Of Authors, Editors and Minor Changes to the Ms

                                                         For Barrie Mencher, in amibilitis aeternibus (1)

It is a public secret… 

Everybody knows…

So let me just whisper into your ear…: 

Authors don’t know how to write! 

Authors are, as a ghost writer of genius once observed, ‘illiterate baboons’. They are forever using big bombastic words which no one understands, and weave those into interminable sentences which nobody has time to read. They talk of stuff ordinary folks don’t care for, and say it in such a way that no normal person can catch the drift. Their books are full of sick jokes, and suspect politics, and sex, and drugs, and atonal jazz. They are forever being creative with punctuation, and on top of it all: they don’t know how to spell.

Fortunately, publishers – in their infinite wisdom – have found a solution to this problem. 

The Editor. 

The Editor has a most responsible job. It is her task to – … ‘Xcuse me? Why - yes: her. You see, the Editor is nearly always a highly educated young woman in her late 20s. Unless, of course, the publisher runs a reallyshoddy outfit, in which case the job goes to some burnt-out male desk-slave in his terminal 50s. It is hertask, then, to coach the author through the thorny process of preparing his manuscript for publication, by means of mild suggestions, subtle hints, positive criticism and minor adjustments.

And this is not an easy task, dear reader! Far from it! Fortunately, Tiffany comes well prepared. She has done-... What’s that again?? Why, yes: Tiffany. You see: all lady editors are called Tiffany, even if that ain’t the name they scribble onto the dotted line. Just like they’re always called something like Linuswhen they’re that lamentable middle-aged male, or better said: when they’re not altogether gelded. (2) 

So as I said: fortunately, Tiffany comes well prepared. She has successfully followed the entire course of Creative Writing at the Ogilvy Training School for Higher Advertisement, and she has read just about everything which the American Board of Mass Communication has published on the subject of style. All three brochures of it. And she agrees with each of them, even though the brochures themselves differ wildly on what correct style really is and… Oh, but let’s not linger with such tedious matters...! Let’s just stick to Tiffany.

            Tiffany knows what Goesand what No-Goes. The don’t’s and the do’s. What is done and what is definitely not done. Simple as that. Piece of cake. No rocket science about it. The ‘No-Goes’ include, for instance, a double adjective to a lone, single noun. Not done, that one! Not done! It is lengthy and cumbersome and people get confused! Another unacceptability is words of more than three syllables. Out of the question! Tires the eyes! Wears out the lips! And sentences that run longer than 12 words. And scientific phraseology, except such household notions like Relativity Theoryand Cogito Ergo Sun. And then there’s the commas. Commas in a text are like cayenne pepper in a stew: a few specks enhance the flavour; a spoonful spoils the brew. So chop back them commas and iron out the spice! And so on, and so forth. Tiffany’s arsenal of editorial devices contains a long time-proven list of Manifest Truths, lifted from the Ogilvy & Mather Handbook of Fine Writing. She is, in short, a Professional.

            The hardest part of Tiffany’s task, however, is to lure her authors away from their most unbearable inclination: their urge to be original. ‘Original? Nobody buysOriginal!’ she keeps telling them. It just doesn’t DO to burden your readers with the need to think outside the box! If people wished to thinkthey wouldn’t buy a book, would they? They’d join a support group! Tiffany has reduced this golden tenet to ‘The Three O’s’: ‘Originality is Overdone and Awful!’ Repeat that oft enough in an author’s hearing, and you may in the long run gain his ear. 

            Naturally, authors are not always enthusiasticabout Tiffany’s suggestions. (For authors, apart from being terrible stylists and worse spellers, also tend to be a most obstinate and headstrong breed.) They rarely bow gracefully to Tiffany’s suggestions. No, what am I saying? They usually fight tooth and nail to maintain those incomprehensible vocabularies and their outlandish ideas! As one of them wordmongers once put it (when she was really only replacing his commas with full stops): ‘You might as well chop the fingers off my baby as rip the punctuation out of my brain-child!’ – Haha, how funny! If only he had not used that bizarre word ‘punctuation’ that sentence might have gone into his book! 

Oh, the push-and-pull, the give-and-take, the tug-of-war between her and those spoiled little toddlers in turtlenecks is terrible! But Tiffany knows how to handle them. You see: theyare here for the first time; but she’sbeen there and done that a million times before. What’s more: they need her and she don’t need them. She does the publishing and they do the wanna-be-published (you see: publishedauthors, famousauthors, doknow how to write. That’s why they do not need no editors. In fact, Tiffany has never met a famous author in her entire career.) And so, in the course of that long tussle of preparing a manuscript for the press, there always comes that precious Time of Truth when she drops the sugar-candied phrase: Take it or leave it, bud!And then she wins. Either she gets her way, or the dyslexic ape scurries out the door. And what if he does? There’s a whole other bevy up the banana-tree where he came from! And he’s aware of it. So usually, once that cruel, but fair wrestling match has been satisfactorily settled, she’s got herself a docile author and then she can finally get to business. 

