Fegmaniax Digest Volume 4 Number 90 Send posts to fegmaniax@ecto.org Send subscribe/unsubscribe commands to majordomo@ecto.org Send comments, etc. to the listowner at owner-fegmaniax@ecto.org FegMANIAX! Web Page: http://remus.rutgers.edu/~woj/fegmaniax/ Archives are available at http://archive.uwp.edu/pub/music/lists/fegmaniax/ ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Today's Topics: ------- ------- famous celebrities who are you, who-hoo, who-hoo? Outing myself... bobby sings bobby in London Moss Elixir Filthy Rhino David Bowie on RCA Robyn and Genesis Re: who are you, who-hoo, who-hoo? dreamscape the professor (from _you & oblivion_) ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 16 May 1996 00:03:38 -0400 (EDT) From: Eric R Neffke Subject: famous celebrities Yep. I guess I can no longer hide that I'm really Steve Nieve, keyboard player for the Attractions. (Yeah, right, like anyone's going to believe that). Anyway, on the subject of Robyn-related dreams, I had one just a couple nights ago. I dreamt that Robyn hand-delivered a copy of his new album to my door (he brought me both vinyl and CD). He was wearing a very strange looking hat and had a frog sticking out of his pocket. When I asked what the frog was doing there, he looked genuinely shocked and said, "Well, that isn't the first time that's happened, you know." He then asked me if I had any water. I went to get him a glass, but when I came back, he was gone and there was someone standing there who looked like Morrissey explaining that Robyn had been "called away on urgent business." When I pressed him to explain what this urgent business was, he muttered something about Robyn being called to score the next David Lynch film, then ran out the door, screaming "I lost my left sock!" Well, anyway, I hope this adds something interesting to the conversation. Eric ************************** "Sometimes when I'm lonely, baby, then I'm only you." -Robyn Hitchcock ************************** ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 16 May 1996 17:20:35 +1200 From: james.dignan@stonebow.otago.ac.nz (James Dignan) Subject: who are you, who-hoo, who-hoo? >Ah, a little closer to the truth. Okay, nobody here is Robyn, but I suspect >we're ALL slumming recording artists... Terry being Syd Barrett, Kay being my >man Warren, the by-now-much-maligned Blatzman being of course Ian McNabb of >the Icicle Works (trust me), Susan being Ray Davies, and me being... um, any >number of people upon whom I seem to obsess, from Tom Verlaine and Kristin >Hersh to... er... Bonnie Tyler. Anyone else care to "out" him / herself as a >music celeb? nah, we're all ordinary, sane, mundane people. None of us are famous musos. James PS - ever noticed that Brian Eno and I are never seen in the same room together? ;) ------------------------------ From: RxBroome@aol.com Date: Thu, 16 May 1996 01:35:56 -0400 Subject: Outing myself... Well, Susan, since you insist (quite rightly) on my admitting to being a singular covert recording artist, and as you bring up the ever-relevant issue of gender-confusion, I must confess to being Kristin Hersh after all. She is also the most off- the- subject reference I've posited with regard to RH, which seems somehow appropriate to my history of Fegposts. I sure as hell ain't Bonnie Tyler. Russ: apology accepted, gladly-- I think the results were worth the flame. I now have a clear picture of who did the Robyn reissue thing, who didn't, and why. Interesting stuff. (Some people mentioned "Invisible Hitchcock" and "Hen" as worth repurchasing in their Rhino reincarnations. It's worth noting that the mentioned bonus tracks on Rhino's "Hen" actually ARE included on the Midnight CD-- I know because I bought the "Hen" CD used and it turned out to be the Midnight version inside the Rhino jewelbox (somebody trying too hard to be clever when selling their CD's back, thanks much). The track list matches exactly. Also, most of the "bonus" tracks (compared to the LP, at least) on "IH" are ON the Midnight version. Everything added to the either CD version is infinitely superior to the contents of the original LP, but sorry, even with the bonus tracks, the album still sucks. I CAN'T be the only one to think so! Anyhow, I guess that-- in addition to the Unholy Dollar-- another factor in whether or not you fully embrace reissues is AGE. I'm beginning to sense that I'm one of the youngest people here, and I'm 25. It takes only the most basic math to combine my age with my avowed worship of, say, Dylan, and work out that I didn't pick up my beloved "Blonde on Blonde" on its initial pressing, or the fact that I was seven years old when "A Can of Bees" came out and, although I probably would've dug it, West Virginia record stores weren't exactly the tops in importing neo-psychedelic British underground albums. I feel terrible for those of you who've bought those Elvis Costello records in eight different formats now-- I did have the advantage of waiting for the Ryko reissues in that case. And I would PREFER to hear everything clear as daylight the first time around. But when something GRABS you, it just DOES, as my Byrds cassette and beat- to- hell Dylan LP originally did, and there's nothing you can do to stop that kind of visceral connection. So whenever I remember that initial shock of recognition, I remember what it actually SOUNDED like, warts and