Tag Archives: laflamme

CURRENT STATUS: COMPLETED, UNPUBLISHED

‘The Unbearable Stupidity Of Being’ is a 78,000 word comic fantasy novel which satirises, amongst other targets, unscrupulous bankers and the Tea Party movement. It's the first book in Greg's 'Stupid Trilogy', with 'Six Degree of Stupidity' the second and 'Stupid Animals' the in-progress third.

Written in the form of a journal by under-employed graphic designer Tony Boaks, the book introduces failed banker turned criminal mastermind Sir Fred Godalming to the world.

Through Sir Fred, Tony becomes involved with a group of financial services fraudsters including Bernard Madolph and Allen Stanthorpe who all belong to ‘The Order Of The Infinite Self,’ a secret brotherhood of supremely selfish individuals. The Infinite Self form an arm’s-length political organisation and install Tony and the unrequited love of his life LaFlamme as the figureheads, duping Tony into believing their thoroughly dubious ideology would be beneficial for all.

LaFlamme

Says Greg:

“At times, the story parallels both the Da Vinci Code and Nausea, but as I’ve never read either book, this makes for some pretty interesting parallels.”

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The Unbearable Stupidity Of Being

November 2, 2016

‘The Unbearable Stupidity Of Being’ is my first novel and the start of a trilogy of Stupid books which includes the follow-up, 'Six Degrees Of Stupidity', and the work in progress, 'Stupid Animals'.

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CURRENT STATUS: UNPUBLISHED

‘Six Degrees of Stupidity’ is a completed 78,000 word satirical comic fantasy novel which parodies Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, exchanging the Belgian Congo for the canals of fictional English county, Wester. Following on from 'The Unbearable Stupidity of Being', it's the second in Greg's 'Stupid Trilogy'.

Synopsis:

Under-employed graphic designer Tony Boaks reluctantly accepts a commission from Guy LeSnide QC, an advocate (‘like a lawyer, but even more so’) with monumental delusions of grandeur. Before settling his bill however, the advocate’s delusions turn to madness and he retreats to the fictional English region of Wester - a dense and murky area only accessible by canal - where he commandeers a tribe of indigenous people and junior lawyers.

Unwilling to let madness be an excuse for non-payment, Tony sets out on an epic quest to track him down, narrowboating into Wester’s heart of darkness and taking the spikey unrequited love of his life, LaFlamme, along for the ride.

Together they discover that Wester is a wild and dangerous place, alive with magical phenomena and overrun with pedantic boaters and rogue solicitors. After encounters with a psychotic ventriloquist dummy, a deviant gastrophile on his own quest to find a cure for the common hangover, a professional beard-reader, and a man who may or may not have been Victorian stage magician The Great LaFlambé, Tony is no nearer his goal.

But he has more pressing problems. Wanted for a spate of murders he didn’t commit and increasingly caught up in his own personal heart of darkness, it is only by finding the elusive advocate that he can clear his name and win over LaFlamme. And get paid of course.

Six Degrees Of Stupidity

November 1, 2016

‘Six Degrees of Stupidity’ is a completed 78,000 word satirical comic fantasy which parodies Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, exchanging the Belgian Congo for the canals of fictional English county, Wester.

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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.

“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.”

Muriel Gray’s Parrot

June 13, 2014

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

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The Admiral showed me a new contraption he’d cobbled together from discarded pieces of circuitry and an old record player. In essence it was an alarm clock. At the specified hour, the device would spring to life, activating the turntable and lowering the stylus arm onto the record. Result – you woke up to the gentle sound of a Chopin sonata or koto music from Japan. He hadn’t tried it yet but assured me it would be 100% effective.

I doubted whether the invention would ever be commercially viable, what with its need for discarded pieces of circuitry and an old record player, but the Admiral countered that my use of the word ‘viable’ was pejorative, whatever that means.

