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Wasi masi,

Winter draws on apace, each day shorter than the last. Today is the coldest so far. When I look to the south I can see snow lying on the mountains and I think it will soon arrive here. Less than five minutes from the house what little of my skin is exposed to the wind is starting to chafe. My breath plumes out in front of me like ribbons of smoke. I rub my hands together for warmth even though they are thickly gloved.

The girl seldom comes anymore. I find now that it is I who walks out to the gate to stare out to sea everyday. I don’t know what I am looking for, but I feel it important that someone is looking. I could not express in words the reasons why I do it, except that it has become a ritual of sorts.

When I first arrived the sea was blue and calm. Some days it was so still it looked like a mirror. Now it is grey, sometimes muddy brown, with folds of white chasing each other to the shore. Often its turbulent meniscus is pockmarked by rain.

The start of Coleridge’s poem suddenly comes to me: “Through caverns measureless to man, Down to a sunless sea.” I spit and laugh bitterly that such an ugly scene should yet invoke memories of poems. I know Coleridge enjoyed his opium, but to prise any poetry from this coast, at this time of year, he would need a head full of serious acid. Prosaic, I think, and spit again, the wind catching it and blowing it back in my face.

With a sigh, I turn and trudge back up the path, past the tree, to the house. As the tree has grown barer the hideous outline of the face on the trunk grows clearer. I hurry past it nervously without a glance. Inside, the fire has picked up and it has become almost tolerably warm enough so that I risk removing my gloves and hat. My laptop lies open on the table surrounded by unruly piles of notes and dirty wine glasses. On the screen it says, “Neurota: a font for overwrought introductions.”

I pick up some of the glasses and bring them into the kitchen. I set them in the sink and turn on the tap before fetching and filling the kettle. It takes a few seconds to remember that I had used the matches to light the fire in the other room and I have to go and get them. Apart from coffee, I can’t face breakfasts anymore, the reasons for which you surely well remember.

In a corner of the living area there is some very expensive hi-fi equipment; I would not have left it when letting out the house. There is also a piss poor collection of CDs, so I have been playing only those that I brought with me. I put one of them, Marquee Moon by Television, on now. I don’t know why people with such poor taste in music have to buy such expensive gear to play it on. Either they are aural masochists or else they want to know exactly how stomach-churningly shite all their CDs are.

I had retreated north for three reasons. The first of which is that I have never been here before, and I wanted to see the country; now that I have seen it I have little inclination to return. Then, I had been given a large advance for the first part of an autobiography and now, almost a year later, all I had to show for it was a new laptop. The last of the money had gone on getting here and renting the house.

The writing was going well, but the autobiography was coming along very slowly. I had, instead, done quite a lot of work on a history of typefaces. This is an area on which I can claim to be one of the world’s pre-eminent experts; unlike other areas where I claim to be expert, there are others who say so too. I did a programme on typefaces for the Open University once; you may have seen it. I had to get a tweed sports coat and brown corduroys and wear white cotton socks and sandals. I wore a wig and false beard as well; otherwise they were not going to let me do it.

Many people will not read a book, except in the original language, feeling that the spirit of the original is lost in dry translation; words can be translated but style can not. I, myself, am unable to enjoy a book if it is set in type inappropriate to the subject. I had started the autobiography, as an in-joke, using Thracian (properly called Thracian Whore, it is a font designed for classical history and legends). I felt it suited the history of my life to date.

When bogged down in memories and unable to write any more I started switching typefaces to see if it might provide inspiration, which it did, but not in the way I had expected. I had almost 70 pages of autobiography set in 11 different fonts and 9 different sizes, and almost 300 pages on the history of printing. I faxed an introduction and précis to Oxford University Press and managed to secure another advance for this book. It gave me some money for living, by which I mean, of course, money for wine.

Most people are unaware, for example, that the font known as Times existed for almost 100 years before the Times newspaper. When The Times first hit the streets of London it had appropriated the font for itself and the two have become inseparable in the minds of most people. The typeface, however, was first used for promoting monkey knife-fighting; it announced the starting times of each bout. Because of the power of The Times and its litigious nature it is now rare, but not impossible, to see such contests anywhere in Britain.

It is my hope that this book will restore the science of fontology to its proper position and educate those who would dash out a publication slap-dash, without proper consideration to its layout. Fontolgy is a story of tragedy and of farce, of romance and of villainy, of intellectual ordeal and of baser instincts. Of no story has it ever been more true: all human life is here.

This letter, after the introduction, is set in a font called Tarantara specifically intended for correspondence. It is unique in that the upper case characters were invented by Alphonse Lerroux in Marseille in 1861 and the lower case was invented three years later by Wilhelm Breitner in Cologne. The two had never met.

