A likely story...

I was still in bed, enjoying my morning glass of Asda's pale medium sherry, when Dogtooth burst through the door, paler even than usual and characteristically short of breath. It seems that on one of his not infrequent sojourns amongst the higher planes he had run across none other than Herman Melville, customs officer and erstwhile pasteboard mask. Melville had, according to Dogtooth, been much exercised on the topic of certain passages which a ruthless editor had expunged from his original manuscript of Moby Dick. He entrusted to my fellow Newtist this short chapter, in which Ishmael describes a night out in Leeds with certain of his shipmates:

The Sandwich

Some time had we spent in our revels, jostling round the long wooden bar, when we were called to attention by the ringing of a bell. I looked to the source of the sound, and saw the bell-man was no other than our own host, the old landlord, who tugged on the bell-rope with a cheerful vigour, crying out ‘time gentlemen, time!’
This peculiar cry was known to all the merry fellows of the tavern, and catching me by the sleeve one of my companions communicated to me by certain gestures that we would now have to leave our drinking. It is a curious fact that will churches of all denominations call their followers to worship, this church sends its followers away by the same signal: the knelling of a bell.

Out then, out into the cold night. Me and my friends gathered together and set off, pushing our hands deep into our pockets against the biting wind, to find the only welcome we might hope to receive on such a night: the warm welcome of a Këbab shop. Presently we came upon a brightly lit doorway from which proceeded those vapours and odours peculiar to the frying of meat. In we surged. A dusky fellow was standing behind the counter, and as I approached he looked up to await my order.
‘What shall I have?’ cried I. ‘A doner? No! For a doner is merely the scrapings of a sheep, and I am no man to eat scrapings. A doner they call it? It is a poor gift to receive another’s leavings. A large shish sir.’ The old gentleman mutely nodded his assent and taking out a couple of skewers on which there lay ready pieces of mutton cunningly attached, he threw them on the grill.
Very soon the meat was cooked, and shortly after that it came to the counter, pressed into a certain type of flat loaf, commonly used for this purpose.
‘Chilli? Garlic sauce?’ asked the server.
‘Yes, both, and a little salad if you please’ I answered. For just as the mildest man is apt, when he drinks, to become a little spicy, so while we may like mild food in the daytime, after our revels we inevitably prefer it a little hotter.

I had eaten some part of this kebab, when I felt myself becoming a little listless, a little sluggish, unwilling to raise each new morsel to my lips.
‘What’s this’ I thought, ‘am I to be defated by this so called ‘Këbab’. Why! I declare that despite its fearsome name this fellow is no more than a sandwich. And who am I to be unable to finish a sandwich. For shame, a harmless little sandwich!’
Cheered by this thought, I plied the fork with a renewed vigour, and soon the whole was so much reduced that I could easily take it up in me two hands, and there consume it in three or for large bites.

Oh! A fine meal we had. And a fine and jolly meal is this life for us, until we are laid in our coffins, spiced with the tears of our loved ones, and garnished with a salad of funeral leaves, clapped between slices of wood and pressed into the great loaf of the ground.

The Ladies' Man

It is well established on board the robust Newt that Bob Dylan, though a lyricist and songwriter of the highest calibre, can teach us nothing about anything. Leonard Cohen is such another:

The river is swollen up with rusty cans,
And the trees are burning in your promised land -

Admiration flows freely from Dogtooth's quill for the man who brought us such folk gems as 'So Long, Marianne' & 'Suzanne', and such driving electroid flake-Socialist anthems as 'First We Take Manhatten' and 'Jazz Police'. Cohen - with his crumbling features and preternatural growl - is also an irresistible walking advertisement for the beneficial effects of tobacco. Start smoking: not only will you be a massive hit with the broads, but your voice will drop an octave every five years until you die (Dogtooth squirms with pleasure at the prospect of realising his ultimate fantasy: to communicate with tanks, and level cathedrals with a single boom). One is reminded, incidentally, of the Canadian insistence that the Quebecois smoke in church. Well Cohen doesn't attend church; no doubt he farts audibly in the Synagogue, though.

All dogs have four legs; my cat has four legs, therefore...my cat is a dog?

Once again I am late to the table for Oscars-related comment, but I want to repeat something which has exercised Dogtooth and I considerably in the taproom of the Muted Slughorn; namely, the category error of those who equate the successes and failures of 'Britain' with themselves. For example, the newspapers like to suggest that Britain's high rate of obesity is something their readers should be concerned about. Piffle. Be you fat as a pregnant sea-cow or skinnier than half a rake, this has nothing to do with living in the middle of an 'obesity epidemic' (a phrase clearly thought up by someone who either did not know what either obesity or epidemic was) and everything to do with your own diet, habits, genetic legacy and metabolism. Fat people are not your enemy, they are people who have a different shape, either through choice or fortune. As far as I can gather the way people think is 'Britain as a whole is becoming fatter, fatter people die younger, thus I, as a Briton, am going to die younger. I suppose it's easier than just stepping on the scales and taking control of your own lifestyle.

