Dear Eric,

I write to share a wondrous find. It was discovered by my precocious fourteen year old niece. Her name is Karen Zipslicer and she has come to stay with me for a little while during her school holidays. Diligent young Karen has been helping me put the remnants of our royal archives back into some kind of order. As she did, she chanced something very unexpected in the back of an old atlas. The pages were loose; they had been torn from another book. We cannot tell if they represent a factual account or a whimsy of the author. Either way, we found them very entertaining, and thought you and your readers might enjoy the contents too. Please see the enclosed photocopies.

Yours &c.

Prince Karl Zeis of the Royal House of Delfthia

enc.

Within the envelope were a few photocopied pages as promised. The original had been neatly written by hand, and the pages were numbered from 272 to 275, implying they were taken from a longer work. The pages read as follows:

The Rules of the Tournament of Twiddlythinks, as Played in the City-State of Lundern

1. There are no rules to the tournament and game of twiddlythinks except for the fourteen rules stated here. These rules may never be amended or added to.

2. The winner of the tournament of twiddlythinks shall rule Lundern, according to its constitution, for a period of twelvemonth, commencing the April 1st that follows their victory.

3. All citizens and visitors to Lundern may enter the tournament at any time. When a contestant is defeated, they may not re-enter until the following year’s tournament.

4. No tournament match may take place outside of Lundern’s borders.

5. The game of twiddlythinks is played by two opponents. The winner of the tournament is the player who remains undefeated after having beaten all willing and eligible challengers at the game of twiddlythinks during the course of a tournament. In the event that there are two or more undefeated players at midnight of March 30th, the winner of the tournament is the player who has played most games; in the event of a tie, the winner of the tournament is the player whose name comes first in the alphabet.

6. At the start of the game, a piece is placed on each square of the board. Pieces are placed facing up or down at random.

7. Each piece is a counter with two sides. The top of the piece has a different colour to the bottom of the piece. Any colours may be used for either side.

8. The board shall be divided into squares. The board may be of any dimensions, so long as it is not so large as to extend beyond the borders of Lundern. There may be any number of squares on the board, in any arrangement, so long as they are each large enough to hold one piece and that there are at least two squares on the board.

9. All squares must be of the same colour, to maximize the difficulty in correctly executing a move.

10. Any player who makes an incorrect move immediately forfeits the game.

11. The following moves are all valid: turning a piece over and replacing it on the same square, moving a piece from one square to any other vacant square without turning it over, and removing a piece from the board.

12. Players take it in turns to make moves. The player with the greatest value of small change in his or her pockets shall make the first move.

13. After each move, the player shall say something to enlighten their opponent. Players may not communicate with each other at other times, nor may they use intermediaries as a way of circumventing this rule.

14. If all pieces are removed from the board without there being a winner, all pieces are replaced on the board and the game recommences as if from the beginning.

The Strategy and Tactics of the Tournament of Twiddlythinks

It must be noted that the game of twiddlythinks has no specific goal, no means of keeping score, and no clearly defined criteria to determine who is the winner. This is all according to the rules, which clearly state that there are no additional rules nor any possibility of change to the rules. As a consequence, each game continues until one or other player resigns. This means there are three possible strategies for winning a game of twiddlythinks:

Persistence: the winner is the player prepared to keep on playing for longer than their opponent.

Threats: the victor intimidates their opponent into conceding. A player may choose to make threats immediately after making a move.

Bribery: a player induces their opponent to resign. As with threats, these offers may be made immediately after making a move.

Commentaries on the constitution of Lundern note, with some pride, that twiddlythinks is not a game of simple merit. Players do not win through intellect, skill or via a better appreciation of the rules and the subtleties of how to make moves. On the contrary, the role of the tournament in deciding the ruler of Lundern is presupposed on the assumption that rulers should either be rich and generous, ruthless and powerful, or just so determined that they can demonstrably bend the will of others to their own.

The board, the pieces and their arrangement are all understood to be incidental to gameplay. Their role is formal. This is not without some utility; by facing each other over the board, passersby can verify the two players are engaged in competition until there is a definitive winner. Just as importantly, there is no order of play as is found with most other tournaments known to men. No two players are forced to play each other. Match-ups are by invitation, and may be declined. To win the tournament, all that matters is winning the most individual games during the course of a year. Clever selection of opponents is hence a vital aspect of winning the tournament. Successful tournament winners are also known to employ so-called ‘professional’ players to frustrate their rivals; these professionals lure the unwitting competitor into a match-up, and then ardently refuse to concede, thus denying their opponent the chance to play again and rack up more wins during the year. However, professional players tend to be short-lived. More often than not they become targets for the assassins engaged by the opponents whose hopes they seek to thwart.

Due to the extraordinary and unfamiliar nature of the rules, the histories of Lundern record that on only three occasions has the tournament been won by someone other than a citizen. Nevertheless, Lunderners take great pride in the fact that their tournament is open to all, meaning that in theory literally anybody could become ruler of Lundern. Allowing outsiders to compete is seen as a necessary way of maintaining the strength of Lundern’s governors; if Lundern’s leading citizens become corrupt or weak, then a strong outsider may take command via the exigency of what is effectively a bloodless coup. Despite the seeming openness of the process of picking Lundern’s ruler, few conquerors are willing to submit themselves to the annual tournament. They are much more likely to resort to warfare as a means to take over Lundern. The Lunderner’s faith in the tournament is underpinned by two observations. Firstly, the tournament has determined Lundern’s ruler for the last three hundred years without interruption. Secondly, during that time, Lundern has successfully repelled all would-be invaders.

Though the account of Twiddlythinks is fascinating, no explanation is given as to where Lundern is supposed to be. You have to imagine this fantastic account is the product of a fanciful imagination. After all, who would choose a ruler simply based on who has the greatest wealth, power, or lust for the job?

…it seems quite probable that English has more words than most comparable world languages.

The reason for this is historical. English was originally a Germanic language, related to Dutch and German, and it shares much of its grammar and basic vocabulary with those languages. However, after the Norman Conquest in 1066 it was hugely influenced by Norman French, which became the language of the ruling class for a considerable period, and by Latin, which was the language of scholarship and of the Church. Very large numbers of French and Latin words entered the language. Consequently, English has a much larger vocabulary than either the Germanic languages or the members of the Romance language family to which French belongs.

There are many English words; 200,000 if calculated conservatively, a million if we indulge the wilder estimates. Studies show that an educated native speaker might be familiar with 20,000 words at best, leaving them lots of opportunity to learn more. If that were not enough, the proficient may simply resort to inventing new words. Shakespeare is estimated to have added 1,700 words to the language, including ‘assassination’, ‘bump’ and ‘critical’. Yet for all its expansiveness, and its willingness to borrow from slang, science and other languages, English is not infinite. At some juncture we may always reach a limit and find there are things that cannot be said.

A shortage of words is the bane of the writer, of course. Whilst I have no pretension to include myself in that category, this post counts as halfthought 127, or well over 2 years’ regular writing if you kindly overlook the one week I missed (more by accident than laziness; the halfthought had been written but I blundered and failed to publish it). From that voluntary output, it might seem that I am tapping a plentiful flow. Not always so. There has been many a weekend where I have neared its end full of angst, because no fresh ideas have come to mind. Thankfully, life is rich even if the imagination is impoverished. A look around at the diversity of what occurs on this planet is guaranteed to reveal something worthy of comment before too long.

Whilst a lack of imagination may be the writer’s curse, even pure intellect has its limits. The philosopher Wittgenstein went to some pains to hint at the existence of an outer border to our expressive capacity in his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. This was concluded in the final statement of the book:

Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muß man schweigen.

Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.

Having written everything that needed to be written about philosophy, and satisfactorily proven to himself that to write anything more would entail scribbling gibberish, Wittgenstein did the decent thing and stopped doing philosophy. He turned his attention to teaching and architecture instead. However, like a top sportsman that spoils a perfect career by coming out of retirement, Wittgenstein changed his mind. In later life he explained why there was a lot more to say about philosophy after all.

That Wittgenstein was able to change his mind says a lot about both the academic and societal freedoms he enjoyed thanks to his upbringing and lifestyle in Europe, and the freedom that language afforded him to explore his ideas. None of these freedoms should be taken for granted. Though most readers of Orwell’s 1984 focus on surveillance and torture as the most obvious evils it depicts, I find another of his inventions to be much more chilling. Newspeak would be a language that progressively reduced its vocabulary, and as it did so, increasingly limited the speaker’s ability to express or even think thoughts they should not. As a consequence, thoughtcrime would become an impossibility, as there would be no objectionable thoughts any more:

By 2050 - earlier, probably - all real knowledge of Oldspeak will have disappeared. The whole literature of the past will have been destroyed. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Byron - they’ll exist only in Newspeak versions, not merely changed into something different, but actually contradictory of what they used to be. Even the literature of the Party will change. Even the slogans will change. How could you have a slogan like “freedom is slavery” when the concept of freedom has been abolished? The whole climate of thought will be different. In fact there will be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means not thinking - not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.

Thankfully, we have so far postponed the impositions of an Ingsoc-like tyranny for more than a couple of decades beyond the date Orwell envisaged. Whilst oppression is to be dreaded, sometimes it is in our own interests to keep schtum. What we say and write is a kind of advertisement for who we are, and may be made public even if not intended. Recently revealed recordings of Mel Gibson’s tirades against second wife Oksana Grigorieva are even more troubling than the antisemitic remarks he made when arrested for drink driving in 2006, placing him firmly at the head of a long Hollywood walk of shame. Mad Mel would have been better off heeding the advice of Abraham Lincoln:

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.

Whilst we recognize intellectual limits to language, it is more often that emotion causes us to reach an impasse where words simply will not do. Heightened emotion, whether the emotion is anger, fear or lust, draws our energies away from the verbal. The idea of a conversation during love-making might be presented as comical, especially if the topic is banal. Most sex talk involves a few usefully intense expletive utterances meant to signal encouragement, or, if things go awry, pain and a desire to reorient proceedings. However, two people with the right relationship might enjoy stimulating and erotic chat that goes beyond the monosyllabic.

For some circumstances, words can only seem paltry for their allotted task. At the other end of life’s cycle from love-making, language can seem desolate and paltry for the task of mourning a loved one. For all the craft of the eulogy, it is poignant that silent contemplation is our society’s most elegant means of showing our collective respect for the dead.

Speechlessness due to anger or fear is hard to overcome, as anyone who suffers from stage-fright can attest. There are few greater psychological agonies, for either the person who dislikes public speaking, or indeed for an audience that tries to listen to them. In contrast, anger may turn curtness into the epitome of apt expression. When the Germans surrounded Bastogne during the WW2 Battle of the Bulge, they sent a communique to US General Anthony McAuliffe, asking him to surrender. On hearing the request, McAuliffe uttered one word:

Nuts!

So pleased was he with the eloquence of this instinctive response, that he wrote it down and this was relayed back to the German command as his official answer. McAuliffe’s defiance was a morale raiser. In contrast, the American wordsmith Normal Mailer was a hellraiser who resorted to punching or even stabbing people in order to make his point. At one party he socked his literary rival Gore Vidal, knocking him to the floor. Vidal, though still down on the ground, got the upper hand when he quipped:

Words fail Norman Mailer yet again.

At least that goes to prove that whilst the pen may not always be mightier than the sword, wit is always sharper than a fist.

Shuttle Pilot: (Speaking over the radio) Command Station, this is ST-3-21. Code clearance: blue. We’re starting our approach. Deactivate the security shield.

Death Star Space Traffic Controller: (Responding by radio) Security deflector shield will be deactivated when we have confirmation of your code transmission - and not a moment sooner. Standby.

Shuttle Pilot: (Impatient, sarcastic) When you’re ready.

Death Star Space Traffic Controller: (Looks at the code appearing on his screen) Hmmm… I see you’re using an older code, though it checks out. What is your cargo?

Shuttle Pilot: Are you serious?

Death Star Space Traffic Controller: Yes, I’m perfectly serious. We’ve beefed up security around here. We don’t just let anyone saunter up and land whenever they fancy. Now, ST-3-21, what is your cargo?

Shuttle Pilot: No cargo. Just a passenger.

Death Star Space Traffic Controller: How many passengers?

Shuttle Pilot: A passenger. A single passenger.

Death Star Space Traffic Controller: Did I hear you right? A single passenger? Haven’t you people heard about shuttle-sharing? The Imperial Fleet is never going to be carbon neutral until flyboys like you realize that shuttles are not for joyrides.

Shuttle Pilot: You don’t understand. We have a VIP on board. Our passenger is Lord Vader. And he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

Death Star Space Traffic Controller: Lord Vader? Never heard of him. I don’t care if you’ve got the Emperor himself on that shuttle, you could have carried some cargo over at the same time. Did you at least bring some toilet paper?

Shuttle Pilot: I beg your pardon?

Death Star Space Traffic Controller: Toilet paper. We’re running low. For the last fortnight we’ve been on rations of four sheets per day. It used to be that you had three-ply and can pull them apart to make them last that bit longer, but now they only give you two-ply. They say it’s cutbacks. They must have overrun the budget on building this station.

Shuttle Pilot: Is this a joke? We’re not here to transport toilet paper! And I never spoke to anyone who didn’t know who Darth Vader is before.

Death Star Space Traffic Controller: What was that name again?

Shuttle Pilot: Darth Vader.

Death Star Space Traffic Controller: Darth Vader? Nah. I once met a guy called Ralph Nader. He talked a lot of sense about fixing problems with the galactic economy. He kept standing to be elected to the Republic Senate, until some halfwit abolished it before he succeeded.

Shuttle Pilot: Do you know what you’re saying? Never mind. Put your supervisor on.

Death Star Space Traffic Controller: Oh, it’s like that is it? Very well. Please hold. (Signals to supervisor to come over and help. Puts his hand over the microphone and talks to the supervisor as an aside.) We’ve got a right charlie here. You try speaking to ‘em. I need to go for a pee anyhow (gets up and leaves).

Supervising Death Star Space Traffic Controller: (Sits at the microphone). Hello, my name is Stephen and I’m the supervising space traffic controller for today. How may I be of service?

Shuttle Pilot: We’ve got Darth Vader on our shuttle and we want to land - pronto.

Supervising Death Star Space Traffic Controller: Darth Vader, eh? I’m sorry I don’t know who that is.

Shuttle Pilot: You’ve not heard of Darth Vader?

Supervising Death Star Space Traffic Controller: No. But it’s a very big Empire, isn’t it? Thousands of star systems, millions of planets… you don’t expect me to know everybody by name, do you?

Shuttle Pilot: It’s Darth Vader. Darth Vader. (Pauses) Never mind. Can we land?

Supervising Death Star Space Traffic Controller: We’ve just got a few shuttles backed up here. Please enter a holding pattern and we should be able to squeeze you in within the next 15 minutes or so. (Hangs up) (His fellow space traffic controller returns from the toilet.) Make them wait 20 minutes and then direct them to landing bay Theta 12.

[The radio crackles into life as another shuttle signals its intention to land.]

Second Shuttle Pilot: Hello boyos, this is shuttle Tyrannium here, with a code clearance red. We’ve got a big load of bog roll on board, and we hear you’ve got some backsides cryin’ out for some over there.

Supervising Death Star Space Traffic Controller: Great! You’re cleared for immediate priority landing!

…

[C-3PO and R2-D2 finally arrive at Jabba's Palace on Tatooine.]

C-3PO: R2, are you sure this is the right place? We don’t want to go through another farce involving knocking on the wrong door.

R2-D2: Beep (translates as: “look at the sign, dumbass”)

C-3PO: (Looks up at the nameplate alongside the door and reads it out.) Palace of His Excellency, Jabba the Hutt. Bounty hunter scum welcome. Door-to-door salesmen scum not welcome. (Looks to R2-D2) This must be the place. I’d better knock, I suppose. (Taps on the door, and waits briefly). There doesn’t seem to be anyone here. We’d better go back and tell Master Luke.

[An electronic eye emerges from a hole in the door.]

C-3PO: (Startled) Goodness gracious me. (To the eye) We’d like to talk to Jabba the Hutt.

Voice of the electronic eye: Are you bounty hunter scum?

C-3PO: No.

Voice of the electronic eye: Are you selling something?

C-3PO: No.

Voice of the electronic eye: Are you Jehovah’s Witnesses?

C-3PO: No.

Voice of the electronic eye: Then why do you want to speak to Jabba?

C-3PO: We have a message for him.

Voice of the electronic eye: A message? You brought a message in person? Haven’t you heard of email? Anyway, you’d better come in, now that you’re here. But if you try to persuade us to change electricity supplier, we’ll disintegrate you without a moment’s hesitation.

…

[In landing bay Theta 12, Darth Vader walks down the ramp from his shuttle. Two valets, dressed in blue uniforms, follow him down the ramp. They bring Vader's bags - an assortment of shoulder bags and wheelie cases. There is a single Imperial captain waiting to meet Vader.]

Darth Vader: This is an outrage! We were kept waiting 20 minutes before being allowed to land.

Imperial Captain: (Removes a pen from his breast pocket and starts to make notes on a clipboard.) Name, please.

Darth Vader: What is this?

Imperial Captain: Security check. Name, please.

Darth Vader: Don’t you know who I am?

Imperial Captain: No, I don’t.

Darth Vader: Look, I’m tall, I’m dressed all in black, I have a black cape and a great big black helmet with a facemask that makes strange breathing noises. Does that give you a clue?

Imperial Captain: Well, you could be Lord Vader. He’s on my list of arrivals for today (taps the clipboard with his forefinger) and I hear he dresses quite like you do. But then again, you might be someone else, mightn’t you?

Darth Vader: Excuse me? Of course I’m Lord Vader.

Imperial Captain: Well, how am I supposed to know that? You think you’re the only person who’s allowed to wear a helmet and a mask covering his face? If it was up to me, I’d make you take it off, but I can’t ask you to do that. Apparently it offends some people’s religious sensitivities. But for all I know you could be a bodybuilder from the West Country, or a superhero who helps children to cross the road safely.

Darth Vader: Do I sound like a bodybuilder from the West Country?

Imperial Captain: No, but that might not be your real voice. Who knows what your voice would sound like if you took that facemask off.

Darth Vader: This is ridiculous.

Imperial Captain: It may seem ridiculous to you, but on the first Death Star they had all sorts of troublemakers running around the station, causing mayhem and releasing prisoners and starting fights. All because nobody did proper security checks on arrival. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to see your ID.

Darth Vader: Very well. (He pulls out a plastic card from inside his left glove, and holds it up so the Imperial Captain can see it. On the card there is photograph of his former self, Anakin Skywalker, before he was horribly burned.)

