THE MOVING MOON WENT UP THE SKY

Hello and welcome to the December edition of The Autolycan.  In November this blog brought you possibly the smallest story ever told, so from there it seemed only natural to move on to the greatest story ever told.  This version includes a raw young police officer, and a moving star.  

Or does it?

Hope you like it, and this could well be the first blog to wish you a Happy Christmas!

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                              THE MOVING MOON WENT UP THE SKY

Messed up at work today? No matter how much of a berk you end up looking in front of your colleagues, you can always console yourself with the thought that at least you're not the police officer who called for back up after spotting the moon.

                                                                           The Huffington Post

Dear Mum,

Sorry I’ve not been in touch for a bit, me and PC Disney from down the nick has been on a secret mission, all very hush hush, but it looks like one of us at least come up smelling of roses!

It all started when the Super calls us in, and said as how we was being transferred to the Royal Protection Squad, only we wasn’t to tell nobody. Security, like. Couple of months in and the closest we ever got to a royal was a bloody corgi, but even so, a bit of a feather in the cap, something to big up when it comes to the Promotion Board.

After a bit, with nothing much going on, we was called in again and told we was being seconded to Persia, three kings off on a bit of a journey, not much protection of their own, could we go and help the local lads out? Course, nobody had no bloody idea where Persia was, or wouldn’t say more like, somewhere in the East they said. We thought maybe Barking, Dagenham, even Margate, but the Super just looked at us funny like.

What a turn up when we gets there! First thing we noticed when we gets off the boat is a load of geezers trying to sell stuff, and PC Disney goes all weak at the knees about what the bloke said was a genuine Persian rug, very cheap, what he thought would like nice in his Mum's conservatory. He can be a bit wet behind the ears sometimes, young Disney. Then he wonders if we ought to feel the collars of a load of women in skimpy clothes shaking their hips and bellies around. Since they had no collars though, nor nothing much else for that matter, I said we'd better turn a blind eye, so to speak. You get to know a bit about discretion in this job.

Anyway, little bloke bustles up, was we Sergeant Hopkins and PC Disney, come over for the Royal Protection? We says yes, and gets bundled into this basket on wheels. The bloke nips round the front, gets in between the shafts and tows us away! Straight off Disney was on about how this basket wasn't going to meet the licensed taxicab Conditions of Fitness, but I stamped on his foot, so that was OK. Discretion again, but honestly Mum they just start them too young these days.

We gets to this big palace and climbs out of the basket to be met by some top brass, before we gets whisked off to meet these three kings, all medals and big hats and sunglasses. Bloody hell, says young Disney, they don’t look like kings to me, you expect battledress, helmets, you expect them to shout ‘God for Harry’ and that half the time, if you want my opinion they look like...

I give him the hard eyes. Leave it out, PC Disney!, I instructs, authoritative like. When you've sat through as many bloody equality and diversity courses as I have you get a feel for what's going to land you in strife. He'll learn. Please God he'll learn. Then he says hang about, have you clocked what they’re carrying, that looks like gold to me, and that perfume smells a bit posh, like what the Mrs puts on for foreign invaders, only dearer. God knows what that other stuff is though.

Much bowing and clapping of hands, these three introduced as Kings Gaspar, Melchior and Balthasar and I notice my youthful colleague sucking his pencil like a primary school kid and looking long and hard at his pocket book. Me, I have enough trouble spelling kings’ names like Æthelstan. They tried and tried when I was at training college, but I never could get the hang of the diphthong.

Anyway, you won’t hardly credit this, but the gold and the perfume and the other stuff was presents for a baby what had been born bloody miles away in another country, and this lot was planning to find the baby by following a star in the sky, with us protecting them and the presents. Have you ever heard the like of it?

Funny sort of set up, it must have been that perfume addling our brains so we says OK, but we’re not sure about that other present, the third one. Is it a Hazardous Substance within the meaning of the Act? Does it need a Safety Certificate? What about an Export Licence? Don’t worry, they says, its myrrh, and me laddo stares hopelessly at his pocket book again.

I don’t suppose you’ve ever ridden on a camel, have you Mum? You don’t get many round Leytonstone, anyway, they’re horrible animals, not easy to ride and vicious buggers into the bargain. Ever vigilant, Disney was wondering if we could do these kings under the Dangerous Dogs Act, but I spotted the flaw in his thinking straight off and neither of us knew whether there was a Dangerous Camels Act, probably not. But after a bit these kings decide the star has led them to just exactly where they want to be. Don’t ask me how, but they had found a baby all wrapped in what they called swaddling clothes – in a stable of all places – and quick as you please they’re down on their knees offering it these presents. What a baby’s supposed to do with that lot was beyond me, but there was a load more bowing and chanting and hand clapping so they all seemed happy.

