Tarot Cards

Dear ______,

KEEP CLOSED UNTIL CHRISTMAS! THEN:

• Make sure someone else is present before consuming
• Take only small doses at first (remember, the mental effect is more important than the physical)
• Gain insights into the real you
• Use it to influence others (but remember, supplies are limited)
• Don't gossip!! Careless talk can get us all into trouble!!

Yours,

Dear ______,

OPEN NOW!!!

You need to practise the use of Tarot before you meet people at Christmas.

Then, you will astonish and delight your offspring and others with your gifts of character insight and divination into the future.

I can now predict that you will be the life and soul of the party.

Good luck in your new endeavours (not that you will need it, as we tarotologists well know!).

Dear ______,

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

From Modest (Con).

I send you this little gift in the hopeful expectation that you will join our group and use it.

Our goal is to extirpate the last vestige of the false and fashionable so-called science of psychology.

We are no longer dependent on the facile, false language of the charlatans who peddle their mendacious messages to trap honest people.

JOIN US!!

Return to the old ways of character reading (better than the bones) and divining the future.

USE TAROT TO DESTROY PSYCHOLOGY!!!

Factory Song [32]

Dear ______,

On the next page are the words of a very famous song, which was sung by factory girls in WW2. It's generally forgotten now, but I still think it has resonance.

Before the war, domestic service was the largest occupational sector for women. There were some 1,300,000. The roles ranged from "Live-in Parlour Maid", with half a day a fortnight and no gentleman callers, to casual dailies, paid at 2/6d a morning.

In March 1941, Ernest Bevin announced women's mobilization. By winter, all single women of 21 and 22 were called up for military service. The age ranges were to be expanded. Male mobilization was expanded to take in men of 18½–50. This would remove many men from the civilian employment pool.

These young men were to be replaced by women. All women up to 40 years of age, both married and single, had to register for service in the police, fire service, hospitals and other essential services.

Many women who wanted to work close to where they lived worked in local factories. During training, they received £1.13.0d.

Their lives changed. The lonely servitude of domestic labour was replaced by the social excitement of the pub and dance hall. Married women were released from scraping with life on the husband's pay. In addition, many factories had canteens and creches.

After the war, very few women went back to domestic service. It disappeared as a feature of life in England! This was a good revolution.

FACTORY SONG

I'm the girl who makes the thing
That drills the hole to holds the thing
That drives the rod that turns the knob
That works the thingummybob

It's a ticklish sort of job
Making a thing for the thingummybob
Especially when you don't know what it's for.

But it's the girl who makes the thing
That drills the hole to hold the thing
That feeds the oil that oils the ring
That works the thingummyjig

Who's going to win the war!

Karbrite plc [50]

Dear ______,

You will recall that I told you of a new career opportunity which has come my way. It is with Karbrite plc – they are looking for additional staff to groom clients' cars. Well, a week or so ago I received I phone call from the people arranging the staff selection. My call was named Tracy.

Could I call around to Dalwych House on the New Broadway in an hour's time? She could fit me in at 3pm. I said I was uncertain (I didn't want to sound too amenable). A cold note entered her voice. "My records show that you are available and willing to work," she said. "Not necessarily with no notice at all," I protested. "Look," she said, "we haven't got time for all that nonsense. You want the job? So get your arse over here. You're getting extra personal investment as it is with your Pre-Employment Social Contact Counselling."

I arrived with 20 minutes to spare. At reception I asked to see Tracy. "Tracy who?" I was asked. I said I didn't know. Clearly, the receptionist was suspicious. She called on the phone for someone and, at the same time, told me that "there's a huge amount of Tracies on our staff".

I waited for half and hour during which he receptionist disappeared. Then, just as I was leaving, a large young woman of about 20 arrived. She was dressed, but only just, in a tight, bright, yellow business suit. She stood in the middle of the reception area, consulted a file, then called loudly: "Is there a Conrad here for Remedial Counselling?"

Since only she and I were there I knew she must be referring to me. She stalked off, waving me to follow. She led the way to a small cubicle, filled by a chair on either side of a small table. "Got to use this during the office moves. Take a seat," she said. She sat opposite me, studying her files.

Finally she looked up and said "I understand you've been on the phone earlier this afternoon asking about a new office which we're opening in Hastings. Let me explain to you. Ealing does not cover Hastings. They are completely different things. You are not even employed yet and already you're in breach of discipline."

I explained that I was unaware of any disciplinary code, to which she replied that it was still in the course of preparation. "It's application will be retroactive. But you're here for Skills Counselling . . ."

The phone rang. I had to stand and open the door to enable her to open it. "Tracy," she responded. Silence, and then she said "Well, I've got him here now. No, I can get rid of him. No. There's no commitment. Yes. I'll tell him. I'll get back to you."

She put down the phone and, turning to me, said "Don't bother to sit down. This interview must be deferred and when it is resumed it will be conducted by Sharon. I've been transferred to open our new office in Brighton. That'll solve your Hastings query."

And with a yellow flash, Tracy was out of there. I walked home, shaking my head – but the buzzing wouldn't stop.

