## The Life Cycle of the Hypercunt Johnsinimus

In which I describe the reproductive process of the sub-species Hypercunt Johnsinimus.

Figure 1. Full diagram of the process.

I claim that the importance of a truth can be gauged by the degree to which, on first intellectual contact, it inspires repulsion. As the seed is planted in your heart it stings and burns and only with time and much dialectical angst do you gradually realise its awful veracity. And so I present to you a new unification. As I have studied the reproductive process of the human animal over many hard and harsh years I have discovered this new travesty. It concerns the life cycle of the Hypercunt Johnsinimus.

It has long been proclaimed that the biological definition of sex concerns the size of the gametes. That the female is the creature with the larger gamete and the male that with the smaller. But has some logical necessity escaped this schematising? For so long as one among the multitude contains the largest gamete does it not introduce the third element. What in logic we call the excluded middle; what I am calling the Hypercunt. I do not deny that the sperm be smaller than the egg. What I introduce is the third class bigger than both: the rugglicle. Furthermore, I posit that the human animal’s third element has a reproductive cycle that lasts one hundred years and that this autumn we approach its apex.

For as the wasps and the ants harbour a queen so the human sets in the bowels of its formicarium the Mastersex Hypercunt Johnsinimus. This aspect has a radically different form and function of genitalia than your or my mere animalia that I will here discuss. But do I give too much introduction? For this scheme can be described simply in just a few hundred words. The essential thesis is thus:

The Hypercunt has two master phalisimi and one rugglicule similar in form but unparalled in magnitude to the typical male’s testicle. The two master phalisimi are likewise very large (around fifteen times the length but similar in width to the average male penis). From these two phalisimi protrude four ceets each which can extend beyond four hundred meters. The Hypercunt reproduces by attracting human females to suck on these ceets. At which point the ceets begin to unravel, travelling the full length of her digestive tract. When the ceet reaches the anus it protrudes and turns a full one hudred and seventy degrees until it faces the subject’s vagina. It then enters the vagina and moves directly to the ovaries which it hovers up along with the full supply of eggs which are absorbed into the central region of the Hypercunt wherein some genetic alchemy (further study needed) produces human baby rugglicles which originate from the singular rugglicule. These rugglicles appear almost exactly as rugby balls but coated in a kind of brittle egg shell from which the fully formed adult johnsinimi are birthed. These johnsinimi are genetically identical to the Hypercunt but completely infertile.

### Patel’s Lemma; what is it?

The inner sanctum is also staffed by many worker johnsinimi who formed from unfertilised ruglicles. One of these has contributed theoretically to the scheme in the form of Priti Patel’s Lemma which posits that any ruglicle left unsatisfied by raw sexual energy shall form into a new worker johnsinimi which functions to serve the production of further ruglicles.

Is it man or fowl? It is a new order of obscenity.

Oh loves! The libidinal economy of the beast is brutal and exquisite. It draws you in as it repulses. It sucks as it blows. Tyrannosaurus rex! The king of terrors. The master of all that is foul and unholy. It comes with its own ontological necessity. It expands and lays and expands and lays. It has within it some overabundance in a rugby shirt. Like slimulus in a suit. Tis beast my good man. Run for ye life lest you be dragged in the inner realm and consumed in its Burgundy based broth.

### Corollary 1; how can this be?

Those of an observant nature might ask why the females might choose to engage in this despicable act. I can tell you friend. For as I studied the process I became increasingly curious about the intense hypnotic pleasure available. To the point one night I began to walk toward this terrible kraken. Luckily, I was forewarned by some poor wretch who had attempted the infinilatio. When the phalisimus has exited your anus and finds there are no eggs to be found it angrily ejects you at such speed you shall never speak again. I had prevented my passage by tying my shoelaces together and awoke from my stupor before I came too close. I saw its appeal. I walked with demons and took from the cup of evil wine. The only way I could explain it is to say it was somewhere between Champagne and nightmares. Between pure joy and pure hate.