But to reach that point you gotta trot carefully. You gotta lead them slowly to their own perdition, preferably by the nose. No storm-trooper tactics here. No frontal assault. No: the velvet glove, the gentle prodding. Tiffany is good at that. Verygood. First she’ll wave them into her office, if possible at one of those low-blood-sugar-moments of the early morning when their defences are low. Then she’ll seat them in the squeaky swivel chair facing the big bright penthouse window right behind her. And then she-… Oh, but what am I doing? Why describeit all at such tedious lengths? Let’s just take a peep through the keyhole here and see Tiffany at work!

Look: here comes one of her aspiring new authors, a guy she’s invited for a first ‘session’. A mister-… Now lemme see, where’s that flash-card…? Ah yes: a MrBard. Elderly gentleman, Mr Bard. Weathered face, full mane of silver hair, wrinkles all over the mug and balding at the temples. No beauty contest hopeful. But he looks, you know, wiseif you get him under the right spotlights. Walks with a cane and enters with a boy on his arm. Grandchild I suppose – or perhaps something more romantic? Better hope not. Can’t go around publishing child-molesters nowadays, can you? Not unless you’re willing to settle for a one time hit on the crest of a scandal… 

Tiffany has a sharp eye for her authors. She reads ‘m at a glance. Mr. Bard, she knows right away, has been scribbling all his life. Never submitted anything anywhere (too self-conscious), but he’s read his Magnum Opusto friends and family time and again, until they puked. And now the Big Moment has arrived. His Finest Hour. His Final Shot At Fame. He has handed in his manuscript. And comes to hear that he’s a genius. Oh well, we’ll see about that.  

            Mister Bard! What a pleasureto meet you! Do take a seat! Yes, that one there. How’s the missus? Ah? Still single? And here I thought… Oh well, never mind. Light’s not bothering you, is it? Ah, no, of course not. How silly of me. Sorry. Slip of the tongue. You see, I don’t usually mix with the visually handicapped. The writing may be brilliant, but if it’s in brailleit don’t shine brightly… You see what I mean, don’t you? Wowie there, young man!! Noton the armrest if you please! As a matter of fact: not anywhere near us at all! Go play in the corner, will ye? Granddad and the tall lady got business to discuss. Grown-ups only. You won’t disturb us, will ye now? Good! Remember: kids should be seen, not heard! 

Now then, mister Bard, let’s get to business. We both know Time is Money. Your manuscript. I read it. What am I saying? I read it twice! Yes! It took me most of the lunch-hour, but it sure was worth the sacrifice. No, don’t look surprised, Mr Bard: I am desperately dedicated to my authors! And let me tell you straight away that I can reallyrelate to it. Yes! It reallyhas potential. Verypromising, I’m telling you – even if saying so does weaken my negotiating position, haha! It just needs a fewminor adjustments. Some tiny little changes here and there, to bring it up to the standards of modern publishing and make it, well, you know, a little more accessibleto today’s reader…? Unpleasant business, mister Bard. I’m the first to admit it. But it can’t be helped. The public is no longer, well, the devourers of books they once were, see? 

Like what? Well, take the formatfor instance…. Now, I’m sorry to bring out the heavy guns this early in the game. But really, mister Bard… VERSE?? In thisage and place? And not just a haiku here and there, or the odd limerick… but feature-film length? That’s really notdoneno more, mister Bard. It’s, well, a little jaded, really. Passé. You know: yesterday’s news? Last autumn’s catwalk? No, no, no! Don’t get me wrong! I love it! I truly do. And so masterly done too! In hectometres no less! But today’s public can’t handle reading lengthy rhymes no more… Today’s payingpublic, I mean. Customers who throw the dough into our oven. And we must keep an eye out for our customers, mustn’t we, mister Bard? After all, it’s them who rock the gravy boat! And all wecan do is board it when it floats along!

So we’ll reallyhave to address that. We can leave in a few of the better lines – you know: give the whole thing an artistictouch…? But the rest must definitely be turned into nice, straight, digestible prose. I’ve got my people for that. You’d be ’stounded what they can do. True professionals! Give’m a chance and they’ll turn the Yellow Pages into a page-turner, I always say! I’m sure you’ll be e-la-tedonce you see the results! 

That’s settled then. Oh, I’m so gladwe’re seeing eye to eye on these little matters, mister Bard. If you knew the hell I sometimes get to make a writer see some sense! It’s hell, I tell you! Much better to give and take, won’t you say? Now then, since we’re back in prose where we shouddabeen in the first place, let’s run through the rest. The plot. Nothing wrong with the plot! Tough guy returns from his tour of duty, finds his home sweet home menaced by a bunch of scumbags, gathers his buddies together, takes manly action to defend his family; a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do… Why, that can’t be improved ’pon, mister Bard! Real men, true family values, chase, shoot-out, happy end! People love that. Hollywoodloves it! And what’s good for Hollywood is good for the money-tree, right? 

