The Eschaton III

If there is one thing I get no queries about whatsoever, it’s my time as a deckhand on an airship. Which is a shame, as I would say it was possibly my favourite job of all.

This, you see, was no ordinary airship, but the Eschaton. You may be too young to remember the campaign of terror waged by the misanthropic Captain Finisterra against the civilised world. Indeed, in those pre-9/11 days (or 11/9 as we say in Britain), Captain Finisterra was a name that could make grown men weep at its mere mention. Particularly in the sentence “Captain Finisterra will be playing a medley of Country and Western music.” Ha ha just my little joke.

Those were the days – looting, plundering, mindless destruction. The Captain was never entirely clear why we were intent on destroying society, but his enthusiasm was so contagious that you couldn’t help but join in. I suspect he largely got into it at the insistence of his father. Indeed, I rather got the feeling that he was trying to live up to his father’s legacy – he seemed almost disappointed that he wasn’t able to die in the flaming wreckage of his airship as his father had. The fact that he kept his father’s skeleton in his office probably didn’t help things.

The ship I served aboard was technically the Eschaton III (the Eschaton II being the airship upon which the first Captain Finisterra was killed). However, as there was never more than one Eschaton in service at one time, this wasn’t really a distinction that we worried too much about. Of course, it was really 9/11 that finished Finisterra off as a supervillain. He was quite elderly at that point, in any case, and had been thinking about retiring for some time. But the September 11th attacks really seemed to hit him. “It’s not the same, Mr Bannister,” he lamented. “Where’s the style? Where’s the effort? Any idiot can hijack a plane. I mean, I could hijack planes if I wanted to. It would be a lot easier than maintaining a highly-advanced giant airship in a secret Arctic hangar with an army of henchmen. Maybe I should. Maybe I’ve just been wasting my immense fortune and genius intellect all these years! Maybe I should just go and live in a sodding cave in Afghanistan!”

In the chaos following the World Trade Centre attack and the subsequent War on Terror (which was no more successful than the War on Fear or the War on A Vague Sense of Unease), Finisterra announced his resignation from the supervillain business. It went largely unnoticed, which I think was the saddest part of all. He shut down the reactor on the Eschaton IV, sheeted it up and locked it in its hangar for good, only bringing it out for occasional charity events.

Even though I had long since left Finisterra’s service (the pay was appalling), I couldn’t help feeling a sense of sadness for the old sky pirate. It can’t be easy to be usurped as the world’s most feared man. There was also that sense that we had come to the end of an era – the gentleman supervillain’s days were well and truly over. Underhanded techniques such as hijacking and suicide bombings are now the preferred method of striking at society’s core. They may be more efficient, but they’re hardly sporting.

Still, there may be hope yet. I recently received a letter telling me that the Captain’s grandson, Jimmy, has taken up his mantle as the new Finisterra and is even now constructing an orbital weapons platform capable of annihilating whole cities with a single blast of its particle beam. Its name, Jimmy tells me, will be the Eschaton V. And I don’t mind admitting there was a tear in my eye when he told me that.

Grrr!

I’m not normally much of a one for “keeping tabs” on the contemporary music scene, I’d be the first to admit. But the recent excitement over the question of who will be Christmas Number One this year, and who correspondingly will be known as “Christmas Number Two,” has piqued my interest.

This is partly because I myself have released a Christmas single entitled ‘Let’s Rejoice – A Child Is Born Whose Purpose Is To Die Painfully In Thirty Years’ Time (In Order To Fulfil Some Arbitrary Criteria For God’s Forgiveness).’ Sales, it’s fair to say, have been disappointing. Apparently it’s the religious angle that puts people off.

Anyway, I had become resigned to the fact that I would probably not be the Christmas Number One this year, but nor would I be known as Number Two, so things could be worse. I was musing over this in the lounge of the Mephistopheles Club (from which this ’blog takes its name) last night when, by coincidence, I spotted Sir Baddun Meanleigh-Fiendish.

Sir Baddun is known in the club as something of an ignoramus, but he rarely steps over the boundaries of good taste and so is tolerated. He is also an executive with Sony. He started out working for the British Red Cross and then Great Ormond Street Hospital, but was sacked on both occasions due to the sheer evil of his name, and so resolved only to do evil from then on. This raises interesting questions about Nature versus Nurture which are outside the scope of this entry.

He was seated in his armchair when he was discreetly approached by Stives, butler at the club. I overheard the conversation thus.