all. Come to think of it,where Robyn's concerned, the experience involves a particularly primitive set of Walkman headphones, a no longer extant hotel room in Baltimore through whose window wafted the odors of the equally no longer extant McCormick's spice factory, and the cassette version of "Globe of Frogs". Guess that can't precisely be recreated any time soon. Rex ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 16 May 96 14:46:00 BST From: jturner@rpms.ac.uk (Jonathan Turner) Subject: bobby sings bobby in London had a short note from mrs wafflehead the other day... as well as the previously posted 12 Bar date on May 24th, Robyn is also playing the Borderline on Saturday 25th. It's billed as "Royal Albert Hall - Robyn Hitchcock sings Dylan" or something similar. Tickets 6 pounds in advance/7 pounds door. "The show is to celebrate the day after Dylan's birthday and the 30th anniversary of his 1966 UK tour with The Band, and will be based on Bob Dylan's May 1966 UK Tour set with Robyn joined by Homer for the the electric songs." Heaven knows what it'll sound like. Anyone wanna shout "Judas" ? The note doesn't mention whether authentic 60's crackle will be added to the sound, or if they're aiming for aural clarity. The new album will be out in the summer on Warner, called "Moss Elixir." Warner US are ripping us off by issuing the vinyl version with different songs and versions (this one called "Mossy Liquor"). Jonathan. ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 16 May 1996 16:12:07 -0400 From: jojones@mailbox.syr.edu (John, Jacci, & Madison) Subject: Moss Elixir Hi all- MOSS ELIXIR sounds like an anagram to me. Is that anagram-generating mail server still around?? ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 16 May 96 15:57:00 -0600 From: Jim Moore Subject: Filthy Rhino I bought "Element", "Trains", "Invisible" and "Fegmania" on the Midnight label (CD) when they became available down here years back. Then, in a fit of poverty, I sold "Fegmania" and some old albums (including the white vinyl Groovy Decay) for cash. When the Rhinos came out I got "Y&O" and then I bought "Fegmania" because all I had was a cassette of that. I gave the cassette to a prospective fan. Then I bought "Black Snake" (which I had on album but had sold long ago because I grew weary of it). Then I replaced my Midnight "Element" with the Rhino version and gave the Midnight copy to a lawyer friend in DC. So, now I have "Y&O", "Feg!", "Element" and "Black Snake" on Rhino, and I have "Trains" and "Invisible" on Midnight. I probably will break down and replace "Trains" someday for the bonus tracks, but I don't think I will do the same for "Invisible". I will say this, though: the Rhinos that I do have are better, IMHO. For instance, to me the alternate version of "It Was the Night" on "Black Snake" was worth the $12.88 that I paid for the CD. Not to mention I finally got to hear "Happy the Golden Prince" and "The Man Who Invented Himself" in its original form. Also, I really think that the live versions of "Egyptian Cream" and "Heaven" make the Rhino "Feg!" worth it. On "Element", the "Airscape" live version is brilliant and it is also cool to have an acoustic "President". The other demos aren't too grand, though, I admit. I'm curious to hear "Dr. Sticky" from "Invisible", but since I hardly ever listen to "Invisible" anyway, I don't know if I want to pay $13 just to hear Dr. Sticky. Maybe one of you wonderful people out there would tape that song for me... Maybe I have some stuff that you don't have that I could tape for you in exchange... (anyone interested, please email me privately -- my address is posted at the bottom) After writing this, I have no idea why anyone on earth would care one whit about anything I've just said. But I will transcribe either liner notes or stories from the following if y'all want them: Fegmania! Element of Light Black Snake Diamond Role You & Oblivion No scanner, so I can't reproduce the "Enchanted Sewer" or other similar deals. I'm not a closet rock persona -- I'm Steve Martin. Sincerely, Jim "but not the other Jim" "Beaker" "but not the other Beaker" Moore jimm@dbu.edu ------------------------------ From: Ross Overbury Date: Thu, 16 May 96 9:27:05 EDT Subject: David Bowie on RCA Susan Dodge, who would have us believe she is a hallucinogenic cactus, writes: >... Same with Rykodisc. I bought all the >David Bowie albums when they came out as RCA cds, except for my copy of >Lodger, which is a Ryko- the difference in overall quality is so marked as to >make me feel like a total fool for having bought the others on RCA. If I were a scumbag, I'd offer to help you unload these for almost your purchase price. When Bowie learned of these RCA releases, he was furious, I think rather than the sound, it was the budget packaging that offended him. He had them pulled off the market so quickly that I couldn't find any after having heard the news. They are now collector's items. If you must sell them, be sure to look up the collector's value first. Better yet, do what I do with my rare recordings and hoard them for decades! -- ROSS OVERBURY email: rosso@cn.ca ------------------------------ Date: 16 May 1996 09:44:54 -0700 From: "Eric Wieder" Subject: Robyn and Genesis Subject: Time: 9:38 AM OFFICE MEMO Robyn and Genesis Date: 5/16/96 Here is another feg who is willing to admit that he is a HUGE fan of both Robyn Hitchcock and Peter Gabriel-era Genesis. Actually, there is a big similarity in the storytelling Robyn does and the outrageous stunts Peter Gabriel used to do. Although, I have not seen Robyn wearing a dress and a Fox-head yet......... Given all of Robyn's obvious contempt for CD's and "remastering", I would think fegs would take a cue and buy his new release on vinyl. I've found that all of the old records I've held onto sound great and I don't have to worry about having the correctly remastered version. Just my 2 cents. ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 16 May 1996 09:07:47 -0500 (CDT) From: Bret Subject: Re: who are you, who-hoo, who-hoo? >>Hersh to... er... Bonnie Tyler. Anyone else care to "out" him / herself as a >>music celeb? > > >James > >PS - ever noticed that Brian Eno and I are never seen in the same room >together? ;) ok, I admit it........I am actualy Mr. Nick Cave.........but don't tell anyone........ ---Bret ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 16 May 1996 12:17:28 -0700 (PDT) From: prometheus Subject: dreamscape not to flog a dead thread, but i have noticed a resurgence in fegs reporting dreams of robyn. freudian analysis anyone??? other than the normal sexual fixation, what other reasons may be prompting such mass feg dreams? anticipation of the new album? probably not. some psychic convergence warning us of trouble concerning robyn,(slipping on the midnight fish)? anyway...i, too, have had a robyn dream. i will cut it short to decrease the boredom factor. i was with a friend at a robyn gig. after the gig he came over to my house and tucks me in. i ask him to sing a song for me, a lullaby of sorts. he performs a song from 'eye', i think it was 'linctus house' or 'glass hotel'. my mother comes into the room and starts chatting him up. then robyn leaves with my mom. it was like freud's quintessential mother dream, where the bird headed men (toth, perhaps) fly off with freud's mother. epicuriously yours, jake prometheus "a squid eating dough in a polyethylene bag is fast and bulbous. dig me?" captain beefheart ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 16 May 1996 06:34:23 -0500 From: kenster@MIT.EDU (Ken Ostrander) Subject: the professor (from _you & oblivion_) the professor by robyn hitchcock & james fletcher sated, superb, and unmeshed-and furthermore, drunk almost to incapability-the regis professor of botany stumbled out of the club. the street seemed abnormally dark, and the headlights of the cars passing down it flashed on and off in his eyes with an indefinable menace. as he paused, struggling to regain some fragments of eupepsia, before a brightly lit shop window, his eyes were caught by a small but precise picture of a letterbox. some part of his brain still retained just sufficient engagement to be remotely surprised at the name of the artist, lal hitchcock, but by this time the remainder of his waterlogged cerebellum was racking up triple-zilch on the feistography readings, and he felt he would be better off in his room at the hotel claret, with a nice cup of cocoa and a little baudelaire. his sense of direction had not been improved by the evenings intake, however, and he soon found himself clattering helplessly up and down a spiral staircase in wapping. randomization took a hand, as it so often did, and the professor emerged at last onto the roof, thinking it, natch, to be the street below. three ghouls were playing whist on a cold, f at trunk, tossing the dice in and out of the eerie, green storm lamp that hung above them. the professor advanced with his customary bonhomie, thinking them to be taxi drivers. "mes chers amis," he began, assuming as usual that he was in paris and that everybody understood his frames of reference. "11 y a douse ans d moutonl7avarde, j'al rencontre trois gymnosperms, dont vous trois me souvenez avec vos yeux tongues et cheveux rites. vous m'emenez a cette hotel claret?" but the series of underwater explosions had angered the ghouls- one of whom had just bought an etching by lal hitchcock-and tonight they were in no mood to play. the smallest ghoul stood up rapidly and ran 'round the professor to the head of the stairs, where she stood fingering her hair with one hand and holding a tube of toothpaste in an unpleasantly suggestive way with the other. meanwhile the two larger ones-and the professor noted with mounting alarm that they were much larger- began to advance on him. "murthering mesoblasts," he muttered to himself, suddenly beginning to feel a lot more sober, "it looks as if that little joke's going to cost me dear." he felt a cold, bony hand grasp his neck and, almost immediately, a terrific blow in the small of his back, which felled him onto his face. he was dragged a few feet toward the lamp and, just as he was beginning to struggle, struck violently over the head with what felt like a wet and crab-encrusted corset. at the same time a piece of sacking-it smelt, he recalled later, of a blend of old carpets and cat food-was wrapped round his legs, and the smallest ghoul ran eagerly up and began to stitch it up, crudely but very tight. soon his arms were pinioned, and he found himself trussed in sacking from the neck downwards. the largest ghoul stepped back and surveyed their efforts. "i'll give you gymnosperms, you rancid bugger," he hissed, with extreme malevolence. he turned to the