Imperial Captain: Is this a recent picture?

Darth Vader: Recent enough.

Imperial Captain: Very well, Lord Vader. Your luggage, did you pack it yourself? Did you leave your bags unattended at any point during your journey?

Darth Vader: Do you think a man like me packs his own luggage?

Imperial Captain: Is that a no? Then I’m afraid we’ll have to search your bags before we can let them through.

Darth Vader: How long will that take?

Imperial Captain: You don’t need to wait. We’ll have them delivered to your quarters later today.

Darth Vader: (Sighs) Very well. Just let me get my toiletries out.

Imperial Captain: Toiletries?

Darth Vader: I need my face cream. I suffer from dry skin.

Imperial Captain: Do you have a prescription from your doctor?

Darth Vader: Yes, as a matter of fact I do. (He pulls out a piece of paper from his right glove, and hands it over.)

Imperial Captain: (Looks over the prescription and returns it.) That seems to be in order, but I’ll still need to see the face cream.

[Vader turns around and gestures to a valet, who opens up a wheelie case and removes a clear plastic bag from inside. He brings the bag and its contents over to the Imperial Captain.]

[The Imperial Captain scrutinizes the bag. It contains a toothbrush, some toothpaste, a small bottle of eau de toilette and a roll-on deodorant, in addition to a large pot of cream. The captain opens the bag, takes out the pot of cream and then removes its lid.]

Imperial Captain: This looks safe enough. (Puts the lid back on.) But this is much larger than the maximum permitted size of 50 millilitres.

Darth Vader: I have very dry skin.

Imperial Captain: Okay. I suppose we can make an exception just this once.

Darth Vader: Thank you. I don’t suppose I can complain about you having tight security - not after what happened on the last Death Star - but I really thought the station commandant would be here to greet me in person, and that there’d be some troops lined up and standing to attention.

Imperial Captain: (Chuckles to himself) Oh, really sir? We don’t have time to stand around all day, rolling out the red carpet and giving it all that pomp and circumstance. We’ve got a space station to build, don’t you know…?

Darth Vader: Hmmm… I suppose I can’t argue with that either.

Imperial Captain: (Points to an archway to his rear, covered in flashing lights.) Now if you’ll just walk through the metal detector, sir…

Darth Vader: (Sighs) I’m more than 50 per cent metal.

Imperial Captain: Forgive me saying so, sir, but you look more plastic than metal. That tough kind of plastic they use for stormtrooper armour, except yours is black and theirs is mostly white.

Darth Vader: The plastic is just a clip-on cover, to stop the metal from getting scratched. It’s mostly for show. (Sorrowful) I’m essentially more machine than man.

Imperial Captain: Well, sir… (looks apologetic) rules is rules and… well… the alternative is a strip search…

Hooray for mother Russia! Hooray for my new home in the corrupt and materialistic US of A! What a glorious day; the first day of my new diary and the first day in my new hometown of Baltimore. Ball-ti-more: I love the sound of that name even though it reminds me that Americans always want more with their fancy big SUV cars and their wide elasticated trousers necessary for the eating of the Such-A-Big Mac with the supersized soda. According to our training, Baltimore is near Washington D.C. and not so far from New York, which means I can both do the spying of the American government in the capital and in the Big Apple I can spy on the corrupt Wall Street and also even the United Nations. I very much like my condo, which has the 2,500 square foot and was paid for by the SVR in cash - not credit cards or subprime loans like these degenerate Americans pay with. Thank you my hardworking Russian brothers - I will strive to repay you with the value of my intelligence many times. My condo has all the benefits of modern American life, like the hot running water and also the cold running water. But I need to buy some furniture. The SVR said they will send me money for that shortly. I will be assimilating into the American lifestyle so seamlessly that nobody will suspect I am undercover Russian agent, so tomorrow I will be looking for the place to buy the mom’s apple pie, as my own mother is very far away, in Vladivostock. I am hoping also I will one day get the chance to meet my favorite Hollywood actor, the incomparable Thin Diesel though to my eyes he is not thin but rather the muscular well-built type of man. That reminds me I must join the gymnasium and not just work out but also make the useful contacts there with the towel horseplay whilst in the locker room.

March 15, 2006

I actually found a store called “Mom’s Apple Pie” but when I asked to speak to the mom they looked at me very strange like I don’t know the rear of a horse from its mouth. Then I went to the drug store, expecting to see some degenerate crack heroin dealers, but instead they just sold painkillers and cigarettes and other health products. Whilst I was there, I bought 20 menthol Kools like I know that Thin Diesel smokes. On my way home, I visited my dead letter box. Sadly, there was no money for furniture though I have plenty enough cash to keep me going for a while so long as I am happy with the air mattress on the floor, which is good enough for me but not so good for my cover as no internet entrepreneur can be sleeping on the air mattress. In the dead letter box there was an orientation DVD for my new town. It is called The Wire, seasons one, two and three. I have ordered the pizza to be delivered to quickly help establish myself as a regular ordinary joe to the people who work at the Domino’s and when it arrives I shall sit down and watch my training video using the new Xbox 360 which I bought so I can better understand the lazy decadent sofa potato American lifestyle. For the desert I ordered the Haagen Daz ice cream from the Domino’s to with the remaining slice of the apple pie I bought. The pie is v.v. tasty. There goes the doorbell - that must be my pizza!

March 16, 2006

This The Wire had me very troubled. My word, the SVR have sent me to a dangerous town with the drug dealers, crack hoes and the Stevie Nicks at the city port. I realize now my comrade agents did better with going to Arlingtown and other nicer suburbs. In The Wire the English was so bad I had to watch with the subtitles on to make any kind of sense of what half the people are saying. So bad must be the schools in this country, it makes me wonder how the Americans cannot be learning the English even. They only learn one language and yet even that is too hard for them! This is most unlike my glorious Russia where every child is guaranteed a chance to become a fine engineer making the gas pipelines or a great chess grand champion or the good-looking lady tennis player or the scientist in outer space. Though also it is true the American children sometimes grow up to go into the outer space. And Serene Williams wins a lot of the tennis but what man would want this woman? The poor American men to be faced with so much of the booty, as they call it, on Serene Williams especially but also on many other of these American women. If I was to be with Serene Williams, I would be afraid this woman would sit on me and suffocate me or else would be too eager and would pull my arms out of their sockets during the love-making like the Chewbacca in the Star Wars. No, I much prefer the Russian beautiful women like Kournikova and Sharapova. Yes, these are the women for me though I must forget the Russian women and think of getting myself the American girlfriend, maybe even like Serene Williams if that is what it takes to get the good intelligence. I must lie back and think of mother Russia and not forget my SVR sex training though I was wondering I must have been in the wrong class as I think that the sexual entrapment is better for the blonde long-legged women than it is for the hairy shorter man like me. And I must not forget, that I should go to the National Air and Space museum when I visit to Washington D.C. the first time. They have the rockets there and the spy planes too. Tonight I shall watch Thin Diesel in the Chronicles of Riddick DVD. If they remake the Star Wars, he should be playing Han Solo I think.

March 17, 2006

I saw Thin Diesel even smokes the menthol Kools in the Chronicles of Riddick though this film is made very far in the future. This made me think that the film is really much of a lie about American business. How can this be, that the Kools cigarettes, though very good, should still be sold many thousands of years from now, on planets so far away from here? It makes no sense at all. In the future, all cigarettes will be Russian, I am sure of it. Though I cannot blame the Thin Diesel who despatched his enemies and should be employed to clear up the Hamsterdam in The Wire. Tomorrow I shall go to this Hamsterdam as I have bought a new American car, the Jeep Grand Cherokee, though I understand this is only mid-size and I wanted a big car to fit in inconspicuously with the ‘more, more’ Americans. I could not afford bigger with the allowance that the SVR give me and it is only second hand though it is the limited edition with the leather seats and keyless entry. It is black which is funny as I think the previous owner was black too, not that I am the racist but in this backward country they will never have the female or black leader like we inevitably do in the mother Russia.

March 18, 2006

I shall not mention it to my SVR handlers, but I had what the Americans call the fender-bender in my new Jeep Grand Cherokee. I paid off the man I hit with some few thousand dollars to keep his mouth closed and not tell the cops. He was very upset - it may be because he was standing on the sidewalk at the time I hit him. It is true what they say that these stupid SUVs are dangerous as well as bad for the planet. Only a decadent American would buy one so they can drive on their own and have the big cup holder for the skinny latte.

March 22, 2006

A week has gone by and still the SVR has not sent me the promised money for the furniture in my condo. I do not think the air mattress is very good for my back. My momma told me not to join the SVR spy agency but I did not listen to her, and at times like this I have some sympathy for her misinformed ways in badly the need of the re-education. The SVR have been very good to me and if it takes them another week or two I will gladly suffer the air mattress though also they must send me the money to set up my internet business. I was thinking that perhaps I would do something that I know these horny degenerate American men will like - a bridal service with our fine Russian women. They not only play tennis but make the excellent housewife as well as being equally the match of men in every job and every aspect of society, as all our Russian Premiers have long agreed. I have uploaded the proposal in the photos I took and shared on the Flicker. The proposal is encoded in a photograph I took on the day I went to visiting the Hamsterdam. I was looking for the hamsters, but there were none. Later, I saw the pet shop and stopped and took my photograph with hamster. It is in this photograph I will encode the proposal to run the online Russian wedding bureau service as my cover and then put it on internet where my handlers can download and decode it. I did think about buying the hamster but this is not butch enough for the alpha testosterone American male, so I bought some exotic fish instead. I would have bought the big dog but I thought it would be inconvenient for when I need to go spying.