Ironically, given the nature of their creation, they had not even written to each other. Neither of them was a letter writer and both had intended their creation for quite different purposes. Lerroux envisaged his new typeface gracing a new bible, this one containing, as none of the others did, the Book of Norman Wisdom. It continues to be omitted from bibles today, except for a few published in Albania. They are set in Wingding 12 point, though, which is the only font that is legal in that country.

Breitner’s font, intended to be unobtrusive and easy on the eye, was created for use in the recently born pornography industry. For reasons too delicate to convey in a general textbook intended for use in schools, it proved totally unsuited to that purpose and so Gendir was quickly invented by Ratty McSleazy in San Fernando. This continues to this day to be the font of choice for the pornographer because of its non-smudge qualities.

And the final, perhaps the most important, reason I had come here was my encounter with God. Although I now find it impossible to deny his existence, I have to say I was not impressed, and while good grammar requires capitalisation for proper nouns I don’t always feel it appropriate for he and his.

And of all the places to meet him! I was in Best Nightclub Chiba in Shinjuku, and I saw at the bar a very beautiful young woman delicately sipping a Sapporo. Instantly I picked up my own beer and walked over to her. “Hello,” I said, smiling, “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” She seemed quite bored by something; in truth the name of the club was quite a misnomer. “I’m God,” she said, “So fuck off and leave me alone.”

You know (I’m sure you are almost tired of hearing) how proud I am of my linguistic skills and of my Japanese in particular. It was a very loud club though, and I was not used to the dialect that she used. It may be that what she said was, “Hello, distinguished visitor from abroad, would you like to sleep with me?” Scarcely a moment’s reflection saw me realise that the latter was far more likely. “Yes,” I replied as coolly as I could manage, “Of course I would like to sleep with you. Shall we just have another drink and go back to my hotel?” I waved a ¥500 note at the barman.

I was delighted to see the girl smile inscrutably, and her eyes widen (I thought) appreciatively. Perhaps she grimaced. “Did you not understand what I said?” Or else what she said was, “I will not have another, but I would be happy to buy one for you.” As I was trying to decide exactly what she had meant she switched to English, which she spoke perfectly, “Did you not understand what I said? I told you I am God. I told you to fuck off.”

“Oh, right then,” I persisted in Japanese, “Does that mean you don’t want to have sex? Because I am still interested, God.” Her eyes rolled and she sighed loudly. At that moment all other noise in the club seemed to cease; all the lights faded except for a very bright corona around her face. “Let me get this straight: I tell you I am God, the creator of the universe, all powerful, all knowing, and you still want to fuck me?”

The sudden buzz of the drugs receded and the noise and the lights came up again. I smiled and nodded, “Hai!” I was thinking to myself that I hadn’t expected God to be so angry or anywhere near so vulgar. She switched back to Japanese, said, “Oh, alright, then.” Or else what she might have said was, “Why did I bother?” She walked off.

A stuck up god, I concluded, and probably a lesbian. Did you notice the use of font in that last section? I was using a special typeface called Solipsism, which should be used only for printing blasphemy. I hope this is enriching your reading experience as much as it should. Were it carried out properly in all books it would make A Level English Literature so much easier.

Back now to Tormentor: the font for returning to the topic after pointless digressions.

Sitting at my coffee, staring aimlessly out the window, I am surprised to see the girl return. She stands beside the tree, one hand resting against the lowest branch, watching the sea. It must be my imagination, but it looks as if the face in the tree has moved, has turned to look at her. And the expression is softer, somehow less angry. She still wears her summer dress, and cannot stand so long in the cold; after half an hour she climbs the path and leaves in the direction of the village.

I decide to have another crack at the autobiography but I am still having problems. All my memories have an equal resonance and I find it hard to distinguish those which are important and those which are merely important to me. I decide to give it up for the day and it is not yet ten o’clock. I think I will open a bottle of wine, but then I change my mind. I get my coat and hat and decide to walk into the village. I have lost track of the days here – I think it is Tuesday, which is market day. I am aware, though I try not to admit to myself, that my real intention is to follow the girl.

Apart from the estate agent, and the old woman in the wine shop, and the boy who delivers food I have spoken to no one in the village since I arrived. I am a little perturbed that they all seem to vanish at my approach. Even the local dogs won’t take food from me and birds don’t come near the house.

Today there is an old man sitting with his back to me fixing his nets and despite the cold he wears no coat. I am just being paranoid I tell myself and I decide spontaneously to try to strike up a conversation. I stride purposefully towards him.

When I am only a few feet away I call out to him in (what for me passes for) a friendly manner. He turns round and his eyes widen with horror. He makes a strange sign and starts to babble in a language that I cannot understand. He backs away more quickly than I would have thought possible for one his age. Suddenly he stops and lifts his shirt to reveal a talisman against evil spirits, but I also can make out a large scar. Have you been here? He says something else which I think might be, “I have met the devil Bosey,” and then he turns and bolts.