We left his flat to find the nearest purveyor of vigorous dark ale and spent several hours testing degrees of vigour before the barman called time. At this point the Admiral stood, briefly, then sat down again. He stood a second time and buttoned his cardigan, badly, leaving an extra button dangling at the bottom. He sat down once more and suggested we try again, heartily, only this time that I should do the standing. It seemed only fair so I stood, abruptly, knocking over both chair and table and, attempting to retain a shred of diginity, blaming him.

There was a limit to how far we would get in such a condition and it was decided that, the Admiral’s flat being nearest, it would be far enough if I could reach his sofa. En route to the sofa The Admiral explained he had an early start, as he had a couple of days’ work at the hospital devising a way of keeping tags on runaway patients. He said it would be an opportunity to test his new alarm clock and were it not for runaway patients he would have no use for such a gadget.

“I’m going to make doubly sure I don’t sleep in,” said the Admiral, his last words of the evening as he set the device for 7am and left me muttering incomprehensibly about kotos.

I slept as if consigned to a morgue but was awoken by the gentle stirrings of Motorhead’s ‘Ace of Spades’ at a level likely to have been set at the Admiral’s last party. It was a testament to his electronic ingenuity that the device actually worked, but it didn’t work for long as a high velocity boot was soon to be seen heading towards it from the direction of the sofa.

A Cause For Alarm

April 20, 2014

In which Tony Boaks and The Admiral conduct some experiments with vigorous dark ale.

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I met LaFlamme at the Botanical Gardens. “It’s a fecund paradise,” she said. Her language was quite shocking at times.

We were on a semi-furtive mission to procure a cutting from a particular herbaceous perennial, the name of which continues to escape me despite The Admiral’s repeated tellings. The Admiral had been researching an apparently highly effective hangover cure which depended on the leaves and stem of the plant. Early tests with a garden centre variety were hampered by our collective inability to keep anything in a pot alive apart from fungus, and it was decided that growing a little guy from scratch might bring out a parental instinct that would help discourage him from dying.

“Mental torment,” I said. “Mental torment. Mentalent. Mentalor. Mentament.”

“What are you doing?” said LaFlamme.

“This is how I remember the name,” I replied. “I start with mental torment then combine the words in different ways until it comes back to me.”

“How do you remember mental torment?” said LaFlamme.

“Mental torment comes naturally to me. Talmanent. Talmator. Talmanentator. Talmanenta-latertater.”

“Tormentil.”

“Tormentil,” I said, nodding. “I would have gotten there eventually.”

“Maybe,” said LaFlamme, “but I wasn’t sure how much mental torment I could take.”

We found an uncharacteristically useful piece of graphic design in the form of a signpost. It read ‘Herbaceous Perennials.’ This led us to a winding path on a shallow incline towards an extensive rockery. When the incline turned steep, my own incline was to turn back but LaFlamme was two paces ahead of me and I was blinded by her milky-white calves.

As the incline levelled out, we rounded a corner and LaFlamme stopped abruptly, forcing the top of my head to collide with her back. It had long been my dream to collide with LaFlamme but this wasn’t quite what I had in mind. I peered round from behind her elegant frame to find a well-groomed, middle-aged gentleman with fine, thinning hair. He had secateurs in one hand, a cutting in the other, and wore an expression of utter guilt. He froze in a half-turned position, as if unsure whether to make the full 180 or return to base. Either he too was blinded by the fullbeam effect of LaFlamme’s legs or he was up to no good.

“Phlobaphenes,” he said. It was an unusual opening gambit and suggested the latter.

“Do you work here?” asked LaFlamme.

He hesitated before replying in a painfully hesitant whine: “Yes?”

“Why are you wearing a suit?” I asked.

“I try to be presentable at all times?” he said, again offering his reply in question form as if testing how much we were willing to believe. “It shows the plants due respect?”

When I stepped out from LaFlamme’s shadow, something I’m unable to do often, I recognised the man. It was gourmet, bon viveur and Martini devotee, Suave Gav, who I’d met at a winemakers convention. I was only there because I designed a flyer for one of the exhibitors and thought there’d be freebies. But Suave Gav was altogether more serious. He was taking notes.