April 6, 2006

The SVR has finally sent me more money so I can buy furniture and set up the front organization. But they said no to the Russian online bridal service. They said they made already plenty of these online bridal companies before and all that happens is the Russian women get married and then they never hear from the women again instead of getting the sexy pillow talk secrets. That was not the point but it is too difficult to explain to them that I just want to sell the women and not keep the secrets because I will get the secrets with my own training. So now I must do something else. I will set up a business offering the online real estate instead.

April 21, 2006

I think I now know my way around Baltimore. I know the MacDonald’s and the Domino’s and I have signed up with the gym and know the good dry cleaners and have used the bus though that was a little scary when some people who looked like they were from Hamsterdam in The Wire came and sat next to me. The guys at the gym are not very friendly and tend to avoid me when I make the guy talk in the locker room. Perhaps I shall not make such good contacts there after all. I told one guy he had the good muscles like Thin Diesel but he did not even speak back. Maybe he thinks I am the homosexual like they have all over the degenerate USA, unlike Russia where we hardly ever have any of these men who like other men, although we are also completely liberated and a homosexual man is just as free to be leader of our country, unlike this prejudiced and backwards USA.

May 15, 2006

I visited Washington D.C. for the first time, under the cover of making a business trip to obtain some venture capital for my internet start-up. Nobody asked me where I was going or where I was from or why I was there, but my cover story was prepared anyway. I managed to secure myself the very useful tour of the White House where President Dub-ya Bush lives. Even the President of this country needs subtitles so you can understand what he speaks. I secretly filmed the visit though the shooting of the video was often interrupted by the tourists getting in the way and generally being so supersized. Then I went to the National Air and Space Museum and saw the very impressive rockets and spy planes and other military hardwire. I will not report it all to my handler as I am sure he knows about these already but it was good intelligence for me and helps me to understand what the American can achieve if they put their mind to work as much as they need to work their big fat booty. In the evening I went to the quite fancy restaurant but I was worried when the snooty waiter recommended I eat the Chicken Kiev. Stupid American - Kiev is in the Ukraine, not Russia. But I think maybe I worry too much as my American accent is very good and I make use of many American phrases like to make the homer simpson run, shake ya tail feather and bent out of the shape. Then to prove to the waiter I am an ordinary joe I ordered the Beef Stroganov.

August 11, 2006

The SVR has started the demanding of receipts for my expenses. I sent them a Flicker photo of my exotic fish saying that the running of the internet start-up for the real estate is expensive as is the gas for my SUV and my expenses in traveling backwards and forwards to Washington D.C. but I do not think they will listen. Mamma, before they re-educated you, you sometimes were right but I did not say so in case I encouraged your insurrection talk. Now I wish I could be more like the Thin Diesel Triple-X who snowboards down the avalanche to be the spy, but I do not see how this will help me find out anything of useful, not that they let me buy snowboard now despite my taking lessons to fit in with the people and make some useful contacts. Actually, the fitting in with the eating fat food in this country is making me feel overweight. I need more exercise but I am not going back to that gym since there was another confusion with the man in the locker room with the big muscles who thinks I am hitting on him.

October 3, 2006

Dear Diary, forgive that I neglected you this last week. I drove up to New York but left you behind. They call New York the Big Apple and I can see why because it the materialistic corrupt American society is rotten and riddled with worms right through to the core. To give example, the Statue of Liberty does not welcome the huddled masses but was closed. There was no wall on Wall Street and no village in East Village. However, I did see the musical Rent and learned more about the inevitable consequences of America’s self-gratifying decadence and its inevitable consequences.

April 7, 2007

As the Americans say, the time sure flies! It is over a year since I came to America and I have infiltrated every layer of society. I have been to the baseball games and eaten the hot dog and the corn dog and the chilli dog. Sadly, my weight loss program is not going well and I look less like Thin Diesel and more like Fat Diesel every day. Being an internet entrepreneur I do not have many opportunities to meet possible contacts face-to-face, but I do meet them at the face-to-book, which is a very useful network for the spy who also likes to talk about the important cultural issues. My Facebook friend Pedro says that Thin Diesel is no longer ‘in’ and that his movies suck and he should never get a part if they remade the Star Wars. Perhaps he is right but I still think David Hasselhoff would be perfect for the role of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

July 7, 2007

These iPhones are brilliant devices. You can use them to record messages, take film, take pictures, and send all sorts of data over the web. I was showing one to my buddies down at the golf club. It is a shame that there is nothing really practical I can think to use it for, but it makes for a great toy to impress my pals. My interior designer friend came around and said he did not much like my drapes and that they were badly out of fashion. Sadly, I do not think I will get money for new drapes though I try to explain to my handler that all Americans redesign their apartment at least once a year. At least, this is what my interior designer friend says.

November 20, 2007

My handler will be so pleased with me today! I got some really great intelligence that will surely be more than worth the time I have spent to get this deep undercover into American society. Pedro introduced me to an internet friend of his that likes to remain anonymous, and he only ever calls himself the ‘grassy knoll-man’ which is some kind of reference to the events in 1963 when Our ‘Enry Cooper knocked Muhammed Ali out cold though the evidence has almost all been covered up since. Grassy knoll-man says the Dubya Bush deliberately was in league with the Saudis over the Florida recounts. His arguments were pretty long and hard to follow, but I summarized it and wrote it up in my notebook, which I left in the dead letter box.

November 21, 2007

Someone brushed past me on my way out of Wal-Mart today. When I got home, there was a note in my jacket pocket. It read in Russian: “no more of the stupid internet conspiracy stories, please”.

June 11, 2008

It was disappointing that we never succeeded with the IPO of the internet real estate business, but today we finally closed the deal and sold it to Facebook for an undisclosed sum. An undisclosed sum of two million dollars! That is not bad, since the only sales that were made on the site were from comrade SVR agents, looking for somewhere with a bit more room for the kids or a pool in the backyard.

June 12, 2008

My SVR handler has demanded I pay over all money I made from selling my internet real estate business. He said I am not in US to play at being businessman and that I have cost the Russian state far more than two million dollars with all the internet advertising I bought for my phony company. Mamma, you were right. What little gratitude I get for my long years of suffering and hard work infiltrating the materialistic and mechanical American society, which is v.v. like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz, except it has a rusted, broken heart.

August 28, 2008

A man at the Wal-Mart asked me: “do the pelicans fly south for the winter?” I responded, as I was trained to, with the response phrase “no, but the burritos taste like tostadas if you use enough tabasco.” Then he looked at me like I was completely mad. It turns out that it was not I that was mad, he was the man who was completely mad, and not a good comrade like I first thought. It was very lucky for me that he was mad. If he had not been so mad, he might have blown my cover. Instead, he went back to searching for food in the trash, like the typical poor ordinary working American this country turned its back on. I was so upset. All I could think to do was to go home and plan a whole new look for my apartment to get my mind off it. Then I ordered Chinese to be delivered. Tomorrow I can look forward to the release of Thin Diesel’s new film, Babylon A.D.

August 29, 2008

I drove to the multiplex and saw Thin Diesel in his new movie, Babylon A.D. which was very disappointing. He looks no more muscly and, more important, the film shows the Russia of the future as full of mobsters, whilst New York is safe and nice. I think Diesel must have been completely corrupted by the materialistic society that surrounds him in un-holy-wood. The only good thing was that there was a deal where you get an extra large popcorn and soda free when you ordered tortillas.

November 27, 2008

Congratulations are in order to President-elect Obama, and congratulations are in order to me. I found out that Obama was the original owner of my worn out old Jeep Grand Cherokee. Now I can auction it for a profit, but I will be sure not to let those cheapskates at the SVR find out about the money I make. I have made so many sacrifices in the name of the mother country. I even put on weight like Robert The Nero did when playing the title role in The Rage in Bill. For me, putting on weight to look more American is the proof of my dedication to mother Russia, but my handler says I am a fat lard-ass that needs to shape up. Forget him. I shall celebrate by ordering some take out and treating myself to a new pair of pants tomorrow.

February 14, 2009

Momma, what sacrifices I have made for my homeland. This country is no good for meeting women and it is so expensive to take these American women on dates. They eat so much! They expect me to be muscly! The internet dating is not going well. In Russia I would be surrounded by wonderful blond tennis-playing graduates. But in this country I am too poor to attract the good-looking women. Momma, I wish I had listened to you… you were right that the SVR are no good as employers and I will regret working for them. I shall show them the power of intelligence. When I am finished in this country, I will bury this diary where nobody will find it. That will show them there are some secrets they will never never never uncover.

February 15, 2009

It seems the SVR have been monitoring me with a hidden camera in my pen. They have been reading my diary entries all these years. Forgive me brother SVR comrades, for my rash words. You are truly heroes of the Russian Republic and without… wait… (scribble)… is my pen running out? I think it must…

February 16, 2009

I drove out of state and bought the cheapest pencil I could find. Now let the SVR try to spy on my secret diary. For all the complaining they do that I do not spy enough, you would think they would spy on somebody other than me. But I should have been smarter. I should have written this diary in invisible ink. Of course, writing in invisible ink is so hard. I mean, you cannot see what you are writing, which makes the writing very scribbly and difficult to read afterwards.

