1644
DAY THIRTEEN: FRIDAY
Well, it seems whether I want it or not, I have a different, more dramatic purpose now, despite that Roundabouts stuff. I still don't have a bloody clue exactly how much it is I still owe them. I’m imagining somewhere around, I don't know, every bit of money I ever earn from now to eternity? Don’t suppose I could have more of that drink, and get a detailed itinerary from that Frone bloke for what I should do from now on? I have to admit, there’s only a little bit of me that believes any of this. The way I look at it - it’s a story, so - well, you know - suspend your disbelief, I suppose? I’m also wondering, if this is the thirteenth day, should there be more significance in that? Surely there’s nothing significant about the number thirteen? I am, of course being sarcastic, in case you were confused?
Ah, what’s this crap Flit’s put on my dresser? For once, it isn't actual shit. He’s done that far too many times for my liking. No, this crap is a pamphlet of some sort. Oh, God knows it’s too early to read! I’m going to the Church, for a snooze.
You know, there’s something about today? I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s something simple, like breakfast in the bloody morning, how it’s supposed to be - Flit - or it could be the air of excitement and giddiness permeating -
Hang on. What idiot stuck this load of crap to my Church door?! What’s it say? ’Areopagitica; A speech of Mr. John Milton for the Liberty of Unlicenc’d Printing, to the Parlament of England. To oppose Licensing and Censorship, and to maintain the principle of a right to freedom of speech and expression. In essence, the basic principle of the right and also the duty of every intelligent man as a rational being, to know the grounds and take responsibility for his beliefs and actions. Listen to the impassioned words of John Milton, aged 36 years and of Bread Street, London - this afternoon, at The Frozen Arm, Upper Vaxham, Moistershire - Book early to avoid disappointment.’ Hmm, I might just do that. Find out who’s directly responsible for these tatty posters, so they can buy me a drink, for the inconvenience. At least. Wait, wasn’t that pamphlet the one I got Flit to print? Was that what he put on the dresser?
Wait - yes, Milton! I remember. I thought this wasn't until next month? Whatever. Where there’s celebrity, there’s money. And where there’s money, there’s a Wilfred Posster shaped receptacle ready to catch it when it falls. Oh, usually after a gentle, persuading push, of course. Or a kick up the arse, depending on who’s doing the persuading. Flit prefers the direct approach. I prefer the subtlety of words - and cowardice.
Bugger it, I’m off to the pub -
“Are you press?”
“What? No, I’m a Rector.” What a strange question?
“A patron then. Go through.” Who the Hell is that? And why is he checking people coming in? Why am I asking you?
“Ranker, my man! What’s with all this security?”
“First, I am not your anything. Second, it’s for that Milton bloke.”
“Oh? Draws a big crowd, does he?” I smell money, you know.
“So I’m told. Something about these writers, apparently. Loaded.”
“Really? So -“
“The Tour Manager is over there, on the stage,” for stage, read, ‘four slightly raised boxes for standing upon’, “Name’s Gordon Winkle. What about a drink, Posster?”
“That’s generous of you! Don't mind if I - oh, right, you meant buy one. A Beer please. And here.” Bloody cheapskate. Anyway, I think I’ll have a word with this Gordon Winkle? He seems a decent type. Jesus, I think that drink yesterday has melted my brain or something. I’m actually sounding quite nice, “Good morning!”
“Could you stand over there? You’re blocking the light.” What light? You mean that bunch of candles? Oh, alright, if you insist. I’ll move over that three inches. Wow! Look at how much light there is now! I’m - blinded by the intense, powerful - okay, I’m taking the mick. Well, someone has to? And thankfully I’m back to normal.
“So, this writing lark. Pay much does it?”
“You a budding pamphleteer I take it?” What makes him think that? As it happens, once I had read this pamphlet and a couple of others from less well known people, I did attempt my own version. It’s mostly plagiarised from a number of sources, but I quite like it. I call it, ‘A Treatise on the Tractate with Exposition of the Institutional Critique.’ No, I’ve no idea what it’s about either.