Only - now that we happen to stumble upon the family values… That lady that your hero spends so much time with, out on the tropical island far away from home sweet home… What’s her name again? Yeah, her, thank you. Don’t get me wrong, mister Bard: I like her. I truly do. Nice, sexy young gal. Independent means. Self-sufficient modern woman. Nothing wrong with that this age and place. But…. She isa bit of a home-breaker, don’t you agree? A gold-digger, even…? That really ain’t good, mister Bard. Family values are the Alpha and the Omaha nowadays. Unless, of course, she repents later and joins Mama Teresa or something – but I don’t see that happening in your novel, do I? Now, if she were to be, say, some bitchy Communist Commissar… An evildame, who abusesour hero, against his will and resistance… Thenwe’d be talking, mister Bard! That we can get away with! And then of course the juicybits can remain… Nothing wrong with a bitta titilla-…

What’s that? Commies didn’t existat the time? Well, no, I guess they didn’t… But now that you mention it, that’s one other little thing we’d better fix… The time frame… The time frame and the setting. That’s all a bit of a bitch, really, excusez my French! Alright, I understand: for someone of yourage and experience - those of us who’ve seen World War II, I mean - the Mediterranean must be a very dear little sea. But most normalfolk don’t associate it with war no more, see? You tell ‘m: ‘Mediterranean’, and they start musing of blue waters and cocktails on the promenade and girls in monokinis… Well, no, not the wholeMed, naturally. Don’t I know it? There’s still the odd trouble spot here and there. And if you come from there yourself, I can imagine you feel differently. You Jewish, mister Bard? Greek, are you? Why, I never would’ve guessed... (See? she thinks to herself. Bet you that kid ain’t no family. No wonder he won’t sit down!)

            But anyway… We’ll have to make a little adjustment of place and scenery. No funny Turkish cities you can’t find on a map or coastlines on the wrong end of the mainland… How about we bring it a little closer to our readers’ own living-space, Homer? - You don’t mind me calling you Homer, do you? You see, I like to be closeto my authors if we’re going to work so closely together. Trust, it’s called. You call me Tiff if you will. Tiff is for friends. Never Tiffy, if you please. Just Tiff.

            Now then, Homer: what would you say to South East Asia? The good ol’ Vietnam War? Still exotic, but praise the Lord: people know where it lays. Recent enough to remember but sufficiently Ago for nobody to take offense. For we gotta trot carefully here, Homer! Political sensibilities are poison to the sales figures. Can’t go and set the whole thing in, why, Iraq or some such place. Too fresh. Too hot. Yeah, I know some like it hot, but me I prefer my carne con chilly, haha. How do you mean you need an ageless setting? That may work for the likes a you, but how many reading old-timers are there left in the world? D’ you know what the average age of the book buyer is, Homer? Twenty-one and dropping! Will you believe it, but it is. Once they’re out of college they never open another book in their lives! 

            And talking about appealing to the young: this Odysseus of yours… I’m sorry, but I find him, well… a bit of a Nobodyreally. I mean… Here he goes around chatting a little and cheating a bundle… But that’s purdy leanfor a man of action, ain’t it? I mean: what ishe altogether? A two-bit con-man or something? Lies through his teeth, tricks everyone around, cheats on the old lady, leaves his whole outfit out in the lurch and goes home alone… He’s not exactly your prototype of a role model, is he? Pretty odious really! ‘Xcuse me? A King? Sure… But of what, Homer? A teeny-weeny two-bit island not half the size of Manhattan… We are not impressed! And in any case that royalty business will have to shoo. Sorry, can’t have a king. Already told you: no politics. Not since this Lewinsky business hit us right in the mouth… We’re in publishing, I always say: we don’t drop to our knees for the Powers That Bees – sorry, small personal joke. Speaking of which, did you hear the latest they tell about those two up on the Hill? Here’s Bill and Monica summoned before the Senate to justify their character issue, see? And he defends himself saying: Yes, but I didn’t inhale. And then shegoes: Yes, but I didn’t swallow…! You don’t get it… He goes--… Never mind. Stuff that ain’t up your alley. Hmmph. Okay. Let’s just get back to your Odysseus then. 

How about we make him a super-cop? A police-commissioner? Special Forces guy. Wouldn’t that be more… well, democratic? What’s that? You’d preferwhom? Pi-si-stra-tus? Never heard of him. Is that some kind of Ross Perot from where you come from, Homer? No no: let’s run with that a little. Because – now that you mention it - I do still have a small problem up my sleeve here. The names, Homer! The names! Nobody can pronounce ‘m! Te-le-ma-chus? A-ga-men-mon? What sort-a names are those? They sound like computer programmes! What sane parent ever calls their kids Laertes? We gotta rationalize here, my old friend, starting with the fellow himself. How about Bill…? Hmm, true, a little too much of a good thing. Hank! That’s it! Hank! Short but just odd enough to stick. Hank it is. What else? Pe-ne-lo-pe…. That’s easy. We turn her into Penny… And it won’t cost us a dime, haha! Te-leh-maccus… That’s a piece of cake too. We make that Tilly. Tilly, yes – well, that’s one more little thing. Grown boys don’t appeal to the heart, Homer. If you wanna make the public open their purses, you need a girl. A young one. You know: blond, innocent, 12-years old. How so impossible? Yayayayeah, I know… Gone 20 years, no way he could have gotten cozy with the old lady… But something’s gotta give, Homer… So we’ll shorten the time-frame some. Make it months instead of years, okay? A tour of duty and then some. More realistic anyway. What sane woman waits twenty years for hubby to come home? Not even a dog-…