August 12, 2009

There was something of a breakthrough today. One of the guys at the golf club knows a guy who knows a guy who is assistant secretary of defense. There will be rendezvous - he will make up a fourth for our game next week.

August 19, 2009

It turns out the guy was the assistant secretary of defense for health affairs. I wanted to know about gulf war syndrome but he would only talk about ingrown toenails and the alarming prevalence of genital herpes amongst American troops. Still, I will report this information to base, as it may be useful.

June 26, 2010

I could not believe it. Four years I am deep undercover and as I close in a breakthrough, my handler tells me to come home. My American girlfriend’s niece is friends with the brother of the weekend sous chef at the White House. This is my big chance. At last I can find out how Obama likes his eggs, and much more besides. But my handler says I have had my chance and the rotten SVR will not pay my bills for elasticated trousers and Thin Diesel DVDs any more. I am so deep undercover that nobody would ever know I even came from Russia, never mind that I am working to reveal the truth that lies hidden under the USA’s rotten underbelly. But I am not going to go home. I will show them…

June 27, 2010

Dear Diary, I am going to change my identity once again, and nobody will ever know that I, Mikhail Rostov, who once changed his name to Bobby Darren, was not only a deep undercover agent, but that I subsequently went on the run from the SVR and changed my name again, to Darren Roberts. I have dug up the stash of cash I kept back from selling the real estate company and have my fake passports too, just in case. All the techno gizmos and shortwave radios, I will leave them behind. But wait, who is this coming up the driveway? Men in suits and dark glasses, carrying guns. Would you believe my luck?!? They must have found out I understated the earnings on my tax return…

Eric: Hell-ooohhh? MaV-Eric, what are you up to?

MaV-Eric: I’m designing a portable refrigeration unit powered by solar cells.

Eric: That’s brilliant! For use in Africa, right? So doctors can keep their medicines cool.

MaV-Eric: I was thinking more of picnickers at Glyndebourne and places like that. [Grabs a working model to demonstrate.] Look - this unit is exactly the right shape and volume to take a 500ml tub of Häagen-Dazs. And this one is for a magnum…

Eric: …looks a bit big for a choc-ice on a stick…

MaV-Eric: … of champagne, you silly.

Eric: Well, that’s great. Do you have any orders?

MaV-Eric: No. I need some seed capital to make some more prototypes first.

Eric: Well don’t look at me. Actually, I came up here because I was hoping you’d start giving me some money for a change.

MaV-Eric: Oh, it’s like that, is it? First you bring me into this cruel world, then you lock me in the attic like some demented relative you’re ashamed of, then you throw me out to fend for myself.

Eric: I’m not throwing you out. I want you to come back and pay rent.

MaV-Eric: Alright. But I’ve spent my entire life stuck in this loft, isolated from the outside world, with no practical experience of how to do anything, no sense of priorities and spending my days making up peculiar fantasies that bear no relationship to truth or reality. What kind of business needs people like me?

Eric: Advertising.

MaV-Eric: Great! When do I start?

I was heartened by MaV-Eric’s enthusiasm, and immediately called my old school chum Brendan ‘Nosey’ Parker, who is the sleeping partner in a successful market research firm based in central London. Parker said he was glad to help, but first MaV-Eric would have to be interviewed by his very-wide-awake partner, a Ms. Claire Z. Perkins…

[MaV-Eric bursts into the pristine reception of Perkins and Parker, out of breath and looking dishevelled.]

MaV-Eric: I’m so sorry that I’m late. My train was delayed.

Receptionist: May I help you, sir? Do you have an appointment?

MaV-Eric: Erm, yes [straightens himself up] My name’s MaV-Eric. I’m here to see Mrs. Perkins.

Receptionist: [Flicks through her notes] Yes, you are late, aren’t you? Your interview was scheduled three hours ago. And it’s Ms. Perkins, not Mrs. Perkins.

MaV-Eric: Oh, I can explain. I was on a very long train.

Receptionist: That makes no sense. Why should the train be delayed by three hours just because it is long?

MaV-Eric: Because it was the wrong train. The train I wanted was much shorter.

Receptionist: [Sneering] And something tells me you’ve had a wasted journey. [She gestures at the comfy chairs in the reception area.] Take a seat.

MaV-Eric: Where?

Receptionist: I beg your pardon?

MaV-Eric: Where should I take it?

Receptionist: Nowhere. It was a figure of speech. Now, if you don’t mind, please stand in the corner, facing the wall, and try not to make any noise.

[MaV-Eric does exactly as he is told, standing silently in the corner.]

[Claire Perkins walks in, wearing a crisp white blouse, dark skirt and knee-length leather boots. She is carrying a large envelope.]

Perkins: Stacey, have this Fed Ex’d to Hong Kong [she hands the envelope to the receptionist and turns to leave...]

Receiptionist: Your 11.30 has finally arrived [points at MaV-Eric].

Perkins: [Walks over to MaV-Eric] We didn’t think you’d show. Come with me.

[Perkins briskly walks away, taking long, confident strides in her boots. MaV-Eric hurries to catch-up. They walk across an open plan office which is strangely empty, towards a glass-walled committee room at the far end. In the room, a dozen twenty- and thirty-somethings sit patiently and quietly, dressed in casual designer wear. Behind Perkins' back, MaV-Eric opens his mouth as if to speak...]

Perkins: [Lifts her hand alongside the side of her face, as if it signal stop. Without breaking stride or turning around she says...] No talk. Just sit at the back and be a good boy whilst we have this meeting. But pay attention because I’ll ask you questions later. I want to test your attention span.

[She arrives at the committee room door, and turns to grab the handle and face back towards MaV-Eric.]

Perkins: I can’t abide people who can’t concentrate. Understand?

[MaV-Eric nods. She holds the door open and he scurries through, looking for a chair at the back of the room. Perkins stands at the front of the room and takes charge.]

Perkins: Well, I suppose we’ve all been pretty complacent since we won the Tesco Value Highland Spring Water contract. Me included. But we can’t go on resting on our laurels. Have you seen this report? Let me read from it:

“Since the invention of the telephone, an alert or ‘ring‐back’ tone has been played to the calling party when calls are placed. This continues while the caller waits for the call to be answered. The typical sound of a ring‐back tone is a staccato or steady tone, letting the caller know that the call is being connected. During this time the caller is typically alert and silent waiting for the call to be answered. In fact, it is arguably one of the few times in our modern and hectic lives when we provide our undivided attention to one task. A ring‐back tone (“RBT”) is idle time with a captive audience (the inbound caller), and since the early 2000’s has been repurposed by many mobile operators for music and other kinds of audio entertainment content. Marketing and advertising messages can be distributed through RBT and the first several of these ‘Ad‐RBT’ services launched in 2008 in North America, Europe, and Asia. Ad‐RBT represents one of the most compelling and scalable new media platforms in recent history.”

[Perkins slams the report down on the end of the committee table.]

Perkins: So what do you all have to say about that?

Fattish black bloke wearing a khaki cardigan near the front: We’re very sorry.

Perkins: Good answer. So you should be. I pay you people to find new ways to ensure advertising is crammed into every waking moment of the lives of every living person, whether they like it or not. And for not one, but two years we’ve been sleepwalking whilst our competitors pipe adverts to people whilst they wait to book a table for dinner, when they call to make a dentist’s appointment, even whilst they wait to complain about the poor quality of their phone service. Millions of hours of captive advertising time, and we’ve not been exploiting it! We’re behind, people. We’re behind and I don’t want to be behind. [She points at her bottom.] I want to be ahead. [She points at her head]. Ideas should come from here [points at her head] and not from here [points at her bottom]. So give me ideas and give me them fast. I’m looking to you - my creative team - to generate some modest proposals. We need new ways to fill people’s lives with more advertising. [Clicks her fingers impatiently.] Come on!

Fattish bloke: Advertising messages cut into thin strips so it can be stuck and seen on the staircases of public buildings.

Perkins: Been done before.

Mousy woman: Billboards that rotate so that you get three messages instead of just one.

Perkins: Old hat.

Fattish bloke: Paint the underbellies of passenger jets.

Perkins: You need to look up once in a while. Another idea that’s been done already.

Tall nerd: Solar powered advertising on the side of street bins. We give them to the council for free but keep the rights to change the ads…

Perkins: [Angry] Don’t you watch Dragon’s Den?

[There is a long silence as the junior execs look around at each other and are unable to think of what to say.]

Perkins: You’re all pathetic. All bottom feeders. Or bottom talkers. One or the other [sighs]. Hey, you at the back [points at MaV-Eric]. Are you paying attention? Are you listening to the drivel these nincompoops are coming out with?

MaV-Eric: Yes, yes I am. May I make some suggestions?

Perkins: [Laughs] Why not? I don’t see how you could do any worse.

MaV-Eric: String in alphabetti spaghetti.

Perkins: Excuse me?

MaV-Eric: Put edible string in alphabetti spaghetti. String the letters together in a specific order. That way they can be used to spell out messages like “drink Coke” or “eat at Subway”.

Perkins: Hmmm… interesting.

MaV-Eric: Glow in the dark messages on clothes people wear at nightclubs. When they go out dancing, the UV light will reveal the advertising messages on the backs of their shirts and jackets.

Perkins: You might be on to something.