STIVES: Sir, I felt you should be informed – the Christmas Number One this year is confirmed to be Rage Against the Machine’s ‘Killing in the Name.’

SIR BADDUN: What! But we had that Ksf… Zff… Kss-f…

STIVES: X-Factor?

SIR BADDUN: Oh, that’s how it’s pronounced. Yes, we had the X-Factor boy – Joe McWhatsisface – down to take the slot this year! He had that song, you know, the one that has the words in it. I think it’s about love.

STIVES: ‘The Climb,’ I think you mean, sir. A cover of a song by Miley Cyrus, the current darling of Walt Disney Records.

SIR BADDUN: Ha, yes. A cover of a song that was already about as commercial as it was possible to be. A work of genius. It shall go down in history. But… I don’t understand why someone else has been allowed to get to Number One.

STIVES: I understand there has been an online campaign to prevent Master McElderry’s song from taking the lead.

SIR BADDUN: Is this like that “Richard Rolling” thing that’s so popular?

STIVES: “Rickrolling,” I believe, sir. I don’t believe it is, no.

SIR BADDUN: Oh. By the way, would you like to watch this video of my holiday?

STIVES: (with an audible sigh) Very good sir. (Pause) Oh, goodness, it’s Mr Astley.

SIR BADDUN: Ha! I Richard-Rolled you!

STIVES: Goodness me, I have been “zinged” indeed.

SIR BADDUN: But returning to the matter in hand – how did this campaign come about? I thought we controlled the media!

STIVES: Yes, sir. This is an example of an interesting modern-day phenomenon. The Internet allows mass communication without the intervention of the media and its related interests. It creates a sort of democracy of opinion where anybody, regardless of real-world influence, may express and publicise a view. If said view piques the interest of the public then it will likely go far.

SIR BADDUN: This is monstrous! So the runaway success of the X-Factor, the transparent manipulation, the blatant editing, the 24/7 publicity, was in the end all for nothing?

STIVES: So it would appear. Indeed, the essence of the campaign was to give voice to those who resent the X-Factor’s dominance of the Christmas charts over the past four years. By extension, they dislike what they see as real talent achieved by hard work and originality being pushed aside in favour of quick-fix bland, unchallenging, safe, commercial pop. They feel the record companies need to be taken down a peg or two.

SIR BADDUN: Why isn’t Simon Cowell doing anything about this?

STIVES: Again, because there are those who find him fundamentally unlikeable. A churl who bullies and harangues those with less power than him, secure in the knowledge that they cannot fight back and if they do, they will be removed in the editing suite. They do not even think his insults are particularly good, and point out that he was put up to his “mean” act by Max Clifford. They feel, on the whole, that his prestige is unwarranted.

SIR BADDUN: Is it true that his first company was based in a converted toilet in a Soho car park?

STIVES: Indeed so. A recent poll conducted by members of this club suggested that most people here believe he should be knocked down and have scorpions thrown at him.

SIR BADDUN: This is terrible – terrible! What will become of us record companies if we can’t control public opinion any more?

STIVES: I do not think you need fear at present, sir.

SIR BADDUN: We are beyond fear, Stives! Don’t you see? Rage Against the Machine have beaten Joe Thingummy!

STIVES: Yes, sir. But both are, ultimately, signed to Sony. Indeed, this campaign has encouraged purchases from Sony by people who would otherwise not have bought anything at all. That is to say, Sony has turned more than twice the profit they would have done had this campaign not existed. Sir, you have won either way.

SIR BADDUN: By gad, you’re right! Stives, fetch me a gold-plated whore – tonight I celebrate!

However, I can give you the example of my dear niece Matilda, who managed to attain A* grades across the board. This sort of thing is typically lamented by the newspapers as evidence that examinations are being “dumbed down” (I would suggest that people who think “dumb” is a verb are in no position to criticise). Nonetheless, in Matilda’s case, it was well-deserved.

You see, young Matilda had found a way to “play the system,” as it were. The clue lay in the fact that what she was sitting were “mock exams.” She simply entered the first exam, wrote “I will not be mocked” on the paper, and left the room. As it transpires, she is the first student in history to spot the inherent insult and thus showed herself far above the level of GCSEs.

She is in her first year of A-Level now, and is currently trying to find out who the head of the exam board is in order to secretly endanger and then ostentatiously save their life. I predict a bright future for that girl.

