The Curious Diary of Mr Jam

by Nury Vittachi

  * * *

  Four days before I go to Scotland.

  Friday, August 8

  Waiting for ages at a bus stop in a rainstorm, I realize that all transport systems are governed by a network of hidden laws, such as: “If it’s raining, cold or both, the bus will be late.”

  As soon as I abandon my wait and march off, another rule of life comes into play: “Buses hide around corners until you start walking home—at which point they roar past you, laughing.”

  Later, at the computer, I decide to ask my readers for home-spun aphorisms on transport, to see if the internet community contains other philosophical individuals. A reader from London soon offers a truism about his city’s railways: “Your train always leaves late, except for the time you desperately need it to.”

  And a night-owl friend of mine tells me by email that his life was ruined by a rule which said: “The last train has always left the station two minutes before you arrive at the station, whenever you arrive at the station.”

  Minutes later, another transport one arrives, from an anonymous contributor: “The days you have no change, neither does the taxi driver.”

  * * *

  Three days before I go to Scotland.

  Saturday, August 9

  The internet’s a fascinating machine. It never stops, not even on a weekend. Yesterday’s dip into philosophy has grown into a truisms list. The latest contributions come from a range of people, some of whom sign themselves with human names: Christian Fardel, Nainil Shah, Rika Nauck, Wendy Tong, etc:

  1. Dipping your hands into any yucky substance will immediately cause your nose to itch.

  2. Letting any mechanical object know that you are in a hurry is a mistake.

  3. The probability of meeting someone you know increases exponentially when you are with someone you mustn’t be seen with.

  4. Spiders enter houses when husbands go on business trips.

  * * *

  Two days before I go to Scotland.

  Sunday, August 10

  Three more good ones arrive today:

  1. Any contact between the human body and hot water will cause the telephone to ring.

  2. People with seats furthest from the aisle in the theatre arrive last.

  3. Pimples know your social calendar and hide beneath your skin, ready to burst out at major life events such as prom nights, graduations and weddings.

  The internet itself can be used as philosophy engine. Who would have thought?

  * * *

  Tonight it is my son who needs help with his homework. This time I am better prepared. The kids’ math is so alien to me that I have borrowed a book called the Junior Dictionary of Mathematical Terms.

  Still, it’s not easy. “If all the angles are acute the triangle is said to be acutangular, or oxygonous,” the book explains. “A strophoid is an algebraic curve of the third degree.” Aiyeeah.

  After the homework is eventually completed, I decide to do an experiment by taking the dictionary (which is grade six, meant for 10-year-olds) to the place where I do some of my best research: the bar. I read out the terms in the book and ask folk to define them. They shout out some lines, many of which are actually quite amusing. Here are the results.

  Hypotenuse: A big, fat animal that lives in the rivers of Africa.

  Equilateral: A line that runs around the middle of the world.

  Octagon: Eight-legged creature of the sea.

  Algebra: An Iraqi television network.

  Obtuse angle: An angle which is slow-witted and unhelpful.

  Acute triangle: Not suitable for a family publication.

  Prime Number: Valuable car license plate.

  Pythagorean Theorem: A type of snake.

  Radius: Ancient Roman transistor radio.

  Additive inverse: Something food manufacturers slip into packaged foods because they are trying to kill us.

  Bisect: A man or woman who likes men and women.

  Common Denominator: An Arnold Schwarzenegger movie.

  Pi: Abbreviation for a pastry item containing meat, popular with Australians.

  Polyhedron: A girls’ name.

  Trapezoid: A soulless circus performer.

  Rational Number: A number that talks sense.

  Tessellation: A girls’ name.

  X and Y Axes: A store selling forestry implements.

  * * *

  Tomorrow I’m off to Boney Scotland (that’s what they call it).

  Monday, August 11

  Kissing my kids’ tousled heads, I hug them till they can’t breathe and have to beat me off, and then depart for the airport to fly to UK, motherland of Great Literature.

  What will it be like? Will I find myself on stage in a land where people who put words together in interesting, provocative ways are celebrated and paid vast sums of money? Will I learn the trick of making a living by being creative? Will I learn something that will make me outshine Harold S.T. Woot? En route, I scan my briefing notes: there’s one from a European book agent explaining that Scotland is the home of the world’s largest arts festival. Coinciding with the book fair there will be festivals celebrating theatre, comedy, music, cinema, etc.

  From Hong Kong, I fly to Heathrow Airport in London, and buy a ticket to get the early morning train to go to the Frozen North tomorrow. I have a vague recollection that it is now considered politically incorrect to call the inhabitants “Scotchmen.” You have to refer to them as “the Inuit”. Or have I got that backwards?

  Tuesday, August 12

  Day One. Edinburgh is shocking. Arriving after a long train ride, the first thing one sees on stepping out of the railway station is an man wearing a skirt tormenting an animal.