MaV-Eric: Adverts on ice lolly sticks. Instead of some terrible old joke, give a recommendation for some sweets or a toy that kids might like.

Perkins: Go on.

MaV-Eric: Sponsored hotel ceilings.

Perkins: Sorry?

MaV-Eric: So when you wake, the first thing you see is the advertising message on the ceiling.

Perkins: I like it.

MaV-Eric: Sponsored pillow cases.

Perkins: In case you sleep face down.

MaV-Eric: Exactly.

Perkins: What else?

MaV-Eric: The automated voices that tell you the name of the next stop on public transport - also have them say: “this message was brought to you by…” at the end.

Perkins: That might work.

MaV-Eric: Wine glasses in restaurants. When you finish your drink, you discover the advert written in the bottom of the glass. Something like: “why not order another bottle?” or “you’re drunk, better call this number for a cab to take you home”.

Perkins: That would work.

MaV-Eric: Sponsored Blackpool Rock. Instead of reading ‘Blackpool’ it reads ‘Eat at Nando’s’ instead. Anyone who buys the rock gets the price reimbursed when they order a meal from Nando’s.

Perkins: Niche, but I like it.

MaV-Eric: School uniforms. Just like football shirts, they should boast a sponsor.

Perkins: That’s a potentially huge market.

MaV-Eric: Genetically modified butterflies. Change the wing markings to carry logos, like the golden arches of McDonald’s or the Nike swoosh.

Perkins: I could imagine it might be a while before we’ve perfected that technique, but like you say, some big businesses might be interested in investing in that idea. Do go on.

MaV-Eric: Pizza toppings. Get a five percent discount from Domino’s if you let them arrange the pepperoni to spell out the name of a TV show you might want to watch whilst eating your pizza.

Perkins: I like the way that reverses the cross-marketing flow.

MaV-Eric: Condoms.

Perkins: Excuse me?

MaV-Eric: You only get to read the message when they’ve been unrolled, so to speak.

Perkins: You’d need to keep the message short, just in case.

MaV-Eric: Pre-trained budgerigars. They come cheaper from the pet shop because they’re already trained to repeat ten advertising slogans.

Perkins: Talking birds - an idea that definitely has some potential. Anything else?

MaV-Eric: Just one more idea: tattoos.

Perkins: Oh, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. People will tend to cover up and then you would never see the marketing message, unless you tattooed the message on somebody’s face, and some might find that off-putting…

MaV-Eric: No, you don’t understand. I meant tattooing the inside of people’s eyelids so they see the advert whenever they close their eyes.

Perkins: I think we can safely say that you’ve got the job.

That was how, thanks to MaV-Eric and his genius for advertising, my money worries were all solved. Though I must admit I find that the tattoos on my eyelids get quite itchy…

Jazz resounds
As Mr. Marsalis and his crew pours wine into my ears
Is it red? white? or blue?
Both hot and cool

Keys unlocked
Sharp, not flat
Arranged anarchy
Melodious insanity

Jazz abounds
Notes without end
Improvisation’s bending of imagination
To spontaneous combustion

Poetry as sounds
Jazz can’t get enough

“Do you expect me to talk?”

“No Mr. Bond, I expect you to die!“

And here is that scene again, from the classic Bond movie Goldfinger…

Bond baddies have a penchant for exotic and overly complicated ways of killing people. When they capture Bond, the baddies then turn their backs, close their eyes and count to one hundred to see if Bond escapes… which he invariably does. However, the most recent Bond movies, starring Daniel Craig, are sadly lacking baddies with the same imaginative flair for exterminating the only secret agent who needs no introduction. In Quantum of Solace, the evil Dominic Greene tries to kill bond with an axe. An axe?!? How pathetic. If I was Bond’s nemesis, I would aim to finish him off with a real sense of over-the-top style. Here is my top five of bizarre Bond butchery that neverwas but shouldvebeen.

5. Bondue Fondue

This is much like the Goldfinger laser beam scenario, except Bond is strapped to an enormous block of Red Leicester which is being slowly fed into a giant mechanized grater. Just to be on the safe side, whatever makes it out the other side is melted down and eaten with some nice fresh bread.

4. Card Sharp

I face Bond across the Baccarat table. The croupier deals the cards and as he does, I shout ‘Hey Bond, look at that sexy bird behind you!’ Bond is not fooled but it does not matter anyway. I grab the mechanized card shuffler and fire a stream of razor thin, diamond tipped cards straight at his chest. Ironically, his heart is punctured not by the Jack of Hearts, but by the Seven of Clubs, which proves to be non-lethal. As Bond is pulling the card out and trying to regain his composure, I beat him to death with seven juggling clubs purloined from the circus act appearing in the casino’s stage show.

3. A Brake from the Norm

Bond and I are driving side by side, at speed, down a winding Swiss mountain road. The front passenger side wheel of my car contains a flamethrower, which is of no use as Bond’s car proves to be fireproof. Luckily, I told the garage mechanic to tamper with Bond’s brakes when he took his Aston Martin in for its MOT earlier that day. Unluckily, the mechanic was a double agent and he tampered with mine whilst I was waiting for my MOT. Unfazed by my inability to stop, I just crash into the hillside and let my air bags save me. Bond parks up and checks to see if I am alive. As he walks towards me, my henchman leaps out of his pre-arranged hiding place and steals Bond’s car. Flummoxed, Bond runs after him, losing his footing on a patch of black ice, causing him to slide right off the mountainside. As he falls, Bond saves himself from a sheer drop by grabbing hold of some shrubs whose weak roots are barely strong enough to bear his weight. I open the boot of my car and pull out my pet albino goat, which obediently climbs down and eats the shrubs, causing Bond to fall to his death.

2. Spicy Peparami

According to the adverts, the hottest version of this salted pork sausage snack product is considered to be hot enough that anyone eating it would agree that it tastes quite hot. To fool Bond, I first offer him the spicy Peparami, then a cooling glass of water. The ice cubes in the water have been made with a deadly toxin at their core. As they melt the poison is subtly released, making the odour and taste of the poison difficult to detect. Of course, Bond will still detect the poison with his exceedingly well-trained nose, which is why this plan is a double-bluff. The real aim is to wait until Bond sticks his hooter in the glass and starts sniffing around, and when he is thoroughly distracted doing that, I pull out a gun and shoot him.

1. Never Say Die

In this scenario, I live a virtuous life and never break the law. I never drop litter and I attend church on Sundays. Frustrated, there is nothing Bond can do to stop me spending my days in such dull pursuits that the Archbishop of Canterbury seems like a lascivious smackhead in comparison. Forty years go by and Bond dies of old age and boredom. Hah! Let him try to escape that fate…

Emails will often be printed and filed, and therefore close attention must be paid to layout. Again, treating the construction of an email just as you would a ‘real’ letter is the most effective approach.

Okay. The subtext seems to be not to bother backing up your hard drive. Instead, just devote a wing of your mansion to a library of print-outs of all those one line emails containing links to YouTube videos of cats falling off TVs. But the real question is, when filing your printed emails, should the leather binder be green or red?

So, forget Debrett’s. They are stuck in a timewarp when people needed to know if they should hit their manservant with the back of their hand or with their walking cane. Where else can we turn? There is one obvious answer: the internet. Stop! They let anyone on the internet. And the internet hosts elitists that make the people who write Debrett’s books look like hippy-hugging commies, except the internet elitists think good protocol means knowing your TCP from your IP. Take a look at some of the advice someone at the Internet Engineering Task Force came up with on a wet Wednesday afternoon whilst their modem was busy downloading the latest data on matter-antimatter asymmetry from CERN:

In the past, the population of people using the Internet had “grown up” with the Internet, were technically minded, and understood the nature of the transport and the protocols. Today, the community of Internet users includes people who are new to the environment. These “Newbies” are unfamiliar with the culture and don’t need to know about transport and protocols.

Hmmm… so there was a point in time when there was nobody new on the internet, was there? That must have been one heck of a change freeze. “Please sir, I’d like to use the internet” “No son, you can’t. It’s full and there won’t be room for anyone new to use it until Spring 1993 at earliest.”

Perhaps the newbies could have told the old fogies of the internet one or two things about other kinds of protocol. For example there is the language convention that says a “newbie” is not a proper name and should not start with a capital letter, or the one that says written language should not contain contractions like “don’t”.

But it is an understatement to say the self-appointed sages of the IETF were poor at predicting the future of propriety. Here are some examples…

Respect the copyright on material that you reproduce. Almost every country has copyright laws.

And every country has millions of people who think those laws are a joke and break them every day.

Never send chain letters via electronic mail. Chain letters are forbidden on the Internet. Your network privileges will be revoked.

Another rule that was completely missed by its intended audience.

Remember that people with whom you communicate are located across the globe. If you send a message to which you want an immediate response, the person receiving it might be at home asleep when it arrives. Give them a chance to wake up, come to work, and login before assuming the mail didn’t arrive or that they don’t care.

And some of those people may not even be Americans and they may not even speak English, which rather dents the usefulness of this Californian clot’s list of internet conventions.

Verify all addresses before initiating long or personal discourse. It’s also a good practice to include the word “Long” in the subject header so the recipient knows the message will take time to read and respond to. Over 100 lines is considered “long”.

Another stipulation that did not catch on. And 100 lines is not considered long by me. For me, 100 lines is considered “brief”. That is because I have more to tell people than my thoughts on what is polite use of the internet. Except for right now, obviously.

