Have you ever dismantled a malfunctioning electric toaster in order to effect
a repair?
Have
you then located the cause of the problem, generally something trivial,
a disconnected wire or whatnot, made the repair, reassembled the toaster,
tested it and found everything once again working properly?
Then
discovered you had two small screws left over?
Then
heed the words of Rune.
Open
the nearest window.
Take
the screws in your right hand. (Or your left, if this interferes with
your Biro Implant.)
Defenstrate
the screws.
That
is THROW THEM OUT OF THE WINDOW!
Because
if you do not, then all that lies before you is madness, misery and the
ruination of your health.
If
you again dismantle the toaster and search for places to refit the screws,
you will very shortly become aware of two things.
- Once
reassembled, the toaster will no longer work.
- You
are now the proud possessor of three small screws!
That
the mystery of the small screw phenomenon, S.S.P., has baffled the scientific
greybeards of our age is hardly surprising. The greybeards lean naturally
towards bafflement.
However,
I Rune, understanding, as I do, all things, reveal this truth unto you.
SMALL
SCREWS BREED INSIDE ELECTRICAL APPARATUS.
The
small screw, as may be observed through a very powerful lens, resembles
the spiral of D.N.A. It is a living body.
The
fact that toasters, as with all electrical appliances, possess self healing
screw holes, has long been recognised as fact. All screw holes have the
tendency to shrink once the screw has been removed from them. This is
natural. Nothing enjoys having a foreign object forcibly inserted into
it. With the notable exception of certain members of the Chiswick Townswomen's
Guild. But this does not have any particular bearing upon the subject
of S.S.P.
The
small screw is the demon spawn of modern technology. It has driven many
good men to early graves, cost industry countless billions of pounds each
day, crippled innovation and cost us The Empire.
I
have recently been made privy to certain leaked Ministry of Defence
documents.
These
refer in great detail to S.S.P. in regard to the construction and maintenance
of so-called nuclear submarines. (See Nuclear Power: The Myth Exploded,
Hugo Rune)
These
submersibles are literally bulging with electronic hocus pocus, which,
having been constructed to the very highest standards of technological
perfection, is in constant need of repair.
During
a recent overhaul, the multiplicity of small screws became so pronounced
and the incidences of madness amongst the service teams so apparent, that
the M.o.D. was forced to seek a socially acceptable excuse. They chose
radiation leaks!
The
S.S.S. (Special Screw Service) were called in to descrew the submarines
and remove nearly three tons of small screws, all of which had appeared
to some out of something or other, but nobody knew what.
The
small screws were packed into containers, labelled TOXIC WASTE to avoid
suspicion, driven to the south coast of England and dumped into the sea.
My
own interest in the subject of S.S.P. began in the late 1940's. I was
in India, acting as Gandhi's spiritual advisor. At the time I write about,
he and I were travelling on a steam packet out of Bombay. We had decided
to get away from it all for a couple of weeks and do the nightlife
in Calcutta. As usual we went incognito, adopting our favorite guise of
of man and wife.
Gandhi
had a natural bent for female impersonation. Had he chosen to take it
up professionally, it might well have made his fortune. His widow twanky
was formidable. And how well I remember his rendition of 'I'm just a girl
who can't say no', performed in blonde wig and ball gown, to the appreciation
of the British Trade Delegation outside the Taj Mahal (by moonlight).
Although
we had begged the captain to see to it that we remained undisturbed, word
soon got out that one of the world's greatest spiritual leaders was on
board the ship.
In
no time, passengers and crew alike were beating a path on our door and
begging me to bless their children, cure their baldness, restore
their youth, and double the length of their 'old chaps'. All of which
I did, simply in the hope of getting a bit of peace during the rest of
the voyage.
When
all were satisfied I prepared to turn in for the night. But noticed that
a single figure yet remained, cowering in the corner of the cabin.
