File 1: The Da Vinci Code

Editors Note: the following is transcribed from the tattered remains of notes believed to be incorporated within, or somehow addressed to, a “Palimpsest”. They were found beneath the ruins of a run-down old shack in the middle of the scary woods. No evidence of the author’s survival had been recovered to date.

until Now.

It was only due to the unexpected survival of that author – it was I – that the truth has come to light. Undeniable correlations to my inspirational writing style have led to the prosecution and incarceration of the contemptible hack who stole these passages and passed them off as his own work. They are now included here as a kind of return to their rightful place at my side, with some minor revisions.

To enjoy them in their original order, scroll down to the bottom and work your way up – or click here for Part One. I wouldn’t want you to spoil the surprise and find out if I liked The Da Vinci Code or not right at the beginning.



“Hi, ev’ybody!”

“Hi, Doctor Nick!”

Rest, weary traveller, breathe easy again, for the end is nigh. But I fear it may be a rather sombre affair… I truly wanted to go down shooting, but in the end The Da Vinci Code has beaten me. Dan Brown has won. Because I don’t think I have it in me to be funny about it any more.

I want to try. I kept folding page-corners as I rushed headlong into the final third, or t’ird as the Irish might accurately put it, so looking back there are things that must have struck me as comment worthy, back when my sense of humour hadn’t shrivelled up and morphed into an ever expanding brain-tumour, but these seeming gems hardly raise a smile now. So when Brown employs a metaphor and imbues it with more reality, though chronically misplaced, than he does his actual story –

If a “line of reason” had ever existed, she had just crossed it. At almost the speed of sound.

– because she is in an aeroplane, do you see, or –

Aringarosa leaned across the table, sharpening his tone to a point.

– I want to poke fun, but it just isn’t in me. When not one but two different characters casually bribe their pilots to change their planned destination, in mid-air, and on both occasions the pilots just agree, in total denial not just of common sense but of common sense plotting, I want to rant – but I can’t. I’m too tired.

I ought to wax humorous about Robert Langdon’s status as little more than the ghostly personification of Dan-Brown-as-author himself, flitting ethereally through a story that is in truth nothing to do with him at all; the ludicrous lack of awareness that inspires Brown to have his cryptographer be the one all the clues have to be explained to; the psychotic splitting of personality which his villain, and his villain’s manservant, both exhibit – unless it is a psychosis of the text and not the characters, which is highly possible; ultimately, about the fact that the near total emotional absenteeism on display makes you wonder if everyone involved is autistic – only for their inconsistently good pattern-recognition skills to make that unlikely. All these things and more deserve ridicule… but my apathy is too great.

The Da Vinci Code fails in every way. Brown is unable to convincingly present foreground action, unable to create back-story unless it’s as unconvincing foreground action, can’t structure his story logically, can’t characterise his cast of ciphers and doesn’t trust his reader to bring anything to the mix whatsoever – there is nothing to interpret beyond a handful of pathetically obvious “codes” which, like the entire book, have almost nothing to do with Leonardo Da Vinci at all. Not content with being unoriginal in its basic premise, it strives for unoriginality of plot – forget about the tried and tested thriller format, he even steals Return Of The Jedi’s “Luke-Leia” twist, but is too inept to use it as anything but a tacked on coda to the least dramatic finale I’ve ever read. Oh, and then there’s another, even less dramatic and entirely arbitrary sub-the-Butler-did-it final-finale still to come – I mean, for fuck’s sake.

By my opening quote I hope to suggest that Mister Dan Brown is only a writer of literature in the same sense that Doctor Nick Riviera is a potential saver of lives. Which is of course to say, he isn’t – if anything, he’s a destroyer. Brown “tells” a “story” which is set in the worlds of high art and high thought and with his book happily crushes both with all the conscious foresight of a mudslide. How many millions have read this? How many more than will ever likely read the bible front-to-back, or an accurate analysis of Da Vinci’s life and work, or anything even remotely approaching a book worth reading? With this one stroke Brown lessens the quality of art and debate, thus thought, effectively making a mockery of the very things he ostensibly holds up as “to be cherished”, and he’s written three or four other novels too. Jesus, Mary, Sarah, Sophie – Sophie’s brothersomeone, save us.

Brown’s won twice actually, because if I hadn’t had the crutch of mockery I would have left this stinker considerably unfinished – and now I’ve lost even that. It really is… the worst piece of shit I’ve ever read.