other large ghoul and said, "saxmundham, fetch the fir-cones." "right away dr. sledge," he replied and ran off towards the stairs. dr. sledge rolled the professor over onto his back with a disdainful flick of his foot and beckoned to the smallest ghoul. she picked up the tube of toothpaste from beside the professor's foot and went to him. "now listen: i want no mistakes. everything must be just so. is that clear, miss slugbelch?" "oh, yes, doctor," she gurgled unpleasantly, "you know you can depend on us. are we going to take him to the tunnel?" she squeezed out a little toothpaste and dabbed a blob of it onto her hair. the hotel claret seemed very far away. professor fane? i'm afraid he's not here. no, i know they generally float unless they're full of marbles. i beg your-" the receptionist at the hotel claret was twisting herself round and round in a spring chair, her powerful legs prevailing against the chair s natural inclinations. "he hasn't been in. no, not even a little bit. thank you. can i take a-? no, he didn't appear to have a piano with him. who should i say-?" but before the caller's name could be added to the pile of derelict jottings, the chair counterattacked, and the receptionist went spinning up towards the ceiling. it was the third ghoul, dr. saxmundham deadcross, that took the wheel of the tiny electric milkfloat that was taking-if that wasn't a bit of an overstatement-taking them through the dank, bodily tunnel beneath the river prewett. with diabolical practicality, dr. sledge had bounced the sack-bound professor down the stairs and into the street by means of a spring araldited to his forehead. the glue had proved as reliable as ever, so much so that it had now stuck fast and gave the professor, in silhouette at least, the aspect of a mummy with a spiral quiff. in the back of the float, miss slugbelch had all but completed her make-up. she swayed to her feet and playfully squeezed a little toothpaste on the end of professor fane's nose. she mocked his internationalism thus: "chi amore es pericolo ne el formaggio at pipistrello?" she crooned, her every gesture an embalmed parody of affection. "friends, friends, i beg you. free me from this foetid truss, that we may engage in a dialogue," blustered the professor, with little hope in his voice. "i can hear you perfectly well from here, oswald," cooed the ghoul, her words caressing his ears like razors through yoghurt. "surely there is a ghastly mistake," moaned the professor. "no mistake, fane," snarled dr. sledge, opening his mouth very wide and pulling a crab out of it. the milkfloat ran on, only the dry, petulant buzzing of its motor and the occasional drip from the roof of the tunnel broke the silence. dr. sledge caressed the crab tenderly on his knee. after a few minutes the professor became aware that they were climbing a slight gradient and almost simultaneously that a faint light- something of bright moonlight glimpsed through half an inch of aspic was beginning to let him see the structure and contents of his conveyance. yes, he could just pick out a slender, metal rod at each corner, supporting a metal roof; a small fridge; a derelict gum boot, very close to his head, from which an intermittent snapping sound could be heard; and, beneath the seated silhouette of miss slugbelch, a stack of milk crates containing-he strained his eyes, but it was still too dark to see. he heard dr. sledge unhook the storm lamp and a sound like a small expectoration as it was extinguished. then, as the light grew stronger, he saw on his left a row of brick arches, festering with unspeakable cryptogamous growths. "seventeenth arch, saxmundham," said dr. sledge, and they caine to it and turned through it into a slimy recess about the size of a squash court, but bedecked with stalactites and stalagmites. deadcross parked the milkfloat in the entrance, and they began to unload. the trussed professor was dumped beside its wheels-head towards the tunnel-and then the gum boot, the fridge and the milk crates. dr. sledge supervised the operation, pausing only in an abstracted moment to bite off one of the claws of the crab. when everything had been laid out to his satisfaction he casually impaled it on a nearby stalagmite, like a receipt on a spike file in an old-fashioned butcher's shop, where it feebly waved its remaining claws and dribbled yellowish juice of some kind down onto the decaying remains of about a dozen other similarly impaled crabs. but the professor hardly noticed this, for he was peering into the milk crates, now barely ten inches froth his face. it was as he had feared; they were neatly stacked with fir cones. "how pleasant to see these cones," he muttered bravely, "whose very shadows testify to a belligerent industry u ithin. that they are in crates-and may i say, in such seemly crates-is proof indeed that discarded vigour is structure's- ahem-playmate." "you have very much to learn, professor," tinkled the voice of adobe slugbelch in his ear. "these cones are not amusing." the three ghouls had completed their preparations and now advanced or the professor. each was brandishing a fir-cone. these appeared harmless enough but the way in which they were held was pregnant with indefinable malice. saxmundham drew his towards where he judged the professor's navel to be: miss slugbelch homed in on the dormant gland in the forehead that some