“I’ve - dabbled.”
“Okay. If you want Mr Milton to read it, put it over there in the ‘to read’ pile?” Hmm, seems I’m not the only profit-minded individual in Vaxham. Wait, is that one written by Dash? Probably full of big words only he knows the meaning to, like Wonder, Truth, Compassion, Truss -
Yes, I know I got the brush off. I’m not stupid. But it’s the singer I want to talk to, not the songwriter. Something like that, anyway. I mean it’s Milton I want a word with. What you mean, that was blatantly obvious? Oh, I’m too tired to argue with you lot right now. I’m just going to sit here and drink my drink, in peace, without - oh God -
“Rector! Isn't it!” If it isn't one nutcase, it’s another.
“Mr Jones. Just passing through?”
“Oh, no! I can hang around a while. I’m here for the talk by that Milton fellow, isn't it? You?”
“Something like that.” He better not bring up the other day, or -
“So, the other day - about the story? I know it sounds far fetched, but -“
“It sounded bloody absurd, Mr Jones. Spirits? Hokum.”
“I know you’re a man of the new religion, but there are similarities in the structure of belief to the old one.” Where did this eloquence suddenly spring from? “I studied theology, see?” I have to say, that’s more than I did. Mind you, it’s the first time I’ve heard it called the new religion. He has a point, I suppose, philosophically speaking.
“Well, it’s too much to get my head round. I’m a simple, quiet, town Rector who -“
“It doesn't matter, Rector. It is happening.” Christ, what is he? Some kind of doom bell ringer? A death knell? The grim reaper in hessian and sandals? Quite frankly, it’s just like Sticks, but with a clear vocabulary, if a little - foreign. Well, foreign to me. Wait, there’s Flit. Good. And on time.
“Flit! Sorry, Mr Jones. You will excuse me? I need a word with my Curate? Flit! Got them printed? Good. Keep them hidden for now. Once it starts, you know what to do.” I know, it sounds suspicious, but it isn’t. Well, it is a bit. Look, okay, so I’m selling knock offs of Milton’s pamphlet. What’s so wrong with that? Yes, I know, it’s technically immoral, but sod it, where there’s profit - and so on. Hey, mind your own, okay?
The pub’s starting to fill up I see? It’s looking good. Wait, something’s stirring at the entranceway - ah, the arrival of the man himself. Here’s my chance.
“Mr Milton! Hello, I’m -“
“Sorry, no autographs until the end, if you please?” Cheeky git.
“No, it’s not that. I’m the local Rector -“
“Want a signed copy for the Church Bazaar? One moment -“
“I have to say, I’m a big fan of your work, you know - I remember Il Penseroso! And every Herb that sips the dew; till old experience do attain to somthing like prophetic strain. These pleasures Melancholy give, and I with thee will choose to live - or Lycidas? And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills, and now was dropt into the Western bay; at last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew: to morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new. Great stuff!” Wow! I didn't even know I could remember that guff! Just shows you what a lifetime of cons does to the memory? That or I’ve got it written down on a piece of paper -
“Do you actually know what any of it means? Or why I wrote them?” Ah. He has me there.
“Well, uhm, not really? But I hear you don't much like Catholics, so we’ve got that in common?” Why am I trying to ingratiate myself with this minor celebrity? Must be his charisma. Buggered if I know what that is or how to get it. Maybe that’s why I’m asking him and not the one being asked? Damn that cult of personality! Still, he dresses well -
“No, you’re right, I don't have much love for Catholics, Rector. My Tour Manager in fact is a recent convert from the Roman Church, so I have some modicum of compassion for them.”
“Frankly, you have far more patience that I.” Why don't you just kiss his bare arse, while you’re at it? What are you, a Miltonite or something? Pull it together!
“Well, it’s been - interesting to talk to you, Rector, but I simply must begin?”