But I digress. There are more details to the scheme that any serious enquirer must be informed about. After the ruglicles are complete they are sent forthwith to the anal cavity (in a sister essay I will describe the process of eating whereby the Hypercunt takes food in the mouth, dissolves it and ejects it again from the mouth as an octopus does). The ruglicles are then laid into dustbins where the infant can develop due to the warmth provided by decaying trash. These grow to adulthood fully without any parental care and lead sad bitter lives. You can recognise these when you hear the following squeal from a local wheelie bin “daddy, no, please don’t leave me like the others!”. The screams will never be answered.

### Counter position

“Remarkable claims require remarkable evidence.” – Sajid Javid, CDO salesman and Demicunt.

Do not think I am unaware of the radical novelty of my thesis. Do not think I have not dripped with sweat many a night asking myself “can this monstrosity be? Can God’s earth harbour such demons”. Rest assured, dear reader, I have applied the utmost level of rigorous enquiry of a kind at or near that of the Hypercunt’s very own research department. In point of fact the whole episode was relayed to me by alemate Joshua, who received it first hand, from his colleague, in one of London’s utmost Wetherspoons.

### Corollary 2; what is to be done?

And in this final section we must fall to despair. I know not what or how. I will have to leave this to my readers more versed in strategy. I merely point you to this fascinating and frightening natural process which is coming to fruition. The display is occurring in the inner chamber of the formicarium in one month and with what savagery it will explode none can say. All I ask is that you tie yourselves down, as Odysseus bound himself to the mast, lest the siren call of latinate neologisms draw you through promises of erotic ecstasy to your bloody demise.

## One hundred proofs that Bielefeld does not exist

being one hundred proofs that Bielefeld does not exist.

1 Bielefeld is the most populous city in the Regierungsbezirk Detmold, with a population of 341,730. If this was true then no one could either leave or arrive since the population would no longer be 341,730. It follows that there is no Bielefeld.

2 The historical centre of the city is situated north of the Teutoburg Forest line of hills, but modern Bielefeld also incorporates boroughs on the opposite side. If Bielefeld existed it would then both be and not be on the opposite side. Therefore it does not exist.

3 Bielefeld is home to a significant number of internationally operating companies, including Dr. Oetker. Since Dr Oetker produces frozen pizza which is a self evident contradiction, it follows that it, and its home Bielefeld, do not exist.

4 The angel Merkel acknowledges the non-existence of Bielefeld.

4.5 Shirley’s Lemma: I have never discovered a bias in my thinking. Since my thought, according to itself via an immanent critique, is without bias I believe it when it believes that Bielefeld does not exist.

5 The aeronaut can see for himself that Bielefeld does not exist. The appearance presented to him, even at the highest elevation he has ever attained offers no glimpse of Bielefeld. This is ocular demonstration and proof that Bielefeld does not exist.

6 We can not talk about proof 6.

7 If proof 6 holds then we similariwise cannot talk about Bielefeld. Since what we cannot talk about we must pass over in silence then we must pass over Bielfeld in silence. If proof 6 does not hold then we can talk about proof 6 thus proving that proof six holds.

8 Consider if there were a second Bielefeld. There would then be two towns with the same name meaning it would be impossible to know which we were talking about. If the first town were then destroyed there would still be Bielefeld proving that Bielefeld is of size zero.

9 Since the first proof already demonstrated the thesis and the second prooof also, then, as we are now at proooooooooof nine, and since the letter o is a hyperflattened 0 the prooof 3 was fooooolproooof. It has been demonstrated.

10 In the photographs frequently staged in deep state research laboratories purporting to show Bielefeld various evidences of fakery are presents. In fact an entire head of a man was found to measure just 1.7 cm on my computer screen. Are we to believe these tiny men are real!

11 Throughout the first ten proofs I have demonstrated my ability to provide true arguments. You may therefore take it on authority when I tell you that Bielefeld does not exist.

