The Book of Idiots

 

Chapter One

(in which we are introduced to our two heroes)

 

Shinybrite and Buckfaste

 

I could not invent a more deserving story than this;

an awkward history of honesty’s antithesis,

or a rude awakening from all that we hold dear:

Bed and Board and a safer living Atmosphere!

The clock of life ticks slowly out your days,                       though

standing on the sideline, such truths as will amaze

grapple with your short-sight and rend the fabric through;

occasionally you will be shown something completely new.

But enough of this, our two heroes stand conscious at the ready

to deliver this canticle of ribald and obscene pleasure.

Two immersible individuals, as alike as peas in a pod,

dressed “immaculate” as only such insignificance could.

Shinybrite and Buckfaste, steadfast masons of the Guild of Bad Taste,

a ‘V’ signed handshake to all the world they raise,

sit to watch transparent lives hobble impotently past

and wonder why such confidences should be well beyond their grasp.

Shinybrite, of an outward eye and manifestly pleasing look,

armed with every succulent con-trick in the book,

rises on the morning, with a growing sense of occasion

and plans in his mind to relieve their present, pitiful station.

He rouses Buckfaste from a deep and anaesthetic sleep

to show him ten thousand opportunities just lying in the street.

“I have a plan,” he proclaims, before the morning stroll

to catch the best pitch, to advantage their begging bowl.

“Master Buckfaste, these days lie before us in the making,

and fortune sits out there, ours for the taking.

We two, blood brothers, fastened by the same creed,

driven by that terrible wedge that castigates our craven need.

See this list,” and shows him the local job mart,

“this is sport for plunder, we can assume any role, play our part

and make it what we will; we need never again

my friend, plumb such depths of poverty and starvation.”

Buckfaste, bleary eyed, benefactor of the venerable bottle,

his face awash with several days of animated stubble

unwraps the rags which succubus his stringy, feeble frame

and rises to the gamut of Shinybrite’s inviting game.

“You are correct, dear Sir, our lack becomes our fond lament,                   and

we wallow comfortable in our own social excrement;

but now the way ahead shows itself clear,

and all the dross that we once held dear

is turned to dust:

this Epitaph upon our former selves is this vague sentiment:

‘They got up off their arses and found Employment!’

And so to this fond farewell I give this excellent toast,

poverty’s trap won’t see us back, we’ll pander to the close.

For the Wit and the Wretch, we’ll invent a whole new sense,

and in this way our recompense will be pomp and circumstance.

No boot too low, no arse too base, we’ll grovel as we might,

play buffoon, and spill the beans to make it fit just right!

Oh Vaseline! You are a squealers rare delight,

a royal jelly, you make us merry and deliver the plebiscite;

Even from this, what AIDS this buggery

but too much latitude and ignorant unacceptability?

The morning reigns a Kingdom of excellent promise;

Perjury, Deceit, a Member’s secret Mistress!

Two Felons in the flow of this Back to Basics Campaign

pawn their morals, and begin the rise towards the heights again.

Shinybrite and Buckfaste, attired as sold-their-souls for more

arrive like a shallow bequest at the Job Centre’s iniquitous door,

innocent for the truth, seeking their chance to serve

they beg on handouts according to what they think they deserve;

A few pennies to feed and clothe their feeble frames,

to turn a trick and join this chaotic, charismatic end-game.

Avid Fundwatcher arises like a tempest of savage scorn –

a dedicated bureaucrat, as inflexible as iron  -

to juggle applications in pastiche disarray

and drive to suicide another desperate beneficiary.

To all his world an Emperor of useless tactics,

of ticked boxes and intrusive personal statistics;

Two vassals on this vast and tainted ocean             approach him

(jobless, money-less, blank and without purpose)

they push onwards into this rabbit run of grief

where pasty faced clerks turn tricks around their feet;

a penny, more or less spread like maunday money

is ripped to shreds amongst the hungry pack of plenty.

“Are you looking for work?” enquires this Scion of Concern,

assembling a sheafed life-history, and in it’s turn

his artificial gaze burns outwards in duress;

Shinybrite declares honestly, awkward in his distress

“This list appeals: Messiah and Prophet, Moneyman,

Soldier of Fortune, Liar and Politician!