believe once harboured a third eye: and the chief-dl sledge- brought his cone steadily towards the professor's mouth. all three emitted tiny humming chants from the backs of their throats, like boys playing with model aircraft. the professor, still haplessly trussed, gazed mournfully at the stalactites that hung from the seventeenth arch. the ghouls smelled almost revolting. a dead chicken fell from an undisclosed height into an unseen pulp, flashing briefly across the professor's eye-line. in the distance he thought he heard the closing bars of vagdonoblatz's 4th octet in d flat. "a jewish christmas in hemel hempstead." "how appropriate," he thought as the cones bored into his flesh and he blacked out. "tim." "f-flug?" "tim, turn over." "wha ?" "i've got some lanolin for your stigmata. " timothy fane opened his eyes. he was on a hot, dry sand beach by a sparkling sea. the occasional beach hall thudded through the air, and far out to sea, some curlews clustered around an unidentified carcass. he turned to his companion and yawned. "oh, great," he said, "though of course a sponge soaked in vinegar would be more biblical." he extruded an arm languidly. niobe's small fingers began to rub his wrist, working slowly upwards round the elbow, up the triceps to the shoulder. a few inches short of his left nipple she stopped. "leg," she commanded economically. she was somewhere in the middle of the left thigh, just working round towards the inside, when a man walked past between them and the sea. he was tall, and very thin, and wore an old and baggy (but wholly immaculate) green corduroy suit and a pair of colossal, brown brogues. his appearance caused tim to sit up very suddenly, but the man just said, "don't mind me" and strolled on past with a cheery wave of his shooting-stride . "that man s a dead ringer for my uncle oswald," said tim, "and he'd be just the person who would know what to do about your refractory rhizomes." "no one will ever cure my rhizomes," said niobe, rather loftily, "their refractoriness is both inveterate and incorrigible." "i'm sure he could, you know. he'.s a professor of botany-and even if he doesn't he's always good for a glass of wine or six and a quick puke in the quad. you'd like him. he's always getting into terrible scrapes." they gathered up towels and bottles of water and shirts full of sand and samples of the five different kinds of seaweed they'd found into a soggy, gray canvas bag of indeterminate military origin and began to walk slowly back towards the bus-stop. sea gulls screamed, waves hissed and gurgled gently, bathers shouted, the breeze hummed; and-from the direction of the esplanade-a bus growled into gear they broke into a run and arrived at the bus-stop panting, but just in time to see the back of the bus disappearing in the direction of little frogging. "shit." "when's the next one?" "half an hour, i think," gasped niobe, "shall we walk?" "no. can't face it." "let's get some ice cream." "yeah-no, wait a minute. you get some ice cream; i'll ring up uncle oswald. asparagus, if they've got it." he let himself into the phone-hox and watched her walk over towards the stall. "hello. " "hello, is professor fane there?" "no, he's in london." "oh, is that mrs. bedde?" "it's tim, is it? i thought i knew your voice." "is he staying at the claret?" "oh, yes, i expect so, i expect so. why he stays in that rotten fleapit time after time i just don't understand. not that i understand why he has to go and visit that revolting club when he'd be quite comfortable here at home in the jacuzzi." the professor's housekeeper was fiercely possessive, and continued to enlarge on this subject until she was cut short by the pips. tim fumbled in the canvas bag for another ten pence, but stlcceeded in withdrawing only a handful of seaweed, wound round his wrist like avant-garde knitting. he just had time to say: "mrs. bedde, you're a wonder," before the line went dead. he glanced over towards the ice-cream stall. niobe was still waiting in a queue, so he rang enquiries for the number of the hotel claret. he dipped his finger in a bottle of suntan lotion and smeared the number on the window. niohe came back to the phone-box just as he got through. "hotel claret." the voice was unmistakably french. "ah . . . have you a professor fane staying at the moment?" "just a moment, sir, i'll ask ze receptioniste." "aren't you the receptionist?" "oh, no, sir. moi, je suis le chef, but i am answering the telephones for two days, while zey get ze receptioniste out of ze chandelier." "uh ...." "eez parfaitement simple; she as ze registre and everyzing on a laddeur, and he feed 'er on croissants off ze end of a parpluie. but it is taking ze men a longue time to untangle her." as niobe stood in the quetle, she had no idea that the other side of the ice-cream stall, the three ghouls were seated on a polythene sheet pretending to play mah-jongg. they did not have to pretend very hard, because no one was watching them. the drained yellow of their complexions ahsorbed the sunlight whole, transmitting no hint of their loathsome presence to the observant eye. each wore thick bakelite sunglasses, and a hawaiian shirt masked what they might or might not have by way of a torso beneath. and held an icecrealn cone, into which they drooled a foetid luminous blue paste that seemed to quiver with a life of its own until it settled