Yours,

More Croquet [23a]

Dear ______,

Perhaps you could give me some legal advice, using your experience of Community Legislation?

As you know, according to panpsychism there is consciousness in everything, even rocks. Leibnitz held a similar view. Does consciousness confer legal rights? Has an item of games equipment a right to privacy enforceable by injunction? I enter the following case.

Yesterday, at the local hospital, I was given some very good news about my health. I was enraptured? But how to you celebrate on a Tuesday morning? Yes! You've got it in 1 (one)! You have a game of croquet. Who will play with you? You play solo croquet.

I set up my croquet hoops and central peg on a flat, smooth area of Ealing Common and started to play. As you know, there are four balls coloured Blue, Red, Black and Yellow. I played them as pairs. Blue and Black were partnered against the other two.

At first the game was stunningly boring. It lacked bite. My concentration wandered. A new element was required. Then I noticed that Red was attacking Blue, often without just cause. Did my ears deceive me when I heard a tiny shriek of alarm from Blue as Red molested her? Was I a party to this offense? I decided to tackle Red immediately.

"I don't know why you're causing Blue such distress. I hope you don't think I've given any encouragement. It's been a clean game so far and I like to . . ."

Red turned on me and, in a harsh alcoholic voice, snarled "Look! It's all up to you, Buster! You wield the mallet. You make the rules and you set the tone! And a right mess you make of it too. Don't come blubbering around me. Instead, sort out Black! You've seen what he's been doing to my little friend, Yellow. But you prefer to turn a blind eye there, don't you?"

I must confess that I had not been aware of the undercurrents below the game. I stepped over to listen to Yellow's problem.

"Oh, please understand me! I'm making no complaints about anyone," whined Yellow. "It's just that none of the others seems to have any time for me, particularly Blue. She is the only girlball here and I do respect her. But she's always with that dark evil creature Black. I really don't know why."

I saw I had to restore common sense to the situation. "The reason Blue works with Black is that she is on his side. Can't you see that? And while you may not like him very much, Red is on your side. He tells me that Black has been mistreating you. In what way?"

Yellow smiled slyly. "He hasn't really. But if I can convince Red that Black has been cruel to me, then he will focus on using Black to get his croquet shots. That way, Black will get separated from Blue. Please tell her that I am longing to join her."

I couldn't quite see how my game should be dictated by the romantic attachments of the croquet balls. Nevertheless, I approached Blue with Yellow's message. I was astonished by the response.

"What they hell d'you think you're doing?" shrieked Blue. "You're supposed to be impartial. That means no favourites. And here you are wandering all over the place prying into personal affairs. Then you bustle about carrying gossip to cause trouble. If you must know, Red is a close friend and if we like a bit of the rough stuff whose business is that?"

I retreated to central peg. What should I do? A deep, mellow voice interrupted my deliberations. "Yes! I'm your peg," it said. "Why not take the advice of a mature and experienced person? If I were you I'd talk less and listen more. As you know, according to EU regulations, the rights of games equipment cannot be ignored..."

With a first grasp of my hand I removed the peg and there was silence over the whole court.

Do you fancy a lively, fully participative, game of croquet with a "soap" dialogue generating facility? If so, contact me but bring a robust sound-proof box with you. Meanwhile, I've made a new hospital appointment.

Instant Poetry [16]

Dear ______,

Congratulations on having your poetic work accepted for publication at last! I had decided not to write any more letters since this is an outmoded form of creation. As you may know, letters are now being replaced by those plastic smellies, marketed as AROMAS.

On receiving the package, the "reader" simply pricks it open and, taking a deep breath, ingests all the contents at one go.

However, I feel obliged to issue a word or two of warning. Beware the effects of the instant literary fame. It can destroy your customary placidity, leading to excited self-regard.

How do I know this, you may ask. (Go on, ask away, if just to maintain pace and continuity.) I know because I have personal experience of instant fame.

I was a member of a pastoral poetry club in the Midlands. We were called the Hills to Combe Society. We met every Monday to read our creations. We would select the best and then arrange a bi-monthly public presentation.

One time I suffered the old problem. I had composition block! Hastily, I just snatched an old poem from my files and hurried off for the Monday meeting. The subsequent reception of my piece from the other members was unique. There was lots of head-nodding and clucks of appreciation – rather like a flock of happy hens, really. Some even applauded.

I was delirious with pleasure. A silver mist appeared before my eyes. I bowed this way and that, but finally I only achieved any sense of stability by diverting attention from my own work. I did this by reviewing the clumsy efforts of the other members.

In examining their attempts I did not restrict myself to candour or even chiding reproof. I excoriated their motives and methods with triumphant vigour. Later, when my poem was selected for the bi-monthly public presentation, I descended into personal vilification and obloquy of other people's efforts.

I did not lose my head entirely. Immediately, I instituted a Poem Rehearsal Programme for myself. in the privacy of my poem writing room I declaimed my poem to rehearse my public presentation. "I wandered lonely as a cloud . . ."

Can you appreciate the subsequent result to the above story? Just one episode hacked from a lifetime's bloody and agonising experience!

