I have described at some length the events of 23 August. If you have not read previous blogs, and have time, please go back to the start. Otherwise, all you need to know is that a paper object hit me on a sore spot on my then 82-year-old head. The pictures included in this blog rather give away the identity of that object, but stay with me as the story unfolds. It was a few days later, when preparing to attend a friend’s third wedding, that I came across the Edinburgh Fringe detritus in my suit. I emptied my pockets.

I was in something of a rush. However, something tugged at my interest. Time unravelling as it often does when I should be getting ready for a social event, and my wife bustling around at the front door, I took a few photos of the object that had struck me (which I referred to as an “entity” in my “quantum blogs”). I would have these photos to inspect if the wedding ceremony and reception were to drag. At my advanced age I have plenty of excuses to take myself off for a few minutes of tinkering at a moment’s notice.

The wedding proceeded in standard fashion. The groom, The Photographer, stood at the front of the church, Murdoch style, with his much younger wife. I was invited, no doubt, to pad out the numbers. Wedding guests are in surprisingly short supply when one reaches one’s 80s, especially when family members apparently disapprove of yet another inheritance diluting coupling. It was a traditional church set up, with pews and pillars. The vows were nauseating and very long, particularly with The Photographer’s hesitating delivery. Removing my phone and crossing my notoriously long legs in one well-rehearsed motion, I started checking my emails.

Bored with the neighbourhood notifications, adverts, private gardens minutes and notification of literary events in my inbox, my thoughts turned to the photos that I had taken in my earlier rush. I swiped through them, struggling to read them on the small screen. My wife tutted as I moved to bring the phone out from its limby cradle. I slipped it back in my pocket when attempting to stand as we moved into the next stage of the ceremony. I had lost track after sitting so unforgivably long. Almost fainting, blood pooled in legs, I slipped out for some air.

THE BENEFAKTOR

Written late September, posted 15 October 2023

As retrieved by GANTOB from draft blog posts by The Benefaktor, and edited to update a few details

Eskape plan aktivated.

I am on the bus to Perth.

The Benefaktor will return, in a way, as threatened in the last blog. However, this will simply be Kreative Konvenience: he had quite a few draft blogs teed up. They deskribe (in his labourious, heavily parenthesised and akademik way) our meetings and joint aktivities, so remain relevant to “our” planned 100-day narrative.

I kannot tell you though if The Benefaktor will be back in person. As I have already said, I am on the bus rather than beside his hospital bed. I am not going to komment on my alleged role in any tumble.

As you will know by now, real names have not been used.  Thinking back over events that may implikate me in his “accident” I am reassured that his kopy of GANTOB (my book) was “destrukted“. And aside from The Manse, which may or may not be in Badenoch (see Kompanion Volume), there were no konnektions to me specifikally in the book. I even doubt that I was spotted on his birthday as we slipped into his study to sign the prizes for the Snip, Stuck, Solved kompetition. I have them ready for posting once the frames arrive.

The stated lokation of the fall was also a diversion. The aktual fall was not so dramatik. And old people are well known to take a tumble from time to time. Plus, who would believe a frail man who’s just taken a knock to the head. A klear kase of delirium.

So even if there were suspicions about the fall, there would be very little reason that an investigating police officer or Prokurator Fiskal would land on this blog. And of kourse I was nowhere near Edinburgh when the fall took place. I was just deskribing an imaginary event. My name is at the end of the piece, but nowhere do I feature in the body of the blog.

“Fox” you ask? No, I am a vixen. Kompletely different animal.

Sharing a name with the original (fiktional) GANTOB brings some baggage. But did events above that London kanal really konstitute murder? I kan’t really remember. Following my trail of Destruktion (see pamphlet 4) I no longer have a kopy of 2023: A trilogy to konsult. And The Benefaktor and I were not in a relationship. I disembark at Perth, walk to my sister’s house, shower and burn my klothes.

GANTOB

14 Oktober 2023

Kover photo (of fox/vixen skulpture) was taken in Newcastle, 19 February 2023, by GANTOB. The skulpture was in The Biscuit Factory, and was made by Peter Sales.

Photo of night scene was taken by The Photographer, who happens to be an acquaintance of The Benefaktor.

