 Between now and Christmas we will be serialising Robert Cubitt's satirical version of the old Charles Dickens classic, a Christmas Carol. Christmas Eve - Some Time Ago The bell jangled to let Scratchit know that someone had entered the Counting House. He glanced over the heaped ledgers on his desk and quickly looked down again, anxious to appear busy. “Scratchit.” The new arrival shouted. “You’ve been putting more coal on this fire, haven’t you?” “Yes Mr Smooge. But it was so cold, and I only put one lump on.” “Be that as it may, I’ll be taking the cost of the coal out of your wages.” Scratchit gave a silent moan. His wages, such as they were, already amounted to so little. At this rate he would have to send Tiny Tim out to work. “Were there any callers?” Smooge called over his shoulder as he walked towards the inner office, his own private space. “None, Sir.” “Damn and blast. At this rate I’ll be down to my last million before long. There’s no profit in banking anymore, you know, Scratchit. Why, the government are even threatening to cap the interest rates on loans at a level that are affordable. What nonsense. How’s a hard working usurer supposed to make a living with that sort of attitude. If someone’s such a wastrel that they need to borrow money it should come as no surprise that they’ll pay highly for the privilege and for the risk I take in lending it to them without security.” Ending the familiar rant Smooge slammed his office door behind him, shutting out Scratchit’s reply. The younger man rose from his desk, pulling his heavy coat tighter around him, half as protection from the cold and half as a form of defence against his employer. He tapped on the door. But I’ll be docking you a day’s pay and I want you in even earlier the next day. Clear?” “Go away.” The reply came from within. Scratchit dared to tap again. There was a grinding of chair legs as Smooge stood up, followed by the thump of his boots across the bare floor. Scratchit cowered against the wrath he knew was coming. The door flew open. “I fucking said go away.” Smooge, barely taller than his employee, seemed to tower over him. “I’m sorry Mr Smooge, but I have a favour to ask.” “You can ask as much as you like but I don’t have to grant it.” “It’s just that its Christmas tomorrow.” Scratchit trembled, and not just with the cold. “I wondered if I might be granted the day off.” “What?” If Smooge had been asked to lend money at low interest rates he could not have looked more angry. “You not only take my wages but you now want to rob me of a day’s work as well.” “It is Christmas, Sir.” “It is Christmas, Sir.” Smooge whined back in imitation. “Bah humbug is what I say to Christmas. A waste of time and a waste of money. You know that if there wasn’t Christmas there would be far less poverty in the world. All that money wasted on presents that no one wants and that they need even less. Bah humbug I say.” Smooge lowered his voice a little, realising that ranting at Scratchit would only raise his own blood pressure to dangerous levels and he was damned if he was going to give himself a stroke so that Scratchit could use it as an excuse to ask for time off work to visit him in hospital. “I suppose there is some benefit. At least we’ll make a fortune out of all the loans we make in January. When I say we, I do of course mean me.” Smooge allowed himself the rarest of all treats, a short, barking laugh of satisfaction. “Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir. So was that a yes then Sir?” “Damn your eyes, Scratchit. I suppose so. But I’ll be docking you a day’s pay and I want you in even earlier the next day. Clear?” “Of course, Mr Smooge.” I have no loved ones. I have taken great care to make sure that I have no loved ones The bell jangled and Scratchit took the opportunity provided by the distraction to scurry back to his desk. “What Ho, Uncle.” The new arrival called, clearly in a good mood. “You, you damned wastrel. What do you want? You’ll get no money from me. Not while I breath.” “And nor do I wish for any, Uncle, either now or in the future. I have simply come to wish you the joy of the season and to invite you to join myself and my darling wife for the enjoyment of Christmas.” Smooge glared at the neatly dressed young man. He noted with some satisfaction that the collar and cuffs of his shirt were frayed and that he had a patch on the elbow of one sleeve of his coat. “Why is everyone so obsessed with wishing me joy and inviting me to enjoy myself? A dozen times I had it between the corner of the street and the front door. I shall spend Christmas in any fashion I wish.” “Quite right too, Uncle, but I do plead with you to consider joining myself and my family to spend it with your loved ones.” “I have no loved ones. I have taken great care to make sure that I have no loved ones. Loved ones are parasites, sucking the life and money out of a man. Now, Sir, I’ll thank you to be gone so that I may continue with something that I do