into a realistic parody of ice crcam. "to the throne, deadcross," hissed thc senior ghoul, passing him a filled-up cone. "aye - to the throne" moaned the other two, clinking their cones together like foul revelers joined in a satanic toast. "let the horns ctlrl round into the general brain, and all sorts of things fall out of the cupboard." "aye-and the gloans" intoned the leader. "the gloans that bide"-replied his subordinates . "arrgh-bury us in the mud, that we may drown like crimson shrimps" they all jabbered in unison, falling back emotionally drained. "two bilberries, a laburnum, and a sixty-nine!" yelled a voice from the icecream stall. saxmundham deadcross unfolded to his fuli height and stalked up to the van with his three blue ice creams. a hand materialized from a greasy cat-flap to take them. two seconds later the salne hand thrust two empty cones into the upturned palms of the acquiescent ghoul, whereon he strode towards his fellows . "one banana and one asparagus- make it snappy, fellas" came the command from behind him. timothy fane winccd: "yeuch. call this an ice cream? i thought there was some kind of law against non-milk fats." "there is, but not in food," quipped niobe with justifiable cynicism. "anyway, if you must have asparagus every time. my banana's alright." "i should take this back if i were you." "go on then-swap it for one like mine." "no, but you bought them." "so ?" "they inight not recognize me." "but they'll recognize the ice cream." "yeah, but i might have stolen it." "stolen it?" inquired an incredulous niobe, eyebrows raised. "from me?" "yeah . " "but if they've never seen you before how will they know that it's me you've stolen it from?'' "because ... because ...." tiln cast his mind about, flustered. "just because you don't recognize somebody doesn't mean you can't sell them an ice cream." "exactly. so back you go, darling." tim stood up, and as he did so, the sky darkened. dead leaves blew in from the sea-though it was only july- and a crash of thunder shook the air. it became oppressively hot, and radio reception deteriorated. tim held out his hands, his face a picture of martyrdom: from the middle of each palm, there welled a gush of dark-red blood. niobe sighed-it was always like this when he lost an argument. she bit into her banana ice cream, and her teeth grated on something hard. "i like bananas . . .'1 she said thoughtfully. "because they've got no bones?" asked tim. "well . . . yes. at least that's what i have always thought, but-" she squeezed the little sphere between her finger and thumb. there was certainly something solid in there. "i think you'd better take this one back as well. come on, let's both go and make a scene. they're disgusting." they went back to the stall and braved the reptilian eye of the whitehatted, cadaverous salesman. he was unsympathetic. "if you don't like asparagus," he snapped, "you shouldn't ask for it." he muttered something about "bloody tourists." "but look at this banana one," said niobe, "it hasn't even been properly filleted." she poked it again with her finger and dislodged a hard lump onto the counter, still smothered in puslike yellow ice cream. the man looked at it balefully, picked it up, and held it under the tap. as the ice cream ran off it, all three of them could see that it was the cap of a tube of toothpaste. the man began to look more doubtful. "er . . . yes, well . . . that's different," he said, slowly. "excuse me a minute." they heard an angry conversation from behind the stall, but only a few isolated phrases were intelligible ". . . third time it's happened . . ." ". . . quality control . . ." ". . . don't pay you to . . ." ". . . on an empty stomach . . ." ". . . seventeenth arch . . ." and then a high-pitched whine of "how was i to know ? . . . " the muttering continued as the man returned, still holding the offending foreign body in the palm of his hand. he dropped it into a trash can and was in the middle of offering them-"at no charge, for you and the lady, sir"-a pineapple and anchovy sundae, when a grotesque female figure bolted out into the road, jabbering and clutching a large greasy sponge-bag. an ominous voice hissed, "miss slugbelch, i shall have to discipline you if this kind of behaviour continues. in any case, you know perfectly well that we always have to marinate them for five days if they're more than forty." she disappeared back behind the stall again, and when tim and niobe went into the road to see what all the fuss had been about, they saw two jaundiced looking men pelting her with mah-jongg tiles while she cowered in the middle of a sheet of polythene. "good grief!" said niobe. "i wonder who they're marinating?" she laughed merrily. two hundred yards or so along the beach there was a ladder sticking vertically out of the sand. near the top stood the man with the baggygreen suit who so resembled tim's uncle professor fane. he was peering intently through a pair of opera glasses at the bevy of ghouls as they enacted their petty squabble by the ice-cream stall, and, as niobe and tim approached, he leaned dangerously outxvard. the ladder tipped ominously. back at the stall, the withering salesman was not at all keen on the idea of the young couple meeting the ghouls. the salesman, whose name was vince, stalked out behind niobe and tim with both cones extended. "please, accept these creams