This seriously unsettles me and I decide to enter the temple to light a candle or some incense. You probably have seen pictures of the temple; it is quite a famous old pagoda. It was erected by the boy emperor Onli Wantasiyu in the Puerpal Reign.

Inside it is gloomy and it takes a few minutes for my eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. There is a figure near the shrine praying fervently, and an involuntary gasp escapes me when I recognise the girl. [The font here is Hitchcock, the only typeface worthy of use to convey dread (perhaps I should use it in all my letters)]. She has not seen me yet or, if she has, she has not recognised me.

I take a seat directly behind her where I can see her and perhaps overhear her prayers. Although I have made quite a bit of noise she does not turn round. She prays rapidly in the same strange dialogue as the old man and I find it hard to follow. I lean forward as far as I can, straining my concentration. It sounds like Japanese, but Japanese as spoken by Rab C Nesbitt. “And bring the full weight of vengeance to bear,” I make out, “On the bastard Enly Enly Cluer for causing the death of my father.”

I am numb with shock; I feel nothing as I crash to the floor sending chairs and little statues flying. Only then does the girl turn round and see me. I am frozen with terror, but it is as nothing compared to the look on her face. Suddenly she hisses and spits like a cat and leaps agilely over me and away. “Wait!” I call, but I know it is futile. I lift myself from the floor and sit down again to take a few minutes to compose myself.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, in and slowly out. Eventually my composure begins to return. I feel strong enough to open my eyes again and when I do what I see turns my blood to ice. There on the shrine, between an icon of Pinpin the Avenger and another of Tonton the Destroyer, is a picture of my old foe d’Uomo. I should have recognised his face anywhere – especially as I have seen it every day since I got here! It is the same face that stares bitterly at me from the tree.

This girl must be the daughter d’Uomo was reputed to have fathered with Yoko Ono and/or John Lennon. There were rumours, of course, but they were always dismissed by The Beatles and no one really believed they were true. Could there even be credence, I wondered, to the rumours of the misshapen creature he was supposed to have sired with Paul and/or Linda? Suddenly I begin to feel very claustrophobic and I have to get out of there.

I rush out of the temple and back to the house as fast as my legs will carry me. I have only one thought on my mind: I must cut down the tree and cast it into the sea. It repeats like a mantra. There is no other way that I can ever know peace again.

But when I arrive at the house the chainsaw which I had seen in the garage is nowhere to be found. This goes absolutely nowhere towards relieving my panic. After tearing the place to pieces for more than an hour I manage to find an axe; it will have to do. I swing it against the door frame and I believe that it will suffice.

I open a bottle of wine and swigging directly from it, I return outside. It is just past three o’clock but already it is growing dark. The heft of the axe feels good in my hands; it swings and bites into the trunk of the tree. I pull it free and swing again, and again the shock of the blade hitting wood is satisfying and calming. I swing and connect for a third time. I hear, or imagine I hear, I cannot say which, a low moaning, at which I start to laugh manically. “D’Uomo, you bastard!” I shriek, “Cry! Shout for help! You’re cooked!”

Chop, laugh, chop, laugh, chop, laugh… I do not see them come. It is warm work and I have removed my hat and gloves and when I pause to take off my coat and mop my brow I can see them flowing round both sides of the house. I laugh; what else could I do? The villagers are coming with pitchforks and torches. The horror! The cliché! I put up a valiant struggle, but I am overwhelmed almost immediately and carried off.

The pain is unbearable. I can feel a torrent as my blood boils in my ears and I can no longer see; I think my eyeballs may have burst from the heat. I can feel my vocal chords strain as in a scream and I am aware of a horrific wailing but it seems to be coming from a long way off and it does not sound like my own voice.

I cannot deal with the pain. “Henry,” calls an internal voice, “Henry, embrace the pain. Pain is good. Do not avoid it, you can get through it. Only by facing pain and fear can you grow stronger.” I swallow and concentrate hard; I begin to think of how I might escape. I try to remember the Bene Gesserit litany against fear from the Dune series: Fear is the little death; fear is the mind killer… I wonder how they translated that into French.

The pain consumes me now, more so even than the flames, which are growing hotter and I begin to smile. “The hell with that,” I say, turning my head to address the little blue horse to whom I have been dictating this letter, “Just read it back to me.”

“Wasi masi,” it says, “Winter draws on apace, each day shorter than the last…”

“You stupid fucking horse,” I shout, “Wrong bloody font!”

Give out but don’t give up,

Henry Henry Cruel

Dear Bosie

It’s funny that you should have written to me when you did for something said to me by Henry Kissinger yesterday had just brought you to mind. He and David Blunkett and I were pulling the limbs off coloured babies, when the Doctor said, “Do you remember Bosie from school? Came into some money?” Of course I remembered because you had nearly been expelled for the disgusting habit. Blunkett owned that he knew you too; he tried to show us a scar, but continually failed to point to it.