Shaping Up to Life's Little Problems No. 17

British TV commercials have received international acclaim for their technical brilliance. What is less well recognised is the drama potential in their scripting. It only requires one pioneer to open up a whole new vista of TV commercials, based on the Human Drama Concept – or HDC as we call it.

The following is that step!

SCENE 1

Short of the back of the head of a man watching TV. In the background is his wife, watching him carefully.

The camera pans round to the front. His face is covered with cuts, pimples and small gashes. His face has many small plasters which have been badly applied to cover the cuts.

Shot of TV. The screen shows a "star" appearing, then disappearing to indicate a TV commercial. The screen focuses on the feet of a man and moves rapidly upwards to his face. As it does so, a  voice asks: "Do you look like this?"

Cut to the face of the viewer who nods enthusiastically. His wife starts to walk forward as the voice continues: "Do you find that this is happening to you all the time . . . ?"

SCENE 2

Cut to TV screen which shows a party. There is the man, with his cuts and abrasions, standing apart from everyone else. The others ignore him, pointedly. His wife is close to another man, her arm around his neck, whispering and laughing at our hero. Our hero approaches another man who is alone, with his back to him. Taps him on the shoulder. The man turns. He too is disfigured with plasters and untreated blemishes!

They look at each other in horror as discordant "horror" musical chord is played.

TV voice says, confidentially: "You know the cause of all this suffering, don't you?"

SCENE 3

Cut to bathroom. Our hero stands in front of a steamed-up shaving mirror, waving his razor about haphazardly.

Voice, triumphantly: "Yes! You are one of the thousands who are needlessly suffering from STEAMYMIRROR. Not only are you an inadequate, incompetent person who cannot concentrate properly, you are also – let's face it – quite unpleasant to be with. It's time to end this scourge right now."

The title "GLO-GLASS" appears on the screen, in shining letters, followed by a telephone number.

Voice, vibrant with excitement, confides: "During secret experiments connected with space research, scientific teams have discovered and developed a new, safe, hygienic way to shave."

A picture of a shaving mirror appears, glowing with intense light. At the bottom of the screen appears the legend "GLO-GLASS", followed by the telephone number.

SCENE 4

Cut to wife, moving purposefully to pick up the telephone while the voice continues hectoring: "Yes. You can banish your blemishes. Save your marriage. Rejoin mankind. Call our engineers. Install Glo-Glass – now."

SCENE 5

Cut to installation engineers, in white overalls and wearing black protective sunglasses. With sledge-hammers, they destroy the wall holding the existing shaving mirror. Near by is a large, flat, rectangular box, glowing menacingly.

SCENE 6

Cut to party. Our hero is without a blemish. His face glows! He is surrounded by admiring people. His wife is at the edge of the throng. She turns to face the camera and says apathetically: "Thank you, Glo-Glass. You have saved our marriage."

THREE MONTHS LATER

SCENE 7

Man seated in front of TV. His face glows. His eyes are wide and staring. Occasionally, he blinks hard in his attempt to focus.

The TV voice says: "Do you look like this?"

Cut to screen. It shows a replica of our hero – glowing, staring and blinking. The voice continues: "Well, in that case, you are suffering from over-exposure to intense light. This is a condition which we scientists call 'FUNNY DAZZLE'. Now research has shown . . . [fade]."

Cut to man, leaning forward. In the background his wife is moving forward to the telephone. Close up of wife. "Oh my God," she says, as she picks up the telephone once more.

Anaesthesia Means No Screaming

Dear ______,

Recently I have been contracted to write a series of articles for a senior citizen publication called Gerontal Gaiety.

I am interested in your views about its literary level. It has already passed the medical panel's inspection for technical accuracy.

ANAESTHESIA MEANS NO SCREAMING!!

The use of anaesthetics is a tiresome but necessary preliminary to many surgical operations. They prevent the patient from shouting and struggling while the surgeon attempts to perform his life-saving task.

There are two kinds of anaesthetics. There are "locals", where the patient is awake and can watch what is going on, either directly or through the use of mirrors. Thus, a patient who is interested can watch the surgeon cutting away at his stomach. He can pass comments if he likes.

Where patient participation is not required, a "general" anaesthetic will be used. This reduces the patient to unconsciousness for the duration of the operation and sometimes forever. Before the invention of anaesthetics, sharp blows were delivered to the head. Alternatively, large doses of alcohol were caused to be ingested.

It was in November 1847 that Dr Simpson first used ether and chloroform on his patients. As a humanitarian pioneer, he recognized that amputations and general surgery caused his patients some discomfort. It was this discomfort that was causing them to wriggle and scream.

Some surgeons simply used curare on their patients. This is a poison used by South American Indians to stun their prey. The patients would lie silent and motionless under the knife, paralysed but without losing any sense of feeling.

Nowadays, general anaesthetics are the norm, based on the developments of the last century. As the attached diagram shows, however, the equipments and procedures are extremely complex. It is likely that the NHS will return to the old tried and trusted curare method. However, they will dispense with the actual blow pipes in the operating theatres. They will use needles instead. This is further medical progress!!

Ed: Article provided to our readers on a "need to know" basis.