What with the long journey and all, we decides to get a bit of shuteye, me first with himself on watch for a couple of hours, then we’d change over. We thought his rug might come in handy, but when he unrolled it it kind of fell to bits. Anyway, useless bugger, he couldn’t have stayed awake more than five minutes after me, and then we was both asleep for ages. I woke up to find him shouting and hollering at the kings, seems he was trying to tell them the star had moved away somewhere else, they must have the wrong baby, and we’d better all saddle up again quick, we might need back up. Well, they don’t take kindly to that, they got a very nasty look in their eyes, and there’s big trouble brewing. Funny thing was, when I have a good look at the sky, I think the boy wonder could well be right for once, perhaps it has moved again, but diplomacy and quick thinking is something else you pick up in this job, bloody sight more useful than knowing the far end of a diphthong.

So I walks up to the group, and one of the kings turns to me and starts mouthing off about PC Disney. I decides not to pursue a foul and abusive language to a police officer rap, and adopts what I hopes is a calm and persuasive tone of voice. PC Disney only trying to be helpful, but in a foreign country, touch confused after long journey and a bit of kip, wakes up after two or three hours, the moon has risen, confuses the moon with their star, easy mistake, no harm done. I kick him to let him know he’s to fall in and go along with what I say, he does so, they calm down and we’re all mates again.

When we gets back home, we gets called in again. Super pleased as punch, kings happy with our work, feather in the force’s cap, all that. Then he hums and hahs a bit, shifts in his chair and we wonders what’s coming. Strictly off the record, he says, just you and me like, was it the moon or their star then? Only we’ve all got a few quid on it at HQ.

Search me, I says. Probably the moon, but could have been a planet, a star, a comet, no bloody idea really. I see, says the Super and he comes over all confidential like. You see, he says, I already got the first two bits right on a three part accumulator. I knew what swaddling clothes was, and I knew what myrrh was. It would be good if it was definitely a star. I wouldn't forget how you knuckled down to this job. Finest traditions of the service, all that. See what I mean?

At this point Deadhead Disney gets a rush of blood, thinks he's being offered one of them fast track promotions, God help us.

I see, he says, and takes a deep breath. Well, he says, when you wish upon a star your dreams comes true.

The Super looks at him hard. You're learning, lad, he starts, but then the boy

interrupts him. Unwisely, as it turns out. Does that mean that anything my heart desires will come to me, he asks.

The Super winks at me, then turns heavily to young Disney who's looking very full of himself.

…....only you're not learning the right things, he says. Your heart may very well be in your dreams, and nothing wrong with that. But don't get clever with me son, I'm not bending no rules for you, makes no difference who you are.

Have a good Christmas, Mum, mind how you go.

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ANAGRAM CORNER

Not a very Christmassy anagram, I'm afraid, but perhaps one for all you celeb watchers.......

                                         NIGELLA LAWSON, CHARLES SAATCHI

 

                                           AHA!  CLASSICAL WOES!  ENTHRALLING!

                    

PINS AND NEEDLE

Regular readers of The Autolycan – should there be any – will notice something odd about this article from the very beginning. That's right, there is no standfirst. Yes you do, it's that bit at the top which introduces the article and which usually looks like this. But this time the subject matter is so inconsequential, so very trifling, piddling, pettifogging, nit-picking and footling – and hats off to Roget for his matchless command of synonyms – that there can be no standfirst, because there is so very little to standsecond and nothing at all to standthirdorsubsequent.

In part, this is about prepositions, those minuscule elephant traps that all too easily ensnare the unwary and transform meaning with no more than a couple of letters. I am looking – with transparent desperation – for something to pin an article on. Mrs Miller – with equal desperation – is looking for something to pin an article up. Don't worry about Mrs Miller; we'll come to her by and by.

The Autolycan has always had a standfirst. It's how you know that you're going to get a story about Neolithic dentistry, about elderly bank robbers, even about a yacht club in rural Oxfordshire. Or some travesty of Chaucer, Wilde or Wodehouse. Now there's a thought – what about all three? What if a trawl through the alleged garage - piled to the rafters with old kitchen units, offcuts of lino which no longer match any oncuts of lino, dead spiders, great strapping spiders whose agility and ferocity would make feral cats tremble, together with, incongruously, a chemical toilet unused in decades but which 'might come in handy one day' - what if somewhere under this lot we found the original manuscript of Shreeves and the Wife of Bath's Handbag? That would be a future edition of The Autolycan to wow them, wouldn't it?

See what happens without a standfirst? You get an incoherent ramble about dead spiders and prepositions. Ah yes, prepositions, that was it. And Mrs Miller. We'll come to her.