I hope you will be pleased to hear that, for the first time in many years, I feel whole again. I can’t begin to describe my joy when it first happened, but it is a distinctly mixed blessing. I realise that you don’t know the whole background of this, all the ‘David Copperfield kind of crap’, which I don’t want to go into to tell you the truth, but I suppose I must.

For most of my life I, Elliot Mantle, have been only half a man. It is a shameful admission, but in time I have learned to live with it. The problem occurred when I was three years old. I was a normal and healthy child, though somewhat prone to rabies. My life was a happy one until the divorce of my parents. The separation was a bitter one; my mother and father both fought hard for custody of Cunnilingus the dog, insisting that the other look after me.

It was boasted at the time that the magistrate was the wisest in the world and if an equitable solution could be reached he was the only man who could reach it. He had, allegedly, rejected vast wealth to acquire his wisdom and he was determined to use it for the good of the world. Alas, it was his last case, for as a consequence he retired immediately afterwards. My father, Mr Gloria Wattles, was awarded custody of the dog, while my mother, using again her maiden name, Ms Thomas Genghis-Khan, had the opportunity to enjoy Cunnilingus on Wednesdays and every other weekend.

Even at such a tender age, my powers of observation and memory were precocious. I had then, of course, two good eyes and a fully operational brain. I quote verbatim the events of that day, now almost half a century ago, the ruling given and the responses to it of the principal characters:

The bailiff called on the court to stand for the entrance of Mr Solomon Frangipani, RM. He took his seat and signalled for the rest of us to sit. He cleared his throat, “This has been one of the hardest judgements I have had to make in all my years in this position. It is clear that both parents love the little bas-, sorry, the child very much, and that each can offer a very high standard of living. To be with one and not the other would not be fair, and I have just not been able to make a decision in favour of one or the other. Therefore, what I have decided to do is to cut the child in half and each parent can have one half each.”

The gavel fell. Silence descended on the court room as everyone pondered the consequences of this decision. My father was the first to speak, “Yes, OK, I think that’s fair.” I looked over at my mother eagerly; she raised her head smiling, “That seems alright to me.”

“No. No, wait,” said Mr Frangipani, “You were supposed to say… I mean, it was a …” But my parents had made up their minds and they were not going to be talked out of it. My own protests fell on deaf ears, and seeing how happy my parents were (it appeared as if reconciliation might be on the cards), I soon fell silent.

Therefore, I was taken, not yet forty months old, and using pioneering surgery and experimental anaesthesia, I was cut in half down the middle. The right hand side of Elliot Mantle (that is to say, me) went to live with my mother in Europe, and the other, now rechristened Beverly, went to live in South Africa with my father.

For the next forty-eight years I had no word from him; no news of him at all for my father was soon dead. I had so much forgotten his existence that my right hand literally did not know what the left was doing. In the intervening years, wherein I established my modest reputation and fortune, Beverly led a life much more sinister. The story of how we came to meet up again is a long one, leading from the gothic splendour of Geneva through the river systems and jungles of the Democratic Republic of Congo to the barren ice tundra of the Arctic.

I had moved to Geneva when I was nineteen and got in on the information technology revolution on the ground floor. I produced some of the finest computer accessories through my company Digital Machine Supplies & Repairs (DMSR). That enterprise folded when my business partner Jamie Star fled with all our holdings. I decided to downsize; working alone, I started a little company called The Time, mending cuckoo clocks. The Vanity Six is so sweet; it is easily the most elegant, and by far my favourite type of clock.

At the beginning of last year I began to worry that I was losing my mind. Imagine that you are being followed and then that the person following turns out to be yourself. Imagine that your friends begin calling you up to thank you for acts of kindness that you haven’t performed. Imagine seeing yourself on television judging a beauty pageant, when you know for certain on that day you were ill in bed. The stuff of nightmares it may seem, but that is what was happening to me.

Only slowly did it occur to me what was happening: Beverly had come to Switzerland and was looking for me. I was excited and appalled in equal measure for his intentions did not appear to be fraternal. I have never been the sort of man to shirk difficult decisions, and so I made up my mind to turn the tables: I would begin stalking him! The result of which was that, after two days, he fled. I decided to push my advantage – I would follow even to the ends of the earth.

I had barely time to scribble a note to my wife explaining what I was doing. His trail was not difficult to follow. I realise now that it was deliberately so. Nevertheless, it was almost four months before I tracked him down to his lair at the very North Pole. The door closed quietly behind me and I entered a large room, minimally furnished with only a desk and chair and a very large monitor. The chair swivelled, and in it sat Beverly, stroking a white cat, “Ah, Mr Mantle,” he said, “I’ve been expecting you.”