at no extra cost," he honked ingratiatingly "as meagre compensation for your encounter with the serrated white thing." and with considerable speed he thrust a cone into each hand, put an arm around each shoulder, and wheeled the youngsters away from the ghouls, facing down the beach. "i say, what's the idea" protested tim, feeling very mature inside, though he was well under thirty. "please, please-" muttered the salesman, "i show you." "but we heard shouts! surely they weren't-" "ah, tush!" said vince, firmly, bringing what air currents there were to a dead halt with his upright palm. "these things are not for you. rather xvould i have you witness this yonder performance"-and he indicated the nan wavering on top of the ladder. "great strips of encrusted linen!" yelled nioke. "the only thing we want to witness around here are those- those-those ghouls back there." (at this there came a sickly wail, answered by two even sicklier, like a squad of tomcats that have been force fed with curry.) "no, no, i assure you" lubricated the increasingly hispanic vincent, his voice floating like bread-sauce over jagged rocks. "they are not ghouls. they are simple tourists from the twilight coast, that are new to the sunlight. it touches theta in funny ways, leading to tension mounts. afterwards, all will come together with singing and flowers, and perhaps a little spirits." niobe attempted to sneer, but her mouth was full of ice cream. vince held them firmly facing west, and the sunlight forced them to squint. a dutch sea captain came by with a big hasselblad draped over his sea-gut, and attempted to photograph niobe in the act of squinting, sneering, and dribbling, thinking that she was going to sneeze, and that he might win a prize froth the observer. niobe was enraged and sprang on him at once, pummeling him to the ground. before the horrified but appreciative gaze of her companions, she ripped and shredded at the helpless dutchman pinioned firmly beneath her venomous knees. she gripped his ears and battered his head up and down, up and down, on the warm yellow sands, until to her surprise, it came away in her hands." "crikey," gasped tim as clouds of white stuffing flew from the neck and shoulders. vince ran to join niobe in the frenzied caper of death that was erupting in feathery billows on the afternoon sands. the carcass was kicked aside, a ravaged husk that had jettisoned its orgy of plunges and was needed no more. niobe and vince thrashed about in the haze of white flecks, and tim folded his arms, raised his eycbrous, and gazed along the beach. he sometimes envied niobe her foreign blood. "ahoy there, laddie!" cried the man on the ladder. he had regained stability and was now at 90 degrees to the beach. tim dropped his baseball bat and ran eagerly towards the summoner. "can you lend me a hand to get down from here?" said the man in the corduroy suit. he was like uncle oswald in the same way a stuffed gorilla is like a live one. identical, but not at all. turn replied simply: "sure mister" and grasped the lower rungs of the ladder to enable the man to descend. as he looked over his shoulder he saw that niobe and vince were still cavorting in a feathery sludge, but of the three jaundiced figures there was not a sign. with a flourish of corduroy, the older man climbed to the ground and turned, smiling, to face young tim. "and here's a florin for you, young man " said the man and tim was surprised to see him stoop to half his height to hand him the shiny rotmd coin. he hadn't looked very tall on the ladder. "gee whillikers, uncle, thanks a million ." the man patted tim on the head and gave the ladder a push. stiffly, sightlessly but surely it swiveled its way down the beach and into the sea, pursued by a sudden horde of squirrels. tim and the kind uncle watched as rung by rung it waded into the waves, the kind tmcle turned to timothy: "well, young man, i think its tine we dug up your mummy and daddy." "oh, we can't possibly do that. they hate being disturbed at this time of year." "i didn't like to mention it while you were obviously enjoying an afternoon with your . . . er . . . belle on the beach, so l thought i'd take this opportunity (while she finishes dismembering that bolster) to talk to you. i'm afraid to say your uncle oswald has disappeared again, and if he's not found soon, the faculty . . . that is to say the-ah- department . . . that is, they will be obliged to ...." he trailed off in evident embarrassment. "but who are you, anyway7" asked tim in a state of bewilderment. "oh, i'm just a fane substitute. mrs. bedde, (such a dear) likes me to sub for him when he falls asleep in the bath and can't lecture. no one notices, but of course it's all strictly menial: writing papers, lecturing to the royal society, chores of that sort. his work in the potting shed, now that's a very different matter; i couldn't possibly do that. masterly no one else in the country could do it; in fact bohuslav paradignu's the only person in europe working on those lines at all, as yet. you know, in bucharest. but the faculty are very anxious . . . that is . . . the department are most alarmed . . . and if he isn't found in a couple of days . . . well . . . you do see why it's essential that i speak to your parents." "but i only buried them two days ago, and anyway, they wouldn't know anything. they hardly ever see him nowadays." this