100 Recent experiments have determined that up to seventy percent of the universe is composed of so called dark energy. I estimate the Bielefeld’s mass to be equal to the length of a London bus in nanometers in imperial tonnes. This more than accounts for the missing dark energy.

101 It is a fact universally acknowledged that Bielefeld does not exist.

12 If Bielefeld exists then the townfolk would not consider any proof that it does not. Since the consequent, that they do consider proofs fairly, holds, then the negation of the antecendent, that Bielefeld does not exist, can be inferred.

14 If Sparrenberg Castle wasn’t in a place then Bielefeld would not exist. Since a castle cannot have an exact place due to its non zero size, proving the antecedent, then the consequent that Bielefeld does not exist may be inferred.

15
15.1 ¬A∨¬(¬B∧(¬A∨B))
15.2 = ¬A∨¬[(¬B∧¬A)∨(¬B∧B)]
15.3 = ¬A∨¬[(¬B∧¬A)∨ False]
15.4 = ¬A∨¬(¬B∧¬A)
15.6 = ¬A∨(B∨A) using ¬(X∧Y)=¬X∨¬Y
15.7 = True

16 – 95 Proofs 16 to 95 are all possible hyperrevolution inverses of proofs 5 to 8 as counterstructed from the mirror image of proof 3. The chiral proof augmented from the mid point of these proofs is identical to the superlocrian mode.

96 If Bielefeld existed a world map containing Bielefeld would be the very best means for a sailor to navigate the world. With such a toy as a guide the mariner would wreck his ship, of a certainty. This is a proof that Bielefeld does not exist.

97 The mayor of Bielefeld, Pit Clausen, believes that Bielefeld exists. Pit Clausen is a damned fool. Therefore Bielefeld does not exist.

97 B Anfangsgründe der Logik was written by Johann Christoph Hoffbauer in 1794. Since Hoffbauer was born in Bielefeld, before the writing of the rudiments of logic, the town is pre-logic. This another way of saying that Bielefeld does not exist.

97 C It is no longer our reason that is against Bielefeld, but our taste.

98 Before publication, this article was subject to extensive criticism from peers in the scientific community of my esteemed acquaintances. Since it has withstood such attack and survived it is true.

99 Bielefeld is home to the professional football team DSC Arminia Bielefeld. Currently member of 2. Bundesliga. Since 1. Bundesliga does exist, it follows that 2. Bundesliga is for teams that do not exist.

The pudding: It is a fact universally acknowledged that the world is approximately spherical and simulated in a computer on the flat earth. Since it would be easier to simulate a world without Bielefeld, it follows from Occam’s razor that there is no Bielefeld.

A non-zero proof equal to the square root of zero: Once you eliminate Bielefeld, whatever remains, no matter how improbable must be the truth.

0 Since it has been proven that Bielefeld does not exist, it necessarily follows that Bielefeld does not exist.

Q.E.D.

## Living in the land of opposites

In which women have too many positive role models; and are only permitted to exist in positions of authority be being judges, teachers, doctors, and CEOs.

The object and its opposite living in a whole. Or three objects describing the famous Borromean knot. The exclusions sustaining the explicit contradictions. And all this embodied in the toilet bowl!

In which the answer to the question has no relation to the question being asked because the question is unsatisfactory.

Should the answer to this question characterise the power dynamic between the asker and the asked? Leave or I take an early Witgenstien view that language is a means to describe the world. Remain or I take a late Witgenstien view that the bulk of language is performative and game-like. I really should go home after this pint.

In which all discourse between the UK government and its population takes the form of an exam.

Do you conform to the doctrine of being different? To what? That which everything is not. Rebelliously ignoring the law of the excluded middle. The last words of the sentence are vulgarised faeces*.

*shit.

In which itself and its opposite mean the same thing.

How are we to reconcile Ricky Gervais’ comment that “the men are the children, the women the adults” with Kant’s that all women live in a state of “self-imposed nonage”.

Each appears sexist yet they are each other’s complement. Each sentence should further the aim of the paragraph. But these are unruly sentences and paragraphs are passé.