At last I had come face to face with my nemesis. “What do you want?” I asked. It was then that I learned what had happened with him over the last half century, by the end of which I was weeping.

In contrast to the relative comfort and happiness of my life, the lot of Beverly was not a pleasant one. Ironically for such an unhappy individual, he was employed his whole life recording canned laughter for television situation comedies. He hated it; unable to bear being around people laughing with joy, he devised some pioneering recording techniques. For the first series of ‘Piss on me! I’m on fire!’, for example, the laughter was provided by nihilistic convicts on death row in Pretoria, who had been shown mocked up pictures of themselves and their family as old men and women.

It must be true that misery loves company, for Beverly was married four times. Each time the marriage ended in tragedy. His first wife, Emily, was assassinated by a member of the cast during a Broadway production of Starlight Express. Maud, his second wife was trampled to death by a ladies basketball team that had failed to see her in time. His third wife, Pamela, was discovered mutilated and missing parts of her internal organs, believed to have been ripped out and eaten. No one knows for sure what happened, but suicide is suspected. His last wife, Emily, was also his first, for he married her again when she was already dead for more than eleven years.

“For as long as I can remember,” he continued, “I have felt nothing but sadness and pain. The part of the brain that controls happiness is on the right hand side – the side you have. What is worse is that our penis was not cut evenly in half and somehow you got it all. For Christ’s sake, 88% of men dress to the left! The penis should have been mine. For that you must die. I intend to kill you and to take your place and I will be happy. No one will notice.”

“Pull yourself together, man,” I said, “But of course people will notice. Faces are not symmetrical and you look nothing like me. They will wonder how I had suddenly become left handed and evil. And it will not make you any happier if you still do not have the faculties or the balls to be so. You can’t kill me. You need me. You should join me. Let us use your laboratory here and invent a machine that can put us back together. Together we can experience again the full range of human emotion.”

“I suppose you are right,” he sighed, “I had considered that possibility. I have even built such a machine, I enjoy tinkering with instruments and mechanical devices. I call it the CHANGANDENGINATOR™. It will hurt, although it doesn’t have to. I could have built it to be far more comfortable, but I want you to feel how I have felt since we were separated. You can not imagine the horror. The horror.” He ran his hand over his shaven scalp.

I agreed to his condition. The operation was long and painful and for some time afterwards there was a possibility that we would not survive – that I would not survive, I mean. Survive I did though and as soon as possible I returned to my old life in Geneva. Many people remarked how much better I looked. I looked, in fact, a dead ringer for Jeremy Irons.

Before the operation we had decided that our new entity should have a new name. I would pick the first name, he the second; I would pick the first syllable of the surname and he the second. A democratic, yet as it transpired, cumbersome way to pick a name. Hence I will be known by the name you will see signed at the bottom of this letter.

Bosie, that is how I became a full and more rounded human being. I know misery and pain and wickedness, but joy and love as well. I have learned for the first time how to ride a bike; my boxing is much better; I no longer fall over every time I kick a football and I am remarkably ambidextrous.

Disadvantages, for there are some, include meeting all the old friends of my left side – Blunkett and Kissinger, for example. I am occasionally morose and given to murderous fits of pique. I developed, for reasons that no one can explain, tourettes. In speech it is extremely inconvenient, and I must review carefully every sentence that I write to remove the involuntary swearing. My wife’s death in a bizarre gardening accident was also a set back.

In all, though, I must admit that I am happier now than I can ever remember being before. Happier even than the time that you accidentally shot your off your testicles when shooting with minor European royals. Perhaps only the lingering, painful death of Margaret Thatcher could make me feel any better. What am I saying? Of course that could make me feel better.

I must finish now, for I have scheduled the next hour as time to wallow in self pity. Then I have to practice masturbating with my left hand. And then I’m going to get pissed.

I am not your friend, I’m not your only friend, but really I’m not actually your friend, but I am,

Henry Henry Cruel

My evanescent tumescence

In case you missed it, a précis of Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau, my latest opus to be festooned with awards wherever in the world that it has been shown:

I shot on 8mm black and white film at dawn and achieved quite a beautiful effect reminiscent of those classic French films of the nineteen-sixties. To further enhance this illusion I had filmed only people who walk. At that time of the morning there are people hurrying to or from work wiping sleep from their eyes, tradesmen and delivery men, and others sloping furtively from illicit trysts.

Of this motley band I elected to film only the ones who are smoking. Shot during June, July and August of 2004 and (for continuity) again in the same months of 2005 it amounts to a lot of smoking. Edited together it looks like an uninterrupted shot of a single morning. It lasts for thirty-six minutes.

If you look closely, and if you know what you are looking for, you can identify St Mark’s church and the High Street Mall. The names of the shops flash by too quickly to notice, but to anyone who knows the town they are easily recognisable.

