Discordian doctrinate no. 23.

NAYLOR'S HANDBAG

All the wonders of the world (which number seven), Or the glories of the Lord (who lives in heaven), Can scarce at all compare, Nor can even Samson's hair, To that Tommy Naylor's inter-stellar handbag.

All the colours of the rainbow (or the spangles), Or the theories of Pythag' (who knew the angles), Just don't come up to scratch, Jackie Trent and Tony Hatch Are as nought before that Tommy Naylor's handbag.

All the thirty shades of green (the Micks speak well of), Or the gasworks by the Thames (I love the smell of), Just haven't got a chance, Nor has fair Salome's dance, To hold a candle to that Tommy Naylor's handbag.

(Chorus)

Naylor's handbag - the peasants stand and

cheer.

Naylor's handbag - all your troubles disappear. Naylor's handbag - I think that Naylor's

somewhat queer.

And as far as I'm concerned, he can stick his

handbag! I ask you!

ATAXIOPHOBIA

It is the way of man to seek order from chaos.

To impose order upon chaos.

To search for pattern and meaning and if none can be found, then to invent it.

Like time, for instance.

Man conceived time and sliced it into hours and minutes and seconds. And then man said, 'Here is time, I have it upon my wrist, it is now under my control.'

Which, of course, it is not.

At one of his famous lectures delivered in the nineteen sixties, that greatest genius of our age, Sir Hugo Rune, was interrupted, while in full and magnificent flow, by his arch detractor, Rudolph Koeslar.

Rune had been expounding upon his theory of APATHY*, when Koeslar had the temerity to declare that Rune was 'a lazy scoundrel, who had never done an honest day's work in his life'.

' Work?' asked Rune. 'And what is work?

'Work,' answered Koeslar, 'is what honest folk do for eight hours a day, five days a week.'

'Impossible,' said Hugo Rune. And then went on to prove it.

*A-PATH-TO THE REASON WHY - see The Book of Ultimate Truths.

WHY IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO

WORK EIGHT HOURS A DAY,

FIVE DAYS A WEEK

(From the calculations of Hugo Rune.)

There are 365 days in a year. In a leap year 366. Let us be generous and begin with 366.

Days in the year: 366 days

Eight hours of sleep each day equals

a total of: 122 days

Leaving— 244 days Eight hours of rest each day equals

a total of: 122 days

Leaving— 122 days

You don't work Saturdays and Sundays, so

subtract: 104 days

Leaving— 18 days

You do have an hour for lunch each

working day: 10 days

Leaving— 8 days

Out of these eight working days, you must surely have at least one week's holiday a year.

Which leaves you with a single day to work on.

And that's Christmas Day.

And nobody works on Christmas Day.

Suitably chastened, Koeslar slunk from the hall as the mangy dog he was. The audience set to counting upon its fingers, but none could disprove Rune's calculations, because they were so demonstrably correct.

There will always be those who will quibble over details and seek to claw back a day here and there.

But to those we must say then, What about days off sick? Or time off being late, or leaving early?

No. It is proved.

No more can be said.

Order from chaos? Forget it.

And there are those who would seek order from the chaos of a story which lacked a beginning, a middle and an end. Those would see a definite pattern emerging. A pattern composed of short stories (seemingly unrelated) juxtaposed with a rambling plot about a chap called Danny, around whom events appeared to revolve.

And those astute enough to reason this out would conclude that before returning to Danny, another 'seemingly unrelated' short story was probably on the cards.

And they would be correct.

THE DOG-FACED BOY

Having been told to 'expect a letter in the post', Alan left his fourteenth interview in two weeks in something of a huff. He now had little faith in the promises of youth employment officers and began to realize that he should make the best of a bad job (which was no job at all) and start to get used to a lot of spare time.

He didn't bother to go back to the agency, instead he caught a 65 at the Broadway and rode back on it to Brentford and The Plume Cafe.

A pleasant cuppa, he thought, and somewhere to sit that is out of the rain.