In which I have the realisation that meta-argumentative analysis is applicable in all contexts.

Irony is just a first order dialectic. A dialectic for babies.

Obviously I don’t care about other people, I’m just worried about my own wrong ideas. But, if I’m completely dishonest, my feelings about these wrong ideas are not ambiguous. Oh you wrong ideas. You darlings!

In which women are denied the radical freedom of inherent self worth not derived from a position of power, success, influence or authority. Available even in destitution and failure. Jesus the ultimate loser. Terrorists the fake losers. Loser winner, winner loser.

The only original idea: that gender being a ‘social construct’ makes it harder to overcome than any natural limitations imposed by mere biology. It took a hundred years to overcome the speed limit imposed by mere biology. It will take eternity to end the use of men running as propaganda instrument. Eliot’s perceptive line:

“It was as if a woman’s ignorance was of a lower quality than a man’s.”

Is there a difference between no apples and no oranges? Yes, because no oranges in a box means there might be apples there. A description of a description. A false description in one sense, a declaration in another.

Those acts which are permitted by the two exclusions ‘don’t be evil’ and ‘don’t be good’. As close as evil to possible without entering that morality space.

In which we fight the battle for the origin myth.

It is important to remember that the state of nature is not a real object to be inspected but a performative one to be created. The argument over the qualities of the real object is entirely synthetic. Like an artist’s impression of the prevalent description of cosmological origin in an ironised tabloid science article. Presenting its claim to higher understanding as a modest lack of understanding.

A series of unrelated thoughts bungled on to the page.

In which we pretend to believe in some set of minds with lower instrumental and epistemic rationality to our own. The other readers. Dear everyone other than reader.

As if reason didn’t act on axioms to be chosen by whim. Euclid’s fifth postulate was thrown away by whim. And this they called genius.

In which I show a selfish concern for my own mind above other’s bodies damaged and degraded by Hollywood’s film industry practices.

Searching around my brain for all the little structures erected by Harvey Weinstein. Erected to sustain a particular form of zero. Erected by pathetic fallacy. The stage contains more information than the play on it. The space-space-time cube containing the producer’s work. I once had my wages to drive some props around London haggled down by a producer and have distrusted them ever since.

In which we see the last humanities department.

In which academic text books are the seat of propaganda.

In which satire is the instrument of the powerful.

In which I didn’t notice the inversion.

In which I fail to imagine a female in permanent adolescence.

In which technology alters language.

In which we disobey Steven Pinker’s request to omit unnecessary words.

In which we only include unnecessary words since necessary words are implicit.

Only include superfluous words.

Hypersuperfluousity.

I, malevolent.

In which the category wife sustains the category prostitute (Engels).

In which the guilt sustains the lust.

In which categories both describe and cause (Peter Hitchens).

In which the world is a yes or no question.

In which it all appears as one whole wrongness.

In which the world is turned upfide down.

## The event

The circumstances of the event are very much specific to the event. That is why when speaking of it we must be exceptionally careful to be specific about what we mean by the causes and learn from them.

LUV xoxo

## inertia

0

Living in a caravan. Masturbate in the morning. There is a cow at the window watching me. This put me off. It had a big brown eye watching me wank. Now the day is off kilter so I run out the door bare shouting at the said cow.

1

I denounce feminism and all her evils.

2

Wandering down the country lane elliptical. A battalion of wheelie bins come over the top at me declaring. I have weapons. Shotgun and stick and take on the wheelie bins. Neighbours scream and shout. ‘What have you done to my bin?’

3

A sea of strewn enemies. Their innards (old food packaging etc) flowing out. Sheer sublimated libidinal energy. Such waste. Council replaced bins efficiently.

4

Amazon because it had the A to Z design possibility and the scale of flowing out. What is the sea?

5

Looking out the back window of a bus at my conquest satisfying but guilt. sHello sdarkness smy sold sfriend.