Fifty years and more ago, Dr Peter Clarke, Head of English at my boys' grammar school and known universally as Basher probably ever since Wodehouse's time and quite possibly Chaucer's, dinned into me everything I know – and much that I have forgotten - about the arcane rules of writing what he insisted was good English. Relative clauses, and when to use that and when to use which. He would have winced in unfeigned distress at a verbless sentence like that one. It would have offended his fastidious sensibilities. He was of course mustard when it came to prepositions - whether it should be different from or different to – the latter being unacceptable back then and requiring the precision launch of an immaculately aimed piece of chalk. (We never dared risk the American different than, which would inevitably have resulted in Basher deploying heavier artillery in the form of the blackboard duster. Whenever he did so, of course, he was left with nothing to clean the blackboard with, and mostly resorted to using his gown. We thought that was hilarious; half a century on I imagine Mrs Basher would have begged to differ. He was no fan of brackets at the best of times, and a bracket opened nearly a hundred words ago like this one, and showing no signs of reaching the far end any time soon would only have depleted Hillingdon Borough Council's precious reserves of chalk still further. Heaven knows what he would have lobbed into our trenches had he he spotted a shameless and brazen attempt – rather like this one – to digress yet further in the bracket because there really was nothing to say about the main subject.) Sorry Basher, that's 155 words in the bracket now, none of them relevant. If you're reading this wherever you are, I fear one of your exquisitely nuanced marks. C+?+, perhaps? If that.

Clumsy construction like that would have triggered a beautifully crafted letter of complaint to my parents, overflowing with elegant uses of the subjunctive, with accurately used gerunds, and of course with nary a split infinitive or a preposition to end a sentence with. Which brings us labouring to within touching distance of Mrs Miller, if you'll excuse such a conceit in these sensitive times.

Mrs Miller is a lady with a mission. Not a very noble one, it's true, but she has plainly been reading about an outfit called OnePoll. OnePoll has been studying trivial complaints and has published a list of the most trivial its researchers have fielded from aggrieved respondents in performance of their somewhat contrived duties. Top of the list was a rant that two Weetabix don't fit into a round bowl properly 'resulting in one becoming soggy and the other dry'. Dynamite, that. Or what about the lament that supermarket assistants work too quickly, scanning goods faster than you can pack them? That'll teach the politicians to bang on about hard working families all the time. And then there was the man who was unfeasibly distraught that his wallet wouldn't close properly 'because there's too much money in it.' How do you top that?

Mrs Miller has. She has felt the blood rising. She has stared these mere pretenders straight in the eye. She has picked up the gauntlet. She has felt the blast of war blow in her ears, stepped unto the breach, stiffened the sinews and summoned up the blood. She has trumped the lot of them. Mrs Miller's peerless complaint to Belton Parish Council, recorded in the Scunthorpe Telegraph, stands head and shoulders above – unless that should be feet and ankles below – the puny milksop competition raked up by OnePoll.

That it appears in the Scunthorpe Telegraph is in itself of some significance. Once a mighty daily with the word Evening nestling proudly between Scunthorpe and Telegraph, it has, like so much of the provincial press, had to contract and relaunch itself as a weekly. You would think, wouldn't you, that with only one edition per week whereas there used to be six, the Telegraph would eschew the whimsy for the weighty, and that the worthless would be worsted by the worthy.

And perhaps it has. Perhaps the Telegraph has touched a nerve after all. Ray Matthews, clerk to Belton Parish Council, certainly seems to think so. In his bluff, no nonsense, North Lincolnshire way, Mr Matthews has had the temerity to answer Mrs Miller back. As far as Mr Matthews is concerned, Mrs Miller has previous, having complained before that Parish Council minutes were not published quickly enough. 'This has been explained to Mrs Miller before,' he rasped in what were doubtless controlled but exasperated tones, 'we cannot publish them until they have been approved at the next meeting.' But his most vituperative remarks were reserved for her most recent complaint. 'Nothing is going to blow away,' he gritted through clenched teeth 'the edges of the paper curl slightly and I believe she thinks it doesn't look neat enough. I don't know what her problem is.'

And so, in what I claim as a World Première for a standpenultimate, we come almost apologetically to Mrs Miller's complaint.

A RESIDENT has issued a complaint to her parish council - that there are not enough pins in 

the village notice board.

The unusual complaint was brought to Belton Parish Council at the August monthly meeting.

The resident said she was "not happy" that not enough pins are used for notices on the notice 

board.

Alongside issues such as grass cutting, tidiness and hedges, the notice board problem was 

discussed under the "parish affairs and other items of an urgent nature" section.