So. Here I am. Left with the contents of Dan Brown’s toilet forever a part of my head-mash. If the few remaining innocents out there can take anything from my experience, make it the decision never to read The Da Vinci Code – not to find out if I’m right, not out of some morbid desire to hurt yourself – please. Then maybe my suffering won’t have been in vain. It’s just not worth it.

There’s really only one thing left for me to do. You know what South Park says is the last thing that happens after you top yourself?




Editor’s Note: Speculation is rife that, if Dan Brown were to commit suicide, his loosening bowel might produce another sequel. Distressing as this would be, it could be worth it.

He could hear the ancient words . . . the foundation of the Grail legend: Vous ne trouvez pas le Saint-Graal, c’est le Saint-Graal qui vous trouve.

Ah, okay, I’ve not done French since I was sixteen, but this I can figure out for myse-

You do not find the Grail, the Grail finds you.

Oh. Well, if you were just going to give it me in English anyway, and if the character thinking this is a bigoted Brit-toff who hates living in France to begin with, why not just… I mean, when I’m thinking about Audrey Tautou (and this does happen, often in the dark) I don’t default to “Waugh, c’est tres bien” just because she’s froggish. It’s “Fit As” every time. Anyway, since we’re on the subject…

Sophie tilted her head and scanned the list of titles like a Labrador:

Secret Guardians of the True Identity of Christ
by Ivor Nutherwon

Mary Magdalene and the Holy Grail
by J. K. Rowling

Reclaiming the Sacred Feminine
by Shelby Wareyeaux-Levtette

“Here is perhaps the best-known tome,” Teabing said, pulling a tattered hardcover from the stack and handing it to her. The cover read:

The Acclaimed International Bestseller
by Anne Agrahms, Drew Conch-Lucien & Y. L. Tspeculay-Johns

Sophie glanced up with moist eyes, a cold nose and burrs in her luxuriant pelt. “An international bestseller? I’ve never heard of it.” ZIIING!

I want to stop there, but I can’t. Turn the chapter and he continues with –

”You were young. This caused quite a stir back in the nineteen eighties. To my taste, the authors made some dubious leaps of faith in their analysis, but their fundamental premise is sound, and to their credit, they finally brought the idea of Christ’s bloodline into the mainstream.”

Well at least that’s settled. I still can’t get over the number of commas in this thing. The only way to approach this book is as if you are being read to by the super-asthmatic Stevie from Malcolm in the Middle.

And at this point, BAM, it hits you like a ton of bricks: Christ had babies. Now, I don’t want to blow my own trumpet or anything – though last vertebrae notwithstanding I certainly would, twenty-four hours a day – but in my last thrilling instalment I fellaciously (heh heh) suggested the following:

Oh, my God, she thought.
I know who I am.

But you see, I was wrong. Never try to run on ahead of An Author, you’ll just fall on your face and still be lying there mixing your tears with blood and snot when he strolls past with a smug look on his phiz. But Chapter 260 leaves no room for doubt: if your surname isn’t a Merovingian one you can just pootle off and join some other messianic wish-list, ‘cause you ain’t one of our Gods. Before their arguably mysterious death by air-car daddy was a Sauniére and mummy was a Chauvel, and that doesn’t cut the mustard here, baby. Again, I’m forced to reassess my patronising attitude towards Dan Brown. There’s a lot going on here and I’m starting to think that if I just shut up and read the damn thing some of it might sink in.

I did, and eventually Silas quits hanging around in the bushes like some priestly stalker (as if…), bangs Langdon in the head and holds Sophie and Teabing at gunpoint, “dressed in a wool robe with a rope tie, he looked like a medieval cleric”; one about to hang himself, presumably. Rather than spoil the surprise of whether or not our heroes are all executed here with 180 chapters still to go, I’m just going to sidetrack onto the possibility that Sophie and Langdon might not have begun to make some kind of emotional connection along the way to this perilous situation; characterisation this “smooth” can mask a great deal of subtlety. Omitting chapter numbers for a moment, we are treated to moments such as –

Sophie’s touch was shaken but tender

– and not to beat about the bush, but Ms. Tautou can give me a tender shaken any time she wants to. Perhaps a better example is this:

Gazing absently out the window, Langdon watched the woods passing by, ghostly pale in the yellow blush what? of the fog lights. The side mirror was tipped inward, brushed askew by branches, and Langdon saw the reflection of Sophie sitting quietly in the back seat. He watched her for a long while uh-huh and felt an unexpected upwelling of contentment uh-huh. Despite his troubles tonight, Langdon was thankful to have landed in such good company.