The waitress, with the come-to-bed eyes and the do-it-and-die husband, brought a cup to Alan's table.

'Do you have any money today?' she asked.

Alan fumbled in his trouser pockets. 'I have some string, a penknife, a couple of cigarette cards and my front door key. And a threepenny bit and that's it.'

The waitress had just read her horoscope - 'a kind gesture will be returned'. 'Keep your threepence,' she said, 'it's on the house.'

'Why thank you,' said Alan, who managed a smile.

The waitress smiled back and returned to the counter.

Alan sat a-sipping of the thin grey liquid and a-peering through the fly-specked window at the

rain-danced street beyond. A figure was hurrying towards the cafe, Sporting Life held over his head, tweed collar turned against the inclemency of the weather.

This figure was Naylor and Alan knew Naylor well enough.

Thomas Henry Naylor, owner of a handbag which he claimed had been given him by a Venusian. Also owner of two pairs of winklepickers and a snooker cue, a snooker cue which he had won from Lenny Hall for staying an entire night alone in St Mary's churchyard. A snooker cue which he had snatched from the grasp of Lenny Hall when Lenny Hall had refused to hand it over. A snooker cue with which he had laid Lenny Hall low. Thomas Henry Naylor. Dodgy, dishonest, violent.

Alan hoped he would hurry by.

He did not.

Thomas Henry Naylor pushed open the shattered glass door of the Plume Cafe and sighted its only customer.

'Al baby,' said he.

I hate that, thought Alan. 'Hello, Tommy,' he said.

'Al baby, are you in luck.'

Alan considered this to be a statement, rather than a question, so he said nothing.

'Oh yes you are,' said Naylor. 'You're in lots of luck.'

'I am?' asked Alan, who could not imagine just how he might be.

'You are,' said Naylor. 'And I will tell you why.'

Tommy Naylor sat down at Alan's table. He hailed the waitress with the come-to-bed eyes and ordered two cups of coffee. When these arrived he pushed one across the table to Alan. 'Drink up,' he said. 'We have to get moving.'

'We do?' Alan said, as he pushed his now-cold tea aside.

'We do, my boy, we do.'

Alan hated the 'my boy' almost as much as he hated the 'Al baby'. In fact, Alan cared little or nothing for Tommy Naylor and really, really wished that he would go away and leave him in peace.

Tommy Naylor grinned at Alan, indifferent to thoughts he could neither hear nor read upon his face. 'I have shares in a sideshow,' he said. And then he paused, hoping for a reaction. He didn't get one though.

'A sideshow,' he said once more. 'I am going to become the proprietor of a fairground attraction.'

Alan was mildly intrigued and managed to sniff out a brief, 'What kind?'

'A FREAK SHOW,' said Naylor, in a voice so loud as to make the come-to-bed eyes of the waitress grow wide.

A freak show?

It is strange how a short phrase, or even a fragment of a phrase, is capable of conjuring up memories, sometimes memories of something you had hoped forever to forget.

No sooner had the words 'A FREAK SHOW'

left Naylor's mouth, than terrible memories returned to Alan. Memories of a small, hairy face with eyes so sad, which peeped at him from a tiny roped-off enclosure.

As a child, Alan's father had taken him to see THE DOG-FACED BOY. The old chap had paid the sixpences for admission, and the proprietor, a tall gaunt man with a black handlebar moustache, had led the two of them through the gaily painted canvas hoarding, along a dingy corridor and into a tiny back room which had been painted a garish yellow.

A crowd of people was pushing and shoving and the air was rank with the stench of cheap cigar smoke and perspiring flesh.

Alan's father had edged the boy to the front and as the gaunt proprietor yanked back a length of ragged cloth which served as a curtain, Alan found himself almost face to face with the main attraction.

Seated upon an ancient highchair in the corner of that yellow room was a little boy. He wore a strangely old-fashioned knickerbocker suit of blue velvet, with white lace collar and cuffs. He could have been no older than Alan was himself. But he had the face of a dog.

