Well this is the last time we shall see each other. I’d like to tell you all this, but I don’t give the game away. I obey orders. That’s why this is unsaid.
I’m a pro. I do my job; I serve the ‘greater good’. Your World Service show might make ‘em laugh a bit back home, and make the cheating bosses, yes there are some, feel ever so slightly uncomfortable, and make everybody else feel miserable ‘cos they can’t buy fast food that tastes like emulsified shoe leather, or take their brats to Wally World, although why children of the revolution would rather hug a dick in a mouse suit, than go off to pioneer camp and blaze away with an AK, beats me. You might have your ‘Randy Arsehole’ 15 minutes of fame after this, but in the end you make fuck all difference. All you’ve done is annoy us. Enough to want to pull the plug. Not on your show, on you.
You could have got an Order of Lenin, but instead you get the Order for Pissing in the Soup.
What I don’t know is why you did it. You – you had a good education. You could have been something good, serving the people, like a doctor or engineer, or more likely with your talents, a writer who could boost morale, productivity and yes, happiness. What was it: bad time with your dad, bad time at school, National Service? Nobody likes that except a sportsman like me. Know I was Varna middleweight champion just after the war? Should have gone to the ‘48 Olympics. I could have sat some flash Golden Gloves fancy Dan on the seat of his shiny pants. Imagine that, me laying out ‘Sugar Ray’ before ‘Raging Bull’ La Motta. I bet you think I’m just a dumb pug and like Oswald said, ‘a patsy’. Come to think of it I am beginning to sound like Brando as Terry Molloy.
Well boxing glory wasn’t to be. We partisans had more important things to do. Duty before personal glory- only through teamwork and loyalty can we protect the weak, and repress the greed, racism and nationalism that has ruined the Balkans before, and will again if we don’t strangle those forces at birth.
Because I know that, and because I am to be trusted, I get travel to the west, and embassy protection, even though I don’t read big words too well. I have talents: got an ear for languages and accents, and can disguise myself.
In the early days you didn’t know me, did you?: the street sweeper, the elderly jogger, the bouncer in the penguin suit; no need to hide the pecs. with that one. Later on we weren’t interested in keeping the watch a secret, ‘cos. you were so predictable. We wanted to let you know: the bad disguise, the nudge in the ribs on the train, warning: ‘Back off!’ You didn’t. You didn’t even complain to the Bobbies, the Vapid Police Response unit. If you did you’ld lose your credibility with the BBC, You’ld be Sectioned, locked up, pumped full of haloperidol, to stop you taking out your paranoia on some innocent street sweeper or tube passenger, just like you would back home. You toughed it out. Well this wink says: ‘its over’, like Judas’s kiss. You’re ‘Operation Vlad’. Top man Yuri’s approved it. He don’t give a shit about you, but he likes to keep his friends happy. I don’t know whether your worth a ‘Cosh and Carry’, but whatever it is it’ll be quick and the special team will be in and out of the UK before you can say ‘Aeroflot in Flight Service’, which is what their leader gets from the horniest hostess. Of course she’ll be part of the same umbrella organisation, making sure he doesn’t shoot his mouth off as well as his prick. Then it’ll be back home for half an hour on the asymmetrical bars makin’ out with Olga like a three badge chimpanzee.
So I should stay away from any athletic boys and girls with high cheekbones.
Bye Georgy. You’re marked ‘off air’.”
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Incidentally, would you hurry to tap John Murray for an advance. He is making a mint out of me. And do make sure you get the right John Murray this time, the publisher. I am sure that the Middlesex wicket-keeper was most disconcerted when you asked if I might approach him. He kept looking over his shoulder all through the afternoon session. I was sure he was wearing his abdominal protector back to front. He ended up suffering an attack of Dropsy. Six toes Titmus was unimpressed. I was something of a cricketer in my time. My ability to swing both ways was legendary. I helped set up the Eton vs Harrow fixture at Lord's, mostly in the hope of meeting other young men of sound education and burgeoning physique. I was most flattered that the county side based there, took its name from my reputation.
Lord Byron
Bad and Superbad
Bad and Superbad
or
Irony Byrony What does it matter as long as you love your sister.
