ROMAN REMAINS

Hello, and welcome to this month's edition of the Autolycan.  I couldn't get a June edition out what with holidays, City of Culture commitments and so on, and consequently have been sitting on this story from the Telegraph about a Roman sarcophagus for some time.  Although not as long as the sarcophagus itself has clearly been sitting around.  Hope you like it, and as usual please pass it on to others if you do.

It was sent to me by an American friend who more recently has been in touch to say that a mutual friend in Colorado has recently been involved in a serious car accident.  So this story is dedicated to Colorado Katy - hope you make a full and speedy recovery and look forward to seeing you when possible!

ROMAN REMAINS

Blenheim Palace discovers marble 'flowerpot' is actually £300k Roman coffin

                                                                                                     Daily Telegraph

Of all the many differences between our way of life here in dear old England and that of our friends across the Atlantic, with whom – even now – we enjoy a 'special relationship', one of the most puzzling to my way of thinking concerns songs. Not just any songs, that is, but songs about towns. It's not the big fish I'm talking about – New York, Las Vegas, Chicago on their side of the water; London, Glasgow, Liverpool on ours but the smaller fry. Luckenbach, Texas is a town most Brits will never had heard of, largely perhaps because it 'maintains a ghost town feel with its small population' or so Wikipedia thinks and who am I to argue? Didn't stop Waylon Jennings having a hit with a song about a rather well to do couple who lived there and boasted 'a four car garage.' Classic country music stuff. Creedence Clearwater Revival were smitten by Lodi, California, of which few Brits will have heard either, but dynamism and Lodi clearly go hand in hand, if their very own publication 'Welcome to the City of Lodi' (www.lodi.gov) is anything to go by. Follow the link and what do you find? First time I tried the very first item on the first page breathlessly informed me that 'the utility payment dropbox will be moved to near Church St entrance in City Hall parking lot.' Wow! Intrigued, I had another go today and found that 'we have added electric card readers on many of our doors in the civic center to provide better control of secured areas, after experiencing a high level of nuisance entries to these facilities.' A high level of nuisance entries, eh? Dutiful citizens trying to pay their utility bills in the wrong place? Lodi buffs desperate for their next fix of Lodi action? 'Hey - what's next? Gotta be big! How you guys gonna beat moving the dropbox?' No wonder Creedence lamented 'Oh Lord, stuck in Lodi again.'

But at least it gets a mention. On our side of the ocean no budding Tony Bennett or Gene Pitney ever left his heart in Wolverhampton or regretted his misdeeds 24 hours from Grimsby. No-one – ever - begged someone to show them the way to Amersham. By the time I get to Felixstowe? No. I've got a gal in K-E-T-T-E-R-I-N-Gee! What a gal! Even more no. But we don't do very well on the more photogenic places either. There's not many mentions of Oxford beyond David Bowie's 1995 assertion that 'I have not been to Oxford town' and you'll search in vain for much mention of Canterbury since Chaucer's attempts to 'corner ye pakkage toure markette' as the little-known Tour Manager's Tale puts it. And for all its historic connections with Dukes and Churchills, Blenheim is celebrated in song about as often as nearby Swindon.

Which is odd, because thanks to the Telegraph, we now know that it has a longer and more illustrious history even than we supposed, a history that thinks nothing of throwing up the odd fourth century Roman sarcophagus filled with tulips to baffle 21^st century scholarship. So what was it doing there? I investigated.

The first surprise was that the word 'sarcophagus' derives from the Greek sark (flesh) and phagos' (eating). It is literally a device for decomposing the flesh of – presumably inconvenient – stiffs. Stiffs you'd rather other people, especially perhaps your enemies didn't know about. According to the early Roman historian Fallacious (184 – 241 AD) one of the very first rulers of Rome took the name Sarcophagus, having disposed of Romulus and Remus by dumping them in a stone flower planter which he quickly realised had some very handy properties. As his power grew Sarcophagus extended his influence far and wide, and by the time BC gave way to AD was sending parties of men to sail with early raiding Gauls to Britain. It is interesting to note that this practice continued for centuries after Sarcophagus died, so that later Viking invaders were accompanied by Romans on their voyages to Greenland and, ultimately, America.

Both Gauls and Vikings thought it odd that the Romans insisted on decorating the boats with planters full of flowers wherever they went, but were astute enough to realise that presenting themselves as itinerant and eccentric gardeners rather than warlike invaders bamboozled the bucolic and rather naïve Brits no end. Indeed, it was Erik the Red himself who coined the phrase 'the peony is mightier than the sword', while his countrymen composed yet more of their interminable Norse sagas. The Romans joined in these as best they could, having been led to believe they were hymning the greatness of Sarcophagus. It wasn't until the publication of the first Norse – Latin dictionary many years later that they might have seen that they were in fact questioning the wisdom of carting stone planters round the North Sea, but the Romans never realised this since try as they might none of them ever got beyond the first couple of lines. As it turned out though, Sarcophagus may have been greater than even they imagined, and modern historians have credited him with creating the first Single European Market of several million people, albeit only in flower planters in which he did a roaring trade with credulous natives who never had anywhere to put their Spring bulbs.