enjoy; The making of money.” “As you wish, Uncle. However, the invitation remains open. If you change your mind, then you will find a welcome at our hearth.” “Stuff your welcome up your arse. Now be off with you and stop making free with the heat from my fire.” The young man shook his head in sadness at his Uncle’s bad temper and turned to leave the Counting House. As he passed Scratchit’s desk he dropped a small leather bag onto it. It jingled with the promise of coins. “A Merry Christmas to you and yours, Mr Scratchit.” The nephew offered. “A little something for your children. How many are there now?” “Just the dozen, Mr Justin Sir. Still just the dozen.” “Well done, Sir. And on the wages my Uncle pays you. It’s a marvel how you and Mrs Scratchit manage.” Scratchit was just about to tell him that they didn’t manage when the cheerful young man was gone, leaving only an icy blast of wind and a flurry of snow to mark his passage. The church clock began its chiming and Scratchit patiently counted the striking of the hours until it reached seven. At last he could go home. He closed the ledger that he had been working on and placed it in its correct position within the pile on his desk, before taking the whole heap and placing them carefully in the cupboard. He turned the key in the lock and then shuffled across to the door of Smooge’s office once again. He tapped on the door as though he was afraid of it being answered. The contrast between the ground floor and the first could not have been greater. Smooge must have heard the clock as well, because the door was flung open at once. “Where do you think you’re going.” Smooge demanded, as he always did at that time of day. “Its seven o’clock, Sir. It is the end of the day.” “Damn your eyes, are you robbing me again?” “No Sir.” He pointed a shaking finger at the clock that hung on the wall above the fireplace. Its hand confirmed the hour. Scratchit offered Smooge the key to the ledger cupboard. “Very well. If you must go home to that brood of yours. What time will Mrs Scratchit arrive?” “As soon as she has finished cooking my meal and put the children to bed, Sir. I should say about nine o’clock.” “Good. Tell her not to be late.” “I will, Sir. Can you tell me why she is visiting, Sir?” “It’s another fitting for my new curtains.” “Well, bless me. I had no idea curtains required so many fittings. This must be at least the fourth.” “Fifth actually. She must get them right. I’ll not brook any bad workmanship.” “I’ll wish you good night then, Sir, so that my wife may be here all the quicker.” As soon as Scratchit had left the building Smooge went through the evening routine of securing his premises. He triple locked the front door and threw the dead bolts at the top and bottom. Heavy bars were placed over the windows and padlocked into position. Finally he let himself through the inner door to the foot of the stairs before locking it carefully behind him. At last he was able to climb the bare wooden stairs to his private rooms. The contrast between the ground floor and the first could not have been greater. Where the downstairs was dark and dingy the upstairs glittered with gas lamps and candles. Coals burned brightly in all the hearths and cast a cheerful orange glow on the walls, which were decked in brightly coloured coverings. Rich, deep carpets covered the floors. The furniture was the most fashionable that Messrs Dee, Eff and Ess could provide. Smooge’s housekeeper had left food warming in the oven of the most modern kitchen that Smooge had been able to purchase. The aroma of meat and gravy caused Smooge to salivate as soon as he walked into the room. First things first, however. Smooge went into the bathroom to run himself a nice hot bath. The bathroom was his pride and joy. The walls were tiled from floor to ceiling in marble. Mirrors sparkled, reflecting the light from the gas flamed chandelier. Gold taps and fittings adorned the bath, the sink and the toilet. He allowed himself a small sigh of appreciation as he put the plug into the bath and let the steaming water run into it. He splashed a scented liquid into the jet of water and suds began to form, filling the steam with the rich aroma of exotic plants and spices. “Because you’re worth it.” Smooge muttered to himself. Later he dressed himself carefully in a velvet smoking jacket over rich, red pyjamas. A knock came at the side door to the apartment. He had timed it perfectly. Peering through the spy hole, Smooge smiled as he saw the rosy round face of Elisa Scratchit silhouetted against the night, shivering at the top of the iron staircase that led to the door. He turned the key and let the wife of his clerk into the apartment. Episode 2 of this story will be posted in next week’s blog, but if you don’t want to wait until then to read it, you can purchase the book right now by clicking on the button below. And if you don't want to miss an episode, be sure to sign up for our newsletter. Just click on the button below.