CHALLENGE: I have previously described the process of calculating the “K Faktor” (pamphlet 18). Read the rules very carefully. What is the K Faktor for this blog (21. Ejekt)? Look just at the 400 words that make up the body of the piece (without title, my name, photo caption, date or footnotes). That is, the bit between “Eskape plan aktivated” and “burn my clothes”, but without the communion of feral beasts. Do not include punctuation or spaces in your calculations. If, after reading pamphlet 18, you want to take on the more devilish challenge detailed, then you have until the end of December 2023 (your time zone) to email me your submission at 100percentvinyl2@gmail.com, or send me a message on social media (gantob2023 on Instagram or Twitter). Good luck!

GANTOB has been educating me in the ways of popular music. ABABCB (A=verse, B=chorus, C=bridge). As you might have spotted from my recent blogs, some of this education has been in selected classics of the canon – The Beatles I knew well already; ELO (A New World Record era) were instantly palatable, like familiar friends; and PSB (The Hits) were enjoyable in their knowing way. They were good examples of conventional song structures. The JAMs and KLF are less easy to pin down, at least until their Stadium House period. The JAMs are Dadaist; a kollage. The KLF sometimes go on and on (and on). Take No More Tears for example.

But it is The Beatles who internally soundtrack my somersault down Playfair Steps, halfway down from Edinburgh Castle level right down to Princes Street. Helter Skelter builds in a crashing crescendo before it fades out and then back in again. My cartwheeling descent is guided by the railings down the steps, banging hip, shoulder, skinning hands. It is going to be a bad one. That deceleration of time familiar from previous bike accidents. But I land on a surprisingly soft bundle at the bottom of the steps, hands held to my head after warnings from my cardiologist about the blood thinning medication I take for a metal heart valve.

I cannot be confident whether I banged my head. I will need to go to hospital, for a brain scan and to have my other injuries investigated. And so will the homeless gentleman I have landed on, padded mercifully by a blanket and duvet and some bags of clothes and papers. His companion will need to go to the vet school.

Nobody else has followed me down the steps. My phone is cracked, but functioning. My briefcase lies tented on the paving, papers blowing up into the air. It is cold, and the pain has landed. I dial 999 and signal to my fellow traveller to speak into the phone.

I regain consciousness as the paramedics arrive. I am tangled in the bedding that my new friend has wrapped around me. I have curled up, comforted by the unexpected warmth. The dog licks my face expectantly. ELO. I hear Jeff Lynne’s distant voice rising from another fade out, soaring, a glorious end to a beautiful song: “I will return to Shangri-La/ (I will return)”, before slipping and sliding away into unconsciousness.

ON BEHALF OF THE BENEFAKTOR

AS ADDED TO BY GANTOB

(Very much) Friday 13 October 2023

The group of youths in front of me in the queue at the National Library of Scotland café are placing their order.

“You’ll be total wired”, after that, shrieks one of them. It is a new term to me, but “I catch their drift”.

After checking my emails and undertaking essential social media duties (personal and GANTOB/ Benefaktor business) in the café, and now lightly caffeinated myself, I select another desk for the rest of the day, a changed perspective.

I have set myself a few tasks. Gentle reminders rather than GANTOB’s Kreative Tyranny. One is to plan tomorrow’s blog (which you are reading). Another is to ask about sources of information available in the different libraries to research GANTOB’s father-in-law Curt Finks. GANTOB’s husband Ali (not real name) has shared his father’s actual name (which I have promised not to reveal to you).

And finally, I need contact Ali to check on his health. I remind myself that the original GANTOB (in The Justified Ancients of Mu Mu’s book 2023: A trilogy) stabbed her boyfriend, rolled his body neatly up in a duvet and pushed him off the balcony into the canal below. I worry that fiction might become a reality. He should lock up their knives.

I have mentioned that GANTOB is on manoeuvres. She has come down to Edinburgh unannounced. I have also noticed some Instagram messages that she posted when I was not online, assuming that I would not spot them. And I am sure that I have glimpsed her from the corner of my eye, or detected her presence, fox like, skirting the edges of the terrain, as I go about my daily business.

