Dear
Editor,The
Concise
Dear
Editor,
I
feel that I must offer an apology and an explanation on behalf of Mr Smoading,
who is currently lying unconscious under a pile of gin bottles in my living
room. Whilst formerly being one of the most esteemed literary critics of the
so-called "Crouch End Group", the activities of Mr Smoading in recent years
have been a matter of some concern and I fear his ham-fisted attempt to
re-establish himself as a man of letters has left him in a worse situation than
ever.
I
first met Gerald at a particularly boozy party several years ago. Obviously a few decades older than everyone else there, his presence was
a mystery, yet he was generous with the wine and was thus tolerated. In fact, I
was rather impressed by this eccentric figure, 65 years old and clad in a
bedraggled tweed jacket and crushed velvet leggings, a huge beard yellowed by
rolling tobacco cascading down his
As
is so often the case of those blessed with early success, the fall from grace
can be particularly brutal. A
decade earlier Gerald had been feared, respected, loathed, admired, but never
ignored. By
From here the story is all too familiar; an increasing dependence on alcohol, embarrassing displays of public inebriation and the invitations from polite society dried up. Two decades passed in a blur until he became the creature that I found at the party, a washed-up old lush, yet with a charming wit about him that made him strangely endearing.
And
so I encouraged him to return to the written word. He was initially aghast at
the idea and was convinced that no publisher would take him on. Yet, this being
the age of the internet, I assured him that this was of little concern. I directed him to the Naked Theatre and left him in my room with a
computer and a crate of gin. He did not come out for three days, during which
time we had to endure many loud shrieking profanities and an overwhelming stench
of gin and tobacco. Eventually he emerged, announced rather shiftily that it had
"been done, damn it", and ran out of the door.
As
has transpired, Gerald had failed to live up to the task. Instead of wittily inventing an imaginary book, he had reverted to lazy
(and, it seems, somewhat pompous) journalism, a misguided attempt to speak to
the arts community that had rejected him. A
faux-pas as grand as mistaking the dictionary for a piece of dADaist artwork is
surely evidence of a mind ravaged by alcohol, a mind in far worse condition than
I had initially feared.
Gerald
sheepishly returned later that evening and collapsed without a word, dropping
empty bottles all around him and passing out on the sofa. And that is where he
currently remains. You were quite correct to point out the breaching of the
rules, yet I dare not show him for fear it may push him over 'the edge'. All
I can do is offer apologies and pray understanding for a sad, drunken old man.
Perhaps I can coax him into another attempt, for, against all appearances I
remain convinced that Gerald Smoading could once again be a name to be reckoned
with.
Kind
Regards,
Gavin Jay, Lt Col (Rtd)