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 Following on from last week’s blog about literary figures insulting each other, I received quite a few emails giving examples of more general insults. So many, in fact, that I have decided to do a blog just on them. First of all, some of these may be quotes from the writings or speeches of other people, living or dead, so I beg forgiveness from those whose words I have used without giving them the usual citations and credit. However, so many of these are now going around the internet that they almost fall into the category of “public domain” – even if they don’t fit the legal definition of that phrase. So, be flattered that your words have found such fame. But my thanks to all my readers who have taken the time to send these in. Without you I would have had to apply some original thought to write this week’s blog and that would have made my head hurt. I’ve tried to place all of these into categories, but some would fit into more than one and some don’t fit anywhere, so I’ve included them under “miscellaneous”.  Appearance
You’re not ugly, you’re just someone it’s hard to look at. You’re so fat, people jog around you for exercise. (I could have done a whole blog on fat jokes alone, but this is my favourite). I’m not saying you’re ugly. It's just that you're 8 beers away from being my type. Who gave you that haircut? Do you want me and the boys to go around and beat him up? Mirrors can’t talk. Lucky for you they can’t laugh either. Halloween finished yesterday, so you can take your mask off now. You are living proof that there is no God, because God is supposed to have created mankind in his own image and no one would worship a face like yours. Everyone has the right to be ugly, but you abuse the privilege.  Dress sense I’m sorry, were we supposed to dress stupid today? I know that sometimes fashions come back around a second time, but you won’t see that style again until the next time Halley’s comet appears. I know your look is supposed to be ‘old school’ but schools were never that old. You do know that this office doesn’t have a “dress down Friday”, don’t you? Besides, which, it’s Monday. Wurzel Gummage was on the phone. He asked if he could have his suit back. I see you had another power cut while you were getting dressed. I didn’t realise you were so brave until I saw what you were wearing.  Ego NASA called; they asked you to step to one side because your ego is blocking out the Hubble telescope. It’s been several centuries since they discovered that the world revolves around the Sun and not around you. NASA called. They’ve finally built a rocket big enough to match your ego. Your biggest fan is the one on the ceiling. Do I think you’re clever? I’m sorry, but my mother taught me not to lie. If you were as great as you think you are, someone else would have noticed by now. You are the very definition of “Z List celebrity”. Do I know who you are? Of course I do. But I have to serve you or 'll get lose my job.  Intelligence I’m surprised at your level of stupidity. If stupidity was a currency, you would be a billionaire. Of course I talk like an idiot. How else could you understand me? Your head is just there to keep your ears apart. I can explain it to you, but I can’t understand it for you. Fools are temporary, but stupidity like yours is forever. If brains were dynamite, you wouldn’t have enough to blow your hat off. Somewhere out there is a village that’s lost its idiot. I’d have to have my head amputated before my IQ would be as low as yours. Without stupidity, there would be no way of recognising intelligence, so in that sense you are important. It’s always been said that two heads are better than one, but not when one of them is yours. It’s the university on the phone. They’re trying to find out how long a human can live without a brain and want to know how old you are. Quick, stand next to me. I need to look good and next to you I look like a genius. I used to say “please engage brain before speaking”. Then I met you. Now I say “please engage brain before thinking”. It’s a good job that stupidity isn’t a crime or you would be serving a life sentence. I’ve just realised that you aren’t as stupid as you sound. No one could be that stupid and still be capable of breathing. Miscellaneous Please don’t interrupt me when I’m ignoring you. Allowing you to survive childbirth was medical malpractice. I’d slap you, but that would be animal abuse. How can I insult you? Nature has done such a great job already. Do you still love nature, despite what it did to you? I went looking for your family tree and it turned out to be a bonsai. My door is always open, so feel free to leave anytime now. Of course I’ve got time to see you. How about 30th February? Be kinder to your parents. Don’t go home so often. I've researched your family crest. Apparently it's an anchor with the letter W above it.  