Having
done my bit that day for the good of mankind, I told him to clear off
at the double, or know my wrath. But he flung himself down before me and
kissed the hem of my raiment.
He
was as ragged a wretch as I ever saw. And I've seen some. Stained a deep
chestnut by the subcontinental sun, white of hair and mad of eye.
It
was only when he spoke that I realised that he had once been an Englishmen.
And a gentleman to boot.
He
told me that he had a terrible confession to make and knew of no other
man on earth to whom he could make it. His name was Lord N___ (I withhold
his name because his family are prominent members of the ruling class,
and to reveal it would bring shame upon a noble house and in all probability
bring down the present government).
The
tale below is told in his own words.
During
the early 1930s, I spent a period passing the time as a news reader for
the BBC. In those days the BBC was staffed exclusively by members of the
English aristocracy. It had very much the atmosphere of an exclusive gentleman's
club.
The
news was supplied to the readers by a team of back-room Johnnies whose
job it was to think up items suitably cheerful and patriotic to broadcast.
This was generally done by recycling whatever news had proved popular
the previous year, or taking passages from the pages of Old Moore's
Almanac. During the depression, the BBC Northern Service broadcast
'live coverage' of the King's coronation every three to four weeks, to
great spirit raising effect. And you will no doubt recall how the summers
were so much better before the war. This was due to the BBC's policy of
always adding a few degree's on all weather forecasts. A little wrinkle
picked up from the Russians, who used it to ensure good turnouts on May
Day.
Anyway.
Each morning, when I arrived at broadcasting house, I would leave my top
hat and cane with the porter and collect my daily supply of news from
my special pidgeon-hole. It was always there in a large, crisp, buff-coloured
envelope.
Once
in a while, if I felt in the mood, I would flick through it in advance,
to see what the Johnnies had dreamed up for the Empire to be doing. but
mostly I did not, considering it unsporting for the newsreader to know
the news before the listener.
However,
on one particular morning, I noticed that the buff-coloured envelope presented
a somewhat shabby appearance. There was evidence of a finger mark and
what looked to be the ring made by the damp underside of a coffee cup.
You can imagine my surprise, as the BBC was always scrupulous about providing
saucers.
I
complained at once to the Director General, an Etonian uncle of mine,
and he agreed that the culprit should be given a stern ticking off and
that I should be the one to do it.
Now,
I did all my news readings from a comfortable drawing room on the third
floor and had never ventured down into the labrynth of sub-basements beneath
Broadcasting House. It took me nearly an hour to locate the back-room
Johnnies' room. The sign on the door said, Back Room Keep Out.
I
knocked loudly. But illiciting no responce, turned the handle and went
in. What I saw upset me not a little. I had expected a number of learned
bookish types, being terribly earnest and responsible, seated at great
desks, studying mighty leather bound tomes. But no. The room contained
but a single cove, clad in an overall and worrying at a complicated-looking
electrical contrivance about the size of a portmanteau. This was all covered
in dials and valves and little lights and mounted on a sturdy workbench.
'You,
sir', I hailed to the cove and waved the grubby envelope in his direction.
'I demand to know the meaning of this'.
'Oh,
you've read it, have you?' he replied. 'Well sorry, guvnor, you'll just
have to wait'.
I
did not like his tone, nor did I understand the meaning of his words.
So I opened the envelope and acquainted myself with the contents. On a
sheet of paper, torn from a cheap copybook, were scrawled the words Normal
service will be resumed as soon as possible.
'I
demand to know the meaning of this also', said I, striking a martial pose.
'It
means what it says', said the overalled cove, in what I now came to realise
was a working class accent. 'Until I get this fixed there ain't going
to be no news. So you'd best go back upstairs and apologise to the listeners'.
I
shook my head. 'That is not the way things are done at the BBC', I told
him.
'Well,
it's how they are today', came his insolent reply. 'Until I have this
here gadget all tickety-boo, there'll be no news today'.