THE DOG! I lovethe dog! The faithful house pet who cruelly dies, always good for a tear-jerker. Of course the name stinks. Argos! Oh, will you pleeeaaaaase…! Blacky’ll do. Or Duke. Something suburbia can relate to. How about Hector? What’s that? Confusing? With what? Aaah… Right! But – do correct me if I’m wrong here, Homer: that’s from your otherbook, ain’t it? The sequel? The one you’d like to publish next? Yeah yeah yah yah… But that’s supposingyou publish this one first, isn’t it? And we ain’t there yet, my friend...! We have waaays to go before we can cut that Gordian nut one way or another. Looong ways to go. And look what time it is! If you don’t mind, I’d like to run through the gauntlet a little faster here? Time is money, and we can’t discuss every snail’s tail with the salt-shaker. 

So lemme see. Right. Here. Those suitors threatening the poor family… As I said: that’s fine. But 40 of them all at once? Ain’t that overkill? We ain’t in Ali Baba land, are we? So we gotta chop that back to something reasonable. Two will do, really. Okay, I give you three if you insist, but then they gotta be ethnic. Sorry about that. I’m as politically correct as the next guy, but suburbia is suburbia, and them housin’ project high school drop-outs don’t read. Adapt to your audience, I always say. So: three coloured psychos, and we’re in business. Just enough to be scary; not too much for any family father to take on with his bare hands and an MI-16… Oh, and you don’t mind me sounding out Arnold for the feature movie, do you? He’s great at this kinda thing. An illiterate what? Oh, I wouldn’t know about that, Homer. I’m pretty sure he can read. Just the other day I saw him leafing through a book as thick as his arm. Something about a campsite, can that be? Oh, whatever… Fine guy, Arnold. One more great Austrian of our age. 

Next. Them Sirens… I don’t know…. Same trouble as that Calypso of yours – but here at least he puts up a little resistance. Even so, Homer: they do look like perfect hookers, don’t they? And singingno less. With harps...! Who ever comes up with such a thing? If it were to stay we could rename that bit, you know? The March of the Street-Walkuriesor somethin’? Must say you sure have a head for kinky fantasies on those grey old shoulders. And – if you don’t mind me saying so – for the more sordid sides of life as well. Here: a visit to Hell. A little bizarre, wouldn’t you say? Occult stuff? Witchery? No way José! Prison camp is the best I can do for you. And another one again: drugs no less! Hank mingling on an affable basiswith lotus eaters! Forget it! Can’t have your hero sympathize with the Devil. I mean: can you imaginethe DEA reading something like… Where did I have it? Yeah, here… Jackpot… Chapter 9… Lemme read it to you…

No? What? No need? You know the whole thing by heart? What the heck for? Yeah, blind - so? Doesn’t little Ganymite here know how to put it on a page for you? Oh, and there we go again with that tiresome self-pity we poor editors always get spooned onto our desk! I get so tired of that, you know? The world’s done me wrong, so now it’s gotta read my blubberings; and will Miss Tiffy kindly pick up the tab? Fat chance, bro! Fat chance! Lemme spell it out to you, since you cannot write yourself…. Just because you’re BLINDdoesn’t mean you can just march in here claiming affirmative action, you know? I’m not going to publish you out of pity, see? It just don’t work that way. Not in my book. This is publishing, hon; not a charity event. So either you behave like a decent human being or there’s the door! Am I making myself clear? You can take it or leave it, mister Bard! What’ll it be…? Tell me: what - will - it - be…?’

            Ah, show me the budding author who, on the threshold of publication - no matter how undignified– will not deceive himself with the vain and empty hope that, once fame is his, he may still publish his book the way he really wrote it… 

            And so old Homer Takes It.