In the same way, when it comes to the Oscars people think that Helen Mirren, an Englishwoman, winning an Oscar in some way reflects well on them. It doesn't, unless you are her parents. It's times like these I feel glad that I live 10,000 feet below the reaches of any nation, territory or state.

Spaghetti, etc

Ennio Morricone just keeps coming good. Dogtooth found himself transfixed by the final showdown of 'The Good, the Bad and the Ugly', watching it on a poky screen in the late-night kebab/pizza shop sometime in the wee hours of this morning. It turns out that the legendary theme-tune is great to improvise in the shower of a hungover morning. The acoustics are perfect. Orthodoxy relating to this particular score prescribes a shrill whistle, but Dogtooth prefers to cup his hands over his mouth for an effect known in amateur shower-singing circles as the 'barn owl' or 'Indian whoop'. For the second theme, the standard steely air-guitar impression is acceptable. Dogtooth - and it is only a personal provision - sometimes chooses to accompany the second phase by rhythmically drum-tapping his wet naked thighs. The body is a mine of hitherto unexplored musical potential. Be inventive.

The Wizard of the Strings

Dogtooth is dazzled afresh. While roaming YouTube in pleasant, Quixotic mood this morning, I discovered the delights of ukelele genius Roy Smeck. I urge Newtists to devote as much time as possible to this one: fall in love with his boyish grin, his Vaudeville charm; see his feats, his flourishes and all manner of crowd-tickling japeries!

Slow Learner

Remarkable events are afoot. I recently claimed on this blog that someone slid a picture of a squid bathing in a tub of syrup beneath my door. As some of you may have guessed, this was nothing more than a bare faced lie. I drew the picture myself to get attention and raise a smile. However, like the boy who cried Woolf, my chickens have come home to roost and my mixed metaphors run rampant. I recently went for a pre-arranged meeting with my tutor. The office I was going to is in fairly deserted corridor, on which it is the only occupied room. My tutor would have walked to the office from the door nearest the car park, which was at the other end of the corridor. As I walked down said corridor I glanced the wall on my right, only to see that someone had pinned a picture of a squid roughly to the wall, in a place where no-one but I would have seen it.
Anyone who reads as much Pynchon as I do will have no doubt what is happening. Although I only meant to create a throwaway joke I have accidentally tappped into some sort of vast secret reality, which is now directly targeting me. Who is doing this? May I tickle his creatures? If anyone needs me I'll be down at the White Visitation beating the shit out of Roger Mexico.

Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'

The London Prodigal's wall is reverberating. For the past hour some chap has been pounding the bejesus out of the sweet, innocent blonde girl next door. The London Prodigal considers an evening fortuitous if he lasts much more than five minutes. I'll have to congratulate this stranger on his libido in the morning. Groans of the Britons indeed.

Remember, there's always someone to blame...

I realise that this is to some extent old news, but the latest thing to get me spitting ink is the lawsuit being brought against the owners of Myspace.com by the families of several abuse victims, on the basis that their daughters met their abusers on the site. A cynic might suggest that this makes as much sense as somebody suing BT because they have fallen victim to one of Dogtooth's rambling and inventively repulsive obscene phone calls.

The Golden Boys of American Cinema

There are too many reasons to love the Coen brothers. Most importantly: the screenplays are immaculate; the accompanying scores are eclectic but tasteful; the characters are memorable; the camera-work is without an equal in the post-Hitchcock era; and to round it up, reel it in, cap it off and bludgeon it to death with a blunt instrument (whatever 'it' may be) - they spin a rollocking good yarn.

These superficial qualities prepare the films for the broadest appreciation. But the Coens' films stick closely to their audience afterwards. They are resonant - cannot be laid to rest. Anyone with even a snootful of enquiry must be thoroughly absorbed by the idea of America, and chiefly the vernacular mythologies that have vegetated over the few centuries since the European migrations to the States. The Coen brothers excel at picking a state - or, more broadly, a region - and doing it: myth, history, landscape filtered through a tight gauze that extracts the essentials. A few examples (I have not seen nearly enough of their films): Blood Simple = Texas: enduring images of oil-pumps, ceiling fans, neon lights, Stetsons and wide open spaces; The Big Lebowski = LA: beautiful, masterful bowling-alley vistas, wide residential streets, sandals and burger take-aways; Miller's Crossing = Atlantic State (most likely New York): black hats, corrupt policemen, criminal syndicates and Autumnal woods with carpets of auburn leaves; O Brother, Where Art Thou = the deep south: brown rivers, gospel choirs, dusty roads, blues and the diabolical crossroads myth; Fargo does the cold, desolate northern states: snow, isolation, etc. This engrossing manipulation of imagery is one of the hallmarks of a great film - a film that knows its subject intensely. Their imagery is worthy of Melville, and aboard the Post-Newt, there is no finer compliment. Long may they prosper.