last statement wasn't really true; they saw the professor regularly, and tim was lying desperately because he remembered a terrible row from about the same time the previous year, when he had unseasonably disinterred his mother for an appointment with the hairdresser. she had been so enraged she had personally frog-marched him down hampstead high street to cancel it-just as she was covered in leaf-mould and john innes no. 4 compost. no, he definitely wasn't going to go through that again. "oh, dear, and i came all the way down here specifically to try and catch you. you definitely think it wouldn't be any good." the man seemed distraught. "no," said tim firmly, "i'm quite sure. but look: we're going back to london tonight"-if you don't make me miss the last bus to little frogging, you old doppleganger, thought tim, but he was too polite to say it-"perhaps if you could tell me where he might be, i could look for him myself." "nothing could be simpler," the man appeared mollified by this, "in fact, i have prepared . . . for my own investigations you understand . . . this list." he showed it to tim, who recognized most of the places and had been taken to several of them- including the claret hotel-as a guest of his real uncle. tim scanned the list down to the bottom: the phaueroganist, the bromeliad society, angiosperm international, the angloalbanian game-keepers friendly association, the fiendish trout club, the nasal douche club, all much what he would have expected. he was only puzzled by one. "the leaf and root," he asked, "does that mean the illustrated quarterly or the famous brothel?" "i scarcely think-" said the oldish man, stiffly. "no, no, no, of course not," tim cut in hastily, relishing a little too late the extreme improbability of his uncle's having any association with a publication characterized by the abject populism of the magazine of that name. he returned the list, and assured the man that he would do everything he could. "well, good aftemoon, young man- and here are your friends come to take you away." he smiled rather wanly, then turned and walked briskly away through the sand dunes. tim watched his departing back for a moment, then turned to niobe and vince. both were disheveled and covered in feathers, but they seemed to be enjoying the usual camaraderie of people who have just killed something; though it did not escape his notice that vince had asserted his right to the camera as a trophy. shame about that, he thought; still, knowing how she felt about cameras .... they walked back towards the ice-cream stall and the bus-stop and stood talking and picking feathers off one another. as the bus hove into view a group of bathers appeared who seemed likely customers, so vince sketched a cheery farewell and returned to the stall. tim and niobe had actually taken their seats near the front of the bus when a terrific uproar began. ice-cream cones, broomsticks, several small, dead animals, cardboard boxes, the shredded remains of a hasselblad, and, after a slight lull, vince himself came flying out of the door to the accompaniment of an enraged grunting. just before the bus moved off, a greasy sponge-bag followed, landing unnoticed on the step just inside the open door of the bus. "gawd," sighed the driver, gently letting in the clutch, "vince havin' trouble with them ghotlls again." they rumbled along the coast for about 20 minutes, then turned inland, and tim and niobe were both dozing when the bus pulled up outside little frogging junction. getting off the bus, niobe noticed the sponge-bag. she picked it up gingerly. "look: here's that weird creature's bag. ugh! bllt i wonder if we couldn't return it to her. anyone who does that to a camera can't be all bad." but her musings were cut short by the arrival of the train, and they both ran to catch it. as usual on sunday evenings, it was quite crowded, mostly with sumo wrestlers, but they found a compartment to themselves right at the back behind the luggage van. niobe sat down and began to unzip the bag. "oh, throw the thing out the window," said tim. "it stinks." niobe glanced out at the featureless landscape the train was passing through. it ovas rather a temptation, but as she wondered about it, the train rolled to a halt. their carriage was standing on a bridge over a small river. "oh, hell," said tim, "we'll never make it to gravesend in time to get the last train." he pushed down the window and peered ahead into the deepening twilight and saw the train stretching ollt into the darkness, yellow rectangles of light beginning to show along its sides and a large hoarding in a field which announced inconsequentially: "you have just crossed the river prewett." as he turned back into the carriage, niohe unzipped the bag. the stench was appalling. holding their noses, they peered inside. there, floating on a wobbling gray paste resembling congealed porridge, was a brown hairy thing about the size of a hedgehog. niobe laughed. "but what on earth is it?" she asked, still giggling. but her nose (even clamped between two fingers) rebelled. she zipped up the bag and was half way to the window with it before she noticed tim's face. the boy was ashen. "great god on a gondola," he whispered hoarsely, "it's uncle oswald's wig." continued in _invisible hitchcock_ ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- The End of this Fegmaniax Digest.