'And
what, pray tell me, exactly is this gadget of yours then?', I enquired.
'A
radio reciever'.
'You
mean a wireless set', I corrected him.
'I
mean a radio reciever. It picks up news from all over the world'.
'What?
Foreign news?', I was flabbergasted. 'The listeners don't want to hear
news about a bunch of damned foreigners. They want English news made up
by Englishmen for Englishmen.'
'Progress',
he said.
'Progress?'
Well, I was rattled at this, I can tell you. Progress is not a word a
gentleman uses. But then, this cove was evidently no gentleman.
'I
wish to speak to your master', I told him.
'Bugger
off', quoth the lout, and then, 'strike me pink, another of the little
perishers'. And with this he flung a tiny screw in my direction.
By
now I had heard quite enough and stepped forward to give the blighter
a sound thrashing. But I lost my footing upon numerous similar little
screw which covered the floor and fell heavily. Striking my bowling arm
on the table and my forehead on his infernal machine.
'Have
a care', he cried, with no concern for what damage my person had recieved.
'I've nearly got it fixed'.
'Sir',
said I, rising with difficulty and dusting down my tweeds. 'Sir. Where
are all the back-room Johnnies who make up all the news?'
'Gorn',
said he. 'All sacked last Friday. New policy, what with the war coming
and all'.
'War?
What war?', I was astounded.
'No-one's
supposed to know about it yet. But I suppose it can't do no harm to tell
you...'
And
then he went on to tel me that a second world war had been arranged. Something
to do with solving unemployment and getting full use of allotments. And
that there was to be a 'war effort' and a 'Blitz spirit' and lots of songs
from Vera Lynn. And how this radio reciever was to play a vital part in
running it all. And how it was all very hush hush and top secret.
'And
so', he continued, 'I am doing work of national importance here. And if
you care about King and country, you should muck in and give us a hand.'
And
so I did. Poor fool that I was. And that is how I came to be as you see
me now.
He
sank to his knees weeping bitterly. Gandhi came mincing in. Full drag,
a sailor on each arm.
I
sent him packing and ordered Lord N___ to finish his tale.
'It
was the small screws', he wailed. 'The more we tried to fix the radio
reciever, the more screws we were left with. We worked at it day and night.
The back-room Johnnies had to be called back in the mean time, while we
worked on and on.'
'But
you must have got it fixed eventually', I said to him, 'because the Second
World War did go ahead on schedule.'
'No
it didn't. It was supposed to start in 1936. By 1939 Hitler said he couldn't
wait any longer for the BBC and he was going to start without them. The
whole thing was a complete shambles and it was all my fault.'
'Well,
not all your fault. The cove in the overalls was really to blame.'
'No',
wept N___. 'He was a genius. He finally swept away all the small screws.
Obtained a wiring diagram. Stripped down the reciever and rebuilt it from
ground up. It worked perfectly first time.'
'But
I thought you said--'
'I
did. He got so excited that he rushed upstairs to tell the Director General.
And while he was gone I twiddled with the dials and listened to the news
coming in from all over the world. It was wonderful, I can tell you. But
then I noticed that one of the dials was a bit loose. So I took it off
to have a look at it and a small screw dropped out. So I removed the dust
cover from the from to see where it had come from. And you'll never guess
what happened then...'
But
I allowed Lord N___'s tale to go no further. I brought out the stout stick
that I always carry when travelling in the east and smote him fiercly
upon the head with it. Called up the Captain and had Lord N___ promptly
bundled into an open boat and set adrift.
Having
waved him my goodbyes, I returned to my cabin and chanced to notice several
small screws lying upon the floor where he had fallen. In the spirit of
devilment I placed two next to gandhi's hairdryer.
I
would draw attention to them the following day.
The
Book Of Ultimate Truths
Hugo Rune (Nicked from Robert Rankin - not penned by the Hugo Rune that owns this site :)
Added by
Hugo Rune on 08/10/2002 12:32:50
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