Sarcophagus exulted in the growing strength of his Empire but whilst strong in foreign conquest he neglected stability at home. His violent son, Mutinous the Brute, seized the opportunity to raise a band of conspirators who overthrew him, declared himself Mutinous Seizer and buried his father in one of his own eponymous flower planters, surrounded by clumps of daffodils and crocuses. 'Et tulips, Brute!' they laughed when describing the sumptuous floral display which Sarcophagus was unwittingly feeding.

It wasn't long though, before Mutinous was himself overthrown by his young protégé, Precocious Discipulus, and in turn found himself pushing up not merely daisies. The popularity of this method of despatch grew, and the modern garden centre with its plethora of planters of all shapes and sizes has its origins in this period.

As an aside, it should be noted that the sale of tropical fish from garden centres began much later when the Emperor Aquarius realised that some species would eat anything and offered an alternative means of disposing of enemies. To this day though, nobody has put forward a convincing explanation as to why these centres are filled with Christmas merchandise from about June on. Some scholars have speculated that the word Centre was corrupted to Santa in about the 14^th century, but others, more darkly, posit confusion between the words 'sleigh' and 'slay.'

Many generations of Precocious Discipulus's successors have since travelled to Northern Europe, where they are still shrewdly exploiting the insatiable demand for sarcophagi. Mostly these have been cheap inferior models suitable mainly for flowers, but there have also been some much higher quality models to be sold only to very special clients and it is known that Churchill himself bought at least one of these for Blenheim. This was not of course to rid himself of some embarrassing corpse but accidentally, after looking even deeper into the glass than usual, whereupon some slurred comments of his in praise of a recently deceased general were misinterpreted.

'Hell of a fellow,' eulogised Churchill. 'Lion of a man. Like a tiger. No, not tiger. More cold blooded. Shark. Need more like him. Shark of a guy.'

'Sorry, sir, what's that we need more of?'

'Shark of a guy.'

At least Blenheim's gardeners were pleased.

Other descendants of Precocious, recognising that their forefathers had travelled to America, now decided on a major advance into the American sarcophagus market. Assiduously, they flattered and built up their influence with powerful men, in particular politicians, who in turn saw mutual advantage in co-operation. After a while, Presidents themselves began to humour them by adopting secretive Roman code names for use in their dealings together. The world may have known him as JFK, but strictly within the trade Licentious l was in office from 1961 to 3, to be followed by Mendacious Felonious from 1969 to 1974 and Licentious ll from 1993 to 2001. Sarcophagus dealers are uncertain how best they should relate to the presidency of Calamitas Obnoxious the Duplicitous.

And here we come to a strange truth, for while we Brits may not celebrate our towns in song in the same way that Americans do, the reverse is true when it comes to political leaders. We have a proud tradition, which starts with Won't You Come Home, Disraeli, wends its way through Lloyd George's curious relationship with my father, then alights briefly in the Garden of Eden before moving on to the composite Maggie May, who has yet to be completely taken away, although perhaps it won't be long. I am not aware that Calamitas Obnoxious has yet been hymned in song – for one thing some of the rhymes might be tricky – but if I'm wrong no doubt my American friends will be the first to let me know.

ANAGRAM CORNER

CALAMITAS OBNOXIOUS

?

USA BOOS TOXIC ANIMAL

THE BAKER STREET (HIGHLY) IRREGULARS

Hello again..

...and welcome to the latest edition of The Autolycan.  Sorry it's a bit later than usual - what with so much going on in Hull as the UK City of Culture it's getting harder to find the time to write!

This latest one stems from an old headline, but one which can still be trotted out in order to embarrass whoever wrote it.  Athens, by the way, in this context, is not the Greek one but a town in Limestone County, Alabama.

Hope you like the story, and if so, as ever, do please pass on the link, Like it on Facebook or whatever.  Many thanks.

 THE BAKER STREET (HIGHLY) IRREGULARS

Dead Body Found in Cemetery

                                                                                                         Athens News Courier

'Mrs Hudson,' began he 'pray be so good as to bring tea for Dr Watson, it is clear that he has had none for fully six hours.'

Mrs Hudson left the room and I shook my head in my usual bemused and bewildered fashion.

''Pon my word, dear friend!' I expostulated. 'How can you possibly know that I have had no tea for six hours?'

He fixed me with that unsettling gimlet stare of his.

'It is the difference' quoth he ' between merely seeing what is placed in front of you and actively observing the scene. I have observed you long enough to know that you are a man of regular habits. You rise habitually at seven, you perform your ablutions, you have breakfast. Today, the condition of your beard betrays you. You plainly shaved a good two hours earlier than usual.'