Scunthorpe Telegraph

We must assume that Belton Parish Council has a Complaints Procedure, and that the

 unfortunate Mr Matthews is obliged to adhere rigidly to it in order to head off a further

 complaint about the Complaints Procedure not being followed.  He has, as required, pinned

 back his ears. Now that he has done so, his opinion of his disputatious parishioner is not 

difficult to pin down.

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ANAGRAM CORNER

                       REBEKAH BROOKS - ANDY COULSON

                       HACKERS?  NAY, BONKERS!  (Loud boo!)

And finally, an Autumn bonus.......

This story's a bit of a wrecker

Of the image of Andy and Bekka

He looks quite aghast

And is clearly downcast,

He really should keep up his pecker!

ENGLANDS GRENE AND PLESANT LAND

Hello again, welcome to the October Autolycan, and - the Thwaites are back!  Not that I'm running out of ideas or anything, but an item in the Christian Science Monitor about spicy food being cooked in the Stone Age rather took my fancy.  As you might guess, I thought Aethelred wouldn't like it.  Hope you do, though, and if so, please forward the link to others.

This edition also marks a first for The Autolycan, with the first ever  Ballad of........  In a world  where ineptitude, incompetence and sheer foolishness is all too often evident, it seems that every so often one man or woman stands out with a performance that is quite staggeringly inept, incompetent or foolish.  In that spirit of celebration I offer The Ballad of Godfrey Bloom as a dessert to follow the spicy main course.

                                ENGLANDS GRENE AND PLESANT LAND

Stone Age foodies enjoyed spicy meals, say archaeologists.

                                                                                                       Christian Science Monitor

Mrs Nubia Scruton, Branch Chair, straightened her very best rags, did her utmost to pat a lifeless and greasy hank of hair into place, practised the closed mouth smile she had perfected to disguise her lack of teeth and stood up.  She exuded an authoritative air which both expected and received respectful attention from the bedraggled and unkempt group facing her.

'Good afternoon, ladies' she smiled tightly 'and welcome to today's meeting of Slatterthwaite cum Heckdale Women's Institute.  Members of this branch have always taken a keen interest in preparing traditional, wholesome meals' – there was a noticeable emphasis on the word 'traditional' – 'not least to give our menfolk the strength and energy to hunt.  But as the Stone Age comes to an end and the Bronze Age dawns we should, I suppose, look to the future as well as to maintaining our cherished traditions.  And so I am delighted to welcome Miss Egwyne Thwaite, whose talk on New Age cooking, will, I am sure, be most, er, stimulating.   Miss Thwaite.'

She sat down to a polite ripple of applause, noting with some satisfaction the looks of doubt and uncertainty on the faces in front of her.

Egwyne, too, was aware of a certain hostility as she got to her feet, but hoped that her youthful ebullience would win over the traditionalists.  On reflection, Slatterthwaite cum Heckdale was perhaps not the best place to start this tour of Women's Institute branches – should she have gone somewhere younger and trendier?  Filey, perhaps.  Even Bridlington?

'Hi!' she began, deliberately eschewing the more usual 'Good afternoon, ladies' which she quickly realised was a mistake.  She smiled brightly and ploughed on.

'I'd like you to meet my Dad, Aethelred Thwaite.  Not literally, of course, he's probably out in the forest somewhere failing to catch something for tea right now.....' Her giggle met with silence.

'Well, Dad's a bit hidebound when it comes to food.  You know the sort of thing...”I don't like my food mucked about with... I like to know what I'm eating...”  So I thought I'd better do something to try to bring him up to date a bit.'

She flashed what she hoped was an indulgent and affectionate smile.  To no avail.

She could sense a growing undercurrent of disapproval, and Mrs Scruton shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

'So what did you do?' she enquired, more brusquely than she had intended.

'What did I do?  I did a wolf terrine campagne with chilli and mustard seeds followed by loin of woolly mammoth with a garlic, cinnamon and and ginger jus served with a herb salad and tamarind dressing.'

There was an incredulous silence.

'Dad's always loved woolly mammoth and it's really quite easy once you've sourced the tamarinds.  But hey!  We're moving on from being hunter gatherers – the Bronze Age will be more agricultural, we can grow these things.  It's an exciting time to be a gourmet!'

'And what did your Dad think?' asked a sceptical voice.

'He hated it.  More than that, he hated the very idea of growing food - you know the sort of thing... “ My Dad were a hunter gatherer and his Dad afore him.  Thwaites has allus been hunter gatherers; allus will.  Bloody agriculture!”'

There was a sharp intake of breath.

'Oh sorry!  But that's Dad for you!  So then I thought I'd try to win Mum over first.  She's a bit more adventurous with food, so I did one of her favourites but with a bit of a twist.  That turned out much better – she loved being the first in our village to have a casserole of spiced leg of Yorkshire mastodon with saffron and figs, served with duchesse potatoes – much better if you put a pinch of grated nutmeg in! - and cajun grilled vegetables.  The mastodon really needed coriander and turmeric but I didn't have any, and that's when I thought about getting Leofric – he's my brother - to start growing some of these things in a small way.  He's going to tell you all about it.  So, over to Leofric!'