“Yes, well, of course - sure -“ You disgust me sometimes, me.
“My friends! I stand here, before you today, with a plea; an impassioned plea, to those who would hear - we must oppose Licensing and Censorship, and to maintain the principle of a right to freedom of speech and expression. In essence, the basic principle of the right and also the duty of every intelligent man as a rational being, to know the grounds and take responsibility for his beliefs and actions! We must be allowed to publish that which is vital to the country and the individual rights of each person, to express their opinion as they see fit! Those who have read my pamphlet so far - Areopagitica, can see from where I come! It was the great Athenian orator, Isocrates, who, in the fifth century, used his work, Areopagitikos, to - what’s that fuss back there?”
“For Rome and for the Pope!” What the Hell?! Who said that? How dare someone call out that blasphemous - oww! Who? What? Where? Ah, blackness - oh -
Shit! What happened then? Did I black out or something? Why is - ow - my side and my - ouch! - head hurting? Is that blood?! Oh God! Am I dying? No! I must be dead already! There’s a horrible demon over there, picking its blackened teeth with a - pamphlet - wait - that’s - bloody Flit!
No, I’m not dead, because I’m still in my living Hell. Oh well.
I thought I’d escaped for a second there, but nope. What’s all this fuss going on? Is that - why is the Clubman taking the Tour Manager away? What is it with all these bloody questions? Mostly, I want to know why Flit is destroying those pamphlets bringing them anywhere in contact with his mouth?
“Rector! I cannot thank you enough!” Why? What did I do? Ah just wait a second, I think the proverbial whatsit is plopping into the bowl of realisation, “I didn't know Gordon Winkle was in such a way inclined to assassinate me! How can I repay you Rector?” Wait. Let me stand up properly - ow, my bloody side!
“I don’t know - that signed copy and a contribution to the Church?” Why is he smiling like that?
“No, I’ve got a better idea. How about I don't sue you over those knock-off pamphlets, eh? How does that sound?”
Yeah. Great?
So much for bloody freedom to publish, eh -
Well, it seems whether I want it or not, I have a different, more dramatic purpose now, despite that Roundabouts stuff. I still don't have a bloody clue exactly how much it is I still owe them. I’m imagining somewhere around, I don't know, every bit of money I ever earn from now to eternity? Don’t suppose I could have more of that drink, and get a detailed itinerary from that Frone bloke for what I should do from now on? I have to admit, there’s only a little bit of me that believes any of this. The way I look at it - it’s a story, so - well, you know - suspend your disbelief, I suppose? I’m also wondering, if this is the thirteenth day, should there be more significance in that? Surely there’s nothing significant about the number thirteen? I am, of course being sarcastic, in case you were confused?
Ah, what’s this crap Flit’s put on my dresser? For once, it isn't actual shit. He’s done that far too many times for my liking. No, this crap is a pamphlet of some sort. Oh, God knows it’s too early to read! I’m going to the Church, for a snooze.
You know, there’s something about today? I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s something simple, like breakfast in the bloody morning, how it’s supposed to be - Flit - or it could be the air of excitement and giddiness permeating -
Hang on. What idiot stuck this load of crap to my Church door?! What’s it say? ’Areopagitica; A speech of Mr. John Milton for the Liberty of Unlicenc’d Printing, to the Parlament of England. To oppose Licensing and Censorship, and to maintain the principle of a right to freedom of speech and expression. In essence, the basic principle of the right and also the duty of every intelligent man as a rational being, to know the grounds and take responsibility for his beliefs and actions. Listen to the impassioned words of John Milton, aged 36 years and of Bread Street, London - this afternoon, at The Frozen Arm, Upper Vaxham, Moistershire - Book early to avoid disappointment.’ Hmm, I might just do that. Find out who’s directly responsible for these tatty posters, so they can buy me a drink, for the inconvenience. At least. Wait, wasn’t that pamphlet the one I got Flit to print? Was that what he put on the dresser?