            He swallows the whole putrid cup of Agua Tiffany. (3)

            Six months later, just in time for the Christmas Season, Homer Bard’s first full-length novel surfaces on the book stands of airports and bus stations. It is an action novel full of family values, titled ODC (i.e. Operation Domestic Care), in which our hero Hank, a former Navy Seal, comes home after a double tour-of-duty in ‘Nam. Back in Pittsburg he finds his suburban neighbourhood terrorised by drug-dealers. Three of them: a Negro, a Spic and a Chink, have squatted the garage of his split-level condo and are running a narcotics racket from there. His poor wife Penny and his innocent, nubile young daughter Tilly have been constantly harassed and nearly raped by these three scumbags. He finds his beloved dog Hector dead on a five-inch chain. Overcome by grief, Hank faints. He slips into hallucination. In a flash-back we learn of his past experiences in the Cambodian jungle. How he and his patrol ran into an ambush organised by an eye-patch wearing VC marine coronel, who was disguised as a simple shepherd. They manfully fight their way out, but escaping over the river in a Swift Boat, they suddenly find themselves surrounded by howling sirens in the middle of the night. The sluice gates behind them shut with a bang; the current suddenly sweeps the boat off course and wrecks it on a riverbank where Charlie is waiting. They are captured and interned in a CRC (i.e. a Communist Re-education Camp), where Hank gets interrogated sado-masochistically by a lush, blond, lesbian Soviet Commissar, who treats all men like the male chauvinist pigs which they are according to her Marxist-Leninist Feminism. By disguising himself in a stolen Hermès suit, Hank manages to escape to the nearest US army base, but… 

Oh well, I’m sure you can all fill in the rest of it for yourselves…

NOTES

(1) Editor’s note: this awful dog-Latin dedication is aimed at Dr. M.B. Mencher, the Norwich author, academic and educator, who was one of Mittington’s most pitiless critics. Once, during a book presentation which both gentlemen unfortunately attended, mister Mencher told Mittington to his face: ‘Alfred, you are a two-faced snake! I never know whether to laugh withyou or atyou!’ Ever after, Mittington, who never forgave a man a compliment, cherished this slur with delight and maintained that ‘this Mencher fellow is the only guy who understands me’.

(2) Editor’s Note: as the reader surely understands, this slur of Mittington’s was aimed at Yours Truly - Linus N. Pursebarry, editor of the Collected Mittington Papers.

(3) Editor’s Note: this utterly obscure reference is probably to ‘Acgua Toffana’, a famous medieval poison of proven efficacy.

Golden Quotebook: Zimbabwean Inflation

Oh, this one is really too good not to quote it. Writing about the hyperinflation that struck Zimbabwe in recent years, Ms Olivia Archdeacon tells the following anecdote in her article ‘China buys its first African colony for a meagre $40 million’ (CapX, January 2016):

‘After years of hyperinflation (peaking at 79.6 sextillion per cent) the Zimbabwean dollar had become virtually worthless. 250 trillion Zimbabwe dollars was worth just 1$. To illustrate: one local woman took her wheelbarrow to the bank (…) in order to carry the amount of bills she would need to purchase anything. On her way back to her car she was robbed. Two young men seized the wheelbarrow, emptied the cash at her feet, and ran off with the wheelbarrow.’

Hilarious, if it weren’t so very sad at the same time…

The Flying Rabbits of Tumumoa

By Alfred B. Mittington, Soc. Zoo. Br.

 [First published in the Peterloo Review, Wellington (NZ), 18 June 1954.]

Far from me, dear reader, to criticise the native rites and customs of small exotic tribes. Such cultural arrogance is no longer of the age. And for one like myself, who has always been an ardent defender of the Blantun Indians of the inner Brazils, to do so is nearly unthinkable. Nevertheless, I admit I was truly stunned, not to say incensed, to hear of the ritual of Rabbit Throwing that regularly occurs on Tumumoa, the smallest of the inhabited islands of the New Zealand archipelago. And I frankly confess to mad fury on learning that the New Zealand government of Mr Patty O’Couvart refuses to interfere with this despicable practice, on the hollow grounds that it is not a blood sport, that it is good for pension-plans, and that it is – take care now! - an ‘ancient tradition’, because it got started as long ago as 1856, A.D. (which tells you what counts as archaic in these Fresh Upstart Nations Down Under!)

What is the truth which the O’Couvart administration refuses to acknowledge? Rabbit throwing, for all its hallowed significance within Tumumoan religion, is the cruellest of practices. If it only involved a single rabbit, the conscientious person might still take a deep breath and swallow his rightful indignation. But no....!! Whole runs of rabbits are being subjected to this harmful and humiliating operation, hurled around by the dozens at the ceremonial victims, by massive crowds of elated, and often intoxicated, participants!

What is more: Rabbit throwing is of recent invention, and therefore cannot even claim to be vindicated by age. And worse of all: this nauseating ritual is not at all native to Tumumoa, but is, on the contrary, a cultural contamination of Western origins. It may have turned into a local fertility rite, but it isn’t Melanesian at all. And even if it were, would that justify the thoughtless, pitiless tossing of dozens of life bunnies at a ceremoniously dressed man and woman, folks who themselves often come away with scratches, blue spots and extremely soiled costumes for which they have paid dear money? I dare say it would not! And were circumstances only slightly different, I would here, on this very page, admonish the O’Couvart government to crack down ruthlessly on this practice and force the native Tumumoans to replace the life rabbits with some other (inanimate) symbol of fertility. Would, I say - but will not. For here lays the whole problem: the rabbits already ARE a replacement! And the recent history of the rite makes one shudder at the thought of proposing yet another substitute. Far from improving matters, every cure has so far proven to be considerably worse than the original disease. And one loathes to continue the trend.