After several minutes gotcha, as if suddenly what? sensing his eyes on her, Sophie leaned forward and put her hands on his shoulders, giving him a quick rub. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Langdon said, “Somehow.”

Sophie sat back in her seat, and Langdon saw a quiet smile cross her lips. He realised that he too was now grinning (shudder).

Forget what I said about my patronising attitude. Dan Brown is a sociopath.

There are other noteworthy points along the way to my current resting point, a “good” two-thirds of the way to the summit; ask me about the moment of potentially good plotting let down by structural stupidity if you like; or maybe the most pathetic, woefully pointless cliff-hanger to date (save your strength, I may just do a top ten of those before I finish – this will definitely be at Number One). However I will now depart for some much needed beauty sleep, leaving you with the most wonderful, surely intentional, piece of outright comedy demonstrated by The Da Vinci Code so far.

To set the scene: Langdon, Sophie and Teabing (what a horrible word that is by the way; easily the worst of a bad bunch of fucked up anagrams of DB’s pals, that one. I just noticed in his acknowledgements that his agent is called Jason Kaufman. Langdon’s is Jonas Faukman. This isn’t a novel, it’s a Christmas present. I had one just like it starring a giraffe called “D r o f f i l c”… WHEN I WAS EIGHT YEARS OLD) …where was I? Oh yes, right:

Langdon, Sophie and the undoubted turn-coat drive their new prisoner (I’ll leave that a mystery) to a secret airfield, there to hop a private jet for Old Blighty in order to track down… something, anyway, when they arrive a plucky newcomer called Richard is waiting with the engines running. He looks a bit edgy when he sees who is along for the ride. Let’s watch.

Teabing said, “My associates and I have urgent business in London. We’ve no time to waste. Please prepare to depart immediately.” As he spoke Teabing took the pistol out of the vehicle and handed it to Langdon.

The pilot’s eyes bulged at the sight of the weapon much as Sophie’s might, had she been driving and not on the back seat, if you recall. He walked over to Teabing and whispered, “Sir, my humble apologies, but my diplomatic flight allowance provides only for you and your manservant. I cannot take your guests.”

“Richard,” Teabing said, smiling warmly, “two thousand pounds sterling and that loaded gun say you can take my guests.” He motioned to the Range Rover. “And the unfortunate fellow in the back.”

Because, if you’re expected to illegally transport wealthy bigots across national boundaries, accompanied by two wanted murderers and the pasty, blood-soaked priest they’ve recently kidnapped, you’re going to want two thousand pounds to sweeten the deal. Aren’t you?


Part Six

From Chapter 249:

Sophie sensed he was at last coming to his point.

If she was thinking about Brown, this would represent a piece of post-modernist writing worthy of Calvino – except I’m guessing Brown doesn’t, not for nearly another 200 chapters. Then, in the very next one:

She read what he had written.

Sang Real

Instantly, Sophie recognised the translation.

Sang Real literally meant Royal Blood.

Fucking shit me, she thought, two-hundred and fifty chapters ago, I was a Cryptographer. How could I have missed this? I mean, if I was a mere Neanderthal, sat in a creaking, grounded Airbus at Gatwick, and had been prevented from having any one, single clue presented upon the pages of the front half of an alleged novel, long enough to do anything more demanding with my brain than repeatedly twitch my eyes, back and forth, and mop the drool from my lip because, after all, we have airhostesses for a reason, and I’m not going to be the one who puts them out of a job, even if they aren’t as attractive as we’d like to make out they are, too much makeup over too much sun bed, if you ask me, but at least, under those circumstances, I couldn’t be expected to, read between the lines, as it were, because the chances are, I wouldn’t also be a gorgeous, multilingual, puzzle-fixated, super-genius, embroiled, rather specifically, in a conspiracy heavily weighted towards an, over use of commas, and some kind of, Holy, Grail connection – but me, I’m a Christ-ing Cryptogra

She stopped.

Oh, my God, she thought.

I know who I am.

Chapter 251

Nah. I made that last bit up.


Part Five

I think Dan Brown is eighty.

