Back to the igloo
I was mistaken. When I consulted my friend Old Boore she told me that her intention was not for me to write the postings myself but only to act as editor for postings which she would encourage, mostly to be written by her young friends at the Wessex Posthorn, I guess; though if I feel an urgent need to extrude thoughts here from time to time I am free to do so. This arrangement is fine with me. Keeping an eye on a few journalists would be a featherweight load compared with checking on the mephistophelian effervescence of my staff in the financial advice business. They keep on running up schemes which are not merely illegal of course, but, much more serious, at risk of coming to the attention of hostile leftist media. Even worse, I have more than once found one of them trying to scam a personal friend or family member of mine. To be fair, though, they produce returns which few journalists would dare to even dream about.
Since we now have a clearer understanding about the set-up I excuse myself today from the task of writing about the anglophone intelligence agencies. It is clearly better for the nation that naive youngsters like those at the Posthorn make a botched mess of trying to attack the organisations that try to keep our nations sailing on an even keel. Thanks to the serial incompetence of our politicians (I blame Blair in particular, however) we have reached the point that, as soon as a man of stature such as myself occupying a senior position in this or that branch of national life declares that we can take ‘x’ on trust, the majority of the public will assume that the opposite of ‘x’ must actually be true.
There are just one or two points to tidy up. First, I undertook to explain ‘Cold Salad’. When that amorphous collective was noisily drawing inspiration for their proposed magazine from the various alcoholic beverages on their regular table in the Beggar’s Cot, someone told a visiting tourist they were a ‘Club of obstinate lunatics determined to struggle against lies and distortions’. This was certainly meant as mockery, but they rather liked it and took it as a name for their group, after noticing that by chance it acronymically made this phrase. But later they went cool on it after some unknown hacker who disliked their views changed the explanation of the acronym everywhere it appeared, making it stand for ‘Compendium of leaks from the Department of specious allegations, lies, ambiguities and denials’.
Second, anyone who reads here owes a debt of thanks to Old Boore who generously cleared up the inglorious chaos in the office when Cold Salad collapsed, not only buying out the remainder of the lease, having the rooms fumigated, settling the litigation with the neighbours, and selling off or binning the accumulated detritus; also having such equipment as was still working, together with the bouzouki, and the photograph of Isabelita at her farewell party, sent to the mainland, and – trickiest by far – dealing with the dog which she did personally with her remarkable knack for handling even the most vicious canine pests. (That one is now a guard dog at the youth prison on the island).
Third, I think it is worth mentioning that Cold Salad (and the related earlier effusions, going back to Esmond Maguire’s first volume in 2004) had an interesting record of gloomy but alarmingly often correct predictions about likely future events both in technology and politics. For the sake of getting potentially useful warnings of nastiness ahead, let us hope that the young whipper-snappers can do as well when they are allowed through the gate here in a couple of day’s time.