I started balding when I was still a teenager. And yes, we were already familiar with the word teenager even in the 1950s. When my classmates learned of my career intentions they referred to me as “The Tonsure”. That is not a pseudonym I plan to use again in this blog. But at 82, comparing myself with my thinning male contemporaries (number, as well as hair), we have all ended up at a similar point on the hairline front.
The resulting exposure to the sun from an early age, and lack of awareness of the risks, have resulted in considerable difficulties with my skin. My GP calls it “solar keratosis”, my dermatologist “actinic keratoses”. The treatment is one of two three-letter acronyms, but neither the one that probably brought you to this GANTOB blog and associated book. Yesterday, I Destrukted my own copy of the GANTOB re-enactment, to use her terminology. I have since printed out the advance proof that she sent me hours before she was due to press the send button to self-publish the book (though ultimately that task fell to me).
But back to my skin (I am an old person after all – but not The Elderly Gentleman – so I am fuelled by health-related chat). Recently I have taken to wearing a dressing on a vulnerable area at the very top of my head which broke down a couple of weeks into applying the 5FU (despite following the instructions). So, returning to the point where yesterday’s blog (The Sting) left off, I was rather mystified as to how an insect could penetrate the gauze. Reaching up gingerly, my hand brushed against a piece of paper as it drifted towards the ground.
I reached to pick up the litter, that was mine now by association. I stuffed it in my suit jacket pocket. It was only when clearing out all the flyers that I had been handed by fringe promoters that I looked at it again.
It was different to the other fringe materials. It was a plain piece of paper, of the poor quality now used to save the world’s resources, folded into a paper airplane. It was rather the worse for wear, clearly having been soaked in one of those Edinburgh Fringe flash floods, so the printed ink and the words handwritten in Sharpie scrawl were difficult to read. Nonetheless, I vowed to find out more.
GANTOB has been in touch. Here are her updates (copied and pasted from her email). She is:
kontent that yesterday’s blog met the kriteria defined under the principles of Kreative Tyranny (in this kontext that is 400 words per daily blog)
unsure that an unprimed audience will understand references to “GANTOB” and pamphlets such as “The Houseguest” and “The Letter”. After all, the book has only been received by a few people so far, including some highly kommitted individuals who have been avid followers of all things GANTOB
working hard at kompleting K Faktor (pamphlet 18*)
unhappy about the way the GANTOB blog handles – it’s ugly, difficult to navigate, and with such a long name (gantobandthebenefaktor.wordpress.com) is difficult to promote
* I (the Benefaktor) insisted that this was removed from The Kompanion Volume that accompanies the GANTOB book.
I (still the Benefaktor) am the first to admit that my computer skills are not up to scratch. Up until a couple of months ago my old desktop computer – a cast off from my son – had been used for some word processing, emailing, internet banking and browsing. I had never even considered using social media. In fact, had I been asked to give a considered opinion, I would have said that I hate the very idea of social media. Doom scrolling sounds like something from a very specialist wing of an American church.
But a few weeks ago (23 August to be precise) something happened that turned my attitudes on their head. I had just been at a most entertaining show called Eric’s Tales of the Sea, which was playing at a tiny venue called Just The Tonic (Just The Wee One), off the Cowgate in Edinburgh. I had met a friend there, and walked him back to Waverley, leaving him at the steps leading into the station at Calton Road.
It was, I recall, a very warm day. I stopped under the huge bridge that frames the route north. I unbuttoned my suit jacket, and used my handkerchief to mop my brow. I stood for a few minutes gathering my thoughts and planning the rest of the afternoon. An iced coffee and an hour or two with the current edition of the London Review of Books would hit the spot. Just as I set off I felt a sting on the top of my head.
In today’s blog I had planned to tell you about yesterday’s trip to see GANTOB at The Manse, Badenoch. This was going to be combined with some musings on five letter words that contain two occurrences of the letter K (for Wordle type games, before you ask).
However, after a long exchange of messages with GANTOB this morning, escalating to a slanging match by phone this afternoon, I have had to change my plans.
GANTOB is not happy with yesterday’s blog. I typed it up as soon as I returned to my Edinburgh flat last night, just missing the midnight deadline. I mentioned Kreative Tyranny early on, as previously agreed with GANTOB. It certainly felt that I was pushing my limits. At 82 years of age, after travelling approximately 260 miles by bus in a single day, without my usual frequency of refreshment, and far from adequate toilet options, I would have much preferred to go straight to bed. But I wrangled with the website and filed my copy.
GANTOB is not persuaded. Her background in sales, and her current obsession with Curt Finks, means that she wants strictly defined parameters. She was adamant that I choose a number and stick with it. She would not accept a range. After what seemed like hours of wrangling we agreed that I will stick to exactly 400 words per daily blog. Luckily, I am not bound by very rigid Finks-style criteria (e.g. the specified count of each letter and number that he imposed on himself for 20 years). And neither are there Ernest Vincent Wright-type rules on the letters that I cannot use (see Gadsby and the missing letter “e”).
