark contrast to the locals around us bleating in dense accents about the heat) he quickly became abusive and accused me of trying to steal secrets about 18th century clogs to use in my own book, so I ended up making a quick exit and improvising a lot of cloggy nonsense for my review in tomorrows Gazette. They didn't seem too interested in my photos, despite me pushing the 'fingernail in the ear' one as a bit of high art.

 Tuesday, 15 July 2003

 I'm typing this in the Bullfinch Internet Café just along from the library. The heat outside is killing. The offices of OCCULT MAGAZINE are ablaze with rumours of spontaneous combustions. The Gazette wanted me to sweat my way up Ramsbottom Hill to see if I could find any smouldering peasants (or was it pheasants?) but I told them no thanks.

 Tara Bright, Drama Correspondent at the Darwin Mercury, invited me to lunch at Lazy Haven, an Italian Bistro on Newman Terrace. She pressed me to try the Cuttlefish Risotto and kept topping up my glass of Chianti. Tara doesn't drink but she likes to get other people drunk so that she can seduce them. She's a plain woman with a taste for esoteric oriental sex practices, such as OROTUZOMI - immersion in whale blubber, and TOGUSANAWI - rapid rotation on a bamboo spit. Luckily I was well informed and slipped away while she was ingratiating herself with Lady Hermiona Griss at a table on the roof terrace. That cuttlefish is still scuttling about my tummy. The sauce was delicious though.

  Have you read 'The Power Of Now'? I'm trying to apply it to my thinking but keep beating myself up over trivial misdemeanours. I also have a tendency to fall asleep when I empty my mind, which rather defeats the object especially since my siesta induced dreams can be quite scary, featuring dogs with party hats jabbing at me with huge dagger-like tongues; new age scents thickening into purple tar and flooding over my head; newly purchased antiquarian books with blank pages or with no pages or with pasted-in cuttings detailing banalities from reality TV. Emma & her friends would simply argue that I'm a bloke and there's the end of it - no need to probe very far into the dense undergrowth of unenlightenment, but I like the idea of exploring other possibilities of existence. Hic est mondo felicite as the poets would say, but what do they know?