GREG MOODIE

In which Tony and The Admiral encounter a most vocal critic of Scottish journalism.

There was an unusual squawking sound coming from within The Admiral’s flat. The last time I remember hearing anything similar was when LaFlamme had agreed to give The Admiral a haircut. It was an ill-judged move on his part, as LaFlamme kept her shades on and held a glass with a sherry-like substance in it throughout. The results, however devastating, were short-lived because as everyone knows, a haircut is just for Christmas and not for life.

The squawking continued as I stepped tentatively into the kitchen-office. On the ex-boardroom table where The Admiral conducted his greatest bodges sat a large multi-coloured vertebrate. Initially I mistook this for a bouquet of flowers but as the incongruity of a vase of flowers in The Admiral’s office sunk in I realised something was afoot. This was clinched when the vase of flowers spoke.

“Who are you?” said the bird.

“Tony.”

“Hello Tony.”

I was somewhat taken aback by this, as it was already more conversation than I would normally expect at The Admiral’s.

“I appear to be stuck,” said The Admiral, from the other side of the room. He had most of his upper body crammed into a large wire enclosure on the kitchen worktop and for a moment I wondered if there had been a body-swap incident, as he is usually the one perched on the table. I wasn’t sure whether he was trying to get in or out, but I held the back of the cage and let him decide.

“Thank you,” he said, removing himself and dusting off the flakes of wood-shavings from his sleeves. “I’m looking after the little chap and it was time to clean his cage.”

“Who does he belong to?” I asked.

“My friend Muriel,” said The Admiral. “You know. Journalist. Lots of opinions." He said this in a way which suggested she might be dangerous. "He’s not generally any trouble, but he’s most particular about the materials with which I furnish his lodgings.”

“Correct gauge of shavings, or what?” I asked.

“Underneath the shavings,” he replied, “is a lining of four or five layers of newspaper and I’ve been told on no account to use the Daily Record.”

The parrot piped up. “Utter pish,” he said. The animal’s use of the Scottish vernacular was striking.

“Why on earth,” I asked, “would a parrot object to the Daily Record?”

“Utter pish,” repeated the parrot.

muriel gray's parrot

“Well, parrots are among the most intelligent of birds,” said The Admiral. “I can only assume that the quality of journalism within its pages is simply not up to his high standards.”

“But he’s only going to crap on it,” I said.

“Nevertheless,” replied The Admiral. “He does not deem it worthy. Apparently it was only a matter of days with said paper before he insisted on crapping on The Scotsman instead.”

“Bollocks,” said the parrot.

“But soon he also became dissatisfied with The Scotsman.”

“Bollocks,” repeated the parrot.

“Then there was only one paper good enough for the little prince.”

“Which was?” I asked.

“The Herald,” said The Admiral.

“It’ll have to do,” said the parrot.

"The Herald?" I said.

“It’ll have to do,” repeated the parrot.

It probably said something for the quality of Scottish journalism that this most discerning of readers could only find one quality newspaper and even then it was to defecate on. I can only imagine the foul language had he been raised in Dundee.

I asked The Admiral what could have sparked such disdain for the papers in question.

“Perhaps he used to write for them,” said The Admiral, without a hint of sarcasm. I concluded that it was a possibility. “In any event, you’re perfectly welcome to ask him directly.”

I turned towards the parrot. “So, um.. the Daily Record and The Scotsman..”

“Utter pish bollocks,” said the parrot.

It wasn’t the most eloquent of arguments but then I wasn’t the most eloquent of guests and didn't particularly fancy debating the merits of Scottish print journalism much further. Besides, he was starting to win me over with his passionate and forthright take on the subject.

“I think I remember your friend Muriel,” I said to The Admiral. “Better get him back in his cage before he starts boffing on about Munros.”

Thanks to Kevin Robertson

Muriel Gray’s Parrot

April 25, 2012

In which Tony and The Admiral encounter a most vocal critic of Scottish journalism. There was an unusual squawking sound coming from within The Admiral’s flat. The last time I remember hearing anything similar was when LaFlamme had agreed to give The Admiral a haircut. It was an ill-judged move on his part, as … Continue reading →

More A World Of Pain >>

In which Tony finds another way of avoiding work.

