* note, this post has been made possible by the invention of some new words.
Stav Danaos was reading the weather today. Reading. Not telling. He’s a bit proprietorial about it all isn’t he? Perhaps he takes his job title, weather forecaster, a bit too liderally*. It doesn’t come from a magic well into which only he can see, you know. For my part I prefer the pagaillique* approach of the ITV-casters, with the exception, obviously, of that woman who rides the donkey as a route to fame – she who posits herself as a specialist forecaster of weather at horse racing venues. Her colleagues though, are good because the know that they’re common and act like the weather’s something that has just happened to them. Which, of course, it has. It may sound harsh to put it that way, but I’m allowed, I was once a trainee pig-iron trader.
I’m sorry that I haven’t been around for a while. I have been finding it tough dealing with success. I am beginning to see that I liked my old life in which I failed every day. It fitted me like a threadbare coat, but this one … do you know the worst thing about it? Finding yourself mixing with other successful people. Like Eggo, who now promotes himself as my new best friend. Johnny Carver, the talking egg, who through his one ability, that of being able to bullshit ceaselessly, has bought a stud farm out of a part of his growing fortune. Whether he likes me more now because I’m perceived as a success too, or because I have funds to put into his hedge fund, is difficult to discern. But it won’t remain unsolved for long, because he is semi-retarded. And I will say this for myself at least, I like them even less now that I’m one of them; as much as he has flattered me by endorsing my apocalyptic views of the market, I find myself far more determined to out him, than find common ground. Perhaps I should become a whether-forecaster?
From a solid core of work, recent weeks have seen a meteoric rise in fortunes and profile. There has been no exponential increase because there is not more of me – in case any Covey-scientist copywriters are listening.
Dog’s Bowl are flying high, and most recently came the invitation to write The Diary for The Spectator, in which I called out Boris Johnson on his having plagiarised my chain gangs of criminals to pick up litter idea. To illustrate the point, I talked about the times, long ago, when I was a neglected and untrained pig-iron trader, how, to pass the time, I would write letters to the editors of national newspapers to take on an awkward point close to the nub of the national conversation. It saw me write three letters to the Daily Telegraph, none of which were published, but which in every case were followed by a Boris Johnson column delving into exactly the same subject in a similar way the following week. One has to be careful about judging the zeitgeist, since it doesn’t take much to be perceived as just an another idiot from the mob shouting at the government. And then …, it’s all very well slagging him off, but to accuse him of nicking the very ideas for which he is vilified? If I was to unite a band of followers behind the misanthropy-lite banner, I needed to reveal a few more shades, so, just for good measure, I embellished the piece with a short note on Richard Osman’s new teenage essay masquerading as a novel, and one on Phillip Schofield who had been announced as a winner of an LGBT award this week – the milksop’s milksop? I wondered.
I counsel myself to be careful because I am the son of a man with a narcissistic personality disorder, and I am DNAstically* inclined towards being too pleased with myself for successes that have been merely visited upon me. Little Stav Danaos tempers the daytime excesses, and as night dawns, I find comfort in the odd notion that imperfect facsimiles of he who went before – those of us with invisible cracks in the carapace, can be sent as far down by the light that permeates those cracks, as they spend up, imperceptive to opprobrium. For I know that as night follows day, the clear eyed joy of attainment will be followed by the reflected shame of the lonely hours, and the vista of a far away horizon, will change with regretful analysis to a spot in the dead centre of viscera.
I keep returning to that dark spot in my midst and imagine that it will grow into something that is all consuming. For now, Big Tooth’s writ is the kernel around which the cancer grows. I know that they are correct in bringing the action, but before the vacuum draw of pig iron, I trained as a lawyer, and besides having no aptitude or interest in the subject, to my credit I do happen to own a disrespect for it which borders on despotic sedition. As new weather comes in through Wemmick’s portholes, I find that I’ve packed the dread prospect of litigation away with the notion that rather than take them on at the law, I’ll defend myself with its opposite: I’ll make up new evidence. You can say what you want about jurisprudence, but a good lie always beats a bad truth. Whatismore* (*albeit a favourite phrase of the Marquess of Carabas, himself a prolific correspondent with The Telegraph back in the day) when I’m in court, I’ll wear a suit, bring forth a false witness from one of my new found successful acquaintances, and I’ll pretend to be religious by swearing on the bible. That’s how you make the weather.