But it is possible to take this sort of thing too far. There is a difference between a jape at one’s expense and malicious gossip. Such is this Sarah Palin business. You’ve no doubt heard the suggestion, picked up by various pundits who shall not be named, that Ms Palin is in fact my illegitimate daughter.

NOT MINE.

I do not need to tell you that this is a ridiculous notion. It’s true that I made a business trip to Sandpoint, Idaho in 1963, which would certainly put me in the right place at the right time. It’s true also that I have never fully disclosed my reasons for being there, nor what happened. But to assume that I was fathering the future governor of Alaska is, frankly, an insane notion. It’s a rumour that reflects badly on both of us. In her case, it tarnishes her image among her highly conservative supporters. In mine, it makes me look genetically inferior.

It is the damage to her image that bothers me more – my reputation would be hard to damage any further, but she’s a respectable politician. A little dim, perhaps, and maybe something of a hypocrite, arguably reliant on style over substance, but nonetheless – also ill-informed, ignorant and self-serving – but nonetheless, not deserving of such innuendo.

Kindly cease spreading this gross libel forthwith.

So when a knife-wielding dwarf in a tribal mask showed up atop my wardrobe, it took me a little while to work out what he was doing there.

“Meester Bannister,” he said in what I think was meant to be a Mexican accent, “I have come to keel you.”

This was no laughing matter. If every sitcom ever made is to be believed, dwarfs exist in a state of permanently murderous fury. They are the hornets of the human world. However, if every cheap comedy film ever made is to be believed, they can also be thrown about like rag dolls. I tried to formulate a strategy.

“Meester Bannister, if you theenk I am one of those comedy dwarfs, you are very much meestaken,” he said. “Also, I prefer the term ‘little person,’ but that’s irrelevant right now.”

He leapt down with his knife in hand and advanced on me. I had to think quickly. If this were a comedy film, I would no doubt be able to lock him in a suitcase or some such. Unfortunately, real life is rarely so obliging. A new tack would need to be taken.

“Is that a steel knife?” I asked.

“The finest,” said the dwarf.

“Then we may have a problem. You see, I’ve been taking a pinch of steel filings in my food every day for the past twenty years, and as a result have built up an immunity to the metal.”

The dwarf lowered the knife. “Sir, your preparedness does you credit. I am well and truly thwarted. But nonetheless, I have been hired to keel you, and I cannot return the money I have been paid. I used it to pay for the knife, and I lost the receipt for that.”

“How much were you paid?”

“Five pounds, sir.”

“Here you go. And I’ll give you another two if you tell me who sent you.”

“Sir, I cannot. Eet would be against the assassins’ code… but I do have a family to support, so I weel breach the code thees once. You see, I am not a bad man.”

“I would have thought that killing people would ipso facto make you a bad man.”

“No, I don’t theenk so. Very well, I weel take one extra pound and geev you a hint. If I were to say the name ‘Mirabel,’ would that perhaps be a clue?”

“Mirabel!” I was shocked. I had thought my ex-wife long dead, so her reappearance was something of a surprise, and not a pleasant one. I tried to press the dwarf to tell me more, but he refused to disclose further.

The matter having been as close to amicably resolved as it ever would be, we shared a glass of brandy. The dwarf’s name was Alphonse, and he showed me some photos of his family. His wife recently gave birth to the most adorable little chap. I decided to give Alphonse the extra pound anyway before he went on his way.

One thing bothers me about the whole affair still, and that’s the price. Five pounds for a human life? I would have thought I’d be worth at least ten. Still, I suppose we are in a recession.

In this capacity, while covering the filming of Myra Breckinridge for the Daily Clarion, I found myself conducting a fascinating interview. I was approached by a diminutive gentleman who claimed to have “the scoop of the century” for me. I won’t identify the gentleman in question, but suffice it to say that he is rather well-known in Hollywood.

The source, who wishes to remain anonymous.

We met in a dingy bar downtown, and my source, whom I shall simply call “DD” for now, asked me to take a seat.

“That mouse,” he said, settling into an armchair. “That fuckin’ mouse had a mean streak a mile long.”

 “Which mouse?” I asked.

“How many mice are there callin’ the shots in Hollywood? Mickey Mouse, that mouse.”

“I see,” I said, at once realising the potential this story had.

“Yeah, that guy. That… fuckin’ guy.” DD chuckled. “Listen, you know how he’s supposed to be all, like, wholesome and shit?”

“I do,” I replied.