“Armstrong,” he said, extending his secateurs. “Gavin. I believe we may have met previously. To be perfectly honest, we extract phlobaphenes and triterpene alcohol from the Potentilla Erecta. It produces a rousing Bavarian liqueur called Blutwurz.” It was certainly plausible that the plant he was interfering with could produce a rousing Bavarian liqueur. Less plausible was the idea that scholarly botanic types called it Potentilla Erecta. But they did. Go ahead, look it up.

“Potentilla Erecta?” said LaFlamme. “That does sound rousing. Does it have any special powers? You know, increased circulation, hot flushes, shortness of breath, panting, drooling?”

“Oh yes,” said Armstrong. “Its health benefits are well documented. A compound prepared from the roots and bark has been used to treat a number of ailments from headaches to pimples. It’s often used in herbal medicine as an astringent due to its tannin content.”

“Anything else?” asked LaFlamme.

“Yes,” he replied. “Prepared rather differently, it can give you a thumping great erection.” This was evidently the answer LaFlamme was looking for, and she giggled with delight.

I stepped towards the herbaceous bush and viewed its accompanying signage. ‘Potentilla Erecta,’ it read. ‘Common name: Tormentil.’ So this was the elusive shrub The Admiral asked us to track down for his dubious and very likely fruitless experiment. It was nothing to look at. Its straggly low-lying leaves seemed banal and its weak yellow flowers a bit uninspiring. I wondered if it might feel much the same about me. Skinny, it would say, not very tall individual with pale skin and a heavy frown that won’t be forgiving in middle-age. Probably ought to quit moping and take some exercise.

But whatever we made of each other’s appearance, it was a multitalented plant that could both cause a hangover and cure it, not to mention having the combined powers of Aspirin, Clearasol and Viagra. It was a wonder there wasn’t a queue of impotent spotty migraine sufferers all desperate for a hair of the dog.

The Special Powers Of Tormentil

April 5, 2014

In which Tony and LaFlamme first encounter deviant gastrophile, Suave Gav.

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In which Tony explains how an encounter with a vacuous celebrity couple became a springboard to self-employment for LaFlamme.

As a gifted copywriter, LaFlamme certainly had the means of making reasonable money when needed. But she tended to be too opinionated for mainstream journalism and too honest for advertising, at least in the eyes of her employers.

“I can be dishonest,” she said to the advertising agency. “I can write like a pleb if you want,” she said to the magazine editor.

It was clear that the issue was consistency. On a day-to-day basis her talent was often sabotaged by boredom, which allowed vicious, opinionated writing to creep in and eventually take over.

One memorable piece for Home & Garden began innocuously enough as a review of a middle-aged celebrity couple’s neo-classical home:

‘Charles and Georgina Demille describe the effect that their home has on visitors. “One particular guest compared it to a Hermes handbag,” said Georgina. I nodded in a knowing way, although I had no idea what she was talking about. Why would the guide of the Underworld be designing handbags rather than protecting the way of travellers? I suppose he might have designed the odd handbag in a moment of extreme tedium. In fact I’ve worked out a particularly fine design in my head as I continue to trudge around this dreary abode.

The house is the epitome of neo-classical style, ideal for the particular drones currently inhabiting it as it removes the need for any personal sense of style or taste and replaces it with an overwhelming sense of smugness in its owners. “I like to keep it simple,” says Georgina, and she ought to know as she’s a walking vacuum.

Husband Charles is an ideal match for the hoover woman, and I ask him how it feels not to be burdened with complexity. “I’m an American,” he says. “Less, not more.”

As we enter the dining room, Georgina tells me it was the classic proportions of the space which first drew her and her divot partner to the home they now share with their obnoxious offspring, Charles jnr, aged nine, and Wolfgang Amadeus, six. Together they truly are a gift for those dangerous advocates of compulsory sterilisation and I end my interminable visit by warning them they should probably remain indoors at all times.’