My first clue came with the realisation that he has clearly only interacted with his peers from the warm, comfortably-lit confines of a gentlemen’s club, and as a result has only overheard rumours of recent technological advances while passing the swing doors to the kitchens on his way to the water closet, there for his quart-hourly bladder release, or possibly to watch more virile members then he (or his own) buggering one of the Boys. Phrases like –

Grail aficionados still discussed it ad nauseum on Internet bulletin boards and worldwide-web chat rooms.

– make it very clear that, whatever these net-and-web things might be, smoking rooms are more his pace. For certain he hails from an era when a computation machine was more glass and vacuum than metal because these to me relatively familiar terms are followed with equal emphasis by –

…the bank had expanded its services in recent years to offer anonymous computer source code escrow services and faceless digitized backup.

Suddenly I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, but at least find myself on an equal footing with the author. The opening two cliff-hangers of that Chapter (175) are strewn with samey-adjectives like an explosion at a clone factory: anonymous, anonymous, faceless, anonymous, anonymously and anonymity, not to mention a thrillingly italicised anonyme Lager – a proteiny, salt-water beverage I believe and something of a welcome distraction from the current theme.

Anyway, the action is hotting up and no mistake. Apart from the multitude of character motivation mistakes which litter this nahaharative (if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from Dan, its don’t give up on a winner easily). Such as Langdon’s iron-clad determination not to reveal… It …until some unspecified later, even when all logic screams for him to blurt it out now for Christ’s sake.

Sophie’s eyes flashed disbelief (** ** *** *** * *** ** * ***). “But if this cryptex reveals the hiding place of the Holy Grail, why would my grandfather give it to me? I have no idea how to open it or what to do with it. I don’t even know what the Holy Grail is!I’m guessing the “cryptex” contains a ladies size T-shirt marked “You’re With Stupid”. Or a Garnier product, possibly shampoo. Langdon realised to his surprise that she was right despite the fact that she has been consistently right about everything since he first laid eyes on her. He had not yet had a chance to explain to Sophie the true nature of the Holy Grail. Ah, then this would be the perf- That story would have to wait. Oh yeah, why is that? At the moment they were focused on the keystone. Help, I’m trapped in an infinite regress with an idiot.

All things considered it’s pretty tough to get this guy to spit out any useful information despite the fact he seems to have all of it. As a result we get sentences like “[Langdon] choked, a fearful bewilderment sweeping across his face” or “Langdon could scarcely believe his own supposition” instead of, well, anything useful. As protagonists go, he’s a sack of shit and about as proactive as the same. He has made exactly TWO decisions since I started reading, TWO. A protagonist is supposed to be the driving force of the story, but Langdon does little except drift along in Sophie’s wake. On the other hand, here is what happens when he does get all action oriented:

What’s going on? Vernet pulled again, but the bolt wouldn’t lock. The mechanism was not properly aligned. The door isn’t fully closed! Feeling a surge of panic, Vernet shoved hard against the outside of the door, but it refused to budge. Something is blocking it! Vernet turned to throw his full shoulder into the door, but this time the door exploded outward, striking Vernet in the face and sending him reeling backward onto the ground, his nose shattering in pain. The gun flew as Vernet reached for his face and felt the warm blood running from his nose.

That’s right: we get one of the poorest action scenes ever written. Was Vernet trying to close the door with his back turned to it before it exploded outwards? How much of his shoulder had he been using before electing to use the “full shoulder”? What does that mean anyway? Can a pain be so intense that it causes one’s nose to shatter? But wait, that’s only got us to the first cliff-hanger, there’s more:

Robert Langdon hit the ground somewhere nearby, and Vernet tried to get up, but he couldn’t see. His vision blurred and he fell backward again. Sophie Neveu was shouting. Moments later, Vernet felt a cloud of dirt and exhaust billowing over him. He heard the crunching of tires on gravel and sat up just in time to see the truck’s wide wheelbase fail to navigate a turn.

Count the flaws: Could Vernet see or couldn’t he? What actually happened? (After careful consideration I believe the door didn’t actually explode – Langdon charged it from the other side; but really, weak, dude. The clearness of Brown’s writing is epitomised by the precision use of “somewhere nearby”). Another question might be, why is Brown using the full names of Langdon and Sophie all of a sudden? But most crucially of all, where was the rest of that truck?

So, I guess the less involved this hero is in the story, the better. Shortly after making this escape Langdon and Sophie go to the villai- excuse me, Mr. President: they go to “Langdon’s Good Friend’s House”, where oh my God the story finally gets to the point! For the first time in about 250 chapters Brown’s decision to bombard his text with “factual” shrapnel starts to half work, because even if you don’t believe a word of it the whole thing is remotely after-dinner interesting, if you’ve had enough wine (inadvertent Last Supper reference there, I swear it is). Therefore, I’m going to break from this analysis for a moment to demonstrate the depth of my own research.