LaFlamme had a notion that we should visit an art gallery this afternoon. It was a grey-ish kind of day and I was probably going to do something pointless anyway, so I thought why not. Crucial to this decision was the fact that it was free, something that would not have been lost on LaFlamme as she, like myself, was often short of cash.

I was disappointed to see so many pieces by Damien Stirrup, the controversial conceptual artist, as I had a feeling he inhabited a talent-free zone. Stirrup was well-known for putting dead animals in formaldehyde and recently surprised no-one but himself when he picked up a paintbrush and discovered painting was more difficult. This inspired one of LaFlamme’s finest newspaper headlines of recent times: ‘Formaldehyde boy tries painting – gets in a pickle.’

The fact that he was over-represented, not just here but in any gallery, didn’t really bother me but it tended to mean there was less room for people who weren’t complete twats.

Formaldehyde Boy

April 3, 2012

In which Tony finds another way of avoiding work. LaFlamme had a notion that we should visit an art gallery this afternoon. It was a grey-ish kind of day and I was probably going to do something pointless anyway, so I thought why not. Crucial to this decision was the fact that it was … Continue reading →

More A World Of Pain >>

More George Lyttleton, Band Manager >>

In which Tony finds a novel way of describing a dream sequence.

Given that the subjects of Band Managers and Elvis Presley had been at the forefront of my thoughts recently, it was only natural that both would infiltrate my dreams. Natural for me anyway, which admittedly isn’t particularly natural.

I was going to relate last night’s nocturnal madness here, but then I remembered how tedious it was listening to other people’s dreams. And if it was tedious listening to theirs, it was likely to be more so listening to mine. So I thought of another way of describing it, as I know you have the attention span of gnats.

You are about to leave the black and white confines of this interminable journal and enter a new, technicolour world peopled with extraordinary characters and talking inanimate objects. A bit like The Wizard Of Oz, but not as plausible. Are you ready? Then let's begin..

When I came back with the drinks, poor Elvis was distraught. But by then, I was waking up and returning to my black and white world. I remembered that the ghost of Elvis Presley didn’t really roam the earth and that potatoes, with a few exceptions, don’t make good band managers.

My Technicolour World

March 1, 2012

In which Tony finds a novel way of describing a dream sequence. Given that the subjects of Band Managers and Elvis Presley had been at the forefront of my thoughts recently, it was only natural that both would infiltrate my dreams. Natural for me anyway, which admittedly isn’t particularly natural. I was going to … Continue reading →

More George Lyttleton, Band Manager >>

In which Tony explains the tenuous thread that links him to The King and The Colonel.

My previous post, George Lyttleton Band Manager: The Early Years, elicited some of the most imaginative comments I have ever read.

“I’m not sure where you get your information, but great post!”

“Very Informative. I’m wondering why the other experts in this sector do not understand this.”

“You say so, but then Erasmus spoke from both sides of his mouth. Thanks for posting!”

Despite being Dali-esque in their freeform association of gibberish, I was delighted that I had given joy to so many with what was, after all, a very simple tale about having grown a band manager from seed.

Even though I wondered how the subject of band managers and rusks could be considered ‘informative,’ and just what sector we were dealing with, I decided that a compliment was a compliment, no matter how deranged. I wasn’t even put off when The Admiral suggested somewhat unkindly that the messengers hadn’t read the piece, and were instead trying to solicit links to an Asiatic cartel. Rather, I believed I had been an inspiration to Dadaists across the globe, and avowed to continue writing my journal if only to encourage the spread of Merz.

However, I was awestruck when I read the following response:

“Was Parker a great manager? I don’t know. Some people said he did a lot of great things for Elvis, got him into Vegas and Hollywood. But the Colonel lost $1m in one night in Vegas, and Elvis hated those stupid films. Then Parker robbed the world of an Elvis tour because he didn’t have a US Passport and wouldn’t be allowed back in. No, I believe Parker took advantage of Elvis and robbed the world of seeing the greatest entertainer/singer/performer in history.”