Unfortunately this article was actually published, as no-one in the editorial department ever read the ingratiating puff pieces written as side accompaniments to the glossy photographs. Only after they received a letter from the Demilles was it brought to the editor’s attention:

‘To: Edward Wonderful (Editor)

Dear Mr. Wonderful,

We the Demilles would like to thank you for your excellent puff piece in this month’s H&G. It’s marvellous to see your publication continue to use such quality paper despite these difficult times.

Your reporter was most unorthodox in her methods but was a regular Rosalind Russell in the field. Her jokes about sterilisation may not have been to everyone’s taste, but being supporters of the Conservative party we found them most amusing.

We have since replaced the broken items and replenished the drinks cabinet.

Yours,

Demille x 2’

This was sufficiently unusual to compel Mr. Wonderful to re-read the original article and LaFlamme’s career as a freelancer began in earnest from that point.

LaFlamme Goes Freelance

July 29, 2013

In which Tony explains how an encounter with a vacuous celebrity couple became a springboard to self-employment for LaFlamme. As a gifted copywriter, LaFlamme certainly had the means of making reasonable money when needed. But she tended to be too opinionated for mainstream journalism and too honest for advertising, at least in the eyes … Continue reading →

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I had no sooner drifted off than Mitt Romney was asking me to assist him in his presidential campaign. I told him Republican Party races were just about who could oppose abortion and gay marriage most vociferously and that he didn’t need me for that. But Romney insisted.

I knew Romney’s body had been taken over by body-snatchers and that he was a dangerous threat to civilisation. Unfortunately, in my dream this was also the case. He was trying to convince me I paid too much tax, his wide eyes and fixed grin reminding me of a cryogenecised Ted Danson. I told him it wasn’t so much that I paid too much but that he didn’t pay enough and that if he really wanted to give something back to the country he could start by contributing more than the paltry 13% of his ludicrous investment income he did at present.

But it was clear the real Romney had left the building years ago. This Mormon husk was all that remained and you could no more have a conversation with him than an eggplant. Not that that has stopped candidates in the past. There is nothing in the constitution to prevent eggplants taking office, as was demonstrated by the 43rd president.

Romney persisted, telling me that although socialised medicine was considered the red menace, he had an idea for a national health service. Rather than be paid by the government through collected taxes, it involved individuals paying large multinational insurance companies for cover. I said it sounded interesting but was clearly in its early stages.

Before I could ask for more detail, he was handing me a gun, saying: “Welcome to America.” It was at this point my dream became a nightmare. I was greeted by a marching parade as I stepped off a ferry. Somebody presented me with flowers, and a garland was draped around my neck. There were calls for a speech. I panicked.

“This is all happening a bit fast,” I said in a terrified whimper. “I love your movies, but I’m not sure I’m ready to live here. I think you’re probably all quite nice, but whenever I see any of the people you vote for and the insane things they have to say in order to get you to vote for them, I feel frightened.”

The crowd began chanting: “One of us, one of us.” I turned and tried desperately to get back on the boat. Unfortunately Romney had me by the legs and was clinging on for dear life. I was frozen to the spot, probably an extension of the cryogenic process that fixed his grin.

“Are you having a seizure?” said LaFlamme in her caring way, waking me in our cell.

“Oh, thank god I’m in prison,” I said.

I Dream Of Romney

January 26, 2013

Tony and LaFlamme have been arrested for a crime they didn't commit. At least they don't think they did. One of the prison guards is an American and during the long night this prompts an unusual dream. I had no sooner drifted off than Mitt Romney was asking me to assist him in his … Continue reading →

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This week, when the Westminster government announced an initial £350 million spend on a new generation of nuclear weapons whilst simultaneously telling us we were broke, I couldn’t help but wonder what was so special about them. It wasn’t so much the price tag that bothered me, even when I discovered £350m was a fraction of the overall £100bn required. It was more to do with being a stickler for symmetry in the exchange of goods - usually when I’m going to spend £100bn on something, I want to know I’m going to get £100bn of useful stuff back.