The reception of the Graydons on Tumumoa

The roots of Rabbit Throwing lie in the days soon after the Christianisation of this corner of Melanesia in the mid 1850s by the Graydon family; a set of missionaries, originally in the service of the British & Foreign Bible Society, who came to Tumumoa when kicked out of Gibraltar for social misbehaviour. Lieutenant James Newenham Graydon, their Patriarch, was an extremely zealous evangelist and – let us call a spade a spade - a total nutcase. He was ‘as insane as a man who sets his house on fire in order to warm his hands,’ as one of his former colleagues in Spain described him. If we may believe their shipping bill, which has miraculously survived, the Graydons had the weirdest notions about the place where they were headed. Their luggage contained – and here I only quote the more intelligible items – a 60 foot fold-up Tabernacle, 20 copies of A Pilgrim’s Progress, 5,000 pairs of ‘Baboon Pantaloons’, 14 enemas ‘for personal use’ and 1,000 copies of the New Testament in Manchu-Tatar. The presence of the latter lot may perhaps be explained by the misconception current at the time that Melanesians originated in the southern Chinese province of Canton (a theory convincingly discredited of late by Dr Heyerdahl’s Kon-Tiki expedition). But the Baboon trousers are truly inexplicable, unless there be a connection, as has been suggested, with the accusation of ‘animal mistreatment’ which caused the Graydon’s exile from the Gibraltar Rock.

However that may be, the Graydons sailed in, they landed, and set up shop. And the very next day trouble started. It just so happened that the morning after their arrival, they were invited to attend the wedding ceremony between the chief’s 23^rd daughter, Minoabubu, and a young Tumumoan called Taupotini. During that festival, certain fertility rites were performed which were meant to guarantee the newly wed couple ample progeny. We do not know exactly of what those fertility rites consisted, but they were guaranteed to be terribly shocking to a Victorian pastor. There may have been some masturbation. Perhaps there was a bit of public fornication. We cannot tell from the prudish descriptions which Mrs Mabel Graydon entrusted to her diary (what is one to make of her mentioning ‘horrid regular movements’ and ‘lascivious exposure of linguistic body parts?’ – for all one knows, the dumb brutes only chewed some cassava-roots in an impolite manner!)

Minoabubu and Taupotini on their wedding day

Nowadays we would shrug our shoulders over such things, mumble something about cultural relativism, and find ourselves a keyhole to peep through. Not so our upright Victorians! They were still convinced that God had sent them over to the darkies to teach them Civilisation, to wit: chastity, Sunday prayer, baboon pantaloons and plenty of enemas. So Lieutenant Graydon immediately set to work. It took him a week to convince Chief Ububaonim that what went on during the local marriage celebrations was Terribly Wrong in the Eyes of Our Maker (he might have succeeded a little quicker, but it ain’t easy to explain in Manchu-Tatar what Sin is to a savage who is unaware of the concept.) Ububaonim, at first, gently parried the objections.

            ‘On weddings no huba huba aloha,’ the cordial old chief replied, ‘then no little papoosoas. No little papoosoas – then no taxpayers. Bad for spouses. Bad for government. And incidentally: calamitous for national pension plan. Whole of the demographic pyramid topsy-turvy. That not how Kutahkutah ordained Mamoa of Universe. So sorry. Can’t be helped..’

            ‘But it CAN be helped!!’ Lieutenant Graydon exclaimed frenziedly as he jumped to his feet. ‘With the help of the Lord we will find an alternative!’

            ‘Await options,’ the old chief spoke amiably, as he rattled his Kuri-shell bracelet. ‘Consult think-tank. Wreck brain drain. Call again.’

Good old Chief Ububaonim

In only three 12-hours prayer-sessions of the collected Graydon clan, an alternative was indeed discovered. And it surely says something that the bright idea originated with young Matthew Graydon, the 11-year old Benjamin of the family. The alternative was rice. Throw rice at the newly-weds. That, after all, was an old, hallowed Anglo-Saxon tradition, perfectly sanctioned by the British churches, which, as young Matthew had learned in school just before sailing to the antipodes, likewise conveyed the ritual desire for the young couple to go and multiply profusely in Biblical obedience.

Next day Lieutenant Graydon hauled one of the family’s 80-pound bags of dried rice to the village fatafafa and went to see Ububaonim. He argued vehemently and at length. He explained that rice was far stronger a talisman than huba huba aloha. Just look at how plentiful the Englishmen were on the face of the earth! At least as many as all the fingers and toes of all the Tumumoans put together! There were so many, in fact, that they had to get away from their own island, and come in their canoes to other archipelagos, like Tumumoa. And look at Tamaʻitaʻi Mabel, how she had born him 11 healthy children! All because of Rice, your Majesty! – Because of Rain Showers of Rice on our wedding day!