“You think he got to the top of the pile by bein’ sweet, playin’ the straight man to me and Goofy? Bullshit! I mean, Christ, who do you know who actually likes Mickey Mouse cartoons?” I confessed to having difficulty recalling any such person. “Exactly!” boomed DD. “Nobody likes him because he’s fuckin’ boring! The only reason he’s on top is because he fights dirty. You ever hear of Horace Horsecollar?”

“Remind me.”

Horace Horsecollar

“Okay, Horace appears in a load of cartoons in the Thirties and Forties. Then suddenly, bam! Vanishes off the face of the Disney lot. You wanna know why?”

“Yes please.”

“Well, turns out he was gonna get a whole series of cartoon shorts. I saw the scripts, they were goddamn hilarious. Man, those’d been made, it’d be Horace’s head on the Disneyland signs. And Mickey knew that too. Unfortunately for Horace, he’d taken somewhat of an interest in left-wing politics back in the Thirties. Now, in the Thirties that was fine. But late Forties, early Fifties? Big no-no. So what does Mickey do? He goes up to Disney, he says, ‘Hey, Walt, I think Horace is a Commie.’ For all Disney liked to think he was in charge, that damn mouse had him whipped. So he sends a letter to Horace tellin’ him the project’s scrapped.

“Horace didn’t take it too well. I mean, who would? He’d not been gettin’ so much work recently and he thought the shorts were his ticket to the top. He hit the bottle pretty bad. Died in… ’68 I think it was. Poor schmuck.”

“Indeed.”

“And Goofy, well… I mean, you couldn’t meet a nicer guy. I mean, he was real sweet, and his stuff was funny as hell. I mean, he wrote most of his own material, and he wasn’t afraid to improvise neither. And if you had an idea, he’d always take it on board. I don’t use the word ‘genius’ often, but Goofy’s one of ’em. Problem is, he likes to please everyone. He’s real timid. I reckon that’s why he’s so funny, you know? To make people like him.”

“Did Mickey take advantage of that?” I asked.

DD flicked some ash off his cigar. “Did he ever! Okay, first he tried to get him kicked out altogether, like he did with Horace. Spread some rumours that he was queer.”

“Did it work?”

“Not really. That might play in Washington, but this was Hollywood. You kick one guy out for wranglin’ ass, you got to kick them all out. They’d already got rid of all the Reds, once you got rid of the fags as well, all you’d have left in Hollywood is John Wayne and Ronald Reagan. And a coupla queers here and there wasn’t a big deal even then. Not that anyone believed it about Goofy, o’course, but he wasn’t gonna confront Mickey about it. Too damn nice.”

“And Goofy continued to work.”

“Hell yeah. He was worth too much to Disney to be sacked. But Mickey had other ways of gettin’ at him. You know Pluto?”

“The dog?”

“No, the planet. Yes, the fucking dog. Now, you ever wonder why you got Goofy, who wears clothes and votes and stuff, and you got Pluto, who Mickey drags around on a lead? Two dogs, wildly different intelligence levels? That ever strike you as weird?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, think about that in our terms. Basically, Pluto was the cartoon character equivalent of a retard. Mickey used to show up with him just to try to get a rise out of Goofy. He’d be all, like, ‘Oh, hey, Goofy, my dog’s pissin’ up against a fire hydrant, do all your people do that?’ and ‘Hey, Goofy, my dog’s humpin’ the mailman’s leg, is that what you get off on?’”

“I take  it Goofy was upset?”

“Oh hell yeah. Give ’im a coupla drinks and he’ll tell you about it.”

“Did Mickey ever try anything with you?”

“Nah. Well, he did, once. Came into my trailer one time, no invite or nothing, starts drinkin’ my bourbon, sittin’ on my chair, says he wants to talk to me. I told him to fuck off. He says I’m makin’ a big mistake, tells me he’s a bad enemy to have.”

“What did you do then?”

“I knocked him flat on his ass and threw him out. Physically threw him. He didn’t fuck with me after that.”

“Weren’t you scared of the consequences?”

“Hell no. I did a shitload of propaganda films in World War II, so he couldn’t call me a Commie. And I ain’t queer either. And Mickey might be the big star, but people actually come and see my cartoons. Even Disney wasn’t gonna sack me.”

“I’m curious as to why he was in so few cartoons after the 1940s.”