6

I watched as the finest vets of my generation grabbed a cow by the pussy and pondered Benjamin’s immortal inspirational quote ‘behind every fascism there is a failed revolution’ because ‘behind every great man is a great woman’. Was the obvious parallel lost on you?

7

A threat hanging in the air with menace.

8

Recreational agriculture.

9

How many moves ahead can you think in chess or politics? I can think between zero and one moves ahead. Did not see that one coming.

10

We never believed they would hire the better creatives.

11

The psychometric covariance matrix.

12

Windows 95.

## Summary of the year two thousand and sixteen

We the hyperboreans! We the followers of David Icke. I can begin with the summary that 2016 was all about architecture. When Russian agents created the European parliament they employed a man who had dedicated his life to helping insomniacs. He did this by designing an unnational parliament that was so boring to watch that no animal could look at it for more than around 15 seconds without falling asleep. After ten seconds of stock footage to be played over any news story the camera man would slumber, the camera would dip to the floor and the lizards could remove their human costumes and begin their horrific reproduction ritual of which one byproduct was law. There were at least ten byproducts and the product was caviar. However, one day another Russian, this time a dissident; Ronald McDonald, invented the ‘tripod’ and it was just a matter of time before Britain voted to leave the union.

Light beech benches in the round. Cheap expensive suits in monotonous foreign mangled overly good English with perfect grammar and no idioms. A parliament designed by Ikea. Don’t worry, I will maintain some ironic distance to help you swallow the bitter pill. The prose is scattered nonsense lacking structure, which has been acknowledged and therefore cannot be criticised; blithering. A vulgar room in a vulgar building that asks for our love or disinterest. No, no, yes. Location, location, education. Minds untouched by the King James. A codified genre.

Where was I?

<in hell>

<logic>
David Cameron therefore* asked us whether the UK government should drop a nuclear bomb on us all. Should choose a policy without a government. Should heal the Conservative party. Should be racist. Should say fuck off. Should x. This was a masterstroke of long term strategy of which we are merely witnessing the first stage. The end game involves George Osborne becoming King of the Jews and completing his long term economic plan in 3000CE when we will run a surplus of 1p. When we were asked whether the world was round, he unfortunately told us that he would be upset to the point of crying in his wife’s arms, which his children would see; forever losing respect for him, if we said it were flat. And out of sheer spite I wanted his children to share our disappointment with our parents. I wanted disciplinarians and they turned out to be liberals. A yearning for authority. But there were lies on both sides. 350 is approximately 200 to a statistician. We call them the same ‘order of magnitude’. For instance the average density of the universe is around 0.000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 01 kilograms per cubic metre which is a different order of magnitude to the density of air which is about 350 000 000 pounds per week when hot. We are a stain on the vacuum. So it was a lie of size 7/4. Compare that to the lie the goodies told that the density of the universe was roughly the density of air. It was a bigger lie, but then again if two liars tell you two lies what does that reveal about the truth? this is part of the grand metaphysical debate begat by Rumsfeld who famously forgot to mention the things that you know but you don’t know that you know. For me that is that I know I don’t understand numbers above a thousand but I don’t know that I know it.
</logic>

world.history.help()

“ ‘Take back control’ has the character of the death wish. We know we have to die, but we want to die on our own terms.’ – some yank red. Memento vitae.

britain.finishJobOfLuftwaffe()

I met someone who thought a vote for X was an endorsement of X. How would you like to be humiliated?

self.cry('conformism that doesn\'t know it is conformism is just a further stupidity')

A slight mental smell seemed to be hinting at a coherent idea but never quite settled.

And the left destroyed the leftist Sanders and want a new war with Russia for some reason. It was Amy Schumer wot won it.

And apparently the sixties was actually shit.

And the introduction of the tritone into compositions was shatteringly brutal and radical. It took the genius of the oppressed to make such an incredible theoretical divergence from the past. But it was a victory of the intellect over order. Ugliness became an ingredient for beauty.