A filthy and dishevelled creature wandered up to join Egwyne, blinking in the light and fidgeting nervously.  His hair was hopelessly matted and his pitiful beard no more than wispy, if that.  He was painfully thin and looked lost and confused.  Nubia looked shocked, but some of the mothers in the audience looked on this desolate and shambling figure with a certain tenderness and concern.

'Like, hi.'

'Tell us about what you've been growing, Leofric' prompted Egwyne.

'Well I'm into like rebirth and the cycle of life' he muttered, scarcely audibly.  'Like growth is mystical, right?'

Frozen stares, but one or two encouraging nods as well.

'Like I'm trying to be in harmony with the Earth, feel the rhythm of the seasons, right?  I'm just like a tree, you know?  Like I give fruit and flowers and shade and stuff to others without, like, expecting anything for myself.'

Murmurs of approval.

'And the herbs and spices he grows are good!' interrupted Egwyne.  'I want him to build it up into a business so that he can make something of himself while helping skilled cooks like you produce even tastier meals!'

At last, she felt a growing warmth and enthusiasm in the group.

'Even Dad can see the potential!'

'Yeah, he wants me to make money but I'm like not really into money and property and stuff. Property is like theft, know what I mean?  Like it's really all about peace and love and poetry, you know?  It's like cosmic.   It's peace that'll guide the planets and love will steer the stars.'

Hostility was fast turning to acceptance; acceptance to interest; interest to approval.

'When do you think that will be?' asked an animated voice.

'When the moon is like in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars, right?'

Nubia turned to him.

'That's truly poetic.  Did you write it yourself?'

'Yeah.'

'You have a very considerable talent.'

'Cheers.  I mean, thank you.... like, what I really want to be is a songwriter, you know?  My head's full of these like visions of the future.  They're like just surreal.'

'Are you writing anything now?'

'Yeah.'  He drew a crumpled parchment from beneath his rags and handed it to her.

Nubia read it carefully although with some difficulty, asked for silence, and then stood, looking stunned.

'We have with us today two extraordinary young people' she announced.  'Miss Thwaite deserves enormous praise for her inspirational efforts in promoting a new and more exciting cuisine fit for the Bronze Age.  Indeed, if I may put it in the modern demotic with which I am sure our guests are more familiar than I, I would say that this new culinary artistry is, er......like, er..... totes amazeballs!'  A gale of laughter – friendly, supportive laughter! - rose from the group. Nubia's gentle, self deprecating humour had skilfully won over the doubters, and it was quite clear that this was now the official Slatterthwaite cum Heckdale WI line on cooking with exotic spices.

'And Mr Thwaite has written the most exceptional and stirring verse of which I will now give you a flavour.'

If a throat can be cleared sonorously that is what Mrs Nubia Scruton now did before reading from a barely legible and badly spelt scrawl.

'And will those feet, in future time's

Walk upon Englands mountin's grene?

So truly evocative isn't it? But the bit I really like is at the end....

I will not sease from mental fihgt

Nor shall my sord slep in my hand

Till we've a great sureal jem

In Englands grene and plesant land.

It's absolutely glorious.....'

But her words were drowned out by a burst of spontaneous applause, cheering and stamping of feet.  She looked archly at Leofric.

'We'll have to tidy up the spelling and the punctuation, young man' she simpered, almost coquettishly, 'but once you've set it to music I think the WI can do something special with it.'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                                                          THE BALLAD OF.............

Godfrey's repeated forays into the news made me wonder 'Whatever next?'  Perhaps this?

THE BALLAD OF GODFREY BLOOM

I've made a few cock ups; belief's been defied,

I suppose I could run but I simply can't hide,

To buff up my image I think that need a

Spin doctor, to paint me as winner, succeeder

- Or maybe spread tales that damage our leader -

I'll write now to Mr McBride.

Mr McBride, Mr McBride,

You stitch up your victims with passion and pride,

And I'm truly impressed by the way you misled

Those palpable innocents - Gordon and Ed,

My ratings are slumping, I'm losing my cred,

Please help me and come be my guide.

Dear Mr Bloom, Dear Mr Bloom,

Of course I can help you escape from your gloom,

To nobble your leader, we'll trump up a charge -

He's taken up Islam and gone on a hajj -

It might not be true but will scupper Farage,

Fear not! Your ratings will zoom!

Mr McBride, Mr McBride,

Proposal fantastic! It's all cut and dried,

Just what I needed - a sparkling new broom

To sweep to success and bring Nigel his doom.