'Remarkable, Holmes!' I chuckled 'and I suppose you can tell me what brand of tea I drank?'

'Twinings' replied he, without missing a beat.

'Extraordinary! Your powers of perception never cease to amaze! But how......'

'Simplicity itself! It is on special offer at Sainsbury's.'

'Capital, Holmes! Capital!'

Mrs Hudson bustled back in with the tea and served us both.

'I'm afraid your abilities are way beyond an old dunderhead like me' I remarked, once Mrs Hudson had poured the tea.

'Dunderhead I would contest' returned he. 'It is quite true that you want something of my fluent logical and deductive capabilities, but I find your more ponderous - even dull witted - thought processes have other benefits.'

I stiffened. Ponderous! Dull witted! Indeed! I suppose my demeanour must have conveyed my hurt and displeasure. Holmes continued undisturbed.

'You must see that you serve as my somewhat lacklustre foil. Rather like a slightly clunky plot device in detective stories whose workaday function it is to enable his principal to demonstrate his genius.'

Lacklustre! A mere plot device! Whilst my admiration for Holmes knew no bounds, I could not accept such calumnies. I determined there and then that I would get even with him. From behind Holmes' chair, Mrs Hudson shot me a very welcome sympathetic glance.

A few days later I was once again with Holmes in his study. It is true that I may have been somewhat on edge, but Holmes was his normal self. He clearly considered his earlier slander of me to be of no account.

Mrs Hudson again entered and served tea.

'Will that be all, sir?'

Holmes studied her closely.

'No. Sit down, Mrs Hudson. Now, you need not be nervous, but we have a couple of questions. Watson?'

He was testing me and I knew it. For several moments I made no answer, while he held me with his eyes, making clear that he believed that I could not for the life of me see what he was driving at or what I was expected to ask. Then my solicitous enquiry after her painful neuralgia evinced only a display of disdain from the great detective.

'That will not do at all' he remarked. Then, addressing Mrs Hudson directly - 'was it dead body or ghost? I incline towards dead body but am prepared to be corrected.'

I'm not sure if she gaped and I gawped or if it was the other way round. There was a stunned silence.

'Come, come,' encouraged he, 'it is perfectly straightforward. The hem of your skirt tells me that you have recently walked through wet grass approximately three quarters of an inch long. The only grass of that description in this vicinity is at the cemetery. There are faint scratch marks on both your cheeks and your voice is slightly more strained than usual. You have plainly screamed loudly and clasped both hands tightly to your face where you have inadvertently inflicted these minor injuries with your fingernails. I daresay further investigation would reveal traces of face powder under the nails. Now, I say again, was it dead body or ghost?'

There was an awkward silence, which I perhaps unwisely filled by remarking that the sighting of a ghost would certainly excite such a reaction, while dead bodies are what one would expect to find in a cemetery. I gave it as my view that it must therefore have been a ghost - a view which met with open contempt.

'Perhaps' I ventured, 'I might escort Mrs Hudson back to the cemetery and investigate the situation. It seems to me that it could be important to have a physician on the scene as soon as possible to preserve a good chance of ascertaining cause of death.'

I was pleased that Holmes readily concurred, adding only that I should report back as soon as possible. Some time later, I sent Mrs Hudson back to him with a written communication detailing the sensational news I had discovered and what action I had taken. I vouchsafed to Holmes the amazing intelligence that the body in question belonged to none other than Sebastian Moran - assistant to our old adversary, Professor Moriarty - that he was not in fact dead, but had merely collapsed and was not injured. I explained that I had brought him round and made sure that he was well before summoning a taxicab and taking him to hospital for further investigations. I trusted that he would approve my actions and would return to Baker Street as soon as I could.

Holmes was in a furious temper when I returned later that afternoon.

'Fool!' he cried. 'It is imperative that I question him before the police do so. Go back to him! Insist that he requires further specialist medical treatment! Get him out and send him back here! Go!'

I trust it is not too conceited on my part to record that I had expected this, and had already planned how to deal with his urgent command. But then another – most exigent – thought struck him.

'No! You clearly have some influence with him! Bring him back here yourself! In person!'

This threw my plan into some disarray and as I made my way downstairs I tried to think over in my slow witted way how I should best proceed. I had formulated a plan to get my revenge and this involved disguising myself as Moran. I had of course profited from Holmes' mastery of this most potent of crafts over many years. But even I realised that I could not simultaneously represent both Watson and Moran. Then it hit me. It was dishonest, very dishonest, but the cause demanded it and I believed it might work.

I did not make my way to any hospital. It would have been pointless to do so, since there never had been a body, either dead or alive. I went instead to a flat in Bayswater where I had arranged to meet Moran and requested an interview. I informed him that I could arrange access to Holmes' apartment in Baker St for him and that I would be present at the meeting. The most difficult part of the audience came when I explained to him that I would be disguised as him, and that he would therefore have to be disguised as me. He, posing as Watson, would bring Watson, posing as Moran to Holmes' innermost sanctum. Fortunately his criminal mind grasped all this rather more quickly than mine did, and shortly we were able to exchange clothes – it was fortuitous that we were of similar build – complete our disguises and set out for our destination.