Our lack is in our sense of presentation,

these filthy rags our uniform of deprivation

are inadequate to the task; need I say more,

that we stand across the lintel of fortune’s delectable door

and save for a few decent clothes, our fortune hangs in the balance

and creates this upset in our favourable providence.

“But are you looking for work?” the mechanic replies, disconsolate,

and re-arranges words to recluse a single ounce of benefit:

“Yes” Buckfaste steps, orificed into the breach,

“This list compliments those warrant pastimes that we seek;          }

bed and breakfast is all we require to get us back on our feet,        }

and a few meagre belongings: a few days, a week,                         }

and we shall trouble your doorstep no more.”

Stamped then unduly, accepted and issued as their dole,

Shinybrite and Buckfaste, salvaged from this spiralling trap

savour this rare and bureaucratic collapse;

Out! From this plush inquisition they wend

a confident pattern of salvation, like two cheap bookends.

 

Chapter Two

(in which our Heroes are embroiled in the world of wealth)

 

A Watering Hole of immeasurable wealth,

a crossroads of in-flowing capital and pure embezzlement!

A Brotherhood of Thieves, branded and well regulated,

closeted in designer offices, suffused and self-regimented.

Sleuth and well suited, individually, three-pieced-and-ever-ready,

they dabble in dark tales, and shift huge amounts of money

across the complex time zones; in a trite this complex racket

flushes a whole nation’s Gross Domestic product down the toilet.

The “Raving Madness” of another day of harsh levies,

a loan for more than half a crown is charged at triple interest;

The index climbs another ten, the rush towards a succulent feeding

draws a shoal of mad-eyed sharks in frantic trading.

“Junk” bonds together the inepts with scant élan,

creates a rancid stew of Pension Trusts and Personal Equity Plans.

The Starving Siren extracts from one and all a sudden breathlessness,

discards at last the rigid corpse like so much superfluous mess,

props the waning Kingdom, shores up the weak foundation                      }

so the face displays a rich brocade of Stability and Erudition                    }

(and we’re all assured in full they know exactly what they’re doing!)       }

But here and there the stench of rot pokes through,

a spark of light to show me and you the despair of old and new.

A King’s ransom s sold to court a lengthy divorce,

the “Heir Apparent” wanders gaily between the madhouse and the Throne,

favours some minor fleet officer’s dull wife

and leads an altogether insulated life.

Along the battlements of his Regal Assylum

Idiots proclaim on his behalf the Treatise of his bruised and battered nation.

A Pauper’s progress we can permanently increase:

some will starve to death, while others abjure the feast,

and on a certain morning, all pious and in peace

our treasury of humility we lavishly deplete.

The lascivious god of “All I Ever Want” casts her torpid eye,

and sees a profit in a minor revelation, or even an outright lie!

An exorbitant lease on some dire retreat is offered up for grabs,

the slavery eyed money-men, with cheque book and pen, clatter around like mad;

Mortgaged “whole life”, charged Man and Wife, the boot moves on past go,

the “Free Man (Quality Retreat)” for retired Bulls and Stags opens its eager doors once more.

Bound in iron and enslaved to all these rigid theories

of how real money moves in ever decreasing circles:

A band of honest men, fain and eager to please

explain the truthes of modern living according to this phrase:

immature and accept the repercussions of one passionate accident

and bring the child up according to a host of conflicting compliments;

condemned for ills and overburdened, the system condescends;

Poverty’s rattle beats about for neglect’s insincerest sins.

Reams of edicts prove this angelic recompense:

two point four kids, a car, a cat and crippling interest.

Shinybrite and Buckfaste, marionettes of a modern Jack Ketch

pull on each string to see how much this latest slave will fetch.

A moral misfit captains a coarse, enigmatic crew

who gather imminent around the mast to await the latest news:

out of work again, my friends, back down to the laughing gas,

The Office of Fair Taste, a leper’s opulent cast!

Sacred! That never again the gorgon’s head should speak,

and Perseus should end up a wreck, an addict of strong drink;

never that the Gods had claimed such people as us

to be the Earthly Guardians, Keepers of the Sacred Trust.

A Bottomless Pocket is now the model for this modern grist,

palm outwards, shuffles between the madhouse and the mint,

concocts a sheaf of lies to blame on rising crime

and buys an ex-council house or two at merely half the price.

Then, explains in this dull rage the overseas element,

qualifications bought and sold as a common market condiment,

or bribes that pass to ease the crack, to share this weak commodity:

The urge to conquor nations already rampant in his bastard geneology!

The Fool rests, and astride the proud engagement sits,

plucks Hearts and Flowers and invents another subtle twist.

The Raving Statesman of the Startled Mental Ward

roams unchecked over this bloodied earth to convince one and all

this Cold War is dead; and laughs, for all his luggage lost,

provides this last invoice for what this latest junket cost.

 

wait

                                             a

                                                                                 minute

 

……please welcome……The Weasel

 

A designer rogue of unimpeachable character,

a charitable conscript of “The More Pissed You Get, The Merrier!”

A thane of fortune’s indestructible game,

a quick fix recluse, a behind the scenes conglomerate,

Waistcoated scion of an age of angled angst

where ordinary honesty vies with lies for Royal Assent.

This short shrift of animosities, shelled, and served in sauce

too rich to satisfy the meagre diet of the common populace

claims for its menu a clique of expensive idiots

who’d pay a ransom for even these small profits:

A vintage gut-rot: sold and labelled as “Traditional Fayre”,

a set of genuine German diaries, or Hayden’s dozen forgotten airs!

A sense of nonsense, the odd, the unusual and the fantastic,

experts in antiquities, oddities, the rare and the pathetic

wander around the world unshackled from their normal service,   they

spend a million on a pile of worthless horseshit!

Here’s a cheap trick: the normal consumer spends,

and for an exorbitant price acquires a pair of useless book-ends:

and for a few million more you can add this sweet anodyne:

The artist died alone for want of bread and wine.

Away cold hands, that would ride the sinking ship

down the fathomless depths of this elliptical slip.

The immigrant’s favourite idiom is a foreplay without intent

which binds him whole-heartedly to something more flamboyant;

a code of arms of malpractice along the way

saves up bribes and invests for his retirement day.

A hollow breath expels another sigh of outrage

and reaches bluntly for the phone number to offer its meagre pledge,

smiles obtuse, and for this charity’s complex offerings

(a moral crucifix to satisfy a morsel of misgivings)

donates a few quid on its credit card, and double

back as an entirely tax deductable

expense: the sanitised Knight of Sense waits impotently in the wings       }

while out on stage, the Diva of Contentment sings                                     }

her aria of plenty, and on a high note brings                                               }

her peculiar message even as far as the Gallery                                           }

as all around her the Chorus sits, steeped in misery,                                   }

infallible to even this plainest of mysteries.                                                 }

Onward! Into the umpteenth verse she ploughs her musical sway,

sending millions cold and hungry to an early grave;

What’s this? The Fairy of Another Wish slips gracefully down the wire,

daubed in black, splendid in Funeral Attire

predicts the sermon for the wake of things to come,

rescues the Prickled Princess and re-awakes the Magic kingdom.

The Ode to Joy of a world-within-a-world,

(sheltered from the violence and deprivation “out there”)

they boast their pyhrric victories, and turn away another blind eye!

 

Chapter Three

(in which our heroes become Missionaries)

 

The Messiah of the Second Helping (and Disciple)

 

The fronded fairway welcomes a singular Holy Feast,

a Passover of supple wonders and overwhelming, fantastic feats.

A mule, engrossed with a wholesome gnostic burden

lurches through the tollgate and on to instant stardom.

The Messiah of the Second Helping (and Disciple), the Omnipotent,

the harbinger of a holy trust, a sleight of hand convert,

blesses as he wakes, and prays a miraculous script,

raises the lifeless to the second coming (and leases out the crypt!)

The bulk of this fair place displaced by these Argonauts of the modern air,

depending on who’s doing the Preaching, some of us won’t get very far.

Confused between the fleece and the medic’s argued need,

an ounce of flax is grasped, inadequate for so many mouths to feed!

But slain to the four winds, their IQ’s steeped in fictional magic,

cerebal cortexes melt away and a generation feeds on something more digestive:

The modern muse imparts such wisdom to all and sundry,             }

peeks nervously into the trials of someone else’s family                 }

and pokes its all-seeing eye into every damning tragedy!               }

Smiling, you condescend this gross intrusion

as real life, some rudimentary lesson in existence’s grim education.

SO WHAT? Some shallow characters act out this comic charade,

swapping gossip and creating chaos in every episode

so the line transfixes reality beyond the bound

and fiction dies, to be replaced by this shallow merry-go-round.