Wait - yes, Milton! I remember. I thought this wasn't until next month? Whatever. Where there’s celebrity, there’s money. And where there’s money, there’s a Wilfred Posster shaped receptacle ready to catch it when it falls. Oh, usually after a gentle, persuading push, of course. Or a kick up the arse, depending on who’s doing the persuading. Flit prefers the direct approach. I prefer the subtlety of words - and cowardice.
Bugger it, I’m off to the pub -
“Are you press?”
“What? No, I’m a Rector.” What a strange question?
“A patron then. Go through.” Who the Hell is that? And why is he checking people coming in? Why am I asking you?
“Ranker, my man! What’s with all this security?”
“First, I am not your anything. Second, it’s for that Milton bloke.”
“Oh? Draws a big crowd, does he?” I smell money, you know.
“So I’m told. Something about these writers, apparently. Loaded.”
“Really? So -“
“The Tour Manager is over there, on the stage,” for stage, read, ‘four slightly raised boxes for standing upon’, “Name’s Gordon Winkle. What about a drink, Posster?”
“That’s generous of you! Don't mind if I - oh, right, you meant buy one. A Beer please. And here.” Bloody cheapskate. Anyway, I think I’ll have a word with this Gordon Winkle? He seems a decent type. Jesus, I think that drink yesterday has melted my brain or something. I’m actually sounding quite nice, “Good morning!”
“Could you stand over there? You’re blocking the light.” What light? You mean that bunch of candles? Oh, alright, if you insist. I’ll move over that three inches. Wow! Look at how much light there is now! I’m - blinded by the intense, powerful - okay, I’m taking the mick. Well, someone has to? And thankfully I’m back to normal.
“So, this writing lark. Pay much does it?”
“You a budding pamphleteer I take it?” What makes him think that? As it happens, once I had read this pamphlet and a couple of others from less well known people, I did attempt my own version. It’s mostly plagiarised from a number of sources, but I quite like it. I call it, ‘A Treatise on the Tractate with Exposition of the Institutional Critique.’ No, I’ve no idea what it’s about either.
“I’ve - dabbled.”
“Okay. If you want Mr Milton to read it, put it over there in the ‘to read’ pile?” Hmm, seems I’m not the only profit-minded individual in Vaxham. Wait, is that one written by Dash? Probably full of big words only he knows the meaning to, like Wonder, Truth, Compassion, Truss -
Yes, I know I got the brush off. I’m not stupid. But it’s the singer I want to talk to, not the songwriter. Something like that, anyway. I mean it’s Milton I want a word with. What you mean, that was blatantly obvious? Oh, I’m too tired to argue with you lot right now. I’m just going to sit here and drink my drink, in peace, without - oh God -
“Rector! Isn't it!” If it isn't one nutcase, it’s another.
“Mr Jones. Just passing through?”
“Oh, no! I can hang around a while. I’m here for the talk by that Milton fellow, isn't it? You?”
“Something like that.” He better not bring up the other day, or -
“So, the other day - about the story? I know it sounds far fetched, but -“
“It sounded bloody absurd, Mr Jones. Spirits? Hokum.”
“I know you’re a man of the new religion, but there are similarities in the structure of belief to the old one.” Where did this eloquence suddenly spring from? “I studied theology, see?” I have to say, that’s more than I did. Mind you, it’s the first time I’ve heard it called the new religion. He has a point, I suppose, philosophically speaking.
“Well, it’s too much to get my head round. I’m a simple, quiet, town Rector who -“
“It doesn't matter, Rector. It is happening.” Christ, what is he? Some kind of doom bell ringer? A death knell? The grim reaper in hessian and sandals? Quite frankly, it’s just like Sticks, but with a clear vocabulary, if a little - foreign. Well, foreign to me. Wait, there’s Flit. Good. And on time.