At first all went well, but it didn't take long before the flaw in my plan became apparent. Holmes had questioned Moran (me) intensively, and I believe I gave a pretty good account of myself. Himself. Certainly Holmes seemed to be taken in. But then he saw an opportunity which I confess had evaded me. When he put forward his idea I was dumbfounded. Thunderstruck would not be too strong a word.

'I have long sought access to Professor Moriarty himself' he averred. 'The monkey is one thing; the organ grinder quite another. Moran,' he said, addressing me 'you and I must exchange clothes so that I can pass as you and you can pass as me. In that way I will readily be able to infiltrate Moriarty's presence.'

The switch of clothing itself was the work of a few moments only, but I for one was having difficulty keeping up with who was who, and just as importantly, why all this was going on. Then I remembered my masterplan, execution of which was still possible, though complicated by the fact that Holmes was now passing himself off as Moran, Moran as me, and me – as I frequently had to remind myself – as Holmes.

I waited. I had of course tipped the constabulary off that they could find Moran in Holmes' rooms in Baker St, and although it seemed like an eternity it couldn't have been above half an hour before Mrs Hudson knocked at the door and ushered them into the room. They instantly spied a man they not unreasonably thought was Moran, and unwittingly shackled Holmes himself in handcuffs and frogmarched him off, looking very pleased with themselves. It occurred to me that Holmes would make them pay for this indignity at a later date, but just at that moment I had bigger fish to fry.

My next move was to manifest myself as the real Dr John Watson, a revelation that involved shedding Holmes' attire. Having convinced the constables of my identity, I instructed them to arrest Moran, who was of course still disguised as me. They carted him off with even less ceremony than had been afforded Holmes.

This left only Mrs Hudson and me in the room, with me now dressed only in my underwear and seriously concerned that the next entrant to the room might be Holmes' housemaid desirous of making this the next exchange of clothing.

.

We fell into each others' arms and kissed lovingly.

'Martha! At last! We are free!!'

'John! My own one!'

'Oh Martha! You played your part to perfection – the business with the wet grass and the fingernail marks was masterly! And to see the way Holmes swallowed the bait! But now, my love, there is no time to lose – we must flee! Is everything ready?'

'Of course. But how did you manage to plan and carry out such an audacious plan? It speaks of being neither ponderous nor dull witted'

'I allowed myself a satisfied smile.

'Elementary, my dear (future) Mrs Watson,' I replied.

ANAGRAM CORNER

FRAU ANGELA MERKEL

I couldn't make a decent anagram from just 'Angela Merkel', but with the addition of 'Frau'

you can....

EKE FULLER ANAGRAM

(a real German fluke!)

WE ARE QUITE AMUSED

Hello, and welcome to the March edition of The Autolycan.  A bit later than usual this month, and anagram corner has gone AWOL - sorry about that but it's getting harder to find the time with so much going on in the UK City of Culture!  As I think most regular readers will know this has got off to a brilliant start, and is showing no signs of flagging.  If you haven't yet visited, do make a point of doing so.  Keep an eye on the website - www.hull2017.co.uk - but beware, some popular shows are sellouts already.  Whether there will be time for an April version of The Autolycan remains to be seen!

Anyway, to the March edition.  I loved this item about an American chap laying claim to the British throne.  What lay behind that, I wondered?  As ever, do please pass the link on if you like this, Like it on Facebook and so on.  Many thanks.

WE ARE QUITE AMUSED

An American took out an advertisement in The Times last week to give the Royal Family thirty days' notice of his intention to claim the British throne.

The Week

Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth ll, feeling slightly disoriented, opened her eyes. Focussing as best she could on the television screen in front of her, the realisation slowly dawned that this was no longer the news coming to her from dear dependable Huw Edwards; rather it had morphed into something very loud and very unfunny, notwithstanding its own – clearly misplaced – belief that it was very loud and very funny. Her eyes searched for the remote. When she failed to find it she reached for a voluminous card index file on the table adjacent to her easy chair, consulted it, punched a couple of buttons on a console and waited. Moments later there was a knock on the door.

'Come.'

The door opened and a tall, upright man of military bearing marched in. He bowed once from the neck.

'How may I be of assistance, Your Majesty?'

The Queen peered uncertainly at him.

'One summoned one's Master of the Remote. You clearly are not he. Whom am I addressing?'

'Ma'am, the Master of the Remote sadly passed away some ten years ago, but as a mark of respect to a loyal servant he was never removed from his office. I am the Yeoman Warder of the Queen's Remote in Ordinary and his unworthy deputy.'

The Queen sniffed.

'In Ordinary? Oh well, see if you can find the damned thing anyway.'