This judge and jury of all things Parker had chosen my journal to deliver this impassioned critique. No matter that I hadn’t mentioned Colonel Tom or Elvis – everyone writes a non sequitur of colossal proportions from time to time – it was a glorious rant. He was clearly a waffler of some standing and his reasoned but unrequested argument was taking Merz to a new level.

I considered asking for more of the messenger’s opinions on the Colonel and Elvis, and even inviting him to write this journal, but only in the three seconds it took me to find the delete key.

Elvis, The Colonel And Me

February 23, 2012

In which Tony explains the tenuous thread that links him to The King and The Colonel. My previous post, George Lyttleton Band Manager: The Early Years, elicited some of the most imaginative comments I have ever read. “I’m not sure where you get your information, but great post!” “Very Informative. I’m wondering why the … Continue reading →

More George Lyttleton, Band Manager >>

It all started when I saw this advert in a Marvel comic. I was young and didn't really know what I was doing. I just thought it might be nice to have a band manager around the house.

Grow your own band manager

For a while it was actually kind of cool. I called the little guy George and made sure he got enough rusks. Soon I started taking him out to gigs and people would come up to us making conversation. It was a pretty good way of meeting girls.

But they grow up so fast. Just like the advert said, it was only a few months before he was going to gigs on his own and signing bands he couldn't possibly help. And the bands didn't know any better, they just saw a guy they thought was going to make them stars. But I saw the reality. And it frightened me.

I bought him a guitar to try and encourage his interest in music and, to give him his due, he did actually strut around the house with it and strike poses in front of the mirror. But then he tried playing it and I knew we were in trouble. He had no musical talent, and without that he would make an ideal band manager.

Now he's out there signing god-knows-who and promising all kinds of things to unwary wannabes. I feel terribly guilty about the whole situation. But what can I do? When I first sent away for the seeds I had no idea just what they meant by 'gibbering assholes.'

George Lyttleton, Band Manager: The Early Years

February 10, 2012

It all started when I saw this advert in a Marvel comic. I was young and didn't really know what I was doing. I just thought it might be nice to have a band manager around the house. For a while it was actually kind of cool. I called the little guy George and made … Continue reading →

In an unusual twist, Sir Fred Godalming asks a question that Tony is more accustomed to asking others. At least this time Boaks is the one laughing.

"What's so funny?" said Sir Fred, after declaring himself the 'Blofeld of Banking.'

"Nothing, I suppose," I said, with tears running down my legs. "But you might want to reconsider that title before attending the Conference for Failed Bankers Turned Criminal Masterminds."

"Too aggressive?" he said.

"I imagine there may be stiff competition for the title," I replied. "Certainly in those circles. You can at least expect a challenge from Bernard Madolph." I knew that although Madolph was serving time, he used a body double to allow him to attend such key events in the criminal masterminds' diary.

"You could be right," said Sir Fred. "Bernard has never forgiven me for amassing my fortune without breaking the law. Although I don't think he has any real claim to the title as he's not technically a banker."

"He's hardly a mastermind either. He got caught."

"He's technically a criminal though. 150 years in Pentonville State is fairly conclusive."

"That's only two out of four."

"Yes," said Sir Fred. "But he deserves extra points for outstanding effort." Godalming was right. It takes a monumental force of will to sustain an $80bn fraud over 30 years.

"In any event," I said, "you should probably be focussing on your speech. Have you planned anything?"

"Only the announcement of my new underground operation," he replied. "I expect it to raise eyebrows, and in Bernard's case, probably much more."

"Yes," I said. "It won't just be the competition that's stiff."

What’s So Funny?

February 8, 2012

In an unusual twist, Sir Fred Godalming asks a question that Tony is more accustomed to asking others. At least this time Boaks is the one laughing. "What's so funny?" said Sir Fred, after declaring himself the 'Blofeld of Banking.' "Nothing, I suppose," I said, with tears running down my legs. "But you might … Continue reading →

In which Tony continues his assignment for the self-professed 'Blofeld of Banking,' Sir Fred Godalming.

It was midnight, and Sir Fred seemed agitated when he rose from his crate of earth.

"I can't believe this government," he said. "They thought they were bowing to the weight of public opinion by rescinding my knighthood. But they’re so spectacularly out of touch with public opinion, the very act of rescindment has shifted it in my favour.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” I asked.