It is extremely bad form to simply reply to a message by including all the previous message: edit out all the irrelevant material.

Hah. This could only be written by someone who never had to reply to one of my 10,000 line blockbusters.

Since the Internet spans the globe, remember that Information Services might reflect culture and life-style markedly different from your own community. Materials you find offensive may originate in a geography which finds them acceptable. Keep an open mind.

Like how I should keep an open mind when some American tries to dictate what is good manners on the internet.

If a user is using a nickname alias or pseudonym, respect that user’s desire for anonymity.

Tell that to the Chinese government - a good example of a culture unwilling to toe the American line.

Don’t point to other sites without asking first.

Darn! I pointed to this IETF guide before I read it.

Any time you engage in One-to-Many communications, all the rules for mail should also apply. After all, communicating with many people via one mail message or post is quite analogous to communicating with one person with the exception of possibly offending a great many more people than in one-to-one communication. Therefore, it’s quite important to know as much as you can about the audience of your message.

I should get to know the whole world. Nice idea. Difficult in practice.

Don’t badger other users for personal information such as sex, age, or location. After you have built an acquaintance with another user, these questions may be more appropriate, but many people hesitate to give this information to people with whom they are not familiar.

True, but not everyone…

Author’s Address

Sally Hambridge
Intel Corporation
2880 Northwestern Parkway
SC3-15
Santa Clara, CA 95052

Phone: 408-765-2931
Fax: 408-765-3679
EMail: sallyh@ludwig.sc.intel.com

Those were the days… nobody would send you spam because you could rely on everyone to follow the rule that said

Don’t send large amounts of unsolicited information to people.

But enough of pulling apart poor Sally’s guidelines for the Newbies of the ‘Net. Here are five top 21st Century etiquette questions not addressed by Debrett’s, Hambridge, or anyone else that I know of (except they probably have, but who put them in charge?)

1. How To Sign Off an Instant Message Chat With Someone Who Does Not Know When to Stop

You know the scenario. You have chatted away for thirty minutes but your RSI is flaring up and you really really need a pee. So you want to stop but the other person keeps on going…

X: Thanks for the chat, bye.

Y: We need to catch up about that thing. When is good for you?

X: Anytime. Laters.

Y: Cool. Wasn’t Derek impressive giving that presentation?

X: Sure. Got to go.

Y: Yup, see you later. Do you have a copy of Derek’s presentation you can send me?

X: Don’t think so. Sorry. Adios.

Y: It’s been so cool catching up. We should do drinks sometime soon.

X: Yeah, totally. Ciao.

Y: How about tomorrow night?

So by now you have wet your pants and there is no end in sight. What should you do? Is the answer:

(A) Just stop typing. You can always pretend your PC crashed if challenged about it.

(B) Write something shockingly offensive. With luck that will mean one less bozo to annoy you in future.

(C) Call your interlocutor. Chances are he or she is scared of talking on the telephone and they will hang up as soon as possible.

2. What to Do When Your Mobile Phone Battery Dies During a Call

Your loved one is fed up with you because you were once again working late. You are stuck at the platform trying to work out which train is least delayed so you can answer when you will be home for dinner… but before you do, the phone goes dead. That means your better half is bound to assume you just hung up and they will be in a really foul mood when you do eventually make it back. Do you…

(A) Keep pressing your mobile phone’s ‘on’ button in the hope you will have enough juice to text the word “sorry”.

(B) Rummage through your small change and hope there is a payphone within five miles of where you are.

(C) Decide to go down the pub. You might as well take advantage of the fact that the evening will not be interrupted by calls asking where you are.

3. The Blog Comment as Personal Message

Your blog is really popular and gets comments from all sorts of people you do not know. To keep the spam under control, you monitor all comments before they are published. A new comment comes in from someone new. It is not really a comment, but is more of a personal message where the person tells you about themselves and why you should get in touch. How do you respond?

(A) Approve the comment and then post your own comment slagging off anyone who is too stupid or lazy to use the email form in the ‘contact me’ page you went to all that trouble to make.

(B) Reject the comment and do not reply. Whoever it is, he or she must be an idiot.

(C) You have another fan!! Write them a personal email and give them your home phone number too.

4. Dealing With RSS Scoundrels

Your really popular blog is really really popular. It is so popular that some rascal is syndicating your RSS feed and milking your clever content for his own profit. How do you deal with him?

(A) Let him be. It means more people get to enjoy reading your inspiring words.

(B) Switch off the RSS feed. It is yours and nobody can use it without your permission.

(C) Write a script that floods your RSS feed with unfettered and incessant swearing. That will really burn the guy who tried to take advantage of your brilliant material. Sure, it might offend some regular readers, but then again, it will teach them a lesson for not visiting the site properly so they can hit all those click-through ads for matchmaking sites and spread betting.

5. Internet Forum Multi-Answers

You sign up for this great new discussion forum where everyone thinks like you and shares your passions. Then, as always, you realize the forum is full of imbeciles who think the opposite of you and have the world upside-down and back-to-front. You need to straighten them out by showing them the error of their ways. But there are so many different forum users who you need to educate. Should you…

(A) Write a string of posts that individually deal with each and every goof, gaffe and piece of garbage, thus instantly propelling yourself to being the forum’s top poster.

(B) Pick a fight with just the one real idiot so all the other idiots will see how wise you are and start to worship your wisdom.

(C) Post one enormous reply, citing every mistake made by everyone else… and not forgetting to put the word “Long” in the subject heading.

After a few days at the Eagle House, I made my way back to Britain. I was facing a deadline to grow up and become a chartered accountant. Life is funny like that, not that being a chartered accountant is the least bit funny. Lucinda later returned to Canada. As Lucinda was an early adopter of the joys of the internet, it was easy to keep in touch, and some years later I made the journey to visit her in British Columbia. Though only the second time we met in person, I had already grown accustomed to thinking of Lucinda as an old and dear friend. That was also the last time I saw Lucinda.

Time never relents. Lucinda has since married and become a mother, though time and distance have never stopped Lucinda featuring in my life. We exchange emails with lamentably infrequency, but on those few occasions when we do put fingers to keyboards, only the greatest of Victorian letter-writers ever sent correspondence of comparable length. In defiance of the trend that spells everything beginning with ‘e’, Lucinda does receive e-less mail from me once a year. In fact, I got the idea for a festive missive by shamelessly copying Lucinda’s, right down to the way she folded the paper. I must admit that the words I write each Christmas are not uniquely for her. They are shared with an audience almost as large as reads this website, not that the printers would consider my Christmas letter to be a bulk job. Neither of us uses the telephone often enough, but we know each other’s number. Her name also sits on the roll call of my Skype contacts, meaning Lucinda’s voice and image is a tantalizing instant away, if I press the right button and the winds of the internet blow favourably. Skype’s perpetual potential for immediacy is muted by hyper-polite restraint. The ease of throwing yourself into the midst of someone else’s life means that if everyone did it all the time, you would soon find yourself participating in multiple conference calls daily. Freud would have understood our admirable self-control. Our superegos have adapted to the information age. Yet they adapt too well - leading to the paradoxical result that Lucinda and I never Skype each other at all, and I would hardly dare to do so. I also share with Lucinda that uniquely modern second-generation, second-degree version of friendship that is only enabled by the so-called social network. Despite many reasons to do so, neither of us have deleted our Facebook accounts (yet). The phenomenon of Facebook friendship is motivated by intelligence gathering in a free market at least as much by the human need to interact. That is why they make it so easy - and end up making it superficial. But put aside the shenanigans and chagrin of modern commercialism. Whatever the format or gateway, however enabled or why, though we are far apart, Lucinda is my friend.

Are there mathematical and physical forces that help to explain this friendship from afar? Though spread over many miles and years, a friendship need not be based on proximity any more. Language flows at the speed of light; electrons fizz down wires. Though seemingly instantaneous, at 300,000 km/s, that leaves Lucinda’s voice no less than three hundredths of a second away from me, which is tolerable but less than truly instant. Add sundry milliseconds for intervening CPU’s, and the delay when talking might even be noticeable, if we speak too quickly.

It is possible to postulate other, hidden, numbers that prescribe modern friendship. Might it be that I can have a friend anywhere, but that there are only ever a fixed number of friendships in the world? That might mean my making a new friend in Prague causes somebody in Beijing to lose touch with their pal in Cancun. This would help explain the modern trend where we know people on the far side of the planet, but are ignorant of our neighbours. Maybe the mathematics is a little more subtle, and the sum total of friendship embraces quality as well as quantity. Suppose then that ten Facebook friends are worth one regular guest for dinner or a couple of drinking buddies. If that is so, an explosion of social networking might preface the collapse of deep and meaningful friendship, with everyone’s amity spread thin like marmite across a thick piece of toast. That might be to some people’s taste, but not to everyone’s.