“Because he was so fuckin’ dull, that’s why. Okay, lesson you need to learn if you’re gonna stay at the top in showbiz. You need critics. You need a person there to say, ‘No, that’s a stupid idea’ or ‘No, you should do it like this.’ Mickey wouldn’t have that. If a writer or a director asked him to do something he didn’t want to, they’d be fired before they finished their sentence.

“Thing is, though, Mickey had this fixation on bein’ the hero. And he thought the way to be the hero was to never be seen to do anything negative ever. He couldn’t be shown as bein’ mean or angry or playin’ tricks or nothin’. Got to the point where you couldn’t do anything with him. Me an’ Goofy got all the good gags. Mickey complained, but whenever anyone said, ‘Oh hey, maybe you should try being less nice,’ he wouldn’t listen.

“Anyway, eventually he decides he’s had enough and pretty much quits acting. Sticks on the business side of things.”

“Not the most pleasant of fellows, all in all.”

“You’re tellin’ me, man.”

“Do you think there was any particular reason why he was so unpleasant?”

“Probably because he was fuckin’ his sister.” I expressed surprise. “Oh, come on,” said DD. “They look exactly the same, they’re dating but they’re not married even after, like, seventy years, and they have the same last name. I thought everyone knew that.”

“I didn’t.”

“Christ.”

“What about you and Daisy, though?”

 “Duck is her stage name. Real name’s Simierski.”

“But you look rather alike.”

“What, you sayin’ all ducks look the same to you? Gimme a break.”

I decided at this stage that I had all I needed and wrapped the interview up there and then. I was due to send it off to the Clarion when I head a knock on my hotel room door. I opened up and was surprised to see three anthropomorphic dogs in cloth caps and masks who warned me that if I published, the consequences would be “not very nice.” The following day, I discovered that my car had been vandalised. Had Mickey heard about the interview? Maybe the Disney Corporation had stepped in themselves. All I know is that I was subject over the following weeks to a campaign of intimidation by a variety of cartoon animals until I agreed not to run the story. And I kept to my word. Until now. Maybe I’m putting myself in peril by publishing this, or maybe Mickey has long since forgotten. I don’t particularly care either way – hang the consequences, the truth must out.

If you have any more dirt on Mickey, email edwinbannister@hotmail.com.

Hubbard

While I would be hard-pressed to say that we hit it off right away, I found him for the most part to be agreeable company, possessed of a certain charm. His work ethic in those days could hardly be faulted. I suspect this to be at least partially down to his impoverished upbringing (described in the poem ‘Old Mother Hubbard’), which gave him a powerful sense of the value of money.

Indeed, it was while discussing the subject of money with Hubbard that he introduced me to his “new science of the mind,” the so-called “Dianetics.” I was inquiring as to the whereabouts of my wallet and walking stick, when he very suddenly explained that he had developed a new concept that would change the world. I listened politely, waiting for a point at which I could interrupt and press the wallet issue. At length he finished and asked me what I thought.

I told him that I thought the theory was interesting, but had flaws (you must remember that he had not yet completed the book at this stage). Most notably, he did not seem to have properly developed the concept of “thetans,” which he described as being “highly collectable.” He seemed to grow agitated at my criticism and called me a “god-damned English faggot” before belabouring me with my own walking stick. This, it is fair to say, was something of a test of our friendship and we lost contact soon after.

I heard no more from him for some years, when I received a call in the middle of the night. “Edwin,” said L. Ron (for it was he), “you’re the only one I can trust.”

“With what?” I asked. “And by the way, I was just wondering if you’d had time to look for my wall-”

“The bastards are out to get me, Edwin,” he interrupted. “Some journalist son-of-a-bitch has leaked the Xenu story!”

“Oh,” I said. “I meet so many people called Xenu, remind me of it.”

“You know, the story about how thetans came to be, with the atom bombs and the volcanoes and shit. You know, the big secret!”

I just feel there are better ways of keeping a secret.

“I didn’t realise that was a secret, old boy. I mean, the volcano is rather on the front cover of Dianetics.“

“No it’s not!” he snapped. “Why would you tell a lie like that?”

“I’m not lying, Ronald, there is a volcano on the cover of this copy of the book that you sold me.”

“You’re as dishonest as a Chinaman,” snarled Hubbard. “I’ll sue that bastard journalist!”

“Really? Don’t you think that’s a bad idea?”