His expert eye swept the room locating the missing remote immediately. Its exact whereabouts presented him with a delicate communication challenge but one for which his exhaustive training had well prepared him.

'Ma'am, I believe it may be on the sovereign's chair close to her right hand, but obscured from view by the folds of her attire. Should I summon the Mistress of the Robes?'

Her Majesty retrieved the remote and handed it to him.

'That will not be necessary. Zap.'

He zapped, and returned the instrument. She nodded briefly.

'That will be all.'

By now wide awake, the Queen pondered the events of the day. Lunch with the Crown Prince of somewhere with a foreign sounding name – she forgot what or where exactly – had been going rather well, they had moved on to the spotted dick and thick yellow custard without embarrassment – 'one has it with the skin, you know' she had informed her guest – until the attention of Philip's minder was momentarily distracted, allowing his charge the opportunity to enquire mischievously whether the Crown Prince's countrymen still resolved their differences by eating each other. Fortunately a major diplomatic row and exchange of Stern Notes was averted by her trusty Garter Sergeant of Conflict Resolution, formerly a ceremonial post only but one which had shouldered an increasingly heavy burden and even spawned a number of deputies and assistants as Philip grew older.

After that she'd had to endure her weekly audience with that dreadful May woman. What was her beloved Kingdom coming to? Not so long ago little Cameron - she had found it fairly easy to hold out against the repeated invitations to call him Dave – had damned nearly let Scotland go and then told some colonist or other that she had 'purred with delight at the result.' Now here was May fumbling around hopelessly with Brexit. Not a bad idea in itself, she thought, especially if it got rid of that ghastly Merkel creature carrying on as if she was a more senior Queen than she herself was - only with worse clothes and hair - but best not dealt with in this quarter-baked way by a clueless rabble who had the temerity to style themselves Her Majesty's Principal Secretaries of State for This and That.

But there was something else at the back of her mind. That day's post had as usual been delivered personally to her by Letters Poursuivante (Incoming) who had, with a kind of amused insouciance, drawn her attention to a letter from some upstart in America laying claim to her throne. 'Because I got great respect for all broads, specially that Le Pen dame and you' the letter had informed her 'I'm putting you on 30 days' notice that I'm gonna be the new King. Get used to it, lady! Suck it up!'  After the afternoon she'd had she was inclined to write back saying 'you're bloody welcome to it', but a brief conversation with the Really Good Listener of the Queen's Bedchamber soon restored her equilibrium.

She re-read the letter. The author claimed a direct line to a little known elder brother of William the Conquerer, who should, apparently, 'have inherited the Brit throne plus a bunch of other stuff' in 1066. The misspelling of 'Conqueror' severely irritated her. There was no evidence to support the claim to the throne, but there was a suggestion that Her Majesty and her immediate family would be 'taken care of' provided they co-operated, although this phrase had been untidily crossed out and replaced with 'looked after' perhaps, surmised the Queen, because the first version sounded too threatening. Late though it now was she summoned Word Processor in Waiting and dictated a note.

'Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith' (she was sorely tempted to add 'plus a bunch of other stuff' but resisted) 'has received your letter (undated) concerning the British throne. Her Majesty has commanded me to inform you, in the name of Her Majesty (see first sentence for full title) that your claim is rejected. You will note that Her Majesty's title refers to the position taken in this matter by God, whose opinion is deemed to override yours. Yours etc.' The Queen allowed herself a brief smile. That should do it.

She had a busy schedule over the next week or two, and soon forgot about the letter from America. There were cruise liners to be launched, crowds to be waved at, sundry boring dignitaries to be wined and dined, May to be fended off every week and constant requests from Kate to do a bit of babysitting, or 'just pick him up from nursery.' A plea from Tesco to open a new supermarket in West Bromwich was refused ('tell 'em no, not even if they were bloody Waitrose' she had instructed some hapless clerk), as was a request from the Glasgow Over 80s Cage Fighting Circle that she should reprise the success of her part in opening the Olympic Games by parachuting into the very cage where that year's championships were to be held. The promise of a ringside seat at the Ladies' Final, was, she felt, insufficiently tempting. A gushing letter from Blackpool saying how great it would be if she could see her way to doing the Christmas lights this year ('we would be happy to offer you and a friend free afternoon tea in the luxurious surroundings of the Blackpool Tower Ballroom') met with similarly sort shrift. The hapless clerk, though, was learning, and now deleted the expletives before sending the letters.

Meanwhile, the High Steward of the Royal Tweets - a position less antiquated than most at court - which meant that the office holder was considered an upstart and a parvenu by some of her more antiquated colleagues holding even more antiquated positions – was becoming increasingly, well, atwitter at some of the tweets she was monitoring, and eventually felt the need to consult Social Media Marechal in person. To do so face to face was highly irregular – her position required her to communicate for the most part in bursts of 140 characters only, hashtags included. However, the desired response from her superior was eventually elicited following a series of increasingly agitated tweets along the lines of Omigod!! Hav u seen latest from US? ROFLMAO! Must talk soonest! Luv u loads MWAH! God Save the Queen (it was the requirement to include that last bit that always played havoc with her 140 character limit.)