Ububaonim considered the arguments coolly. To tell the truth, he was not much impressed with the Englishman’s dialectics. He was even a little taken aback to learn that these whiteys from across the waters still did not realize that papoosoas were a result of huba huba, not from some funny fooling around with staple foodstuffs. But - and this is essential now - Ububaonim was a deeply devout man, to whom the laws of hospitality were sacrosanct. He wanted nothing more than to please these poor guests of his, who had had to flee their own overpopulated native island and live out their sorry lives far away from the blessing of home and family. So he shrugged his shoulders, rattled his kuris, and spoke: ‘Can give it try. Progress innovation. You happy I happy.’

'The Rice Wedding (by young Miss Abigail Graydon)

And so it was ordained. During the next wedding that took place on Tumumoa, the newly weds were duly bombarded with shovelfuls of dry rice, thrown at them from the side-lines as they chastely marched out of the Marae arm in arm (young Matthew Graydon had had a splendid time explaining to the natives how the thing was done). The Graydon family gave solemn thanks to the Lord Our God for inspiring good king Ububaonim with Divine Wisdom. And the huba huba aloha took place, discreetly so as not to disturb the honourable white exiles, during the stag nights and hen parties celebrated the night after the wedding ceremony in a remote spot on the upper skirts of the volcano. A new tradition was born. Everybody happy. 

Except that Tumumoa is a dry island. And that rice will not grow in its arid, saline soil...

The Tumumoans are a marrying kind of people. They harbour a solid belief in the Family as the corner log of society. The next three months saw at least three dozen wedding celebrations; and by early September the Graydons’ supply of dried rice had run out. What to do? When consulted, that horrid King Ububaonim turned outright hostile! ‘Ways of ancestors not so bad, huh?’ he spoke savagely at Lieutenant Graydon, who was squatted humbly at his feet. ‘Rice limited resource. Runs out. Huba huba does not. Well – unless all wives get moon in head same night… Has happened to me. Embarrasing.’ And then, scratching himself under his orchid-crown, he said: ‘Better regress to old tradition. Avoid social conflict. And long walks to volcano.’

The horrid barbarian chief Ububaonim

Lieutenant Graydon was dumbstruck – and not only by the threat of being hurled into the infernal crater by way of human sacrifice, which this savage pagan had just voiced – but even more by the abhorrent thought of the Lord’s Work being Undone. He pleaded, first, loudly, to the Lord in Heaven, then, vehemently, with this royal servant of Moloch. He shouted, he sang hymns, he quoted Scripture, he rolled frenzied in the dirt of the floor. After roughly 10 minutes of this, Ububaonim, beginning to fear for his guest’s heart and mental health, gave in. ‘Alright! Accept! Calm down dorsal spine. Will compromise!’ he exclaimed, wildly waving his ostrich-feather fly-waif at the man to give him some cool air. ‘Go. Wash brain drain again. Renew innovation. Make proposal.’ And, as the grateful missionary slumped exhausted to the floor, the old king mumbled to himself: ‘See what comes from too much self-huba!’

What more, dear reader? I’m sure you can guess it. After lengthy Prayer Meetings, the Graydons did come up with a fresh solution. Mustard-seed! – the Biblical allegory for quick promulgation; of which, as luck would have it, they had three sturdy bags in their pantry. The proposal was accepted, and to the missionaries’ endless joy, mustard seed caught on well in the rich volcanic soil of the island. It seemed that the Divine Solution had been found at last. But then the brides and bride’s maids of Tumumoa filed a complaint with the chief. Them tiny little mustard seeds got into their hula-skirts and itched them to madness all through the ceremony and the party afterwards. You couldn’t get rid of them. Not by shaking, not by scratching, not by bathing. You found them for days afterwards in your rongorongo. So, they suggested, couldn’t they just, you know, go naked during the weddings? Also saved them having to go change for the post-nuptials up on the volcano. Ububaonim, a healthy fellow for his 67 summers, was not unsympathetic to the idea. ‘If you cannot climb the mountain you may still look up its skirts, eh?’ he winked thickly at the lieutenant. But the Graydons, of course, were scandalised (particularly Mabel who still harboured hopes of putting her Baboon Pantaloons to some good use before long). They sang hymns – they went into raptures – they threw their spectacles on the ground and stomped them to pieces, they….