I have managed to trace the original Last Supper images which Brown used in the development of his theories, A and B. Clearly the discrepancies begin to leap out almost immediately. In the first image, believed to be Leonardo’s memory-aide doodle, there are many irregularities of perspective, there are only eleven disciples accompanying Christ, and most shocking – the table is entirely bare! However in the second image, thought to be da Vinci’s preparatory maquette, Magdalene is presumably sat at the left hand of Christ, being the only disciple lacking facial hair (with the anchor tattoo).

When confronted by inconsistencies on this level it is easy to accept that something is terribly amiss. I’m going to be a little less flippant from now on and little more open minded and I hope you’ll all learn to behave a little better yourselves. In keeping with this realignment of my attitude towards a pro-Brown stance, I would like to make reference to what is actually, all joking aside now, not a bad piece of sentence making. From Chapter 35:

Telling someone what a symbol “meant” was like telling them how a song should make them feel – it was different for all people.

Now I would say, whether you agree with what he says or not, this is quite an eloquent piece of writing. Brown states an argument in a succinct and pleasing manner and should be given a fucking break for a change instead of being ruthlessly mocked as a pathetic hack without the slightest shred of talent. Clearly this cannot be the absolute case. There is a shred. I’ll leave it to the mathematicians to reveal the proportion of quality to overall word count.

Whoa, wait. What did I say up there? For Christ’s sake. You don’t suppose…


Part Four

Bishop Manuel Aringarosa had packed a small travel bag and dressed in a black cassock. Normally, he would have wrapped a purple cincture around his waist, but tonight he would be traveling among the public, and he preferred not to draw attention to his high office by wearing a belt with his dress. Only those with a keen eye for gaudy jewelry would notice his 14-carat gold bishop’s ring with purple amethyst, large diamonds and hand-tooled mitre-crozier appliqué unless conveniently blinded by the bling.

That’s a nice ring, Aringarosa. Actually, that name has a nice ring: “Aringarosa”. So far, my favourite scene has been when Subtle Silas, the subtly-written villain (which originally meant villager, thanks Dan), yes, when Silas realises he’s killed all the clues and is going to have to… ring Aringarosa with the bad news. I think I’m going to sneeze. Or maybe just fall down, with blood pouring from my ears.

So, I’m now up to, erm. To be honest I don’t really know how to describe my progress. Brown seems to be writing “Chapter” next to all the page numbers. So I guess I’ve just finished Chapter 167 and the story is falling into place. And by place, I mean, ah, literally the space between these covers. And by story, I mean…

I don’t know what I mean any more. Dan Brown clearly felt that the classic Movie Serials of Cinema’s Golden Age didn’t go far enough when it came to cliffhangers, or as some might call them, paragraphs. His chahahaharacters keep discovering things, either saying “This is the most amazing/shocking/relevant discovery of the age/day/minute”, or being described as experiencing the same with wide eyes/mouths/anuses, only for ME to be denied inclusion in this vital news while he instead derails onto some other character for a five minute snippet of backstory while they take a third step towards the bedroom door in real-time. What is this, Lost? Only shallow? –er?

If this cliffhanging happened occasionally, in the “and then a figure emerged from the shadows, oh no” vain, that would be fine. I would presumably want to know, who is this mysterious shadow dweller, is that a gun or penis in his hand, etc. But Brown does this for discovered clues as well.

When Langdon sees what is written in the invisible ink, he knows his life will never be the same again. Iiiiit’sssss


I am indeed being reminded more and more of Monty Python, not for the faith baiting perfection of a quest for a Holy Grail so much as the mind-crushing ridiculousness of every single second of this thing.

So, instead of actually giving me the clues in a doomed attempt to trick me into engaging with the mystery, he saves them up and then dumps clue and solution to clue in their own chapter, at the same time, together, so I can’t even try to figure it out. At least that’s how it feels.