Offence (the taking of) You find it offensive? I find it funny. That’s why I’m happier than you. You only feel offended because what they said applied to you. Honestly, I didn’t mean to cause offence. That was just a happy accident. (Best read in a Yoda voice) Cause offence did I? Don’t care a bit do I. I will defend to the death your right to be offended if you will defend to the death my right to cause offence. No, I wasn’t offended. He was right, I am a stupid idiot. And you are an even bigger idiot for not knowing that.  Personality I won’t say you are shallow but compared to you a puddle has hidden depths. Life is good, you should get one. You are an oxygen thief. You are a waste of good skin. I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure meeting you, but I’d be lying. I’ve just discovered that there is a God. I asked him to punish me and then you turned up. Compared to hearing one of your stories, the ticking of a clock is an entertainment. With all the wonders of technology: photoshop, auto-tune, plastic surgery, it’s such a pity that there’s nothing it can do to improve your personality. You have given a whole new meaning to the expression “sour grapes”. You are the photoshop of truth telling. Yes, you can help me solve my problem. Go away. Being here with you makes me want to go to the dentist. It will be so much more fun. That wasn’t a round of applause, that was just everyone slapping their own faces trying to stay awake while they listened to you.  Relationships.
My phone battery lasts longer than your relationships. You deserve someone like you. You two deserve more credit. Thanks to you, two other people are living happier lives with someone else. I’d say you had bad taste in men, but then again, in life you get what you deserve. Sleeping around isn’t classed as a hobby. Relationships aren’t like shopping. You don’t get a bigger discount the more people you sleep with. When I asked the name of your last sexual partner, I didn’t expect the name of a football team. And finally If you are the sort of person who enjoys insulting others, just remember that what goes around, come around. And if your favourite insult isn’t amongst the ones above, please feel free to send it to me and it may appear in a future blog. if you have found this blog interesting or informative, make sure you don't miss future editions by signing up for our newsletter by clicking the button below. We promise not to spam you and you can unsubscribe at any time.  Mutual support To see the way that authors support each other on social media (for the most part) it would be easy to think that things have always been that cordial in the writing fraternity. Sadly, they have not. In the past it was quite common for authors to insult each other. Even in quite recent history there has been the odd barbed comment. Now, I must make it clear that I am not advocating a return to such uncivilised behaviour. But a good insult, delivered with wit, can be a source of humour.  An Ancient Greek being insulting While there is evidence that goes all the way back to Ancient Greece, when playwrights used to insult each other’s works, they tend to become more witty as we get closer to modern times. Shakespeare is now a revered literary figure throughout the world, but it wasn’t always so. In his own time he came in for a fair share of insults. Fellow playwright Ben Johnson once said of the Bard of Avon “I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never blotted out a line. My answer hath been, would he had blotted a thousand.” OK, it’s not quite up there with “Your Momma” but it’s quite a damning criticism.  Irish poet and playwright Oscar Wilde, thinking up new insults. Oscar Wilde is well known for his caustic wit. After spending time “at Her Majesty’s pleasure” as a guest at Reading high security hotel (prison) he commented “If this is the way Queen Victoria treats her prisoners, she doesn’t deserve to have any”. However, that is beside the point. On writing and writers Wilde had a lot to say. This one probably holds good today. “In olden days, books were written by men of letters and read by the public. Nowadays books are written by the public and read by no one.” If you are an author and are having trouble getting readers, Oscar Wilder foresaw your pain.  