And so the Steward and the Marechal met, by Royal Appointment as it were, one momentous day in March of 2017. Notwithstanding the cutting-edge nature of their posts old royal traditions were maintained – oaths of allegiance were sworn, ceremonial bows were bowed and liveried footmen scurried here and there bearing silver trays laden with tea served in fine Royal Worcester china. Eventually the flummery died down and they began.

'Hav u seen l8est?? Is this guy 4 real???' began the High Steward, but the Marechal held up a hand.

'It's OK' she said with a smile 'we may transact Her Majesty's business in English while we are in private.' Momentarily she looked uncomfortable. 'God Save the Queen' she added, just to be on the safe side.

The High Steward relaxed.

'Well' she said 'take this one as an example. Just heard so-called Queen Eliz denying my claim to throne! Bad (or sick) guy!! Terrible!! Will be overturned!! The originator styles himself @realDonaldTrump – have we got anything on him?

The Marechal smiled the kind of smug smile only a Marechal can.

'I believe our transatlantic cousins, in their wisdom, have recently elected him to the office of President. I know, I know. Nations gaining their independence prematurely will sometimes make distressing choices. It's a lesson our Scottish brethren might do well to absorb.'

'Should we inform Her Majesty of his intention?'

'HM is aware of the claim and is, I understand, not taking the threat seriously. Indeed she is becoming somewhat skittish in old age and has decided to have a little fun with it.'

'Fun?'

'Yes. She is countering his claim to the British throne with one of her own. She is proposing to restore the USA to its rightful position as a British colony.'

The High Steward was astonished.

'WTF??' she gasped, involuntarily.

'She is not, of course, serious, but that is the position she will be taking with this Trump man. Unlike him though HM will be backing up her claim with reasoned argument. She will contend that the Declaration of Independence was not only illegal, but actually treasonable. Further, she will express the view there is no legal principle then or now to allow a group of citizens to establish their own laws just because they want to. She will require Trump to bend the knee, or she will have him arrested and thrown into jail. She will then announce her intention, in a rather pleasing phrase I feel, to take back control.'

'You mean she will threaten to restore British rule to the whole of the USA?'

The Marechal nodded.

'Plus a bunch of other stuff' she said.

_________________________________________________________________________

THE BALLAD OF KELLYANNE CONWAY

Hello, and welcome to February's edition of The Autolycan.  This month it's a USA special! The Ballad of Nigel Farage seemed to go quite well when I posted it last July, so this time I've gone for The Ballad of Kellyanne Conway.  Do feel free to add a verse or two if you wish!  Hope you like it, and, as usual, if you do, please pass the link on to others, Like it on Facebook or whatever........

THE BALLAD OF KELLYANNE CONWAY

(Kellyanne Conway) made the absurd claim that the new White House press secretary, Sean Spicer, hadn’t lied to reporters about the size of the inaugural crowd, he had merely presented them with 'alternative facts.' The Guardian

There's a right and a wrong way, thought Kellyanne Conway,

To climb to the top of the ladder.

I can tell Mr Trump that his ratings will jump,

And his heart will grow gladder and gladder.

I could aim for the glory and check every story -

Integrity set to the max.

Or with poise and with grace I could cut to the chase,

Cut out all the strife and just get me a life

- don't matter a dime and it saves loads of time -

If I make up alternative facts!

Alternative facts! Alternative facts!!

There's nothing so great for repelling attacks

They've power and vigour that truth simply lacks

We'll make up alternative facts!

A mendacious cabal says that crowds in the Mall

Were smaller than those for Obama?

Defrauding the nation! Misrepresentation!

You see? We've found us some armour.

But – hey! - don't just defend it, we'll have to extend it,

We're going to be sassy and clever.

Those press guys are faking, they're gonna be quaking,

They'll have to recount or be held to account,

They might have sold out - but the facts aren't in doubt

Those crowds were the greatest seen – ever!

Alternative facts! Alternative facts!!

There's nothing so great for repelling attacks

They've power and vigour that truth simply lacks

We'll make up alternative facts!

He grabs by the pussy? He's purer than Bush – he's

The truest of husbands there's been!

A braggart and ranter? Just locker room banter,

Just how could you be quite so mean?

Coarse and debased? He's perfectly chaste

The Donald's a stranger to crudity

And as you'd expect he's just filled with respect,

His morals aren't bent, he's a chivalrous gent,

And if evidence shows that the Emperor's no clothes -

We'll just call it alternative nudity!

Alternative facts! Alternative facts!!

There's nothing so great for repelling attacks

They've power and vigour that truth simply lacks

We'll make up alternative facts!

His grasp is profound, his policy's sound,

His prudence and wisdom expands!

Setbacks or fudges? We'll just blame the judges,

The world's in the safest of hands!