Damian! Thank you! Regards, Godfrey Bloom

PS – I've made an aside.......

An aside! An aside!! You called them all sluts!

Your friends and supporters! No, don't give me 'Buts'

A challenge is fine but it has to be winnable,

This cat that you've left me is simply not skinnable!

Away with you, Godfrey, you're plainly unspinnable!

Begone! You're crazy! You're nuts!

OH! DIDACTIC EVEN!

Hello again - here is the September edition of The Autolycan.  One story this time - a mystery thriller based somewhat loosely on a well known book about the Holy Grail.  Sorry I couldn't work out how to fit in an albino monk dripping blood from his cilice who made such a nicely inconspicuous assassin in the original.  Hope you like it - if so, please pass the link on to others.  By the way, you have to work at this one a bit........

Why is there a huge pentagram scratched into the inside of a lake in Kazakhstan? Good question.

                                                                                                                 Global Post

Gordon Lanbert slept. It was close to Christmas and he had had a hard day in the offices at Argos. His head was still swimming with figures when he went to bed, and he dreaded tomorrow. Saturday, Gordon knew, would be worse, much worse. Outside, the rain beat incessantly against his window. Inside, Gordon snuggled ever deeper into the duvet. He slept. Tomorrow was still a blessedly long way off.

An electronic chime roused him to the brink of consciousness. It chimed again. What the..... Phone. At this time of night? Phone. He groped clumsily. Eventually he located the handset.

'Yeah?'

'Professor Lanbert, I am truly sorry to disturb you at this time of night, but you are needed very urgently.'

'Whurr........'

'Professor Lanbert, I am.......'

Somewhere, an old memory stirred. This was not the first time. I am not Professor Gordon Lanbert. I share his name, but I am not a religious symbologist. I work for Argos.

'But, errrrr........what.....'

'Professor Lanbert, the phone line is not secure. I cannot speak openly. There has been a find of the utmost significance. You must prepare to leave at once. A car will collect you in precisely twenty minutes. Have your passport.'

The phone went dead.

Gordon tried to focus. Think man, think! In six hours from now he should be back at his desk for another day spent staring hopelessly at endless spreadsheets. Producing pointless information. Going home exhausted and unfulfilled. Or he could play along with the mistake. Quickly he got dressed and threw a few things into a holdall.

The pimply youth in the Citroen 2CV wasn't quite what he had been expecting, but then perhaps the pick up should be unobtrusive before the transfer to something more glamorous. Where are you taking me?

'I'm supposed to take you to Victoria' he said, reading Gordon's thoughts. 'There's an early morning bus to Heathrow. You'll find out more when you get there. Got the fare, have you?'

The early morning bus, peopled as it was with drunks and rowdies almost made him change his mind, but the greeting at the airport bus stop lifted his spirits immeasurably. She was slim and dark with raven black hair and perhaps the most beautiful woman Gordon had ever seen.

'I am Shevi, Professor' she murmured 'Shevi Pounee. I will tell you more on the plane. We're going to Kazakhstan. You can buy our tickets over there. I trust you are carrying a major credit card?'

Queueing for check in and security took no more then two or three hours but eventually they were airborne and Shevi began to explain.

'There is a beautiful lake in Kazakhstan, Professor. A river has been diverted and the water level has dropped, revealing a giant pentagram carved into the side of the lake. Nobody knows how or why. There are theories of course - early astronauts, black magic....'

Demurely, she looked up at him through thick black eyelashes.

'We need the help of a great symbologist.'

'But who are you? What is your interest?'

'We are a shadowy organisation, seekers after the Holy Grail. You will know that the pentagram is of great significance to the Grail.'

Play for time, Gordon, play for time.

'But what do your people understand the Holy Grail to be?'

Her silken poise suddenly deserted her.

'Well, it's hugely important, obviously. It's all bound up with the sacred feminine and the Catholic church. The Knights Templar come into it, so does the Vitruvian Man, I think. Oh, and the Priory of Sion. And Opus Dei. It's got a lot to do with Mary Magdalene – a lot of people don't know this but Michaelangelo slipped her into the Last Supper, you know, right next to Jesus....'

'Leonardo' said Gordon quietly, thinking of the new range of framed prints that had been selling rather well.

'What? Oh, yes.' She looked away. 'I get a bit mixed up' she added, unnecessarily. 'That's why we need the very special help you can give us.'

A half smile escaped Gordon's lips. Make it up as you go along! Google 'pentagram' and 'Holy Grail', little bit of basic knowledge, bluff your way through.......get the girl?