The Tumumoa bridesmaids on strike

In short: by February of the next year an attempt was made with gulls’ eggs. Eggs were a typical fertility symbol as well, as young Matthew remembered from an article on Easter customs. But unfortunately thrown eggs make an awful mess and the mighty stag-parties turned into terrible stick-parties, which really wrecked the fun. Then somebody, with a nice Freudian touch avant la lettre, proposed coconuts. Three wedding-guests and the happily married couple itself had to be hospitalized because of the experiment, so the idea was immediately abandoned. Next, thoughtlessly, the newly-weds and their attendants were showered with chemical fertiliser. It caused an awful skin rash in everyone, and the bridesmaids let it be known they’d rather to go back to the mustard seeds, rongaronga trouble or not, than subject themselves any longer to this chemical warfare! And then, at long last, somebody noticed the rabbits of the island. The rabbits, which bred like, well…. rabbits. The rabbits, fertility totem par excellence, who knew better than any other animal how to go about a good bit of huba huba aloha. They were soft, there were many, you could swing them by the ears and – last but not least – the touch of their soft fur on your naked skin had a most enjoyable titillating effect on the whole of the company….

The first fertility rabbit sailed through the Tumumoan air on March 15^th 1856 during the marriage of Kanathea and Opari. It was thrown by the bride’s father Aehtanak, and landed smack in the middle of Opari’s face (not wholly coincidentally, by the looks of it; due to some obscure old dispute over spliced mango-trees, Aehtanak couldn’t stand the sight of his new son-in-law). Other than that, however, all of the celebrants were mighty pleased with the new projectiles. The rabbits caused no brain damage, they did not get into your skirt, they uttered most cheerful little shrieks as they came sailing through the air, and the ones that died in the process could be roasted on the spot for the subsequent wedding-feast. 

The ultimate perversion:
A Tumumoa bridesmaid nursing throwable rabbits! 

This then reader, is the wholly modern and Western origin of Rabbit Throwing, that cruel blood sport masquerading as a traditional Melanesian rite. There is nothing ancient in it. There is nothing hallowed to it. It does not root in venerable Tumumoan religion or the profound philosophical concepts of the Noble Savage. It is purely the result of warped missionary brains and the dry saline soil of Tumumoa. And I say that it is high time to put a stop to the very very very sick practice! Ever since March 1856, nearly a hundred years ago now, this shameful superstition has been continued, in ever higher frequency and ever growing numbers. Nowadays, rabbits are being deliberately bred for the purpose. A special species has been developed over the years, one of good flyers and slow runners with exceptionally lengthy ears. Some of these poor animals are subjected to this painful and humiliating experience three, four, yes, sometimes even FIVE times before they succumb and get turned into spare ribs. And only the faulty reasoning, and the blind slothfulness of the O’Couvart government stands in the way of calling a halt to a practice which is an abominable blot on the reputation of the whole southern hemisphere! Shame on you, Patrick O’Couvart, you Judas Iscariot of neo-colonialism! SHAME!

Postscript on the further missionary activities on Tumumoa

Despite a promising start, the Tumumoa mission ultimately ended in failure. Initopuat , the first-born son of Minoabubu and Taupotini (the couple of the first wedding), became one of Graydon’s most devout converts, and eventually rose to be the first Episcopal bishop of the island. Yet even this could not guarantee the continued success of Christianity. The natives simply refused to come over. The main bone of contention turned out to be Tumumoan baptism customs. The natives were in the habit – as the reader surely has noticed from the above - of naming children after their father, but with the names written in reverse so as to keep the generations apart. Much as they tried, the upright and over-sensitive British missionaries could not accustom themselves to the Tumumoan faithful innocently applying the same principle to the Son of God. Perhaps it smacked too much of animal worship, golden calves and the Egyptian deity Anubis. A feeble attempt was made to explain to them that the True Name of the Lord was Jehova – but as bad luck would have it, in Tumumoan the word ‘Avohei’ signifies ‘eating avocado bread with your uncle’s daughter’, one of the gravest and most intolerable taboos on the island. The Tumumoans were scandalised and lapidated several of the preachers with coconuts. Missionary activity on Tumumoa ceased in the 1890s. Rabbit Throwing, however, persisted.

Note from the editor

The publication of the above J’Accuse had some unforeseen side-effects, insofar as it helped to topple the O’Couvart government. The outcry caused by Mittington’s revelations of modern Tumumoan marriage-rites was immense. These being days of animal lovers, Bugs Bunny and Christian vegetarianism, animal protection societies all over the globe picked up the hue and cry. New Zealand got vilified in churchyards, schoolrooms and community centres the world over. By early 1955, the O’Couvart government could no longer dodge the issue. Patty O’Couvart, however, was a proud politician and he refused to ‘cave in to this Mittington maniac’. Consequently, far from interfering with the practice out of concerns for animal wellfare, the government decided to play the ‘conservationist’ card. Rabbits were declared a protected species, and under that banner Rabbit Throwing was forcibly discontinued. Within two years, the rabbit population in New Zealand baby-boomed from an estimated 150,000 individuals to 20,000,000. Agricultural produce plummeted 43 %. Farmers staged sit-ins and let loose thousands of rabbits inside the Agricultural Ministry and Wellington City Hall. On 16 August 1955, the O’Couvart government resigned. For unexplained reasons, present-day Tumumoans throw satellite-disks at newly-wed couples; and rabbits are now being fought with industrial poison and special, laboratory-prepared strands of myxomatosis.