I have been styfled in my ordinary outpourings by the wicked march of Tyme that does not leave me a single dot of leisure in whych to make my electrick diary. But now it is the Houre to caste offe the blacke palle of Anonymitye once more and I am so to speke BACKE, burstynge from a hepe of cold potatoes right into the 21st century.
To those who rede my lucubrations for the fyrst Tyme, let me have the satysfaction of filling you inne. I, Thos. Nashe am a clear-minded and brillyant man who turneth over the damp stone of exystence to reveal the multitudinous swarmynges of heartes and myndes beneath, man's and G--'s designs all crinkled up together. I do occasionally undertake Projeckts, mainly with an eye to the destrucktion and ruin of Doctor HARVEY my owne Nemesis who is deserving of heavy revilement. I am the botanyst of London, the anatomist of Science and the Quantity Surveyor of Hearts. I am a Genius of accountancy and I always carry a cutlasse; I am Thomas Nashe, a puritanickal diner and above all a master of fine English Prose.
That I wyll concentrate on my owne affairs shoulde be no surprise, being as it ys that I know myselfe better thanne anyone and nothing better than that. Not fain to gyve myselfe the appearence of byynge in any waye wicked I wyll exercyse all the discrecioun at my meagre disposal to reine in the more disgustynge detailes although sometymes truth must trample concerns for decency I knowe. I hope to furnyshe you eache Monday wyth an excitynge Episode.
To make a starte, thenne. I have been lookynge in the Personal Advertisements for a woman wyth whome to lyve in Domestick 2-part harmony and synge the occasionalle popular ballad wyth. I have sicknd of lyvynge alone in Hackneye bored oute of my deseperate skulle wyth nobody to harangue, gull or syng atte and the red gleme in the News-Agent wyndowe caught my eye advertysyng 'LOVE'. I entered the shop and left it carryynge my prize, a four-tonne Sunday paper wyth articles about Death Shopping & Fundamentalism etc with which I impatiently strewed the Kingsland Road as I wended my weye home. A companionne I mused as I dragged the mighty burden alonge crushynge a sewer-ratte. A companionne to love & Cheryshe was my thought as a child vanynshed into the bundle and hys mother cryd oute to his recdynge hande. A true-love and no strynges nooses nor electrick cables attached, thats what Ide lyke I thoughte as I turned the corner into my road, rummagynge all the way.
Finally layynge holde of the Love-supplement & casting the news-leviathan into a grene binne marked 'I LOVE HACKNEYE' I tore up the browne staires to my dilapidated Rooms. Barely able to put the kettle on I threwe myself into the tan armchaire and Consulted. I was a manne seekyne womanne so I woulde nede a womanne seekynge manne. I seleckted the correckt segment and cast the rest into the Fyre. My glistening eye rolld over the glossy advertisements, ignorynge stretching apparatus, gardenynge mitts, Pheromone spraye, assassination servyces etc. and eventually stucke firmly at the head of a column the size of a Glacier, that contayned 1,298,926 requests or demands for Love and Cherishment & so forth from womenne to menne.
This is truly quite bizarre & desperate Stuffe, I pondered as I turned my whole hede in order to tear my left eye from the page. But thys was not a tyme for thinkynge, it was a tyme for AXION and I had made change at the Post-Office to place some calls shoulde the neede arise. For eight hours I stumbled across the glacier of lonely Hearts, plungyng myselfe into crevasses of simulated Emotion for women I hadde never mette in my lyfe. I did not once leave the house to visit the extruded glass phonebox on the cornere that despite containynge 60 different women in poses of varyinge obscenitye hadde always fayld to excite your Nashes finer feelings; indeed now it seemd to mocke my efforts at true-love when lonesomely I peered o'er the window-sille, expectynge the houre I should have to place a calle to the ideal womanne whom I would finde in the Supplement.
Curse the Supplement! merely a slimy scale of the news-leviathan and not worthy of handlynge my Interior Affaires! The women it shewed forthe were identical, seeking Mr GOSH or similar and alle seemd to wante longe walkes which I despise. Some lovd Musick though they always were the mature sorte and I had anne Inkeling of what that woulde be lyke: a labour of dinners and polyte conversation followd by dutifulle servyce and I shoulde be merely a Toye-Boye not a paramour as it was my avowd intencioun to become. Some wishd for a sensytyve soule but I expectd that woulde lead to evenings of palsy-wreaking dullness discussing trifles of her Emotional lyfe. Some symply sayd 'Are you lookynge for me?', which metaphysical question drove me into suche a phrenzy I almost baked a single oyster at 800C out of spite & despair.
