Sinister: The horror! The horror!

[Ruvi Simmons]

"The king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
'O what will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine?'...

...Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,
It's fiftie fadom deip,
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi the Scots lords at his feet."
                                                 - The Ballad of Sir Patrick
Spens.

I believe that was the poem to which Mr. Murdoch referred, and very lovely
it is too - a perfect ballad. So much so, in fact, that I hesitate to think
of how I can adequately follow it with my own humble (hum-drum?) words. A
poem of some 300 year vintage, written by that mysterious Anonymous, that
amorphous hand of the common man, or perhaps the everyman. Or perhaps some
poems are just born bastard children of the earth; nobody knows how they got
here, or who they originated from, they materialise and endure as if by
magic.

Mistah Pinefox ("he dead") mentioned something about Douglas Hurd's jumpers.
It reminded me of a bit from The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov.
Not where the cat rips the master of ceremonies's head off, though. I shan't
go any further. If I did then this e-mail would contain more quotations than
my own words, and that would be a prospect to horrible to accept. The idea
that I'm becoming nothing more than someone who would do well on Mastermind,
win the cut glass tureen, shake Magnus's withered hand (would I be cruel and
try to crush it with my youthful, vice-like grip?), and shuffle back to a
bedsit in Pinner to eat baked beans and feed an army of mangy cats is really
quite disturbing.

Not that I want to incite an argument, but I thought I'd say a few words
about voter apathy. Perhaps it could be a nice kind of argument, where
people become indignant with smiles on their faces, and pass custard creams
around after having attacked somebody else's point of view. Nevertheless, I
must say that the idea of voting being an intrinsic expression of freedom is
a complete fallacy. Universal suffrage may once have symbolised the zenith
of liberte, egalite and fraternite, but its meaning has changed. Politics
and politicians have always devoted themselves to representing the interests
of the voting public. It doesn't matter whether those with the vote are a
percentage of 5 or 100. As it is now, the major political parties are
nothing more than a hotch-potch of uninspired demagogues who will do
anything if they think it will gain them votes. They reflect complacent,
smug apathy far more than anything else, and are more responsible for
maintaining the status quo, perpetuating prejudice, than any other group of
people. To vote in an election is to give tacit consent to everything they
stand for, which is anti-ideology, self-interest and manipulation. Except
for Michael Portillo, of course. He is, after all, my benighted Minister of
Parliament. I saw him once, walking down Kensington High Street. His little
gimlet eyes were roving the street, undressing every young boy they saw. I
could imagine him driving up to Holland Park in his Daimler, waving a wad of
fifties under the nose of some Moroccan rent boy.......

....That was all getting a bit sordid and inflammatory, wasn't it? I've
probably annoyed people - I didn't mean it. I'll purchase the custard
creams, if you like. I'll even bring along my pack of rhubarb and custard
sweeties. And I promise I won't say anythign more about politics. Or Timothy
Mcveigh. Or Joseph Stalin (was his moustache real? I heard it was a fake,
like Groucho Marx's). We can discuss something pleasantly neutral, like how
beautiful it is when there's a thunder storm after a sultry, brooding day.
Or how post-War art has consciously sunk itself in the consumer miasma,
becoming nothing more than a reflection of transient, shallow trends in
popular culture. Sorry, I'm going to shut up now.

I do have nicer things to say. Pleasant stories of love and longing to keep
us company through the night. I've been listening to Edith Piaf almost
non-stop, and truncated French phrases I half understand are echoing around
my brain. I'm not sure whether it is because she is actually good, or the
associations I have attached to her songs. A girl with whom I am besotted
gave me an Edith Piaf record in exchange for a tie and two weeks worth of
silent pining. Is that a success for the shy legions of romance, who spend
their time playing canasta and reading Keats, not sharpening swords on
grinding wheels and eating raw meat? I'm not sure yet. She has gone to
America for a fortnight. So Edith and I will be keeping a two week vigil.

I really ought to stop now, I think, lest I become the Oliver Stone of
Sinister - a fountain of over-long, vulgar displays of self-indulgence.
Before I do, however, I would like to say one more thing about British
politics. When I was walking to the shops a couple of days ago, I was
thinking of the kind of campaigns that would be more appropriate for the
various politicians. I would like to see Ann Widdecombe balance bottles of
wine on her not inconsequential mammaries, or use them as ad-hoc dry ski
slopes for field mice. Then William Hague could actually dress up at The
Hague and...no, enough. Another idea that was better in my brain than in the
real world. So it always is. Thoughts full of promise that enter the world
little more than deformed runts.

Now I really will end it all. Pills, razors, or the send button? But I would
like to end on a happy note. There has been some mention of Sir Cliff
Richard recently, and it made my little heart trill with happiness because,
because, because, I saw him a couple of weeks ago, L-I-V-E, at the Royal
Albert Hall. No, that's an embarrassment, isn't it? I think I was the only
one under 45 there, and certainly the only one not wearing enormous shoulder
pads, with a platinum blond rinse. It was my day off, you see.

Enough.

Goodbye.

Ruvi.

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