It is cut at irregular intervals by a scene of a man in an expensive looking business suit carrying a brief case and umbrella, running as fast as he can. He is running directly towards the camera. He starts off at a great distance and at each cut has come closer to the viewer. This was shot on digital video and in colour. The runner is the only person in the film who does not smoke.

I had worked out how long the film was going to be and then asked the actor to run for that period of time. So at every cut in the black and white shot, the colour splice is in real time and the runner is getting hotter and growing more and more exhausted. His increasing discomfort caused by such prolonged exertion is obvious. His breathing can be heard throughout, whether he is on screen or not. There is no other soundtrack.

During the film the runner appears eight times. His intrusions occur wherever there was an imperfect edit in the black and white footage and then at intervals where his appearance has most dramatically changed since his last sighting. At the end of the film he reaches his mark just in front of the camera and, panting for breath, delivers the film’s only line of dialogue: “Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau?”

Also cut into the footage are garishly bright colour stills and one short animated clip which are completely unrelated either to the content of the film or, apart from the caption that each bears, to each other. These are digital photographs which have undergone considerable manipulation.

• A monkey sits with piano wire in his hand and a dismembered head in his groin which he appears to be fucking; blood is splattered all around.
• The queen’s head superimposed on the torso of a porn star, and from her ragged pissflaps emerge swans, dolphins, malnourished African and Indian babies, bombs, SUVs and syringes.
• A mother is feeding her child, her hand fiddling in his nappy as he suckles her breast.
• The pope, taken from behind (oh grow up), is blessing the congregation in St Peter’s Square. We see his hand raised and the ecstatic faces of the devout covered in shit as if flung at them by the pontiff.
• Possibly the most famous image of the Viet Nam war is that of a young girl running naked form a burning village. Superimposed on it here is the stalking figure (in complete seventies glam get up) of Gary Glitter.
• In the animation there is a pile of burning money; the face on the notes is Tony Blair’s and he is screaming in silent agony as it burns.

The caption for each in big bold letters asks:

__WHAT WOULD JESUS DO?__

It appears firstly in Esperanto, then Castilian, Cantonese, English, Japanese, and finally in a new language of my own invention.

The runner having delivered his line, the screen fades to black and in plain white capitals the words

--THE END--

appear. After three seconds my name appears. Three seconds later the first words disappear. The screen displays the legend

--Henry Henry Cruel--

for a further three seconds and then the film ends.

So what do you think? As a philistine who can’t tell the difference between Visitor Q and the S Club 7 television series (though I can understand your confusion), you are probably not the person to ask. But you probably think that it sounds brilliant, right? You probably own it on DVD. That is a subject to which I will return later; I am less than delighted about the DVD.

But let me tell you now that from start to finish, Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau is complete shite. It cost less than three thousand pounds to make, it was edited in under a fortnight, and I was paid forty thousand pounds for it by Portadown Chamber of Commerce. It was made as a promotional film for the town and I had attempted to make for the bastards a film so pretentious and anal that there would be no way they could use it.

They loved it, the fuckers. “It is irreverent and hip,” they gushed. “It is innovative and cool,” they cooed. “It is just the image we are looking to portray,” they smarmed. “You are indeed the Guy Debord of the Guy Ritchie generation,” they whined sycophantically, checking their notes to make sure they had said it right. “We’ll enter it in Berlin and Venice”, they toadied. “And Sundance,” they fawned. “Cannes!” I thought they were going to orgasm.

“You do what you want; I’ll not be there,” I vowed. Most people having passed a joke off as a serious work of art would find it funny. The history of art is full of such hoaxes; I believe they call it winning a Turner. I may be many things, but most people I am not. I knew that they could not understand Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau; and after all, what is there to understand? And when they were too afraid to admit it they pretended to like it.

If they did not understand why this film was bad, by what criteria could they judge my previous (serious) films? A rhetorical question; the answer obviously is none. I thought it and they were sad, and it made me furious and more determined than ever to have nothing more to do with them.

“Ah, yes,” said the chairman, “But there is just one point.” They all grew serious.

I recognised my chance and I leapt at it. “Henry Henry Cruel says No! I was promised complete artistic control for the project and I will not tolerate any interference. If you so much as suggest a change you will have on your hands a forty thousand pound Alan Smithies film and no one will pay to see it. That, or I will return what you paid me, less my costs, which will not leave much to return, and keep the film myself. Gentlemen, I bid you good day.”

I let the door slam loudly behind me.

Scene 2: Int; Night; Close up Henry Henry Cruel. “Robert Redford, I thought, was charming.” I took another sip of Mouton Rothschild.

Isabelle Adjani nodded. Now in her late forties, she is still a very beautiful woman. “I was supposed to work with him once, it was,” she smiled coquettishly, “Oh, a long time ago.” Her hand waved dismissively. “But I didn’t speak very much English then and so it fell through. Have you worked with him?”