His Cabinet picks earn unanimous ticks,

And are truly the shrewdest of men

While Bannon and Pence are 'so strong on defence'

- and no, Mr Bannon is not a loose cannon -

If war comes – so gory – we'll just fake the story

We'll sell the big lie and it's your job to buy -

Till America's great once again!

Alternative facts! Alternative facts!!

There's nothing so great for repelling attacks

They've power and vigour that truth simply lacks.

We'll just carry on till resistance all cracks,

And you don't even need to cover your tracks

When you make up alternative facts!

_________________________________________________________________________

ANAGRAM CORNER 

                                                   ALTERNATIVE FACTS                                         

AN EVIL STATECRAFT

                                                 

MONA TEASER

Hello again

Welcome to January's edition of The Autolycan.  Sorry it's a bit later than usual this month - what with all the excitement of Hull's first couple of weeks as UK City of Culture, I've only just got round to doing one.  Rather doubt it'll further enhance the City's burgeoning reputation as a centre of culture, but hope you enjoy it anyway!  Please pass on to others if you do.  Sorry, but you'll have to make up your own anagram this month as well!

MONA TEASER

Face–recognition software has determined that Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa is 83% happy, 9% disgusted, 6% fearful and 2% angry.     FACTslides

It couldn't have been more than a couple of weeks or so before the reaction started to come in.

So-o-o-o-o happy 4 u! X

WOW!!!!! How cool is that? Great pic babe!!! xxx

Hey! U look just like oil painting LOL! Luv u loads!

Most of these messages were reinforced by the addition of several smiley faces.

Signora Lisa del Giocondo smiled. She felt happier than she'd ever been before. Yes, she'd been sceptical about that painter chappie her husband had hired, Leonardo someone or other, none of the other girls had ever heard of him, but scepticism had turned to curiosity, when he announced that he was no ordinary painter, but as he himself put it, 'a bit of a, like, y'know, inventor, know what I mean?'

'And what, pray, have you invented recently?' she had asked him.

'The selfie, Signora.'

'The selfie?'

'Yeah. The selfie. It's where I paint, like, this picture of you.'

'But if it's you who paints my picture why do you call it a selfie?'

'Ah, that's the good bit. See, I got this, like system where you say who can see it, I then take it round to them, they add comments, and if they like, emojis.'

'Emojis?'

Leonardo grinned, slyly.

'Yeah. They're like faces, smiley, sad, grumpy, whatever. I, like, well, I invented them an' all. Never mind all that buggering about trying to show the inner essence of the subject, never mind experimenting with hundreds of different eyebrows - they all look much the same, eyebrows, don't they, though of course we artists claim that they don't and that tiny differences completely change what a subject's supposed to be feeling. Well, couple of seconds' nifty brushwork, quick emoji, you can do away with all that, Roberto's your uncle.'

'I see. Then what happens?'

'Well, after they've all seen it, you get it back with their comments. Plus emojis - anyone can do them, that's the beauty. I've been trying to think of a name for the whole thing. It's like, you and your mates can all send each other pictures of your faces, so that each of you creates like a book. Any ideas?'

'A book of faces? How about Viso Libro?'

'Viso Libro! Of course! It'll revolutionise the way people communicate with each other.'

'For the better, I trust?'

'Well, yeah, for the better, of course. Specially when I've perfected the hashtag.'

'The what?'

'The hashtag. The idea is it should allow you to link in to all messages what quote that hashtag. Except …...'

'Except what?'

'It's not quite right yet. I just keep getting loads of messages about someone called Kim Kardashian.'

'Who's she?'

'Search me.'

'Never mind hashtags, if you're an inventor as well as an artist, shouldn't you be concentrating on important fields – you know, architecture, anatomy, physics, military engineering.......'

Leonardo shrugged, awkwardly.

'S'pose that's what comes of being a bloody whatsit, polymath, innit?'

'Polymath?'

'Yeah. Nothing's too small for your attention when you're a polymath. It can be a bit of a bugger sometimes.'

'How do you mean?'

''Well, here I am doing your picture, then yesterday the Duke of bloody Milan pops up, all la-de-da like, and says how about a design for a new siege engine, no rush, Thursday will be fine, then that young swine Pacioli decides he wants an unusual, possibly unique solid form for that bloody book of his - come on da Vinci, how about a rhombicuboctahedron? - knowing full well that there's probably no such bloody thing so I've got to invent it, plus I've been meaning to start dissecting that horse's leg out the back for ages, shouldn't wonder if it hops out by itself soon....'

Lisa had been delighted with the painting when she first saw it. The hands, the dress, most of all the brilliant, radiant smile had enchanted her. This Leonardo was a genius – she was 100% happy.

So she was appalled when she walked into his studio one day soon after, and found him busy painting out parts of her beloved portrait.

'What are you doing?' she had enquired, her voice dripping with disgust.

