The Sixth Art

No Good Boyo has decided to beat the recession by diversifying his multimedia portfolio. He is writing a "sure fire" screenplay for a Hollywood film.

On Friday, after an extended lunchtime, he came up with the title - "Escape from Bikini Island".

Over the weekend he fretted that this did not meet his usual standards.

Last night he announced in triumph the new, improved title:

"No Escape from Bikini Island".

I pass this on without comment.

Recessional

Signs of recession in Berkshire.

1. Our local supermarket is once again stocking its "own brand" Irish whiskey.

2. No Good Boyo is once again buying it.

Gulbenkian

Some readers have confused me with Boyo's imaginary social secretary, and have passed on congratulations for his appearance on the normblog profile and his winning of some special needs Welsh blogging award.

"Does Boyo feel proud to have joined the blogging aristocracy?" petitioners have asked.

This autumn finds me uncharacteristically expansive as I cherish the falling leaves and house prices, so I am willing to reply to these broad inquiries.

Boyo's sole source of pride, judging by his all-too-public declarations, is that he is "hung like a Grand National winner".

Whatever one of those is.

Malocchi

My company respects the many varieties of Ruthenian public holiday, and the recent four-day Feast of St Trjaxodjev gave me a chance to catch up with the recordings made by my domestic closed-circuit television security system.

The recording of our daughter Arianrhod's room solved the mystery of the whereabout of my father's Luger, and the two cameras mounted in the potting shed provided me with more information that sanity allows about No Good Boyo's morning ablutions - information that I am happy to share.

On surfacing from the remoulade of breasts and megalomania that is his subconscious, Boyo's first act is to grasp the shifting contents of his underpants - assuming gravity, decay or rodents had not already disposed of such garments.

I postponed discussion of this matter until a few moments before Boyo was about to address the Caversham Conservative Association. He seemed genuinely surprised and confused, until I recalled that this is his default reaction to anything I say.

"It's primæval behaviour," I remarked.

"Ta, love!" he beamed, proudly wresting the microphone from my hand.

This need for reassurance that one's lower depths are intact is clearly a male instinct - like lying, inept concealment, blondes and recourse to drink.

Cardinals fearful of Pio Nono's Evil Eye would shield their privates in his Papal presence, while cricketers and "rap" genre singers like Mr 50 Cent continue the practice to this day, albeit with less reticence.

During the "questions from the floor" session after his address to the local Tories, Boyo eventually agreed with my insistent inquiries as to whether he called those pallid parts his "crown jewels".

The mood of the meeting was with me when I urged him for the sake of the Monarchy to reclassify them as "state secrets".

Cinema of Cruelty I

One of Boyo's imaginary cybershades, I forget which, asked me to compile a list of twelve films of personal significance to me. There are, naturally, no such films.

I am happy, however, to share a few flickering images of cultural decay that have caused the corners of my vermillion lips or eyes to twitch on rare occasions.

1. Cold Comfort Farm

Boyo waits until I'm at peace with the world, usually after a successful morning of supervising the evacuation of one of his sheds, before suggesting that we should visit his relatives in Wales.

I keep a copy of John Schlesinger's film at hand to remind myself of why Offa's Dyke was built and is still maintained. The book may not be set in Wales, but that wrinkled little country keeps its spirit alive (see photograph above).

2. L'année dernière à Marienbad

"Tels ils marchaient dans les avoines folles,
Et la nuit seule entendit leurs paroles".

I passed the "French nonsense" section of my International Baccalaureate with an essay positing that the Resnais/Robbe-Grillet film is a meditation on Verlaine's "Colloque Sentimental".

In fact I like it because it reminds me of my childhood family holidays.



3. Gorod Zero (Zero Town)

Mechanical tyrants, random nudity, roads that lead nowhere, both rock and roll, pools of water, suicidal cooking - this late Soviet offering is a reminder of what that Bolshevik shambles was like. It is also an approximation of Boyo's idea of a decent party.




4. El ángel exterminador

In this film Buñuel approximates my idea of a decent party.



I shall suggest a few more accompaniments to a cosy night in when it occurs to me.

Very heavy, Switzerland

Boyo has annoyed some very powerful people, so Arianrhod and I are enjoying a girly Bank Holiday at home - filing nails, attaching them to the wheels of the tricycle, etc.

I glanced through the Radio Times - a publication Boyo says he subscribes to for the Radio 3 listings, much as Americans read Playboy for the John Updike interviews.

I found a preview of "Mutual Friends" another BBC "comedy drama" about the mid-life crisis of mid-Brit people - boney, grinning men and flat-faced blondes.

"How do you embrace your mid-life crisis?" asks the chirpy accompanying article.

"Reluctantly, and only after he's showered," I thought.

Then I laughed.

An Occurrence At Malmesbury Bridge

No Good Boyo was very excited when I proposed a romantic weekend break in the Cotswolds. His enthusiasm wavered on the morning of departure when I said I was coming along too, but he still managed to negotiate the M4 through his tears.

It was the turn of my heart to sink on our arrival at a rectory that had been converted into an hotel, and not only because the nearby church had not undergone a similar fate. Boyo pointed to the welcome note in our room and sniggered: "Dogs are welcome".

Just as his father believes hedgehogs can sing if you tickle their bellies, Boyo is convinced that the English invented the country hotel for the exclusive pursuit of coitus with canines. He cites fellow Celt GB Shaw to the effect that all the Englishman's pastimes bar gambling and smoking can be shared with a dog.

The result is that he spends our every weekend away in speculating on which of our guests wants, as he puts it, to "canoodle with the poodle".

I chose not to join in, and reflected instead on comments by Gadjo Dilo and Kevin Musgrove - the Brains Trust of Boyo's circle of little electro-friends - on the ephemerality of life.

In brief, Gadjo had an antiquated relative who held that the world might have ended in about 1918. Kevin opined that this may have been true, and that all of our subsequent existence is a group delusion.

This ties in with my view that Boyo and his web-fellows are merely projections one of the other. The thought that we are in fact all but the dying dream of Europa is a comfort to the Spengler Within. Bolshevism, television, congés payés - all a passing nightmare.

If enough bloggers state this "simultaneously and at the same time", as the Welsh have it, will the world awaken from its slumber and finally die?

A consoling thought to get you through many a bad night.