You wonder which side of the mirror you’re on,

grasped firmly by the balls, your weak will catapulted into oblivion,

beyond your own front door this cataclysmic mess offends:

Thankfully, any further out and there your responsibility ends!

Now the New Gods of Sloth demand their sacrificial feast,

lost in White Lightening and Coronation Street.

Shinybrite and Buckfaste, High Priests of the New Electronic Age

offer up the Giving, the Holy Handset and the Blessed Videotape;

dismember the common conscience and peer inside its entrails

to foretell the future and all that dodgy prophesy entails.

The Paradox of precise plans are thrown in disarray,

pretend instead to suspect comfort from far, far away. 

Ivory Towers thrown skyward in rankling disrespect,

instruct in top-down fashion and trace the issue complex:

So sorry! That this burden should fall upon the poor once more,

and thousands of the old and infirm are frozen to the core:

higher rates and even higher invoices for water,

gas and electricity; and not even one iota,

the charge on earnings remains more or less the same,   and

The Thief of Extraordinary Inventions has got away with it again!

You shuffle to and fro, and with life’s succulent truffle,

the Pigs surround you in a trite and scent you out without too much trouble.

Your hands compel this morsel, and your whole life’s recompense, is

Ten pence a week on any other TAX the Master can invent.

“Aquasong”, a convenient tunnel under the Ocean

links the whole of Europe to one tiny, insignificant kingdom.

An engineering feat, another fascinating route,

a continental pathway, when a more reliable ship would do!

A curious contraption, a disaster in the making,

a few hundred souls suffocated, sacrificed to mere profit taking.

The Age of Mobility, of open access without number,

where the crippled and the needy fall in and out of favour;

The Fake is claimed real, and falls a little lower in the league,

And whatever wild admission you’d care to make, they’ll never believe.

Shinybrite, the “Permanent-under-some-idiot-or-another”

issues edicts in abundance to counter this latest blunder.

You trust too much, my dear friend Buckfaste,

you honour too much this petty, rigid bureaucrat.

Consider for an instant this slight, amusing Libretto;

A whole Empire wrenched apart, each portion given its freedom!

What do we do now? The “Organising” remains,

those who are least committed chant anew the war song’s refrain;

THIS is the only job they’ll want for a Charter,

spending months apart in killing games and mindless slaughter.

Here’s a pretty fellow, who leads the freedom movement,

a psychopath in cheap disguise, he plots the latest entertainment:

Ethnic Cleansing, a stark reminder, a pantomime

of cattle trucks waiting in sidings for the next time.

 

Chapter Four

 

(our two soldiers of fortune are recruited as World policemen)

 

Boom Boom (you’re dead)

                                             Out go the lights?

 

The Sewer King contemplates the complex issues of world minions,

seeks here and there from flatterers such agreeable opinions

as would turn a fisticuffs into a full blown Armageddon

and fulfil his shoddy, so-called saintly ambition

to rule the world; Faithless Lieutenant cringes by his side,

a grey man who rules a far off, insignificant isle,

who dreams of empires, and smiles a sickly, saving grace;

envious rapture distorts his otherwise featureless face!

“A special relationship, sire, exists between yours and mine;

we two, together can police this troublesome quagmire.

Your hand and mine in friendship, this whole world clasps,

Salvation, my lord, from rank anarchy and collapse.”

“Speak, Lord Faithless Lieutenant, tell me what you see,                           }

let the cause be just for such a dangerous prophesy,                                   }

(and make sure there’s enough bankable readies in it for me!)                    }

The Undertaker of Filth and World Decay

exhumes the images of siege and ritualised horseplay;

Here and there maniacs sieze the initiative of another uprising

to murder millions and impose another ruthless cleansing!

A story! A story! The Sewer King dictates,                                                         }

and shoves his fool back out, onto the stage                                            }

to earn his keep in one more extrapolation of altered states;                    }

”My Lord, you do me more than my slight skill deserves!

Yet the more of dreams unfold a sorrier state of affairs.

Who could resist the solid foundation of this integrity?

A whole Nation believes it is the benchmark of international morality,

righteousness and honesty; a second coming, a twentieth century

new messiah in a land of golden opportunity.