$R_{\mu \nu} - {1 \over 2}g_{\mu \nu}\,R + g_{\mu \nu} \Lambda = {8 \pi G \over c^4} T_{\mu \nu}$,

where $R$ is the experiment being conducted on our minds by the Chinese called the internet; $g$ is the fake clash of civilisations narrative; $\Lambda$ is the true clash of civilisations narrative; and $T$ is Nigel Farage.

And so it turned out that T.S. Eliot was wrong about April. It was June and even then not so much as November, less a month than a vacuum between two other gentler months. I think T.S. stands for That Slapper. For in November Hillary Duck was crowned oldest loser in history. Septegenocracy is a new evil for the world. A slow evil. A weary evil. A evil with urinary difficulties. Daffy Clinton will now have have a special bingo wing added to the Special Fancy House for special bingo times. This all poses some troubling conundrums for Jonny Muslim. And we should remember that just because they think the world was made by a male fairy type thing which is difficult to describe they are still terrorists. Just like you and me. And the advertisers have been first to champion empowered religious women. Ann Summers released a Christmas burqa with extra slits at the nipple and crutch to help empowered religious women feel sexy while honouring the prophet (PBUH) by covering their modesty. It had the full veil of ignorance allowing objective analysis of political theory. And I have started covering my hair with a ‘baseball cap’ for fear of arousing women with my brown mop out of pure respect for dignity. I have long been worried that I would tempt females away from austere piety and make blood flow to their secondary sexual organs by running a hand across my head provocatively. Seemingly unaware that I am being watched. But I know what I am doing. It says #MAGA. And we must concentrate on what we have in common. For instance us atheists share the Islamic view that Mary must have had sex to have that kid and probably told Joseph that it was God that raped her in her dream in a panicked explanation in the heat of the moment that she couldn’t believe he believed to the point where she was forced to question his intellect. Either that or Joseph ejaculated on her and I don’t need to go into vulgar details but you get the picture (his semen somehow made its way ‘down there’, ‘down south’, or raised eyebrows (I’m talking about Mary’s vagina and uterus)). But of course I feign a symmetry where an asymmetry lies. Four points on an identity space.

a)                                                                                           b)
Figure 1: Graph of my ignorance against religion a) shows Shiantanism and b) shows Sunnitholicism. Time for the daily trip to BBC article on the difference between Sunni and Shia.

I ask myself of what topics I dare not speak. I don’t think the holocaust is a fair example.

Intentional disregard for Michael Gove’s and Steven Pinker’s contradictory rules for good prose style.

‘When I was seventeen, it was a very good year’ is a lyric that today’s seventeen year olds will never be able to sing. Except ironically if they still have that. I don’t know, I remember when a telephone was still two plastic cups and a bit of string, which lets face it: it still is. I wish I was seventeen, and it is our duty to ruin things for them so we don’t feel so jealous. Like really humiliating until it’s like literally ‘thank god I’m not seventeen’. Twenty Seventeen. Seventeen feels like a cute diminutive for seven. The seven blasphemies of modernity: the Shard, the Gherkin, the Walkie Talkie, the Lloyds building, Canary Wharf, the Olympics and Mary Berry. The bland international city state which mocks the sublime modesty of a small Norman church. They holiday in Tuscany while English winter sunsets mock the base vulgarity of Mediterranean heat on paid leave. A dream that our star will replace carbon through pure commercial supremacy.

The bland international city state cries a liberal tear. The pseudo leftists weep. Is it a coincidence that the principle image of our global warming is a biblical flood? The salary of crying. The cinematic aspect of the scientific theory is its essential appeal.

I am grateful to be alive (stars, life etc).

My main prediction is that since Jonny Chinese is a more effective capitalist than Jonny Yank we will see the Cold War in reverse in the twenty first century. Peace Hot. We are at peace but we all kill each other. The yanks will be the commie bastards. Elections and liberty will be opposites. The world is upfide down.

What is your preferred binary? Old-young? Educated-uneducated? bigoted-liberal. My preferences are rural-metropolitan and pessimist-optimist.