Now, I’ll confess that when I’m reading this approximate type of thing (hard to know what to compare this to – certainly not other books) I will read odd character names backwards, just in case the author is going to try and spring some foolishness on me later. What I won’t do is attempt to de-anagramise sentences for fun, although that may well be more fun that reading this fucking turkey. To do so is clearly not rocket science, but when the Anagrams are the titles of (for me) obscure works of art I’m hardly going to stumble across a Madonna On The Rocks (and believe me, I could use a hard drink right now). His ssssstory is hardly in danger of being prevealed. The only thing DB is protecting here is me from entertainment.

I’m going to end on my new current favourite passage:

“This manuscript claims what?” his editor had choked, setting down his wineglass and staring across his half-eaten power lunch/bar. “You can’t be serious.”

“Serious enough to have spent a year researching it.” says Dan/Robert. Ooo. A Year.

Prominent New York editor Jonas Faulkman tugged nervously at his goatee I’m assuming “his own”. Faulkman no doubt had heard some wild book ideas in his illustrious career, but this one seemed to have left the Faulkman flabbergasted.

“Robert/Dan,” Faulkman finally said, “don’t get me wrong. skip to the end You’re a Harvard historian, for God’s sake, not a pop schlockmeister looking for a quick buck/book. Please, convince me you’re serious by giving us the backstory of your fucking research, you schitzoid prick.

Wow. Best-selling fiction and autobiography in one.


Part Three

Any wandering fool or traveling innosaint may join our order, of course. But to breach and gain entry to the inner sanctum within, there are initially many prior trials to be first endured. Many texts, both light and dark, texts, that you must consume lest you yourself are not to be consumed by them, or. Er, and then, and only then, shall you will be one of us.

Well, I’m trying. But I think I may fail. I’ve known for a while that there are certain expectations to be met at Palimpsest * if you want to be part of the gang, and one of the big guns is to face down The Da Vinci Code and live to never tell the tale again.

I don’t think I can do it. I’ve just finished Chapter Four, or as it would be known in literature circles, “Most Of Chapter One” and it’s so bad. Twenty-seven pages – out of four hundred and fifty-four? Tell me it’s not like this all the way through, please! …please?

Thus far Dan Brown has managed a remarkable feat – to make what appears to be the most heavily researched book ever written seem transparently free of any depth. Everything is right there on the page, nothing has been held back. Langdon’s journey through Paris reads like a holiday brochure; each landmark gets a mini-paragraph name-check, followed by it’s Rough Guide entry, then the next name check. Skip the blurbs and they start to read like Garth Marenghi.

“She could smell Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. And also piss and shit.”

He seems so determined to convince me he really has seen the Louvre At Night that the story be damned. Too much needless detail, too little needful content. And this, this, this… this made me nearly throw the book across the room:

The illuminated profile of the Eiffel Tower appeared, shooting skyward in the distance to the right. Seeing it, Langdon thought of Vittoria, recalling their playful promise a year ago that every six months they would meet again at a different romantic spot on the globe. The Eiffel Tower, Langdon suspected, would have made their list. Sadly, he last kissed Vittoria in a noisy airport in Rome more than a year ago.”

Did you mount her?” the agent asked, looking over.

Putting aside the nature of profiles which for me, personally, generally refer to more than an upward pointing spike; also generously ignoring the Eiffel Tower’s apparent take-off, not to mention the eighth or ninth example of paper-thin back story filling pages that could still be enjoying the taste of treedom; entirely overlooking the casual arrogance of a protagonist yet to make his mind up about the relative romantic credentials of one of mankind’s finest monuments – all this forgiven, but what the fuck kind of sub carry-on, confessions-of-a-wank-dow-cleaner innuendo is that? As if ANYONE would utter those words who wasn’t being forced to against their will by a cretin. Who has apparently taught English and creative writing.

I think I read through some, possibly all of this thread soon after I arrived on these shores and the temptation to do so again now is strong, but I don’t want to sp- …I’m sorry, I just can’t say it. I apologise if I’m just retreading old ground here. I’ll let you know if I ever open this toilet roll holder again.

– – –

* Editor’s Note: The “Palimpsest” referred to here is a literary forum in which these passages can still, despite several legal assaults by my estate, be found here. This opening passage is, of course, just a small part of a total lie, as it represents the sole contribution of the filthy bastard who stole these notes from my supposedly dead body and passed them off as his own – and the jarringly poor match of styles between this and the rest, as penned by me, speaks for itself.

I have never been and have no plans to become a member of this forum, despite their admirable perspective on Brown’s “output”. Sadly, the emotional wounds I have suffered at the hands of one of their number preclude any future participation by me with them on my part. It is their loss.


Part Two