The taxi from the airport wasn't cheap, neither was the hotel (with two single room supplements, Gordon noted ruefully, wondering about his credit limit) but the trip out to the lake next day was beautiful. And there it was in bright sunshine, a huge pentagram cut into the rock, just as Shevi had promised.

'What does it signify, Gordon?' she breathed, and he trembled slightly at the use of his first name, but for the moment he was grateful for the single room and the opportunity for research it had afforded.

'The five points symbolise the five virtues of the seeker after the Holy Grail' he announced, hoping he could make up five plausible virtues if she asked. He was pretty certain chastity wouldn't be one of them. 'We have found a first clue to a path that might eventually lead to the Grail itself. Look upon this as a signpost.'

'But it's pointing in five different directions.'

Gordon smiled - knowingly, he hoped.

'We must look deeper. Each point will conceal a clue, probably at the tip. We must dig down a little at each tip.'

Shevi was astonished at the result, but not half as astonished as Gordon was. Starting at the topmost point, they uncovered a stone with 01 carved into it. Proceeding clockwise, the remaining four points yielded stones bearing the numbers 1,2,3 and 5.

'Gordon, what does it mean?'

Gordon spent his life dealing with figures and could barely believe his own eyes. Surely not! I recognise the sequence!

'We must dig one more time, right in the middle.'

They did. Another stone, this time bearing ~~~/~~~~.

Gordon paled. 'The Fibonacci Sequence!' he breathed.

'The.........?'

'A numerical sequence where each number is the sum of the preceding two. It's also famously an anagram of 'Fab Quiescence Icon'. It's telling us that this icon is quiescent, inactive. We must bring it to life..........'

' The lore of the Grail is full of anagrams', said Shevi. 'They're everywhere.'

'I see' nodded Gordon. 'Now, I guess the way to bring this icon to life is to continue the sequence.'

'So that would be 8 then 13, then 21 and, what, 34' said Shevi, slowly.

All colour had now drained from Gordon's face.

'My God' he whispered '813/2134, it's an Argos catalogue number.'

'….............??'

As if on autopilot Gordon explained. ' The Louvre Printed Mirror Sliding Wardrobe Door! A simple yet contemporary 4 panel floor-to-ceiling sliding mirror door with a silver frame which works in any surrounding, making your room look bigger whilst releasing spare space! We knock them out for about £120.  But I can't see how a mirrored door leads us to the Holy Grail.'

There was a long pause, then..........

'Perhaps I can cast some light on this,' said Shevi 'early light, anyway. I don't think it's the door that's important. I know I get a bit confused about all this, but I'm sure the Louvre in Paris comes into all this somewhere. The important word isn't 'door', it's 'Louvre.' Perhaps the pentagram's sending us there.'

'Early light, early light.....Oh! Early light!' exclaimed Gordon, and the phrase reverberated sonorously round his brain. He knew it was significant but had no idea why.

The plane to Paris put yet further strain on Gordon's credit card, but next morning they found themselves at the Louvre.

'Bonjour' smiled the receptionist ''Ow can I 'elp?'

'I saw an advert' improvised Shevi 'about an ancient burial chamber of huge significance'

'Ah! I take pride in my advert.'

Pride in my advert. This phrase too echoed round Gordon's head. Pride in my advert. Think man, think! Pride in my advert! Wait! Got it!

'The inverted pyramid!'

She inclined her head. 'M'sieur 'as a way with words. Suivez moi, s'il vous plaît.'

She led them to the Carrousel du Louvre and showed them a small skylight that resembled an inverted pyramid. Gordon tensed as he felt Shevi's hand slip into his. They held tight.

'We get zis question all ze time. People are always reading sensational books. But unfortunately, zere is nothing below the pyramid. Some work is being done as you can see, but zere is only a 'ole in ze ground.'

'Just a hole?'

'Mais oui, a hole, rightly'.

A hole, rightly. The explosion in Gordon's head was louder than ever.

Gordon and Shevi fell into each others arms.

Gordon quivered. 'The Holy Grail! We have completed our quest' he said.

'And found our true destiny' she replied, holding him closer.

'But my credit card cannot stand two single rooms tonight.'

She looked up at him and smiled.

ANAGRAM CORNER

What? After all that lot? Sorry – Anagram Corner has gone for a lie down and a cup of tea!

The Bookseller's Tale

Hello, and welcome once again to The Autolycan. Today, I'd like to enlist your sympathy for Geoffrey Chaucer. Apart from being a poet – indeed, 'The Father of English Literature' – Chaucer was philosopher, bureaucrat, diplomat, soldier, courtier, valet, Justice of the Peace, part time scientist and heaven knows what else besides. He was captured during the siege of Rheims, and his sovereign paid sixteen quid for his ransom. In 1374 Edward III granted him 'a gallon of wine daily for the rest of his life', which must have had some effect on his prodigious literary output, of which The Canterbury Tales is just a small part. He was somebody. And all you and I remember of him is the dirty bits from the Miller's Tale and perhaps the first couple of lines of the Prologue.