“No, my film, Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau, the same one that is favour… nominated for the Palme d’Or here, won the short film and overall categories at the Sundance Festival. I met Robert there. We had dinner at his ranch and he was very friendly and interested in my work. I have an open invite to drop by if I find myself in the area again. Somehow I don’t really expect to.” I almost said “favourite for the Palme d’Or”, but I stopped myself; I didn’t want to sound conceited.

Smiling, she touched my hand gently. “I’m sure it is a very good film; I have heard only good things about it. Unfortunately I have not seen it, and it has a French name! Tell me, M. Cruel, do you speak French?”

I held the glass to my lips as I pondered how to answer. What the hell, in for a penny… I smiled back, “Call me Henry, please. Yes, I find it a beautiful language and so expressive. Many people prefer the sound of Italian, but I find it useful only for expressing hysteria. My earlier film, Write Club, is in Italian throughout. The entire script of Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau was written in French (not strictly untrue) and I have refused to allow it be sullied by sub-titling.

“When I was growing up I used to watch only French films. It was they that inspired me to become a film maker, and Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau is my homage.

“The action and the emotion of the words convey all the meaning. Write Club was the same. My films have a strong narrative structure, but are deliberately ambiguous. No, not ambiguous, but they allow the audience to interpret them in a number of ways, or in any way they want. I have just begun work on a new script written in a language of my own invention.

“It is, I concede, a rather feeble conceit to name it Solipsism but I have come up with no other name yet. The grammar and syntax is Teutonic but the vocabulary is based on the Hosti language of one small nomadic tribe living in the Kalahari Desert. I first heard it when making a film there about Art Blakely and the primary import of drum in ritual. David Thomas had recommended I go there. It is a charming language; it sounds like birdsong.”

“That sounds fascinating. I’m sure I saw that film, and did you not present Write Club successfully at Venice a few years ago?”

Erm, no. I was just about to agree with her anyway, when she went on: “But say something to me in your language. Let me hear it.”

I hadn’t expected that, but I am used to thinking on my feet. “I’d rather not; not just yet. It is at an early stage and very likely to undergo a lot of changes so I don’t want to tell you anything wrong. It is at such an early stage, and I so puerile, unfortunately, were I to say anything it would be lewd or offensive.”

“Oh, don’t mind that. I do not think it puerile. The richness and maturity of a language is only expressed in how it can discuss frankly important subjects like sex.

I never would have believed that there could exist so many euphemisms until I began to study English. They are beginning to creep into French now too, insidiously. But that is a weakness more of national character than of language itself; I really do not like to make generalisations about the English people like that, but would you not agree?”

I could not stop myself smiling at that. “That is exactly what I believe too, but the consensus in England, and Northern Ireland, says otherwise. And American English must shoulder a lot of responsibility for the horrible overuse of euphemism. I should admit that I am a great fan of American literature but very critical of the national character.

But, of course, I should have expected that the French would understand. If you are interested in languages, though, I would love to have you appear in the film. I have never seen you in a film in which I could take my eyes off you for a second even if the film itself left something to be desired,” I paused, “Like Driver.

“I see the language developing as we rehearse, you know. So it is important to have actors who understand what I am trying to do and can give creative input. I have always worked that way; it is a good way to work. Perhaps together we can divine a more appropriate name as we work through it. I will send you what I have worked out so far.”

“That is very kind of you, Henry. And you are kind to speak well of my acting; which films of mine have you seen?”

“I have seen several: Subway, Nosferatu, Quartet. I really loved La Reine Margot, but my favourite is Adèle H. I don’t think you have ever looked more beautiful. It may not be a great reason to declare a film my favourite but it works for me. And Driver; how could I forget? And those others whose names, I do not remember…” I waved my wine glass in my defence and I smiled; I might be in here, I thought. That she continued to listen and to smile was definitely encouraging.

An errant thought popped into my head: at all costs, do not let her watch the fucking film. I poured some more wine for us, shrugged and suppressed such despicable heresy. Resisting the temptation to call the waiter ‘garçon’, I ordered another bottle of wine.

“Do you mind?” asked Isabelle, “Make it champagne, please. I am in the mood for champagne.”

I nodded calmly. But what I was thinking was, Shit, champagne in Cannes. How much is that going to cost me? When Isabelle smiled and said thank you though, I guess the cost didn’t matter any more: “Bring us the best you’ve got.”

What this led to was a discussion on the relative merits of Pol Roger and Veuve Cliquot, it being understood that Moët et Chandon had few merits worth consideration. We ended up with a bottle of each and one of Taittinger and one of Crystal. Isabelle suggested we also get one of Moët, but fearing that I might have to sell a kidney or something, I talked her out of it.