Figure 2: Bisections of a plane.

The glass is not half empty, it embodies dread.

Some old ideas as a front for something or other.

Merry Summery across gorgeous rolling green hills to a blood orange horizon,

* No causal relation permitted.

## Aliens

And a little song companion piece:

## Donald Trump Medley

Peace to yanks everywhere,

## Melancholy Woman

Please enjoy it. Make the most of it. Fourth album on way,

## Human Garbage

Not the best mix but whatever yeah.

P+L

Come on now gentlemen get in formation, you could be the next Ada Lovelace in the making.

Love,

## Inheritance Tax Threshold Harvesting

Detective Manners, short and fat, sat at a cup of coffee. Progressing slowly through the Metropolitan police he carried the air of disappointment that a lot of forty year old men who use internet dating algorithms do. He had been given a case by a particularly irritating boss that was going nowhere. A series of missing vagrants across London, had dissapeared in similar circumstances. His response to this was ‘obviously’. Spread out in front of him were a series of photographs from half way houses and veteran’s organisations. Resigned and bored, he pushed them away and looked up out the window. A smartly dressed but unusually wizened man walked past. Buzzing with an energy he hadn’t seen since his first day when a pranking senior officer told him he’d been given a murder case which turned out to be a call from a nice lady who had had a tramp use her doorstop as a toilet, he looked down at the photo on the top of the pile and knew immediately it was the homeless man. Cleaned up and besuited; but the man.

Throwing five pounds at the counter and grabbing his photographs he ran out the door and began to follow the man. He went to a rather nice looking off license and bought two bottles of wine and a cigar. He then crossed the street to buy some pornography and continued casually down a well to do street of terraced houses. He noted the address the man entered and returned to his car, a shabby minute little thing that made him look slightly bigger by virtue of the strain required to enter it but no less ridiculous. He returned to the street and resigned himself to a night on ‘stake out’. He had never done this before and therefore his only point of reference was a few American movies. He thought perhaps he should invite a ‘buddy’ but he had no ‘partner’ so merely mirrored the food consumption. Sitting alone in the sodium half light, in an oven of smells from Subway sandwiches and Peperami, he began to make his discovery. One by one, the pictures in his folder were beginning to be associated with well dressed faces. Manners became wildly enthusiastic and put on some Status Quo to celebrate.

Further investigations the following morning told him that the house had had a significant basement room built a year ago and that they had applied for permission to grant marriages. On returning to the premises in the afternoon, quite to his astonishment there was a funeral in progress. Feeling confidence like he had never felt before, Manners in an act of almost mad recklessness started walking towards the front door and rang the bell. A cartoonish butler appeared seemingly straight out of Wodehouse.

‘I’m here to pay my respects.’

‘Of course.’

Manners entered a champagne wake. A clashing combination of people from either end of the social strata were interacting quite freely. He noticed how the homeless chose to wear lavish, almost outlandishly aristocratic dress. While the hosts were much more casually dressed in golf shirts and slacks like international business elites do. No one successful enough to wear a T-shirt and jeans was present, but there was the odd pair of trainers. Choking on his champagne Manners then noticed the coffin contained the very man he had seen yesterday. At this point a priest entered the room and, surprises now compounding like water drowning a rat, said something which was not predicted by Manners.

‘We are gathered here today to witness the matrimony of…’

After completing the wedding of an elderly woman to an elderly woman, a great volume of bureaucracy took place. Then the priest continued:

‘Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.’

And the coffin was lowered into a furnace.

Six months later, Manners was a little fatter and still unpromoted. He had taken to reading romantic literature, watching Renee Zellwegger based romantic comedies and drink. He had been convinced the work from the start of the year was to be his finest moment but of course it was not. He had found no wrong doing. No law had been broken.

### A Portrait of a Provincial Nobody

Words and pictures from Raph Shirley, in humorous weblog form.

Infecting the internet like so many glimmering tentacles
( ).

He is a fictional character.