“Flit! Sorry, Mr Jones. You will excuse me? I need a word with my Curate? Flit! Got them printed? Good. Keep them hidden for now. Once it starts, you know what to do.” I know, it sounds suspicious, but it isn’t. Well, it is a bit. Look, okay, so I’m selling knock offs of Milton’s pamphlet. What’s so wrong with that? Yes, I know, it’s technically immoral, but sod it, where there’s profit - and so on. Hey, mind your own, okay?
The pub’s starting to fill up I see? It’s looking good. Wait, something’s stirring at the entranceway - ah, the arrival of the man himself. Here’s my chance.
“Mr Milton! Hello, I’m -“
“Sorry, no autographs until the end, if you please?” Cheeky git.
“No, it’s not that. I’m the local Rector -“
“Want a signed copy for the Church Bazaar? One moment -“
“I have to say, I’m a big fan of your work, you know - I remember Il Penseroso! And every Herb that sips the dew; till old experience do attain to somthing like prophetic strain. These pleasures Melancholy give, and I with thee will choose to live - or Lycidas? And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills, and now was dropt into the Western bay; at last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew: to morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new. Great stuff!” Wow! I didn't even know I could remember that guff! Just shows you what a lifetime of cons does to the memory? That or I’ve got it written down on a piece of paper -
“Do you actually know what any of it means? Or why I wrote them?” Ah. He has me there.
“Well, uhm, not really? But I hear you don't much like Catholics, so we’ve got that in common?” Why am I trying to ingratiate myself with this minor celebrity? Must be his charisma. Buggered if I know what that is or how to get it. Maybe that’s why I’m asking him and not the one being asked? Damn that cult of personality! Still, he dresses well -
“No, you’re right, I don't have much love for Catholics, Rector. My Tour Manager in fact is a recent convert from the Roman Church, so I have some modicum of compassion for them.”
“Frankly, you have far more patience that I.” Why don't you just kiss his bare arse, while you’re at it? What are you, a Miltonite or something? Pull it together!
“Well, it’s been - interesting to talk to you, Rector, but I simply must begin?”
“Yes, well, of course - sure -“ You disgust me sometimes, me.
“My friends! I stand here, before you today, with a plea; an impassioned plea, to those who would hear - we must oppose Licensing and Censorship, and to maintain the principle of a right to freedom of speech and expression. In essence, the basic principle of the right and also the duty of every intelligent man as a rational being, to know the grounds and take responsibility for his beliefs and actions! We must be allowed to publish that which is vital to the country and the individual rights of each person, to express their opinion as they see fit! Those who have read my pamphlet so far - Areopagitica, can see from where I come! It was the great Athenian orator, Isocrates, who, in the fifth century, used his work, Areopagitikos, to - what’s that fuss back there?”
“For Rome and for the Pope!” What the Hell?! Who said that? How dare someone call out that blasphemous - oww! Who? What? Where? Ah, blackness - oh -
#
Shit! What happened then? Did I black out or something? Why is - ow - my side and my - ouch! - head hurting? Is that blood?! Oh God! Am I dying? No! I must be dead already! There’s a horrible demon over there, picking its blackened teeth with a - pamphlet - wait - that’s - bloody Flit!
No, I’m not dead, because I’m still in my living Hell. Oh well.
I thought I’d escaped for a second there, but nope. What’s all this fuss going on? Is that - why is the Clubman taking the Tour Manager away? What is it with all these bloody questions? Mostly, I want to know why Flit is destroying those pamphlets bringing them anywhere in contact with his mouth?
“Rector! I cannot thank you enough!” Why? What did I do? Ah just wait a second, I think the proverbial whatsit is plopping into the bowl of realisation, “I didn't know Gordon Winkle was in such a way inclined to assassinate me! How can I repay you Rector?” Wait. Let me stand up properly - ow, my bloody side!
“I don’t know - that signed copy and a contribution to the Church?” Why is he smiling like that?
“No, I’ve got a better idea. How about I don't sue you over those knock-off pamphlets, eh? How does that sound?”
Yeah. Great?
So much for bloody freedom to publish, eh -
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