I thought of him when I came across an item from an old edition of The Times. The general point it was making though seemed to me as up to date as ever, and I thought perhaps Geoffrey deserved a bit of a tribute. I'll leave you to decide whether or not he would appreciate it.

THE BOOKSELLER'S TALE

or

FROM DANTE TO DAN B.

Hard hit publishers are putting on a campaign to sell 'literary books.'

The Times

Whan that aprill with his shoures soote

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote

A companie from every shire's end

Of engelonde to caunterbury doth wend

And pilgrims from divers trades do mix -

A Friar, a Squire, a Dominatrix,

A Sales Consultant, a Nail Technician,

A Weather Presenter, a Canine Beautician -

And each a tale, a yarn, doth spinne,

And at a Bookseller than wol I first bigynne.

A Bookseller was first to feature,

Down at heel, a shabby creature,

Who held aloft a fearsome graph

Which showed why he was cutting staff.

Sales of proper books were tanking -

Though 50 Shades of Grey's were spanking -

(At this the Wife of Bath, the harlot,

Turned pink, then red, then deepest scarlet!)

'All my profits shrink and dwindle,

I put it down to bloody Kindle!

Histories and crammers and novels and grammars, and

All of them quickly downloaded from Amazon!

And look at the lists, the lists of best sellers!

And what do you see? Your Hamlets? Othellos?

Your Miltons? Your Trollopes? Even your Dahls?

Your Forsters? Your Dickens – Monica? Charles?

Why, no! And this is the reason I'm lairy,

It's Ramsay and dieting, Bikers so Hairy,

And can it be true? Miranda? Ms Hart?

Is right at the top of the best seller chart?

No mention of Joe and his cheery 'What larks!' and

A listing instead for one J. Bloody Clarkson!

What's more' – he said – 'now I am upping the ante -

I can flog that Inferno – by Brown, not by Dante!

And the bloke who's in charge of our regional sales -

Whose humour and cheeriness constantly fails -

Says 'Don't say 'a problem' - think outside the box,

Blue sky's the word, opportunity knocks!

Sales of classics are currently blunt as

A jelly 'cos we cannot get to the punters!'

Quoth he (stretching scansion and metre and rhyme,

And mangling the language, a literary crime.)

So I've to come up with some targets, objectives,

Strategy, tactics to meet his directives....'

'A word if I may!' cried the Weather Presenter,

'I've checked out the logs at our great weather centre,

You can't sell to folks who just cannot believe you.

To see what I'm saying go back to our preview -

You talk about April with showers and buds,

When everyone knows that it's tempests and floods!

And drought? In March?? Credibility fails!

March speaks of torrents and blizzards and gales!'

'Make out it's exciting! Make out it's a thriller!

Play up the coarse bits! The sex!' cried the Miller.

'You'll soon see the books that you sell will be charting

If you give 'em a bit of a laugh about farting!'

'Marketing! Ads!' yelled the Sales Consultant,

'Sales through the roof – you'll be quite exultant,

Multiple offers – cheapest one free,

Get on the sofa on breakfast TV!

Bright lurid covers, discussions on Sky,

Celebrity forewords, perhaps Stephen Fry?

Don't be too narrow, think of the broader plan,

'Fry?' sniffed the bookman 'I'd rather have Vorderman.'

'Wouldn't we all!' cried the Miller, with mirth,

But a look from the Monk brought him straight down to Earth.

'You need a firm hand since it's clear that your antics

Are naughty and low', frowned the Dominatrix.

'You cannot escape, just chuck in the sponge, and

We'll soon have you helpless and trussed in my dungeon!

You must be corrected, you raise all my hackles.'

'Sweet Lord!' breathed the Miller, hoping for shackles.

And others cried out with suggestions – of sorts -

Tacky and shallow; few serious thoughts.

And the Bookseller found that his head soon did spin

With the clamour, the outcry, the hubbub, the din.....

So...

'Enough!' cried the bookman 'We'll write down our tales -

The lawyers, the clergy, the poor men, the gentry -

And we'll count a success if our book never fails,

And is parodied still in the twenty first century.'

ANAGRAM CORNER

!!!ROYAL BABY SPECIAL!!!!

While the world's media was engaged in a seemingly endless and undignified scrum for first news of the birth, first pictures, great grandma's reaction and so on, Master Autolycus stole a march on all of them to bring you the first recorded comment direct from Prince George himself!!

GEORGE ALEXANDER LOUIS

REGAL RULE IDEA GOES ON!  x

If anyone's got a better idea for dealing with the x please let me know!