However, having conducted some research, I can confirm that the following list of objects are each in their own way more useful than Trident.

1. A Bucket With A Hole In It

Depending on the cargo you mean to transport, a bucket with a hole in it can be put to far greater use than a submarine-launched ballistic missile system. Stones for example, if chosen correctly, can be carried from one end of the garden to another. Bread rolls too can be stacked in such a manner so as to negate the effects of any hole. Once transported, the stones and bread rolls can be employed as missiles in the event of an invasion by ground troops, something that could never be said of Trident. And remember, a bucket with a hole in it can be made even more effective with the addition of a newspaper to line it. I recommend The Scotsman.

2. A Cardboard Sink

New advances in production mean that cardboard sinks can be quite robust. They can withstand several litres of soapy water and, given sufficient interim drying time, can be used many times before becoming ineffective. This is something that could never be said of Trident as just a single use would devastate half the planet, leaving a dusty crater where only the Mars rover might feel at home. Cardboard is also recyclable, unlike Trident which is currently festering on our doorstep without any means of disposal. Additional notes: Trident’s green credentials are negative and are effectively purple; a cardboard sink is unlikely to be deployed accidentally.

3. My Old Socks

They’ve turned a strange charcoal grey, have been breeched in both heels and are quite threadbare. But they’ve been in my life for as long as I can remember and I’ve grown quite fond of them. I think of them as my comfort socks as the elastic has wilted and therefore won’t contribute to any future varicose veins. Trident is similar in that it too has been in my life for as long as I can remember. The idea of it deteriorating so close to home however, does not inspire a similar affection. It’s also more expensive to replace. I plan to get another winter out of my comfort socks and when I buy a new pair I’m hoping they will come in under £100bn.

4. A Betamax Video Recorder

Betamax is much maligned but was actually far superior technologically to VHS. If you happen to have inherited a working Betamax, you’re likely to also have a library of movies taped sometime in the 1980’s, as well as some video store cast-offs such as ‘Microwave Massacre.’ This is a huge source of entertainment and is unlikely to give you leukaemia. A Betamax in good condition can still be used to record your favourite TV moments. Providing you have the strength to press its huge buttons you can watch Michael Gove behaving like a knob whenever you please. Highlights from Philip Hammond’s thrill-packed term as defence secretary alas do not make good television.

5. A Stick

Sticks are incredibly useful. I keep a collection in the garden in case of unforeseen circumstances. Once I had to use a stick to get my keys off the roof. You might wonder what my keys were doing on the roof. I put them there with a stick. Another time, LaFlamme brought me a pot plant. It started to grow and I used a stick to support it. Soon I needed a bigger stick and then a bigger one. I asked LaFlamme what kind of a plant it was and she said ‘oak.’ Soon it took over the flat and began producing little sticks of its own for future generations to get their keys off the roof. This is all in stark contrast to Trident, which is likely to only ever produce universal death.

6. Garbage

One of the main reasons cited for keeping Trident is that it’s a major employer. Aside from the fact that it’s a twisted individual who thinks weapons of mass destruction would make a fine job creation scheme, it turns out only two jobs would be at stake – one guy regularly taps it with a screwdriver and another checks if we’re all still alive. Garbage on the other hand is a major employer. It takes many thousands of people up and down the country to administer and physically deal with the collection and disposal of garbage, as well as to sort through the recycling and figure out what you’re meant to do with Tetrapaks. If we didn’t have garbage, unemployment would soar. Once Trident is dismantled it too will become garbage, creating even more employment opportunities.

Let’s face it, even soldiers don’t have any use for Trident.

