Two Chaps Talking

Dear Fellow,

Fortunately I am an adept of the dark arts technological and am able to prescribe the solution in a trice.

1. Ensure that the machine is unplugged and fully powered down.

2. Insert CD marked ‘Faure’s Requiem’ in nearest slot and raise volume to comfortable level.

3. Use ‘Explore’ function to find your most comfortable chair.

4. Run ‘Improving Book’ software. You might also want to boot up a Martini.

5. Many people find that a correctly chilled Martini glass can leave rings on polished walnut; this need not bother you as the strategically placed carcass of your Fujimaka Lapmaster 8000 will make a capital coaster.

And now on to weightier matters. Christmas is nearly upon us with all its attendant awfulnesses. Chief among these is the feculent herd of provincials that clog our streets in their annual feeding frenzy. Having spent the year earning a pittance in regional offices of paper product and pet food companies they feel an atavistic tug toward Oxford Street where they can be robbed of every penny in exchange for obsolescent tat and gargantuan soft toys with needle for eyes.

But the danger is far more than a simple aesthetic outrage of the cultured eye. I ask you to take another pull at that agreeable malt and to allow your mind to drift back to an asbestos Nissen hut just below the Junior Playground. Close your eyes, breathe deeply through the nose and imagine, if you will, a cold spring morning and a double period with R.D.F. Williams for I must speak of physics.

The brain, as we know from much research, is an organ that develops or atrophies according to use: ‘use it or lose it’ in the current parlance. With this as our starting point we can begin to infer the state of the provincial brain. Let us take, for example, a forty-year-old male subject from Yeovil or Sunderland. A cursory perusal of his appearance tells us he is untroubled by thoughts of fashionable dress or appearance. The fact that he is consulting an A to Z, upside down, shows that he has no knowledge of the topography of the city and the appearance and demeanour of his wife indicates that he is little troubled by thoughts of beauty or, indeed, any pride.

Following this inexorable chain of logic we must conclude that the provincial brain is, in fact caverned with voids. As his skull is of normal proportions, RDF points out, we must assume that his brain is…?

Less dense, Sir?

Correct, Boy.

In fact, if one were to open his skull one would expect to find a tobacco pickled organ, grown septic from watching soaps and reality TV, and of the structure of Emmenthal or cheap, aerated, white bread.

Consider now, the Metropolitan - and here we may use ourselves as subjects. To survive in our chosen environments we maintain a huge store of vital knowledge: where to get a cab at chucking out time, the correct way to dress, the recipe and method for a selection of cocktails, a firm notion of what constitutes a good looking individual, an extensive and well maintained collection of prejudices, where not to buy coffee, property prices by zip code, the numbers of a dozen dealers, how to avoid getting beaten up on public transport - the list is vast. There is no room for holes. Even if we allow that we don’t need space for knowledge of football. And, opines RDF, as our skulls are only a little larger and nobler of brow than our previous subject, we must conclude…?

That our brains are more dense, Sir?

Correct! Admirable boy.

In point of fact, our cerebella are of a fine-grained, weighty quality, most akin to freshly poached foie gras and notwithstanding a small, crystalline cavern directly behind the nasal passages, entirely solid.

Now, to continue with the physics lesson.

Let us imagine we are on Oxford Street. Our first subject, let us call him Alpha, is striding purposefully along. He is tall, with much of his weight distributed around his large, dense brain and broad shoulders. He knows exactly where he is going and is moving at the accelerated clip common to Londoners. A hundred yards ahead of him is our second subject, we shall call him Epsilon Semi-Moron (ES-M). He is moving more slowly and is engaged in a prolonged argument with his wife about dog racing or beating his children. He is built lower to the ground with a light brain and much of his weight distributed around his beer-gut and sagging posteriors. He prods uselessly at the A to Z with his blunt, soiled fingers but is clearly lost.

Subject Alpha has a high center of gravity, ES-M’s is low.

Subject Alpha is now closing on him at speed and, as he sees the approaching hazard, he effortlessly adjusts course to pass.

Suddenly and entirely without warning the ES-M’s attention is seized by a glittery plastic object in a shop window. He is so overcome with acquisitive lust for the ‘Genuine ‘Goldette’™ Rolax Chronometer’ and its amazingly competitive price (emblazoned twelve feet high across the window) that he STOPS. Dead. In the middle of the pavement. On Oxford Street. In November.

Subject Alpha collides with him at only a slightly reduced speed. The heavier brain, moving at higher speed gives him greater...what, Boy?

Momentum, Sir.

Rem acu tetigisti. And his higher center of gravity would tend to make him…?

Fall over Sir?

Correct.

I suppose it is our own fault. If we fill our shop windows with glittery bait, they’re bound to come in droves. You don’t get this problem in Jermyn Street. There’s nothing in the warm glow of burnished leather or the subtle curves of a well cut revere to appeal.

I understand that the government is committed to regional assemblies and provincial autonomy. I can hardly wait. Frankly, I think we should sell Oxford Street to Liverpool and tow it up there for them.

Adeste Fideles

T