The inspiration for the first title was the idea of Nietzsche suffering a cold. The second came from Freud. Incidentally, Goethe believed that this style could not be rendered in German. After all Bismarck was never called the Irony Chancellor. It is in the form of letter to his friend Thomas Moore, the Irish Poet and Lyricist by Lord Byron. This letter was lost for almost 200 years, until his Lordship was kind enough to inspire the hand of Moore's descendent, John Moore. Following this inspiration, the latter assumed the title Don Juan el Moro. He awaits further calls from his muse in his grave at Hucknall for his services as amanuensis .
Bad and Superbad
Dear Thomas
I have taken to writing to you often, and with vigour, as you are most outstanding man of letters of the era bar one. Aside from the greatest poet hero of age, you alone have the edge to cut like the flashing blade of a Scythian chariot, and the burnished reputation to shield you from our hero’s reflection as when Perseus pursued Medusa.
Indeed there are those among the fair when alone,
who metamorphose, not to cold stone,
by the agence of the Gorgon’s snakes,
but to the quivering vibrating shakes
that look to all the world like rapture jelly
as she dreams of our hero’s serpent in her belly.
Last Shrove’s Bacchanal was of a particular fine vintage, although the custom of masque seems wouldst seem to dull a lady’s pleasure in my company. Although I might quaff a bushel I would certainly never hide my light under it.
I encountered within the midnight hour,
as doe eyed a houri as ere sat in a bower.
Although her don was of a great estate,
her desire for pleasure he n’er could slake.
I, her Apollo did seduce her with my lyre.
By half one I was lying by her.
Her skin was brown; her lips both full and soft.
By two was George’s proud English lance aloft
Oh how strange the ways of the east,
as I stoked her hair, she swallowed the beast.
But then delight! Her sister, a Sapphist by repute,
who strummed on languid and lascivious lute,
her inclinations shown only by her dungarees.
Soon removed in a voluptuous striptease.
Shapely as a nymph, she was no dyke this woman,
and did surpass her skill on lute, with tunes on Gordon’s organ
As one steed fades, so the rider takes another saddle.
By the break of dawn could our hero scarce waddle.
After pleasuring the pair with such rigour,
they took to water to revive proud George’s vigour.
Two hour’s natation at the Lido,
did the trick for his libido.
Returning the kindnesses of the dusky donnas,
did with his purple striped pole propel their gondolas.
As their boats did heave upon the lagoon,
our heroines at last did cry and swoon.
After a month a sadder George did realise,
that it is always folly and never wise,
to have one night of unbridled Venus,
and a year of Mercury in your ....
Please forgive me if my rhyming skills desert me there, Tommy, as I am feeling a painful tingling sensation. By the way who is the Minstrel Boy? Why did he go to war in the first place? Give my love to my daughter, but not in the same way as I gave to her auntie. Apparently she is showing unhealthy interest in horse racing and computational techniques. At two, this is to be severely discouraged. (She gets it from her mother, the Princess of Parallelograms, you know).
No good will ever come from computation. It can only erode the creative imagination. People who do that sort of thing will start believing that one dimensional fantasy characters:
Wizards, elves dwarves etc on some mythic quest constitute literature,
And if you state as much you show what a twit you are
Please see to it that my daughter’s reading material, is improving her wisdom and character. Personally I recommend your good self, Wycherley and Pope, (Alexander that is, not the infallible one from the Hitler youth). Under no account should she be allowed to read Wet Willy or his Dottie sister.
Incidentally if that descendant of yours again dares to parody me,
I shall box his ears in hell, with Old Nick as referee.
Incidentally, would you hurry to tap John Murray for an advance. He is making a mint out of me. And do make sure you get the right John Murray this time, the publisher. I am sure that the Middlesex wicket-keeper was most disconcerted when you asked if I might approach him. He kept looking over his shoulder all through the afternoon session. I was sure he was wearing his abdominal protector back to front. He ended up suffering an attack of Dropsy. Six toes Titmus was unimpressed. I was something of a cricketer in my time. My ability to swing both ways was legendary. I helped set up the Eton vs Harrow fixture at Lord's, mostly in the hope of meeting other young men of sound education and burgeoning physique. I was most flattered that the county side based there, took its name from my reputation.
Your humble and suffering servant
John Moore
alias
George Noel Gordon Byron
6th Baron of Rochdale
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