{ ... }

۞

  “Tobacco is no longer merely a harmful product.  It is a harmful economy, especially because it is linked to VAT,” said Quincy.  “Which, if it becomes an economy,” continuèd Quincy, “its consumption is governed by mathematical principles.  It seems almost unreasonable to suggest that if one person decides to stop smoking, another may be drawn to the product, which has had so much commercial investment, through advertising, that to add more value to the product through tax engenders the further increased consumption of it in what can only be described as a Descartian machine with the hidden hand of the market underneath it.”  

  Quincy went on at length.  

  “There is no value in smoking tobacco, let's remove the tax,” he said to the newsroom.  “It'll save The NHS a lot of hassle.”  

  The sub-editors were joking around outside in the smoking area, relegatèd to their perspex booths which only seemèd to intoxicate them more, but the pariahs were having a laugh, blaming their ills on the most pious man who had ever succumbèd to tobacco addiction.  

  One said: “That Spurgeon's just smoked another fag.”  

  Another replièd: “Shot him down for his homosocial behaviour.”  

  “Have you ever seen him cock it?” coughèd a cougher.  

  “Never, he's a vicar,” mutterèd a mutterer'er.  

  A stutterer'er and a splutterer'er.  

  The subbers had the knack of sending up historical personalities, each one well versèd in the biographies of libraries.  This week it just happenèd to be Charles Spurgeon, the one-time-famous preacher, the week after it'd be Franz Kafka for lack of an orator.  

  “Kafka's back,” said a back-spacer.  

  “Crawling all over it,” said an editor of the letter.  

  “Crusting over crustaceon,” said another.  

  {laughter ensues}  

  “Russell's back,” said a reader of the philosopher Peter.  

  “Moistening all over it,” replièd a book reviewer.  

  “Swimming all over Mammalien.”  

  No one got the joke about evolution.  

  “Scarcely any animals,” said an activist.  

  “We'll have almost murdered the lot of 'em until a lion stands up on hind legs in protest.”  

  “A lion hindening?”  

  Too much confrontation with the unconscious the night previous.  Too much LSD.  Too much Charlie.  The news was happening quickly and getting untruthful biasly.  

  {visions of the future ensuing}  

  “Lions were walking on hind legs,” said a hangover.  

  “Noses-and-faces?”  

  “It looked like an arse but it had a tail on it.”  

  “Oh, fuck me, lions or horses?”  

  “A cock just lifted itself up.”  

  “Headless chickens as well?”  

  °shift°  

  “Was Bach a messiah or a composer?”  

  °shift°  

  “In crossing sticks…”  

  “Can one snap twigs?”  

  {descent into argument}  

  “Incandescent.”  

  “It means light from heat.”  

۝