Sits as Judge AND Jury, dispenses judgement circumspect                       }

fawns to its Allies and potential overseas markets                                      }

(and hoards to itself it’s most profound military secrets!)                           }

Be-metalled, as a modern knight of the quickening death,

beyonetted end-forward, searching for that Herald of your last breath on earth,

head filled to bursting with Confidence’s confident sayings,

you heave about and deliver honourable, indecent slayings.

Shinybrite, sublime, a khaki clad eros,

wings on fire with his new, world killing ethos

of rigid right and worsening wrongs and crucified creeds,

where WEST meets EAST, and lays out the battle feast.

“What food is this?” a million slain already, my dear,

FREEDOM fells the iron restraints; old hatreds reappear.

Does anyone here remember hearing the TRUTH?

that reluctant phrase, that elusive gobble-de-gook……..

…there is no pain from it, that cannot be overlaid,

no searching revelation to wipe away your disdain;

you lurch from day to day and wonder for it all,

then out from your protective shell you finally crawl

to meet the dawn: a new age, my friend of indecent suffrage,

we are all nosed to the wheel in the name of fiscal carnage.

 

Chapter Five

 

( in which our heroes become Ministers)

 

Steadfast “Iron Skin” stands to the fiscal breach,

armed with complex complaints of WELFARE’S overstretched reach;

smiles at all his minions standing impotently by

and tops his vicious ravings with Economic Truth or Dare!

Minister Divided! Caught between the slum,

the mumblings of his constituents, and a Peer of Scaffold’s Kingdom.

Procrastinates behind the wall, ducks to miss the flak,

writes down a dozen foibles and excuses the syntax.

“Now, in respect of all this waste, we sing the Managing Song,

a cold refrain of Odd Dog Days, we privatise the throng:

to tender all, this cheap recluse offers another vain excuse                         }

with closed heart he stands apart to witness this abuse                               }

and says nothing; rigid as stone, he remains alone, aloof.                           }

Let’s slouch around the campfire of life’s virtual unemployed,

a vague recruit in morning suit stands ready to be deployed.

His motley crew, hearts black and blue, morbid eyes cast down,

they memorise this Charter’s diatribe in deference to the Crown.

Succour cedes its excellent lies along the seedy airwaves,

a cruel mix, a bag of tricks, “news”, “weather”, and “Jesus Saves”.

A starter pack to get you back, returns humanity’s phrase,

until relieved, you beat your retreat and wander out your days.

A phrase (the Scorpion’s early days), it wields the poisoned sot,

feels to find direction and strikes while the iron’s hot,

grins to bear suffering outright and a heavenly insurrection

of lame excuses, for after-all, the coffers are all quite empty,

the Silver sold, the family’s heirlooms pawned,

the only thing that’s left is a small band of gold,

a marriage symbol, a union of east and west,

the epitome of a working cause, simply the best!

Now you Pin Striped filth, embezzled to the hilt,

you scrabble around for some other public possessions to filch!

And in the text of life, this epitaph inscribed:

“He Reduced The Rich Man’s Burden, Brought the Budget In On Time!”

Fake Confessions fall in line with a more formal cause,

the Jails are filled to overflowing and justice fucks them all.

The sonorous Epitaph is scraped clean for a completely new policy,

a mix of limpid iron fist and onerous fiscal slavery.

The Sole Respondents ease out another day of benefit,

scrounging from the common purse, they relax and lounge about it

doing nothing: a purposeful reprise of idleness and complacency              }

breeds the hostility creed, a writ of ordinary indecency                             }

holds to its own and pretends its mask of fake morality;                            }

Blinds with a victimised sense of idle scroungers and single, social loafers,

pregnant tickets at the ready to abuse these indulgent mothers;

and all this blamed: ills of a more vicious notion

cut the heart out from this docile, decadent nation,

proclaims the Magna Carta, of such equality they cite

that Children starve, and the hopeless commit suicide.

 

lorde aching’s lament

 

be quiet! the still of night rain envelops this corrupted earth,

you and I stand the watch and savour this complex mirth.

The edge of bloody ruin beckons an apocalyptic insurrection

and the blade of chaos’s harvest scythe severs sense’s last connection;

‘look around you’ lorde aching smiles awry,

and proceeds his sour lament to explain these odd portends in the sky.

‘you may rage for a year and a day, these simple facts remain:

this Sour Earth and this Corruptible Cartel are from age to age, the same!