You are aware of my trenchant position on champagne and so I won’t repeat them again. I think you only agreed with me to shut me up. But having the product at hand to taste, and I’d like to think in some part because of the eloquence of my argument, Isabelle agreed in the end that Crystal was over rated because it was extortionately costly, and a good vintage Pol Roger, though only slightly less expensive, was by far superior.

As a result of this we missed the showing of the films and the announcement of the winner. I was unaware that I had won until Ken Loach shouted at me, “Cruel, get up there and get your bloody trinket. Up the Ra!”

I stumbled and slurred my way through my acceptance speech; the prepared speech in my pocket, the one in which I actually thanked some people, completely forgotten. It was shown on French television, but British and U.S. viewers had it cut from the broadcast. It wasn’t until later that I understood why.

Then, one hand tightly clutching two bottles of champagne, the other tightly clutching Isabelle Adjani, we staggered happily to my hotel to continue the celebrations.

Rohypnol is trick and all, especially if you have latent necrophiliac tendencies,
But champagne has much the same effect and leaves a bit more life in her,
As Ogden Nash would no doubt have concurred were he alive today.

When I woke up the next afternoon I found a note from Isabelle: Gone to see Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau. There is a special screening at the Odeon. I will see you later. Isabelle. XXX.

She must have forgotten my room number: I never saw her again.

So I will use the occasion of my return to Portadown as a conceit to return to the subject of the DVD release. The chamber of commerce argued that I had sold them the film and that consequently they owned all rights thereof. My solicitor could find no loophole for us to contend. There was an initial release of 10 000; I hope you didn’t buy one. Thanks to the campaign I conducted against it in the national press, few people did.

The special edition 2 disc DVD on the other hand which came out some months later is a much different proposition. It contains bonus material and cover artwork by Henry Henry Cruel, so I was in for a cut of that. You should buy one of those instead.

The bonus material includes a ‘making of’ feature with which I had nothing to do, an interview I did conducted by Noam Chomsky, the full acceptance speech at Cannes, trailers from some of my other films and an inspired film essay called ‘Psychopathia Sexualis: lettuce and the age of the dreadnought as metaphor in the films of Henry Henry Cruel’ by Dr Linda Spinabifida.

The cover is a still from an environmental protection film I had made called Aye Wood Die 4 U, about the efforts of Native Americans to preserve Aye Wood in South Dakota. It has an image of fourteen braves in full Hunkpapa regalia, sitting in a circle and passing a pipe. I thought it nicely fitted the subject of the later, more famous work.

Which leads nicely to the question: what exactly is the subject of Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau? Rather than launch into a long scholarly essay on the film’s merits, which would obviously flow over your head, I will quote from the DVD.

First, here is in full my acceptance speech at the Cannes Festival: “Hello, Cange. Jean-Bernard l’Oisheau ish a film about the potenshal in all of ush. For mosh people thish potenshal lies dormant all their livesh becauge they are a pack of lazy cuntsh. Cuntsh. That meange you, yesh you, Tarantino. And could you not luge some weight? Or look lesh fucking shmug? What have you got to be shmug about, fatsho?”

Then I sing, You’re the one for me, fatty. “That’sh by Morrisshey,” I say and giggle. “But, anyway, what wash I shaying? Oh, yesh. Jean-Bernard l’Oisheau. It ish a film about shex and death, ash are all my filmsh. Chanch, that’sh right.” And, I hiccoughed, “Thank you very mush. I’m not paying for all that booge.” Looking somewhat confused, Sandra Bulloch helped me off stage.

On the way back to my seat Angelina Jolie slapped me heartily on the back. I punched her in the stomach.

In vino veritas: that is an elegant summary and should normally suffice, but I also include two excerpts from Dr Linda’s documentary which shed further light on this often obtuse subject:

“It is not uncommon for children to discover their parents having sex,” she said. “It is how the parents deal with it which will determine the child's reaction. If the mother invites the son to join her it is natural that he may develop problems with sex later in his life. I think this is a theme that runs strongly through this film. You wouldn’t be expected to know that, but I am a psychologist.” Erudite and priceless.

And: “Here we see the other side of sexual cannibalism. It runs through the oeuvre of Henry Henry Cruel, both in his films and his printed works. I know this because Tyler knows this. I am a psychologist, you know.” Although obviously it is a major thread in all my work, it surprised me that anyone should have worked it out. She knew it almost before I knew it myself. This Dr Linda is obviously a very intelligent lady, unless she is, as I now suspect, a figment of my imagination.

And now (can you believe it?) I have got to the end of this Write Club without anything bad happening to me. I am told that this is not often the case, though I can’t say that I have noticed. But in a group therapy session recently Dr Linda and Ben Elton both told me so. Who am I to argue? So I will finish now. I am tired and I feel a dream coming on. If it’s any good, next time I will relate for you Henry’s Dream.

Your obedient servant

Henry Henry Cruel

P.S. I love you.