'Great art is transient' he had mumbled. 'A transition from this colour to this larger colour. It swells and contracts, becomes stationary, then explodes.'

'What on earth does that mean?'

'I dunno. Half the time my head's spinning with that bloody stuff. It's something about art being temporary and disappearing. Things moving on. Interesting thought, that. I've been playing around with it a bit. What if you could send people pictures what disappeared automatically after a few minutes. Seconds, even.' What do you reckon to calling it Instantanea Chat?

'And what possible use would that be?'

'There must be loads of people what would send cheeky pictures of their own genitals to paramours, inamorata and such like. They'd be much more confident about it if they knew the pictures would disappear straight away. Could be a nice little earner, that. Bloody sight easier than trying to build a helicopter or an automated bloody bobbin winder'

'A what?'

'Never mind. Anyway, getting back to your portrait, the second version is going to be loads better. Defo. Just you wait.'

Lisa giggled. Already the feeling of disgust was starting to disappear. She could see nothing wrong with the first version, but if he said the next one would be even better...... well!

Her happiness soared, although a small part of her remained just a little disgusted with the reference to genitals. Surely people wouldn't do a thing like that. Would they?

Leonardo was a quick worker. A couple of days later she looked in to his studio to see how things were going to find him in a frenzy of activity.

'Sit! Sit!!' he commanded. 'I've got this great idea. I'm calling it sfumato.'

'What does that mean?'

'No idea. It's probably something to do with shading one part of the picture into another. But it means I can do you a really great smile!'

'I liked the smile as it was.'

'Naah. What happens now is that when someone looks directly at it, the slant of the mouth goes down. But when they look at another bit, the slant goes up. Look, this is going to wow the art world for years, centuries even!'

Lisa was uneasy. She sat silently in her chair while Leonardo worked feverishly. Eventually he looked up, to find that she was trying to smile with her mouth turned both up and down simultaneously.

'I don't think I can do this' she muttered fearfully. 'It goes all lop-sided. I was happy before, but........well, I'm going to be a laughing stock. I'm afraid, Leonardo.'

'Don't worry!' he shouted. 'I'll take care of all that! You'll be enigmatic! Mysterious! I'll emphasise all that by making the background look a bit odd. Eyebrows as well, come to think of it.'

'Eyebrows?'

'Yeah. I'll do 'em so that hundreds of years from now we get people arguing over whether you've plucked them, whether some low grade restorer has wiped 'em out, or whether the great Leonardo da Vinci simply forgot to put 'em in. It'll all add to the enigma. Look, years from now when people Google “enigmatic smile” the top few references will all be about you. How cool is that?'

'Google?'

Momentarily the great man fell silent. 'Yeah, well, that's something else I'm doing that doesn't work very well yet. Unless of course you Google Kim Kardashian. That comes up with loads. My guess is that sooner or later if you do that you'll get something close to 70 million results. God knows why, but there it is. You never know where it's going to take you, inventing stuff.'

'But I don't want to be enigmatic. I want to be beautiful, like in the first picture.'

'Beautiful women in pictures are two a lira! You need something more. Look, I've put in just a hint that you've got too much cholesterol.'

'Cholesterol?! I haven't got a high level of cholesterol! Whatever it is. Have I?'

'Course you haven't. Well I suppose you could have, since nobody knows what it is yet. See how it all adds to the mystery.'

'Leave the cholesterol out.'

'No. But I'll tell you the real winner. What'll really get 'em arguing for bloody ages to come.'

'Oh God. What's that?'

It was Leonardo's turn for the cryptic smile.

'Erm......er......you're going to love this.......do you remember that self portrait what I done?'

'Which one?'

'The one of me, of course.....'

'Ye-e-e-es.....'

'Well, when I come to look closely, I realised that there's a lot of similarity between your head and mine.'

'What?'

'In terms of distance between the eyes. Distance from nose to lips, that sort of thing. What us anatomists call the cranial architecture.'

Lisa didn't like the way this was going.

'I don't see what.......'

'Listen, I'm altering it just enough so that some clever bugger in the future spots the similarities between you and me and claims that this is really a self portrait.'

This time her anger flared.

'Well, of all the.....'

'Don't worry, it'll be subtle, like. I won't give you the long flowing beard or nothing. But just close enough to get people talking. It'll make you famous. More important, it'll keep you famous. Probably for ever.'

She couldn't be angry with him for long – and then the comments started to come back from her friends.

Thort you was gorgeus before, but baby look at u now!! WOW!! #LovelyLisa

Thos eyes!!!! Just beautful!!!!! URAQT!! Luv and hugs! #WillUMarryMe

New smile amazing!! How u do that hun? Epic!! Xxx

Suddenly, Leonardo spoke softly from behind her.

'How are you feeling now, Lisa? Not disgusted, fearful or angry any more? Mostly happy?'

She turned to face him. For a moment she held his gaze impassively before her face broke into the most enigmatic smile he'd ever seen.