Eventually I merely Jabbd at the paper wyth a broken pencyl and betook myself to the phone-boxe, expectyng 'widow, 30' to be juste as goode as the nexte if she were all that Fate supplyd. Wearily I stuffed £40 into the Slotte at gunpoint and had to watch as my Assailante pressed 'Coin Return' after I hadde pretended to walk away. Hackneye. Being more or lesse cleaned oute by this unfortunate muggynge I inserted my laste 50p into the slotte and dialled the relevant numbers, leaving a message at box #7727283473041Q to the tune of 'I Thos. Nashe woulde love to meete you by moonlyghte on the Upstreme Hungerforde footbridge, please meet me at 11pm on Tuesday, I will be wearygne a feather in my hatte' etc. and I appended sundry complimentes and muche swete syngynge.
Throughout Monday I steeld myselfe for the romantick tryst. I polyshd my buckles and beads and stroked up my velvet the ryghte waye, dyed my haire, embroidered a lace handkerchief, wrote eighteen sonnets and hired a white stede to carrye me to the Upstreme bridge of Norm. Hungerford at the appropriate houre. I payd the gas-bille so that it shoulde not preye on my minde and I coulde thus discourse on fitter topicks with my newe girl-friende.
On Tuesday I was just pickynge up my Oyster card when a mighty Knocke came thundering up the staires from the strete door and I pok'd my mighty hede out o'er the sille to see whom it was. A man shapd like a snooker-ball was puffing and stamping around in the street and lookynge uppe at my window. Hallo? I cryd, thinkyng this would be a Delivery or other Small Mercy.
-Thomas Nashe? he shouted in a voice that shoulde have been a ladyes.
-Aye? I crowd back safe in superior height.
-Come down, squeakd the inferior.
-I shalle!
And with thatte I zoomd down to let him inne.
-Thys is serious Nashe, he beganne in his preposterous high voice, let me inne. I am from the newspaper.
-Thy Newspaper, I reminded hym, is a vile sea-demon swarming with the swallowed multitudes of humanity! you revolt me, high-priest of Deforestation and candles burnynge hypocrictickal lights for famine, I fulminated under the full eye of th'English sun.
-Look, this is important ...
-Tear youre altars downe, beelzebub, I screamed, sinkynge my teethe into a copy of The Sunne.
He strucke me and I sat downe.
-You have placd a response to a personal adde, it's pretty clere whye.
-And what of it, Moloch?
-Your advertisement has been subjeckt to an errour.
-Incompetent.
-We're very sorrye.
-Pathetick.
-Very sorry.
-Inseckt. What has happend?
He colleckted hymselfe.
-Your response went to all of oure subscribers. We have not time to tell them.
-Egad.
Arrivynge on the Hungerford footbridge at 10.30pm one myghte have seene 10 or 11 women eyeyng each other suspiciously. At a quarter to there were 800. At 11pm, as youre Thos. Nashe rode proudly down the Embankment tinted wyth moonlyghte, 1,298,926 single women were clusterd on the bridge awaiting hym, and the ryvere lookd splendid flowynge along below themme.
Some wore revealynge clothes, others dressd Sensibly. Some talked wyth the others but most studiously tryd to avoid their eyes, beyng certain that they themselves awaited me and they were guaranteed a lyfe of merry songe and excellent Prose-related Love, and all they hadde to do was ignore everythynge a moment longer to gette holde of't. Seagulls gathered o'erhede and picked tidbits of pret-a-manger left-over from Luncheon at the Office. Some women were old, tottering along with the hande-rayle and peeping into the deep, some young, smylynge and preenyng. All were seeing the culminacioun of their personal adde and here came Nashe to deliver it.
As my horse Approachd, a gynomaniacal wail arose from the lovely horde who began to flutter their eyelashes to make a sound like a million miniscule Owls flappynge, then they began to squabble and screech and suddenly the warre was engagd and many hurled each other inne. Hordes of Newspapermen dove in after, hungry for Marriage on the rebound from me. Trains rushed bye into Charynge Crosse fulle of faces wonderynge at all the syngle women in London and Home Counties assembld there. What a syghte! What a seleccioun! But as I rode down the bridge to choose, a terrible crackynge came, and as I rode offe it, all were caste hopelessly into the Thames followd by newspapermen, sandwich merchants, tyre brokers, portrait artists, engine drivers, peacock-feather-salesmen, florists, singers, Public Sector Workers, plasterers, Morris dancers, and all th'unlovd and wretched over-21's casted themselves into the tremendous waters lookynge for Personal Satysfaction.
I expeckt to have better lucke next tyme, tho it would be unusual.
Youre
Nashe
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