“It might be if I cared,” he replied. “You forget that, although I may have no formal banking qualifications of my own, I’ve spent a great deal of time around bankers. And since when do they give a toss about public opinion?”

He had a point. If the bankers ever listened to public opinion, most would be beating themselves with wet fish - the alternative to banker bonuses preferred by the general public.

“But the fact is, Tony,” he continued, “I’m finding all this to be quite a distraction. How can I be expected to expand my evil empire with public opinion behind me? Do you think Blofeld had widespread public sympathy when he was intent on world domination?”

“Well,” I replied, “maybe if you suggest you’d like to be known as the Blofeld of Banking from now on, it might redress the balance.”

Sir Fred And The Weight Of Public Opinion

February 4, 2012

In which Tony continues his assignment for the self-professed 'Blofeld of Banking,' Sir Fred Godalming. It was midnight, and Sir Fred seemed agitated when he rose from his crate of earth. "I can't believe this government," he said. "They thought they were bowing to the weight of public opinion by rescinding my knighthood. But … Continue reading →

In which Sir Fred Godalming is defiant in the face of losing his knighthood.

I was nearing the completion of Sir Fred’s assignment when I heard the news. Clearly, being stripped of a knighthood was not something that happened every day, at least not to me, and I wondered how the failed banker turned criminal mastermind would take it.

“Evening, Fred,” I said with a slight snigger, when he arrived as usual at midnight.

“It’s still Sir Fred,” he said defiantly. “I had my name changed by deed poll some years ago. You think I didn’t see this moment coming?”

“That was good thinking,” I replied.

“Unfortunately, they've also stripped me of my deed poll.”

“Ah.”

“However, this is a mere technicality. Under Scots Law, all that’s required for a name change is to be registered with a physician and an orthodontist under said name. I’ve had my doctor and dentist address me as ‘Sir’ for years. Long before I was knighted, in fact.”

“I suppose if your doctor and dentist call you 'Sir' it must be true.”

“Exactly,” he replied. “And I still have a medal, which I have to say compliments my pyjamas beautifully. They can’t take that away from me. Anyway, on to more pressing matters. Now my real work can begin.”

“Do we have a name for this new organisation?” I asked, referring to the underground bank he was starting with Bernard Madolph.

“Yes,” he said. “We’re going to call it Bear Stearns.”

“Bear Stearns?” I replied. “Isn’t that name already taken?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” he said. “Nobody will notice this way.”

I had to admire his ingenuity. Clearly this type of thinking was what had propelled him to the top of his profession, even if it had propelled him straight back down again.

Sir Fred Fights Back

February 2, 2012

In which Sir Fred Godalming is defiant in the face of losing his knighthood. I was nearing the completion of Sir Fred’s assignment when I heard the news. Clearly, being stripped of a knighthood was not something that happened every day, at least not to me, and I wondered how the failed banker turned … Continue reading →

After a thinly disguised Sir Fred Godalming appeared at Tony's door introducing himself as 'Mr. Smith,' Tony was engaged to produce designs for his new underground banking venture.

Sir Fred insisted I work on the new designs only between the hours of midnight and 6 am. There was to be no deviation from this timetable. After a week of working nights I was starting to feel like a real graphic designer.

Godalming was cagey about what information he provided throughout the week, but each night he let his guard down a little further. During night one, he suggested I call him Fred and on night two he admitted Smith wasn’t his real name. On night three, when he said his real name was Montezuma, I reminded him the name on his cheque was Godalming. He told me that was a stage name.

On night four he said he’d changed his stage name to Carlos The Jackal Santini and later that he’d retired from the stage. But by night five he’d given up all pretence of not being Sir Fred Godalming - which was a relief as I was ready to start calling him Mr. Twat.

Sir Fred Rides Again

January 30, 2012

After a thinly disguised Sir Fred Godalming appeared at Tony's door introducing himself as 'Mr. Smith,' Tony was engaged to produce designs for his new underground banking venture. Sir Fred insisted I work on the new designs only between the hours of midnight and 6 am. There was to be no deviation from this … Continue reading →