Over the years there have been some great rivalries in literature and the rivals didn’t always play nicely. William Faulkner was accused by Ernest Hemingway of being under the influence of alcohol while he wrote. He said “I can tell right in the middle of a page when he’s had his first one.” Given Hemingway’s own reputation as an imbiber, that may be seen as a pot-and-kettle sort of remark. In retaliation Faulkner quipped. “He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.” Personally, I’d find that a recommendation. When I’m reading, I don’t want to have to keep looking up words to find out what the author is talking about. But maybe that’s just me. But in return for that slight, Hemingway came back with “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?” Hemingway seems to have attracted a lot of criticism from fellow writers. In 1972 Victor Nabokov said, “As to Hemingway, I read him for the first time in the early ‘forties, something about bells, balls and bulls, and loathed it.” I was always taught not to speak ill of the dead and Hemingway died in 1961, so he didn’t even get the right of reply.  Lord Byron, who should be careful of whom he insults if he's going to dress like that! Two great rivals of late 18th and early 19th century poetry were Lord Byron and John Keats. I think it was true to say that Byron wasn’t exactly an admirer of Keats, if this quote is anything to go by: “Here are Johnny Keats’ piss-a-bed poetry, and three novels by God knows whom… No more Keats, I entreat: flay him alive; if some of you don’t I must skin him myself: there is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the Mankin.” Ouch.  A victim of misogyny? Jane Austen Male authors aren’t always gentlemen. In an era when it was considered a great social gaff to insult a woman, Ralph Waldo Emerson said of Jane Austen’s writing “Miss Austen’s novels . . . seem to me vulgar in tone, sterile in artistic invention, imprisoned in the wretched conventions of English society, without genius, wit, or knowledge of the world. Never was life so pinched and narrow. The one problem in the mind of the writer . . . is marriageableness.” But he wasn’t the only one to be critical of Austen. Mark Twain, never a shrinking violet, said of her work “I haven’t any right to criticize books, and I don’t do it except when I hate them. I often want to criticize Jane Austen, but her books madden me so that I can’t conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I have to stop every time I begin. Every time I read ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ I want to dig her up and hit her over the skull with her own shin-bone.”  J K Rowling And things haven’t changed much since. Harold Bloom proved himself to be quite ungentlemanly when he said of J K Rowling “How to read ‘Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone’? Why, very quickly, to begin with, and perhaps also to make an end. Why read it? Presumably, if you cannot be persuaded to read anything better, Rowling will have to do.” Bearing in mind that Rowling aimed her books at younger readers, that was a trifle harsh coming from an adult. Bloom was about 70 then, so a little old for Harry Potter I would have thought. Sometimes these things can form chains. Gore Vidal said of Truman Capote “He’s a full-fledged housewife from Kansas with all the prejudices.” While Capote said of Jack Kerouac “That’s not writing, that’s typing.”  But for my final literary insult I return to the daddy of them all, Oscar Wilde, Having read The Old Curiosity Shop, by Charles Dickens, Wilde offered this opinion: “One must have a heart of stone to read the death of Little Nell without laughing.” I wish you better criticism than that, and for my closing quotes I’ll return firstly to Ernest Hemingway, “Critics are men who watch a battle from on high and then come down and shoot the survivors”.  Constructive criticism And secondly to Brendan Behan: “Critics are like eunuchs in a harem: they know how it’s done, they’ve seen it done every day, but they’re unable to do it themselves”
Just remember that last one the next time you get a less than fulsome review. And if you are going to be critical of another author's work, at least try to make it witty. Who knows - you might even be quoted in a blog like this. If you have found this blog interesting or informative and you would like to make sure you don't miss future editions, why not sign up for our newsletter? Just click the button below. We promise not to spam you and you can unsubscribe at any time. |
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