After writing some words about old TV programmes yesterday I worry that this is all becoming a bit soap-like. It is certainly no sit com. And perhaps after reading about Archie Bunker and his show All in the Family, my thoughts move to The Archers. I am initially soothed by thoughts of that most gentle of soaps, until I recall the controversy of Helen’s attempted murder of Rob.  

It is library closing time, dark outside. I pack up, having not quite achieved my goals, but with some new angles. I take the shortest route home, via Playfair Steps. As I power down, my usual long stride, I hear a familiar voice behind me. I turn, stumble, and tumble, flight after flight.

ON BEHALF OF THE BENEFAKTOR

AS COMPLETED BY GANTOB

12 October 2023

Featured image credit: Caught By The River

There was an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach as I sat in the library that morning. I put it down to the birthday party. Or the message that I had received on Instagram asking to have GANTOB back.

Knowing that I had a GANTOB deadline to meet did not help. I pulled out my sheet of paper and pen, and leant on a copy of Broughton Spurtle.

Scrawled on my piece of paper I had a few notes about the KLF song Kylie Said to Jason. I had listened to the track myself a few days before, c/o YouTube. I knew quite a few of the 1970s references, though the US TV show All in the Family only with prompting. The Good Life (we had friends in Surbiton). Another show and celebrity that have not stood the test of time.  And the 1980s – Neighbours of course. There had been no escaping that. I turned to the notes that GANTOB had given me. Channelling the Pet Shop Boys. Dance music. Stock Aitken and Waterman style intro.

Tick, tick, tick.

Jumping around time: a dream sequence, or perhaps tripping. GANTOB had explained the KLF’s hopes that this would follow their previous number one, but it had stalled well before the Top 40. All rather bandwagonesque.

“I’m going to leave this body now”. The misheard lyrics, transcribed onto one popular website. It’s clearly “party”. I think back to a song by The Beatles: “I don’t want to spoil the party so I’ll go/ I would hate my disappointment to show/ There’s nothing for me here so I will disappear”.

Against my better judgement in the summer of 1989 I conducted a Kylie and Jason inspired wedding. Ghetto blaster at the ready, Angry Anderson and Especially for You cued instead of the usual organ voluntaries, it culminated in the collapse (and death) of the bride’s uncle.

I had earworms from KSTJ nagging away as I walked home, Bill Drummond reciting, “It’s all in the mind”. Still that uncomfortable feeling. I check behind me surreptitiously at a crossing.

There was nobody at home. I avoided the cats, because it was hours until teatime. I gobbled my sandwiches, a banana and picked up my briefcase, returning to the library.

My mind was far from empty as I retraced my route. I encountered a white cat. It seemed to whisper, “She’s behind you”.

THE BENEFAKTOR

11 October 2023

Sticking with GANTOB’s rules imposed for my Birthday blog for a moment, I need to announce the winners of the Snip, Stick, Solve competition (see earlier blogs, Instagram or X for background). The overall winner, with an innovative glass table approach was DaftBrand. Highly commended runners up were LoopManiac, Missiformation and Andrew. A brave effort was received from one other applicant, but they were three centuries out.

After careful consideration, we are not going to share the solution (to avoid spoilers), but all applications will receive a prize tailored to their specific answer – especially for them. The unsuccessful applicant appears to be expecting an acknowledgement of their labours, under difficult circumstances. They should be so lucky, though I feel for them.

Which discharges my duties to GANTOB for another blog, and allows me to get back to more important business.

This morning I arose groggily, but still managed breakfast and departed the flat on schedule.

A snail crunched under foot as I opened the gate. The remains cringed under the fragments of shell. I wiped my shoe on the grass, avoiding the fox excrement that has been appearing on the lawn over recent weeks, though greatly diminished by the recent downpours. Scraping the now still tail of the snail up with a piece of slate I started on my way again, thinking about happier times in the summer when the snails had appeared, as if by magic, all over the wallflower that had run rampant on the other side of the path, by the bins.

It was only when I was climbing the recently re-opened Playfair Steps up the Mound that I realised that I had left my briefcase behind at the flat. I patted down my pockets to reassure myself that I had at least a pen and piece of paper, so I could take notes while at National Library of Scotland. I would text home to ask for my sandwiches to be retrieved (before the cat found them hopefully) and put in the fridge. But of course my phone was in my case.

