The Long March

The anarcho-syndicalist meeting had failed to convene, as usual, so I was home a little early last night.

"Yoo-hoo Boyo, it's me!" I cooed.

"Begone woman, I am at stool!" barked my beau.

I knew better than to interrupt what might be a prolonged and gruesome process, as this would only make things worse.

As I released the traps and tenderised Arianrhod's dinner, I dwelt upon the dialectical significance of what sounded like a brass band being savaged by seagulls in our bathroom.

Boyo has introduced his readers to the concept of the gosha. He failed, through the inherent contradictions of his being a man, to explain to womankind how the gosha is to be handled.

Common sense would suggest industrial gauntlets and fishing nets, but it is more a question of time than space.

Once an idea has taken root in the alkaline mulch of a gosha's mind, a woman must have the strength and patience to let it go to seed at its own pace. To try to train it into a more pleasing shape or, worse, to prune or uproot it, would drive the bravest Amazon into the apathetic rot of liberalism.

Boyo has shown little Marxisant enthusiasm for the impending downfall of Capitalism, and is busy with plans to make money. After a few canteens of Voskoboynykiv's jus de singe, he likes to "run his thoughts past me" in the hope that some might escape. I give some examples.

1. Alien-themed restaurant. Attentive readers will know that Boyo thinks all wisdom can be gleaned from repeated and drunken viewing of the films Animal House and Withnail & I. It is not so widely understood that he treats the Alien film franchise as a sort of apocrypha - not as canonical as the thoughts of imaginary frat boys and fey thespians, but nonetheless endowed with arete.

His latest idea is to deck out a restaurant like an Alien tabernacle (yes, including the minor prophets of the Alien vs Predator series), and have diners encased inside the food. They then have to eat their way out - either by climbing out of the top in the manner of the Alien "face hugger" or by burrowing out of the side like the "chest burster".

I could mention hygiene regulations. I could allude to the cost of the mountains of meat involved. I could refer to dry cleaning, as if those words meant anything to him. But I do not.

2. "Eat Like An Animal". Do you see a theme here? This brainwave predicates a television quiz show involving Lady Antonia Fraser as a contestant for reasons I don't like to speculate about.

Each victim is given a plate of food and an animal. They then have to eat the dish in the manner of the beast alongside them. The creature then "shows" them how it should be done, to the delight and edification of the audience in the studio and at home.

"This will teach the people of Britain humility before the diversity and dexterity of the Animal Kingdom," slurred Boyo over his plate of offal. "Imagine Lady Antonia or that Yasmin Alibhai-Brown trying to eat a trifle like an amœba? I can!"

I smiled brightly. I could have drawn his attention to the Food Standards Agency, the RSPCA, Harold Pinter, Heaven of Heavens and other likely opponents of his plan, but chose not to.

Boyo has other schemes, many more gauche and alarming than these. I shall pass over them in silence, knowing as I do that male indolence, grandiloquence and life-saving stupidity will overcome random enthusiasm.

Allow me to employ the techniques of multimedia to illustrate my point. I consider the Channel 4 comedy Father Ted to be a protean guide to understanding the male psyche, if such were ever to exist.

In an early episode, Father Jack Hackett is seen cavorting in some undergrowth. A policeman offers to shot him with a tranquiliser dart. Father Ted stays the Guard's hand. "No, let him go," says the clerical reactionary, "he'll make his own way back."

My thoughts exactly.

You may study the exchange at 58" on this clip: