God Shuffled His Feet

I have been offered the chance to put forward an offer to edit the provincial newsletter for my sector of work.

It is the successful, concurrent (although smaller distributed) sister publication to that of the main sector Newsletter [note capital N] which, of course, hosts the irregular written column by that dandy and rogue, none other than Car. d’Gan.

I sort of fancy doing it, you know. And, so, I thought about the application I would submit:

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the panel, the concept of editing the newsletter is both immediately alluring and daunting to me.

Alluring because of the power I would yield. Alluring too because – and I presume that this will not have escaped the panel – I would almost certainly consider it one up in my on-a-knife-edge game of brinkmanship with Car. d’Gan. [Yes – you see that Car. d’Gan? Do you see it? That’s my yacht, anchored off the coast of the Canary Islands, with dancing women on board, all dancing about me, hooked by my editorial talent, no one caring about the newsletter pension scheme except you? Yeah – you see it.]

It is daunting because I have not edited anything before. I have no point of reference. Really there is no rational reason for me or you, dear panel, to think I would have any talent for it. But, in stating that, I do recall a story of an earned Community Responsibility badge in the Sea Scouts…….

Once there was this kid who, in helping run the after school club for primary school children for that month to gain his Community Responsibility badge, had a role mainly in supervising games and setting up activities. And then tidying the bean bags, skittles, pencils and paper away into the large trunk chest at the end of the early evening. He had additionally been tasked with providing the mid-activity refreshments.

This kid was to measure out 30 plastic beakers worth of weak, mildest strength diluting Orange juice.

Well, he thought about this. He wanted the children to remember the month when ‘once there was this kid' who was amongst them. He wanted to blow the cobwebs of old fashion from their young, cowed workhouse shoulders with contemporary fluorescent Lycra ideas. Hell, he was basically Robin Williams in that documentary where Robin went to a school and read poetry out to boys but in return made them call him captain and live in a tree. This kid admittedly wasn’t paying it much attention when it was on the TV but felt he got the gist. He didn’t even watch it to the end, just taking it that Robin Williams simply explained things to Orsen and then said Na-nu-na-nu. Yes, definitely maverick level set to Robin Williams more than Christian Slater.

So on the first summer’s night this kid left to quickly go round to the local Safeway and came back with his version of American poetry read by an alien and not a bomb with a timing device strapped to him (though if it had meant pulling Winona Ryder, he would set a ticker in a bar of plastic explosive in a heartbeat, badge or no at stake, she wouldn't even need to ask [Free the Winona one!]). He made up 30 plastic beakers worth of weak, mildest strength diluting Summer Fruits juice.

When they saw the beakers laid out, the other leaders and helpers asked why he had done such a thing? Didn’t he know that a change of juice required a signed letter from parents? Didn’t he think about the consequences of a vibrant, different flavour?

I mean, sure, he was a good looking, mysterious, self-styled outsider. Enigmatic with an intelligent, smouldering lone wolf charm even. I would say, like an international playboy spy who followed his own rules with eyes than could melt iron and dice which rolled for high stakes. But this kid was, in the flush of youth, unrepentant. That night he was also wrong.

Some children refused to drink it. Others became irrational and started to panic, requiring restraining. One or two children drank it and enjoyed the change of pace. The majority of them though played up, pretending it was fine red wine. Falling crookedly into walls, sloshing the juice out of the beakers and onto the floor and mats in acted out inebriation and berating their pretend husbands and wives: “I saw how you were looking at them! Not that I am… let me finish! Not that I am surprised; the soul, for what it ever was, went out of this relationship years ago. We only stay together because of the pretend dog! This wine, this wine is delicious.”

Ugly, Summer Fruit diluting juice fuelled scenes.

And if this meandering story – or (you may suggest it, it is really not for me to say, but I can’t stop you claiming it to be) near-holy parable – says anything about editing a newsletter of limited distribution it is this: If I am your editor then hear my promise now: I will not change the cordial, just improve the strength. And probably will change the cordial.

Case dismissed.”

With a bit of luck, the panel will then make the correct decision.