6 Things More Useful Than Trident

November 3, 2012

This post was originally to be called ‘3 Things More Useful Than Trident’ but when I found out Trident had no point I changed it to ‘100 Things More Useful Than Trident.’ That was going well until I had to buy milk. This week, when the Westminster government announced an initial £350 million spend on … Continue reading →

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In which LaFlamme tells the author there is a need for her to have a sidekick.

LaFlamme appeared in the middle of ‘Devil Doll.’ It couldn’t have been more apt. I was sitting in the dark with only the black and white glow of the TV set bouncing off the walls. I wasn’t trying to save electricity, I just couldn’t face getting up to switch the light on.

LaFlamme clapped her hands loudly. “Wakey wakey!” she said. “Everybody up.”

“I’m awake,” I replied. “Sort of.”

“Good, because I don’t hang out with zombies.” She stepped across the room. “What, is there a war on? I demand to be seen and admired.” This finally roused me to throw some light on the situation, something I wasn’t known for being able to do. No wonder it seemed dark to LaFlamme. She was still wearing shades.

“I’m going to need an assistant,” she said, sitting on the desk. “Who do you know?” Clearly LaFlamme’s new career as a self-help guru was taking shape.

“Like a P.A? Or a secretary?” I asked.

“Which one’s most like a stooge?”

“I don’t know. Both seem quite glamorous to a graphic designer.”

“I won’t beat them or anything.”

“Well that’s a plus point, but I don’t think employers generally beat their assistants anymore,” I said. LaFlamme was certainly a stranger to employer/employee relations. The fact is, both of us were pretty much unemployable in any conventional sense, due to us not having any conventional sense.

Devil Doll

July 1, 2012

In which LaFlamme tells the author there is a need for her to have a sidekick. LaFlamme appeared in the middle of ‘Devil Doll.’ It couldn’t have been more apt. I was sitting in the dark with only the black and white glow of the TV set bouncing off the walls. I wasn’t trying … Continue reading →

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In which Tony is granted an excerpt from LaFlamme's forthcoming book.

LaFlamme had already tasted publishing success with her self-help book, 'Help Yourself To Drink.' This was galling enough for me as I had literary ambitions for this journal. But now it seemed the publisher was looking for a sequel.

"What are you going to call it?" I asked her.

“‘Help Yourself Two: Drink,’” she replied.

“Catchy.”

“But first I’m writing a guide for office drones.”

“You’re not going to call it ‘A Guide For Office Drones,’ are you?”

“No,” she replied. “It’s called ‘365 Days Of Mediocrity.’” She shuffled some pages on her desktop and handed one to me. “It’s to help the plebs through their humdrum lives.”

The book appeared to be intended as a desk diary or suchlike, with a simple commentary for each day of the year. I attach the sample page below.

Monday: Today you'll find it easy to live up to everyone's expectations, because they've fallen so incredibly low.

Tuesday: Today your boss suggests taking a small idea and making it bigger, so you extend your lunch break to five hours.

Wednesday: Today your career goals take on increased importance, after a friend explains what the phrase means.

Thursday: Today you have all the skills necessary for success. However, they're outweighed by your phenomenal talent for failure.

Friday: Today your boss encourages you to be more spontaneous at work, so you pack up at 2pm.

Saturday: Today your success depends upon your ability to use a tool skillfully. Unless it's a corkscrew, you're in trouble.

Sunday: Today you may encounter alien beings scouring the earth for signs of intelligent life. Don't worry, they won't bother you.

If her readers really needed advice from LaFlamme they were in a bad way. But with an interested publisher, as long as her typewriter ribbon held up it seemed she would be handing out pearls of wisdom for hapless office workers whether they liked it or not.

365 Days Of Mediocrity

May 13, 2012

In which Tony is granted an excerpt from LaFlamme's forthcoming book. LaFlamme had already tasted publishing success with her self-help book, 'Help Yourself To Drink.' This was galling enough for me as I had literary ambitions for this journal. But now it seemed the publisher was looking for a sequel. "What are you going … Continue reading →

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