Which leaves me just about enough words to explain how GANTOB and I met.
You might have read GANTOB’s pamphlet “The Houseguest”. The short answer is that I am the Reverend K_____.
Don’t worry: I am long retired, and no longer “do” religion. You are not going to be subjected to a Finks style sermon.
What you might also know is that GANTOB sometimes writes two versions of her pamphlets (see, for example, Antiklimax).
After GANTOB’s shock discovery that I had worked out her identity in The Houseguest, we exchanged a series of emails and established something of a rapport. These emails became an unreleased version of GANTOB’s The Letter. How I identified GANTOB’s identity in the first place is another story.
I am sorry for the late hour. I will polish this up another time, but for the moment Kreative Tyranny calls, as GANTOB might say if she were in a fit state to say anything.
I have just arrived back from an unexpected trip to Badenoch to see GANTOB (the person) and retrieve her book. If you haven’t heard of GANTOB before, check her Instagram page or X feed. Though it appears that for the time being I will be taking care of that as well.
I have not written a blog before. I am going to have to do some scene setting, because a lot has happened in the days since you last encountered me in GANTOB’s writing. Not that you would necessarily know that, unless you have read the GANTOB Kompanion.
GANTOB had called me yesterday, distraught. Everything had seemed to be going to plan, until that morning. Her consignment of books had arrived on schedule on Friday 22 September, and she had worked until the early hours of Saturday morning making up packages that included the book, some Little Grapefruit bookmarks, a reproduction of a Curt Finks Edinburgh Fringe flyer, and an interactive version of a Curt Finks short story. She had signed and numbered each copy, and worked out how to print addresses on labels to save time. The numbered copies match up with answers to questions that “applikants” sent in asking GANTOB how to improve the rest of 2023. Having discussed some of the questions over the past couple of weeks, and the life changing situations they referred to, GANTOB and I agreed that we must meet the promised deadline of 23 September.
On the Saturday morning GANTOB caught a lift with her neighbour into the village and lugged two full bags of parcels along to the shop that doubled up a convenience store and post office. There was a modest queue. She shuffled along with her 41 packages. The minute hand seemed to accelerate as they headed for closing time, which was set by the time the post van passed. She might be able to post at least some of the books. But the van arrived before she had a chance, and there was nowhere to store parcels until Monday. She would have to take the two increasingly heavy bags away with her. With the Highland transport links as they are, there was no way that she would be able to get to Aviemore or Kingussie before closing time. If only she still had the company car.
So GANTOB called me up. Let’s call me The Benefaktor for the moment. We’ll see how that works. I had another name in the GANTOB Kompanion. I will explain more as this blog progresses. After I heard her sorry tale, I packaged up the complementary copies of the GANTOB book that had been sent to me as funder of the project. I printed off sheets that GANTOB emailed me, folded and cut them following her instructions, and packed them up in card backed envelopes. I hurried to the main post office in central Edinburgh and managed to post packs to a couple of GANTOB kompetition applikants from England, and one from Republic of Ireland. I messaged GANTOB to let her know that the mission was accomplished, if we accepted that posting at least some copies of the book on 23 September was enough. I agreed to use some of my remaining copies for local deliveries, and persuaded one of the food delivery cyclists you see dotting around cities nowadays to make deliveries to Stockbridge and Leith. A little later on I also had a consignment ready for The Tillerman and The KLFRS Board, delivered in a fish and chips bag. That felt like a healthier number of copies delivered on publication day.
But that still left the problem of completing the rest of the deliveries. As the day had progressed GANTOB was becoming less communicative. By the evening her husband Ali described her in a fugue state. I agreed that I would do what I could to retrieve the situation. I will describe today’s activities in tomorrow’s blog. To summarise briefly, it involved a lot of free bus travel (owing to my age), word games from the Sunday papers and then on my phone, a surprising number of words with the letter K, travel sickness, negotiations (successful in spite or perhaps of the desperation) and a race to catch the last bus back to Edinburgh.
On the way back home tonight (keeping GANTOB’s parcels as dry as I could in the downpour), I realised that there is still road in the GANTOB story, including my role.
With 99 days left in 2023, I commit to writing ~400 words a day about my contribution as The Benefaktor (GANTOB imposed the spelling) on this blog. With the 400 words of new story that I have persuaded Ali to relinquish, that will make at least 40,000 words by 31 December.
Tune in tomorrow to hear more about today’s exploits as an elderly gentleman in Badenoch, but not The Elderly Gentleman as I feel compelled to highlight having read GANTOB the book.
GANTOB blog 