In
https://groups.google.com/group/alt.usage.english/browse_thread/thread/b1ad648449d6fb90?hl=en-GB,
an admittedly whimsical discussion on some queries by the
inexhaustible Marius Hancu on this froup elicited the following
accusation from Laura (LFS) against me:
[Be afraid, be very afraid]…[for]… [Australian lout]…[(common
tautology - ed.)]…[so-called "Fabzorba"]…[is one of THOSE ]… trolls
and sock puppets.
I trust that I am not misrepresenting her charges, which she has made
many times before, without ever providing an ounce of evidence. And,
as per usual, she does not mention me by name (Myles) nor by nom -de-
guerre (Fabzorba) and never will.
Having read her venomous barb, all my natural vigor departed this
coil, and I repaired my bed, so as to thither presently repair, and
thereafter did I dream the most curious dream, of which I now tell…
(Cue: plangent orchestral music in a minor key, signifying deep
mysteries will be discovered, and fade in to Laura waking in an
enormous four-poster bed as the rain beats on the window panes of her
opulent bedroom).
She has a yen for a couple of things - the nature of the first she
cannot quite discern (but concerning that more in the nonce), and the
second is the vastly more familiar sense of being "peckish", and in
need of a "snack", though she would designate such invariably as a
"nibble".
It is two o'clock in the morn, and she tiptoes down the winding
stairway in her nightie to the kitchen and its enormous fridge.
Opening it, she removes some comestibles: half a dozen pork pies based
on Lincolnshire pork, Beluga caviar, goose foie gras with truffles and
a side of wild Scottish smoked salmon, a tin of Beluga caviar, a whole
Brie with truffles, a couple of loaves of organic sourdough bread, a
variety of condiments to go with the preceding, brandy-steeped
cherries covered with dark chocolate, a pound or so of rich pudding to
dip these into, and a couple of bottles of an exceptionally fine
sauterne buried in the crushed ice of an ornamental wine bucket.
Hauling the skip bin containing this "nibble", she decides that it
would be awkward to wrestle the lot upstairs, and she will instead
take the goods lift which leads directly to her bedroom. But she must
now move through the music room, the outer parlour, and thence to the
drawing room to reach it. As she traverses these rooms, with skip bin
in tow, she hears a soft snoring sound, and there, in the corner,
sleeping under a hessian bag in a cage, in a obscure dark corner,
sprawls the wretched figure of Fabzorba. Here is the indoor Coventry
where he must spend his time, in a barred cell for lepers, excoriated
by all, shunned by all, the frouper who has "let the side down".
Laura wrinkles her nose, and now recognition of what it is that she
was missing comes to her. For you see, she has so many chums, and her
life is such a pleasant communion with all those terribly lovely chums
and their mummsies, an endless daisy chain of delightful and charming
days, with the summer garden parties, and the debutante's balls, and
the opera seasons, and the Grand Tours to see the colourful dagos, and
whatnot, so awfully awfully sweet that sometimes she would just like
to have a good kick and a foul word against something or someone, but
how, how, how can she?
She cannot say a word to insult the buck teeth of those she knows, the
ones where the owner could eat an apple through a tennis racquet, nor
the mottled skin of others, heavy with scales, nor the creepy
sexuality of the knock-kneed and pigeon toed, nor the asinine gigglers
with their synthetic smiles, nor the absence of chins, nor those as
presumptuous as they are the air-headed, nor those like Athel who are
hunched of back - oh no, these are the "right people", "our sort of
people", beyond reproach, absolutely top drawer. So what can she do?
Precisely this…
Removing the wine from the bucket, she hurls the ice over the sleeping
form of the contemptible Fabzorba. Then she swings the bucket at full
velocity, striking the cells of the cage again and again in a violent
and clamorous uproar beyond all comparison. Fabzorba's body jolts into
consciousness and jerks a full six inches into the air.
"This is WHY I don't kill-file you..you…odious Australian oaf!!!
Because I need someone to do THIS to!!!!", and she slams the bars
again. Fabzorba's ears ring as a sound akin to a chandelier being
dropped down a 50-storey air-conditioning duct assails them without
respite. She continues to shriek like a demented macaw: "Take THIS!!!
And THIS, you…you…lower class troll!!! You…you….Australian sock
puppet!!! You…graduate of RED BRICK!!!"
And so it goes. The camera slowly pulls back to provide us with a
final tableau signifying the complete meaning of what is transpiring.
Fabzorba blinks and winces and whimpers helplessly as he holds his
ears, his tormentor continues to swing the now misshapen bucket at the
bars, music slowly wells up over the cacophony of what sounds very
much like a zoo burning down….and…fadeout….roll credits.
Fabzorba, the general dogs body, the one who the reviled may revile,
the gofer who no one went for or sent for, the scapeboy and whipping
goat, the Dreyfus who will never be exonerated, the clown who cried
in the bowling alley. It was ever thus, but will it perforce ever be
so?
The good news, you may agree, is that Fabzorba has learnt again that
he is the lowest of the low, worthy only of inclusion on more kill
files. The bad news is that all that physical effort on Laura's part
has honed her appetite even further. Be afraid, be very afraid.
Myles [dot dot dot…] Paulsen