I descended one flight and then another, before deciding that I really needed to get on with the day. Perhaps my sandwiches would be alright, cool enough on the flagstones in the hall. I climbed to the top, more breathless than usual, wheezy. Is this what it is going to be like to be 83?

THE BENEFAKTOR

10 October 2023

GANTOB has made rules for this blog, in the name of Kreative Tyranny. Let’s see if it works.

---

Even as I enter my 84^th year, I still feel excited about my own birthday. I have a very busy day ahead. I mentally tick off the planned activities. I open my cards after a leisurely breakfast and walk up the hill to meet The Ornithologist and The Philatelist. I promise to return tweezers and magnifying glass to the latter later in the day.

Lately we have been meeting up each Monday to attend the lunch time concert given by university students at ____ Hall. Today’s concert, appropriately after the amber weather warning for the weekend past, is titled Concerto for A Rainy Day. The students pull off most of the pieces with aplomb.

Our lunch is taken after the concert, on Forrest Road. A vegetarian chilli hits the spot. We are meeting up again later, so do not linger on formalities.

Popping into the museum on the way home, partly for a pee, but also to have a look at the stuffed animals for old times’ sake. I have made this walk for decades, sharing the experience with successive generations. I remember past generations as well as experiences with my children and grandchildren, and wonder what we have done to deserve them.

Suitably philosophical about what will no doubt be much of the usual chat from family and friends, I plot a rather circuitous route, via the West End, and across the New Town to the East End and then down towards Leith.

Bottles already purchased, and speech rehearsed, I am ready for the planned jamboree.

Keeping the volume low, to listen out for guests, I pop on The Beatles 1 album, and skip to where I left off earlier in the day: All You Need is Love. I need my fix, then I’ll be ready. I think of John Lennon, born on the same day as me.

Later, after the guests have left, and we’re doing the dishes, my wife and I have some time to reflect. The cat is in the dishwasher, licking the plates, ignoring our recollections, thinking instead of the snatched strokes and snacks.

For hours after we go to bed I am restless, conversations turning over in my head, feeling the effects of one port too many. I’m counting sheep. “Go to sleep” my wife groans.

THE BENEFAKTOR

9 October 2023

Snip. Stick. Sounds dynamic, and precise doesn’t it.

In reality, progress this weekend has been glacial (at their pre-global warming pace) and very, very sticky. There is Pritt Stick tackiness everywhere: on my hands, as residue on the little “snips”, and on the previously pristine piece of paper.

I like words. I enjoy their derivations, changing meanings, and confusions.

While stuck (not physically) in my chair this morning I have been thinking about the word “sanction”. It is a word that has a very particular meaning to people navigating the cruelties of the modern welfare state, as I observe on a weekly basis in my volunteering work at the local branch of a national welfare rights organisation. But it has a directly opposing sense in other contexts, with similar contrasts whether used as a noun or verb. Take these definitions of the noun:

1. “a threatened penalty for disobeying a law or rule”
2. “official permission or approval for an action”

Try explaining the differences to somebody struggling to survive after application of the first type of sanction. A person cast adrift in the modern world, yet totally, sometimes seemingly inescapably.  stuck.

In my snipping of GANTOB’s word art (not, I must clarify, a word cloud), I am hallucinating alternatives. How about “sanction” for the negative meaning, and “sanktion” for the positive: reclaiming a word that should be cause for celebration rather than immiseration. I wonder what it would take for that change in meaning to stick.

I almost snip too far, and sometimes lose count. Luckily, I have the numbers to guide me. I dream of a control-Z function for real life. I have spent too much time typing recently.

I am also thinking about numbers. Not financial sums. But number of cuts. And not the 1,000 cuts of Chinese torture fame, but the ~1,500 cuts required to destroy GANTOB’s monstrous creation. Not Destrukting, which applies to something that you probably want to keep but know that you should give up. But Destroying, which involves obliteration or ruinous damage, whether accidental or intentional. I get stuck back in, the end in sight.

The resulting artefact will be very difficult to reproduce, and a gallery would struggle to preserve it. It is paper on paper, in three dimensions, plus a grotty layer of clotted glue, skin cells and the occasional hair. A prize for one lucky winner to stick on their wall.