Children starve still; men sloth and lean on street corners,

Women still the second class chattels of their urban, overweight warriors.’

Ignorance and cheap mirth besmirch the very birth                        }

and all in tune, the vague recruit, crippled and destitute                  }

begs on street corners and chooses another enchanting suite:         }

a clasp of spades to while away his solitary days,

they mock his past, and then at last, he forgets his fiscal forays:

And all out of time and tide, his rancid life decays,

until the dog-days fade, and the ethereal end-song plays

its choral waltz and beckons his tortured soul aloft;

Too weak to burn, he measures his might bereft.

Now Mad Eyed Clerics re-fuel the constant debate,

and pillage the Book of Life to assess his deliberate fate:

and even in this play of words the misconceptions remain               }

that the Messiah of Old will always be the same,                             }

and one day, return to live on Earth again!                                     }

 

Epilogue

 

I remember when…..

 

…you’d suffer yourself in silence, while the majority wins the day,

losing out to idiots whether you’re at work or at play:

stone by stone, the walls of ease slowly tumble down,

standing in the dust and spray of this collapse, you look around,

staring blankly at this error, this confusion running hell-bound;

round and round the fairy tale is told with an honest lilt,

you dispel the rumours of Moral Bankruptcy forthwith!

The lucky few shave gold from Gresham’s worthless coinage,

conserve their Lords and Ladies, and shuffle towards their dotage;

Each lie begets a reason for this sorry end,

favours are bought and sold, and overseas aid pretends

to purchase the killing machine and oil the greasy wheel

of yet another suspect killing field!

The Fool of Broken Hearts trips daintily from Friend to Foe,

heralds news of jobless Minions, and delivers the bitter blow.

All around him the Blue Brigade joins hands with the Free Market Choir

and together hoist their yearly benefits just that little bit higher….

And the sweet smell of bullshit lies heavy in the recovery air

and the jobless total falls even a little lower…..somewhere….

 

…applause, applause, applause…(thank you…thank you)

 

the raucous applause of a hundred million empty souls,

all take a stand, and proffer each their empty begging bowls,

acclaim this minor misdemeanour for all its sullied worth,

peer through the veil of life and grasp the cleansing scourge….

Carry on my errant and wholly wayward son,

the black deed is done, but the worst is yet to come;

all along the quilted superhighways the message ignites the night,

words of deliverance fawned ineluctably to the right.

The Lavatory Cleaner’s laughable syntax affects to these dull words,

and his Requiem of Labours Lost loads the final coffin into the hearse.

The Dull Rogue of Misguided Faith strews flowers along the way

and opens his Book of Common Liar for something fresh to say.

(Ash to Ash, mere dust to dust, this is the ultimate human penance)

• too old to beat, the Treasured Creep and the ordinary Idiot Esquire

are sent off, despatched at last to that filial Benefit Office in the Sky!

The Pall Bearers, each contend for this catatonic tip;

money is short, and your dedication is worth Jack Shit!

Now once more, the frail report condemns the collective inertia:

The Grail Service and the Ubiquitous Social Charter

kneel together to accept the “Holy Ghost”

• the watered down wine and the mouldy Communion Host –

and all of these in time will fail, laughing in the end,

and the faces of many coloured concern they pretend

will rattle on regardless on the progress their wisdoms condescend……

and you…..

                     your integrity turned sour, your helplessness dismayed,

you fancy for the future revolution’s rich barricade:

The sun sets on a feast of empty mind and soul,

and the heavens proclaim another minor disturbance overturned.

Let the modern Muse bewail the utterly talentless,

all joined together, and relatively heaven blessed;

The Stand-Alone-Dispute crows the dawn’s accolade

and all their solemn promises are sluiced promptly down the drain.

The Epilogue submits to a final, stodgy Chapter

where the Lovers meet, and Evil retreats and they live Happily Ever After….

Thankless, that this task of chronology is completed,

and all the petty rhymes of self congratulations well and truly defeated.

A sunset ending beckons….and the Golden Pavement applies;

Shinybrite and Buckfaste, for the remainder of their lives

are content to reap the reward of the Nation’s Prime Contender.

Now….they trade the dusk, and in its crimson splendour

rest finally assured, in all its brilliant candour.

 

C  The Scribler’s Company              1994/2006