Beneath matted eyebrows two clear brown eyes, two oh-so-sad brown eyes, peeped out at Alan, and a small silly mouth chewed upon nothing, again and again and again.

Alan drew back in horror, but the crowd was

thick behind him, and the crowd was laughing. Mocking barks and howls. Alan pressed his face against his father's hand and wept frightened tears.

'How would you like a job?' asked Naylor.

'Job?' The images retreated, a dull ache remained. 'What job?'

'Huckster,' said Naylor. 'You know, roll up, roll up. That kind of thing.'

'No, I wouldn't.' Alan rose to take his leave.

Naylor rose with him. 'Of course you would. You're unemployed, aren't you? A bit of easy money wouldn't go amiss, would it?'

Til have to think about it.' Alan edged towards the door.

'No, you won't. Come on, I'll show it to you. It's a bit ancient and knackered and needs a lick of paint.'

Alan had a sick premonition. 'I don't want to see it,' he said.

'Of course you do.' Naylor took him by the arm.

The rain hadn't let up. If anything it fell more heavily. It rattled upon the corrugated iron roof of the old warehouse. Naylor fumbled a key into an enormous padlock. 'It must have been here for years. Stored away. A friend put me on to it. He used to be in the business. You just wait until you see it.'

Alan didn't want to.

The padlock swung away and Naylor pressed open the door.

The hinges groaned dramatically and the damp light fell across an expanse of concrete, exposing

green canvas dustsheets which sheltered something large. Alan felt cold and ill.

'I'll wait here,' he said.

'Of course you won't.' Naylor steered him inside, closed the door, switched on a light. Neon flickered, flared and glared.

'Now,' said Naylor. 'Just wait until you see this.' He stalked towards the mysterious something that lurked beneath the canvas dustsheets. 'Just you wait.'

Alan watched as Naylor took up a canvas corner. He shrank back against the door, dreading what he knew he must surely see. He shut his eyes, that he should not. But there was no safety there. There was only the image. That hairy face, those tragic eyes. The mouth that chewed and chewed.

'Behold!' cried Naylor, flinging back the dust-sheet.

Alan peeped.

JOHNNY GULL, read the Victorian script (in capital letters), THE FATTEST MAN IN THE WORLD.

Below was a lurid representation of a huge swollen giant munching upon a cream cake and smiling the way a dead animal does.

Alan began to laugh. Tears ran down his face. He staggered to and fro, pointing at the image, rocking with laughter. He clutched at his stomach.

He laughed and he laughed and he laughed.

And then he blacked out.

* * *

When Alan awoke, he found himself in bed.

He tried to lift his head, but he could not.

To move his hands. No, they were strapped at his sides.

He blinked. The light was too bright. It shone into his eyes. He tried to speak. But he could not.

A face loomed at him. It was the face of Naylor.

'He's coming round,' said this face.

'Give him some air then.'

Naylor's face drew back. The light rose.

'How are you feeling?' asked Naylor. 'You've been out of it for quite a long time.' He leaned forward and twisted something at Alan's head.

Alan moved his head stiffly and glanced all around.

He was in a tiny room. Paint flaked from its walls. Yellow paint.

There was a dull, medical smell in this room. And other smells also. Naylor stood with a smile on his face, he puffed upon a cheap cigar. Another man stood by him. A tall, gaunt man with a grey handlebar moustache. He wore a surgeon's gown and rubber gloves.

'About that huckster's job,' said Naylor. 'There's been a slight change of plan. My pal Mr Henderson here,' Naylor gestured to the gaunt fellow who was now peeling off his gloves, 'says that fat men won't really pull a crowd any more. But that, as we had the booth and everything, all we needed to do was make a few alterations.'

Naylor displayed a small hand mirror and what

appeared to be an old-fashioned blue velvet suit with a white lace collar and cuffs. 'Of course, we needed a really good freak.'

He held the mirror towards Alan's face.

Alan did not want to look.

Antipericatametaparhengedamphicribationes.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14