“Why? I’ll destroy him! I’ll eat his testicles! I’ll –”

“Yes, but Ronald, nobody likes a litigator, particularly not a wealthy one. If he wins, he looks like a bully. If he loses, everyone laughs. Aside from that, what are you going to sue this journalist chappie for? I mean, if this Xenu story of yours is a secret, you’ll give the game away if you sue him. You’ll lose money, Ronald. Money.”

“God damn you, you God-damned English faggot!”

I took this as a prompt to continue. “But you see, Ronald, what you accuse them of will surely make the truth of the matter public. If you sue him for libel, then you’re effectively saying that you have no such story, which in turn you will have to demonstrate in court. If you sue him for, I don’t know, copyright theft, then you prove that you do have such a story, and your secret is out.”

“Well, I’ll sue him for copyright theft, because it is true!”

“What? No, look, Ronald, I think you’ve got this all wrong. And I’d like to make the additional point that any legal action you take will propel this journalist’s claims into the limelight. Honestly, you’re making a real hash of this. I suggest you simply drop the matter and wait for it to blow over.”

There was a rhythmic thumping sound at this point.

“Ronald, are you beating the telephone?”

“Take that, you English faggot!”

“Ronald, look, it’s very late. Take my advice and sleep on it.”

Anyway, he didn’t, and now everyone knows the Xenu thing. I’d say he was a bloody idiot, but made a fortune out of that stuff anyway, so more fool me.

You know, if Hubbard can do it, maybe I can as well. I think I’m going to start my own religion. It shall be called “Awesometastics” and there will be one commandment: “Thou Shalt Not Be Beastly To Other People.” I think that covers everything. I shall keep you updated on this.

EDIT: I would like to say that all of this entry is a lie. I am a compulsive liar and nothing in the above should be taken as truth. I am not being coerced in any way, and Tom Cruise is not behind me with a gun. I would like to say that I am THEY’VE GOT ME HOSTAGE SEND HELP IMMEDI

If you can verify this strange tale, please feel free to do so at edwinbannister@hotmail.com. In the interests of not getting anyone sued, I suppose we’d better assume this is all fiction.

A recent and not altogether flattering photograph.

Good evening. My name is Edwin Bannister. It is fair to say, if you do not keep an eye on the gutter press, that you may require some refreshment as to my identity. I was born in Clerkenwell into abject poverty, but thanks to a combination of my native wit, hard work and a couple of well-timed deaths was able to claw my way into respectability. Turned down by Eton, Harrow and Rugby, my destiny was Greencoates School for the Sons of Gentlemen. There followed the formative years of my life as I was shapen from a rude and rough-edged young roustabout into a fine, upstanding gentleman. I was well-trained in all aspects of academia. Between Latin, History and Esoteric Sexual Practices, I developed a lively interest in the Arts which was to stand me in good stead in later life.

Thereafter followed a period at St Sethyn’s College in Oxford, an old-fashioned institution run by what I assume to be monks. I didn’t get around to asking in the first term and was too embarrassed to do so later on. You know how it is. Unfortunately, I was caught paying tribute to Plato with a local sous-chef and found myself summarily ejected from the college. However, I had the last laugh, as some years later I burnt the place down while drunk har har.

Upon hearing of my shame, my grandfather disowned me. Fortunately it was too late to change his will, and following his unexpected death a couple of days later I came into my inheritance. I cannot imagine what would possess a man to shoot himself through the head six times, dispose of the revolver and then bury himself in a shallow grave in Epping Forest, but such are the mysteries of life.

Inconsolable, I left the country at once and went travelling across the globe. At this point a certain amount of memory seems to be missing. Over the following years, I sampled a number of trades. Soldier of fortune, merchant seaman, explorer, music teacher – there was nobody I wouldn’t seduce and then rob. At some point I also did some work. I have a feeling I might have fathered some children, though I could not say for sure.

These days, I divide my time between the low establishments of London’s fashionable West End and my club, the Mephisto.

Over the years I have, I flatter myself, seen a little something of life. Few, I dare say, have greater experience of men and mischief than myself. This ‘blog was started with the intention of passing on some of the benefits of that experience. I hope to discourse on matters of style, philosophy, politics and the events of the day.

To assist communication in these impersonal times, the club’s incomparable servant Stives has set up an e mail address for me, which may be reached at mephistolounge@hotmail.com. I am not clear how your post might reach me, but I am told it is the In Thing.

Enough of this babble, I have surely detained you long enough. Be sure to return!

Stives, how does one publish this infernal thing?