Maybe the physics of friendship lies deeper still. Electrons and photons may be deployed to keep us in touch through the wonders of modern communications, but perhaps friendship involves a subtle quantum leap. Scientists believe that pairs of sub-atomic particles can become entangled, so that they remain connected no matter how far they are separated. Because of the connection, to look and learn about one entangled particle is to learn about the current state of the other, wherever it may be. Sub-atomic particles are more mysterious than an Alfred Hitchcock adaptation of Agatha Christie, but the entanglement guarantees that unraveling the secrets of one is to simultaneously resolve the state of its sibling. Einstein called this the “spukhafte Fernwirkung”, or spooky action at a distance. What if, on a humid Thai evening, there was a literal spark between Lucinda and me? Perchance an entangled electron took umbrage with the electrical resistance of skin, and was emboldened by the large volumes of Mekhong whisky drunk that night. The air itself, laden with moisture, was charged with the duty of aiding the electron’s journey. Said electron galvanized itself for a mighty jump, and so conducted itself between the two of us. The electron’s entangled brother was left behind, moribund in its host epidermis. If the spark did fly, then I would share an invisible bond with Lucinda, thinner than gossamer but stronger than steel, instantaneous and absolute, wherever we go.

Einstein derided the idea of the spooky connection; he thought all would be explained by factors that were as yet unknown. Whatever the truth, science has not yet determined the mechanics of friendship. Maybe the hidden variables will one day be calculated. The equations may involve dividing the billions of neurons in a brain with data from millions of users of the internet. For now, I am glad that the foundations of friendship remain ineffable, at least to my humble knowledge. Digging them up will not strengthen them. Belief in friendship’s solidity is what makes friendship so enduring, even when stretched half way round the world. These properties make friendship our most valuable resource.

Happy birthday to my friend, Lucinda.

The transitory nature of our modern lives is epitomized in the high church of transit: the airport. It is a place where all your needs are catered for, so long as you only need to shop, eat or use the loo. This place serves the human need to be somewhere else. But do they have to do such a good job in making you want to escape the airport’s confines as rapidly as possible, even though you have no control over the time taken for the ‘minor repairs’ needed by your plane? This church’s eternally refreshing congregation most commonly pursues the worship of the sun, or the worship of the dollar. The airport offers nothing for the soul that the passenger has not brought with them. Most of all, the airport is the place where human relations are most minimalist and utilitarian in nature. There are few friends to be made in this congregation. It is an intersection, and the greatest recognition you can give a fellow traveller is to avoid bumping into them as your paths criss-cross, or to assume your proper place in line instead of cutting ahead. Needless to say, these mediocre hopes are too often dashed by the inevitable dregs of abundant humanity. Even when arriving at your destination, the airport is typically a lonely place. Contrary to the schmaltz found in some movies, few of us are greeted by a happy smiling face and a hug as we make our exit. Being met by a friend would always be the premium class way to end a journey. A man holding up a sign with your name written on it is the business class finale. For most of us, the reward on arrival is to look for those signs that point towards the ill-understood public transport options, and to try to determine the cheapest way into town.

When flying, the principal mode of transport is not flying. It is queuing, so long as you measure the journey in terms of time, not distance. Airports love nothing better than to have everyone queue, in order to maximize the efficiency of their service – which they measure by cost, not quality. No better example comes to mind than the one I went through today, mid-way through writing this post. Arriving at Heathrow Terminal 1 for a connecting flight at Terminal 3, I was obliged to join the back of yet another enormous queue to scan passengers (though I find it hard to believe that somewhere in the airspace between Portugal and Britain I became significantly more dangerous). As I joined the queue, three ladies, seemingly employed to manage the queue, loudly discussed the need to open another one of the scanning machines. Hmmm. They pay people to debate whether expensive machines should be left idle. What an excellent way to anger both shareholders and customers alike.

Saying that, the misery of air travel is not caused solely by bad management. You do not need to be much of a student of the airline business to realize many carriers have gone bankrupt over the years. The only people oblivious to this are striking airline employees, convinced that a broken business model is best fixed by taking a hammer to the few pieces that seemed intact. Losses cannot be turned into profits through the magic of giving staff better pay and conditions. I would be very happy for staff to have better pay and conditions, if I ever felt better treated than BSE-infected cattle, or if a basic level hospitality did not require a seat that costs four times the economy price. The worst example of comically atrocious service I endured came on a flight where the cabin crew decided customers would best enjoy their meal if its remains were left to visibly rot in front of passengers for several hours longer than necessary. With just minutes left of the flight, the cabin crew started to haphazardly collect the offending waste. They did this in such a flurry and confusion that for no particularly obvious reason, mine was left to last. The pilot, doing his job at normal, had long since instructed passengers to belt up and put their seatbacks and trays in the upright position. Fair enough, if I could. But when one of the dim-witted stewardesses reinforced the message, telling me pointedly about my failure to comply with the pilot’s instructions, I was left with no alternative but to point out her rather remarkable failure to do her job as a waitress of the skies. Perhaps the airlines should take a tip from the more static restaurant business, and pay their staff minimum wages whilst encouraging customers to pay tips to make up the shortfall. Doubtless the silly stewardess is amongst the thousands who voted to go on strike. Twenty years of ash clouds loom darkly over British Airway’s future. What joy for their rivals if BA staff can push their employer over the brink of destruction, lessening the competition they face. After all, Britain is one country that is both so highly indebted and so laissez faire in economic culture that a state bail-out cannot be assumed. If the death of BA means an improved probability of flying on an airline that neither needs nor wants to employ bolshy cabin staff, I too would celebrate their demise.

With all the queuing that takes place in the church of transit, human nature dictates that some people tend to over-queue. Training can sometimes be too successful. If your seat is allocated, then why rush to be first in line to be first to board your passenger pigeon? For the longest time I considered an eagerness to board quickly as the product of a mental aberration. Whatever time a person boards, the plane takes off and lands at the same time for all. More recently I have realized the foolishness of my thinking. I was thinking I was such a clever chap, because I travel light and only carry cabin baggage (which saves me from the extraordinary tedium of watching innumerable cases circling the luggage merry-go-round, only to eventually conclude that mine is not amongst them). Yes, I like to think I am clever by travelling light. But when I get to my seat, time and again there is no overhead luggage space remotely nearby. So my precious laptop gets whisked away, placed near someone who might be capable of lying when asked ‘did you pack this bag yourself?’ The surfeit of luggage of all types rather makes me wonder just how much stuff is needless carried around the world. People, when it comes time to travel, please learn to buy smaller tubes of toothpaste.

In the church of transit, nobody knows who you are, but they fear what you might do. This places a lot of emphasis on security - the check for the raw materials of trouble-making. Ask what is in the bags. Scan the bags. Look in the bags. Shoes off. Belt off. Anything in your pockets? A beep and please stand to one side so we can check your person. What is this? A spectacles case you say. And this? A laser pointer. Please open it up so we can see what is inside. You do not know how to open it up? Okay, we had better break the thing by trying to open it up. For all its annoyances, it is hard to argue with the reasons for a security check. What is less obvious is the need for the repeat check. Or for the occasional repeat of the repeat check. Am I alone in thinking that multiple luggage checks are a reason to doubt security rather than be reassured by it? Much the same can be said about verifying the passenger’s identity and that they have a valid ticket. On one occasion at Heathrow Airport, an airport so popular that you would hope their was ample opportunity to learn how to be efficient, I was asked to show my passport and boarding pass three times within the space of ten minutes. On the third occasion, I was sat in the short-term concentration camp now deployed at so many airports to hold the waiting-to-board as opposed to those merely waiting-to-waiting-to-board. As the camp commandants had supposedly limited access to those with the requisite travel documentation, it was galling to then find two people in official uniform, wandering around the passenger pen, asking for exactly the same documents. The two of them, a man and a lady, meandered. They followed no pattern that I could discern, and were oblivious to whom had checked whom already. After a short while, the inevitable happened, and the male half of this wandering pair of passport examiners shambled up to a passenger who had been reviewed by the female half only one minute earlier. The passenger, a polite and elderly fellow, explained he had had his passport checked already, to which the response was a courteous apology. And there you have it: the incompetence and inefficacy of security. Should we expect that, having craftily circumvented not one but two checks already, a hardened criminal, confronted with this last ditch tripwire that might catch him out, will lack the ingenuity to simply say: “don’t look at my passport, the woman’s already done me”?

Flying aboard the passenger pigeon is as close as many of us come to paying for a taste of hell. It is an investment in hope; that the misery of the present moment can lead to the increased happiness of the future. The similarities between the airplane cabin and hell are many in number. To begin with, we tend to imagine hell as a place that is either too hot or too cold. Airplanes are invariably too cold or too hot, and certainly not kept at a temperature with any association to origin or destination. So no choice of travel wear will ever be right for flying. We also imagine hell to be crammed full of forlorn souls. How often do you spend time in a place more crammed than the typical economy cabin? The clincher for me comes from philosophy. Sartre wrote that ‘hell is others’. He may have been thinking of a long haul flight stocked with babies that cry all night, or a low budget excursion dominated by terrifying, braying mobs of drunken merrymakers.

When I got to my seat in the final of the three flights I took today, I feared the worst. The cabin looked virtually empty, but I had still been allocated a window seat next to a stranger. As someone prepared to obey the rules, I do not mind sitting in my seat. What I mind is that everybody else gets to lie down in a row of four seats and luxuriate in an unusual level of comfort, all because the fellow sat next to me is too slow to move when we are allowed to unbuckle belts. And slow he was. The fellow, a South African named Steve, instead engaged me in a tremendous and unexpectedly diverse conversation that ranged from the construction industry to South African economics to how Steve uses the internet to lobby for improved fire safety. Fascinating stuff. The blues have melted way as I traverse a starlit sky; my passenger pigeon is nearing home. Perhaps I will ask one of those long-legged elegant women of Qatar Airways for another drink, and flirt a little when I do.