THE BENEFAKTOR

8 October 2023

Yesterday’s blog (DUOS) was meant to be followed by a period of collaboration between GANTOB and me. An unemployed salesperson in the Highlands and a retired elderly clergyman in Edinburgh: an unlikely duo.

But GANTOB is not a team player. She has quite clearly been on solo manoeuvres. Yesterday she made three posts from our shared social media accounts, without prior agreement. They were titled: KORREKTIONS, KWALITY CHECK and INKOMPLETE KAOS.

A letter that I received last night, “personal delivery” but without any direct interaction, explains more. I have followed the instructions.

Dear Benefaktor,   I have enclosed a reworking of the Curt Finks exclusive that we sent to recipients of the book. This is the so called “nested re-enactment” that we alerted recipients to on the packaging. Now that copies are arriving with applikants around the world, it is time to share this more widely. I have adapted it to share on social media.   I was keen to incorporate a sense of confusion, revelation, and considered reflection. Like vinyl “crate digging”, but in words. I also wanted to learn from my mistakes. You will remember the horrors of cutting these up into 400 words for the book packages. It almost broke me. You fudged it. I found little fragments of paper – with a number and word on either side – all around The Manse for days afterwards. Some packages must have been incomplete. I have therefore built in some checks. I am keen that this is a team effort. I will share a photo of the enclosed sheet on social media, explaining the rules and asking for people to answer one question: What was the year? I will email you a high-resolution version.   We need to demonstrate shared purpose with GANTOB followers. Therefore, I ask you this weekend to chop up the original – imagine a slow-motion Banksy-inspired contraption (Kultural Vandalism?). Do this in numerical order: chop, stick; word by word.   Applikants have until 23:23 on Monday 9/10/2023 (their time zone) to complete the task. As you know, that is the birthday you would have shared with John Lennon (83 years ago for you both). I am staying in Edinburgh currently, flat sitting for my son. I will visit on Monday to give you a card and sign the completed story. This will be the first artistic output of the GANTOB/ Benefaktor duo. And the prize for one lucky winner.   Yours, GANTOB

THE BENEFAKTOR

7 October 2023

Today GANTOB has suggested that I fulfil my commitment to unpick another JAMs/ KLF track this week.

Rather in the style of Cerys Matthews on her insightful show with Jeffrey Boakye, I am going to take a couple of goes before I make my choice. I worked my way through the tracks on JAMs LP Who Killed The JAMs?” (early 1988), in the order dished up by YouTube.

I thought initially about Prestwich Prophet’s Grin, because I was intrigued to read about a new seer, but it led down a blind alley. I did like the alliteration of “read rock rags”, even though I initially assumed it was fashion advice for musicians until I saw the spelling.

Then I wondered about Porpoise Song with its mention of Jack London (I enjoyed White Fang, though am more of a cat person) and fishing references (Buckie and Macduff). I found myself again imagining that there were two Clydeside rappers, moving from the softer spoken to the more raucous with the line “The porpoise is a mighty beast”, and mention of the banks of the Clyde. But on reflection it is clearly still Drummond (King Boy D) himself as he repeats the porpoise’s instruction to “Claim your crown and join the JAMs”.

I was interested in the reference to “Old Bailey’s bank” and did some searching. It appears to be an oceanographic geological feature rather than a depository for money. But the link from The Edinburgh Geologist (issue 33, 1999) I have just shared piqued GANTOB’s interest.

She noted the references to Drummond Place and a Professor William A.S. Sarjeant, who I believe shares his name (but not the spelling) with the guitarist in a band that Drummond once managed. Could there be a connection?

I did some searching myself, and found that a completely different Porpoise Song was also released by The Monkees, a band that even I am familiar with. Though no apparent musical connection between the tracks, I note that The JAMs mention monkeys in their song, and The Monkees on their track have: “sings of castles/ And kings and things that go/ With a life of style” (Goffin and King).

GANTOB tells me that Porpoise Song is something of a Pet Shop Boys pastiche (another duo from that era), before pointing me to The KLF’s Kylie Says To Jason, which is the track that I have chosen to discuss.

THE BENEFAKTOR

6 October 2023