  (Important Note: The skirt must be referred to as a kilt. An Inuit/ Scotchman once told me they are legally allowed to beat to death any tourist who refers to it as a dress. Why do Scotchmen prefer dresses to trousers? They like to travel, and a famous actor, Kenneth Williams, explained that the kilt facilitated the two main activities of the Scotch abroad: fornication and diarrhea.)

  After overhearing an Asian tour guide talking to a group of Japanese visitors, I learn that the animal being tormented is actually a “musical” (I use that word advisedly) instrument called a “haggis”. Watching the guy, I realize that the player simultaneously blows into it and squeezes it. It emits an extremely long, sad, mournful note. Or does that come from the listeners, who seem to have chosen to show their appreciation by running rapidly in the opposite direction?

  Walking the dark streets of Edinburgh late on my first night I have a terrifying experience. A crazed-looking gang jumps out of the shadows right into my path. Before I can escape, they do what street gangs in the capital of Scotland usually do: They commit a random act of entertainment right there in front of me. Lucky for me, they did not do experimental theatre, which I find marginally less enjoyable than amateur penis reduction surgery. They perform a Shakespeare play, immeasurably improved by being respectfully edited to just under four minutes in length.

  Back at the hotel, I read the rest of the briefing papers. Every August, the document says, Edinburgh turns into a mad city of entertainment. Plays erupt on every corner. Actors perform in cars, balconies, rooftops, doorways, toilets and even up trees. Performers who fly into the city range from famous Hollywood actors to obscure authors from obscure parts of the world. That must be me.

  Wednesday, August 13

  Day two. What a joy this place is. Everybody is being cultured, in one way or another, and everyone’s having fun. Audiences range from a thousand-strong mob of bespectacled intellectuals to a small pile of whiskey-stained clothes which may or may not have contained a human being.

  But there were so many of us needing audiences, that we weren’t fussy. Indeed, there was sometimes so much heckling that we ended up jealous of the people who performed to the pile of clothes. At least they didn’t interrupt.

  When it’s my turn to make my main appearance at the book event, I take to the stage and th
e moderator gives me a curious smirk. He announces that instead of sharing the speaker’s CV with the audience, he is going to give them a “flavor” of who I am by reading something. He then produces from his pocket copies of the long and bitter denunciations of moderators from my diary last week and reads them out loud.

  He particularly relishes the lines from August 6: “It is only a matter of time before I kill an introducer live on stage with my bare hands.” Then he closes by telling the audience: “So this is what he thinks of me.”

  I am left wondering whether his introduction will climax with his guest being arrested live on stage for libel. That would have been a first. Fortunately this is not the case.

  Now I am not going to reproduce here the actual words I delivered to the audience, because I can’t remember them and no one recorded it, as far as I know. But my talks and writings are basically the same thing (I only come in one flavor) so think of it as lines from this diary with suitable pauses, vocal dynamics, etc. The audience responds very positively, clearly not expecting much humor from this small Asian visitor, and pleasantly surprised.

  After my mid-day appearance, I’m taken on a tour of the city by my UK publisher. Fascinated, I find myself taking copious notes. True Scotchmen people start each day by eating a bowl of wallpaper paste (true—I tasted it) which they call porridge (or “sporran” in the local language, “Scotch”).

  All Scotchpersons are called Jimmy, except the country’s founder, Robert the Burns (pronounced “Rabbit Burrows” in Scotch). The story goes that Rabbit’s pet spider gave the country its motto, which is, “If at first you don’t succeed, do unto others.”

  It’s a beautiful place, full of craggy mountains, craggy castles and craggy women. But as the day comes to an end, I find myself missing Asia. Being here means I sadly have to miss the opening of the Beijing Olympics. I console myself with the knowledge that others are missing it too, including the Prime Minister of Britain who told the press he was “otherwise engaged,” and the Dalai Lama (real name Eddie the Finger), who was inexplicably left off the Chinese government’s guest list for that event.

  But this evening I watch the BBC’s Olympics special on the hotel television, and enjoy it, especially since the opening dances celebrate two out of my three favorite interests: writing and Asian wisdom (my third major interest is the extended sleep-in, but that’s a tricky subject to express in dance). Afterwards I go to the hotel bar and chat to other visitors to the cluster of festivals. Now who do you think is top of the bill of the books part of the event? Salman Rushdie? Salman was there, but no, he didn’t get the top spot. J.K. Rowling? The festival is just down the road from the café where she wrote the first Harry Potter book, but no, it isn’t her. Top spot goes to Anonymous. Taking a gamble, organizers offered tickets for a speaker described only as a “mystery guest”. Punters were so surprised to be asked to shell out money without knowing what they were getting that they immediately obeyed, causing the session to sell out faster than most other sessions. (Memo to self: remove name and face from books and posters in order to increase sales.)

  The second hottest ticket, I’m told, is a session that features Sean Connery, better known as James Bond—who of course was born in this city. The local listings magazine has put on its cover a slightly dated (okay, 40-year-old) picture of him. This is a bad idea, since it accentuates just how much 007 has changed. Sir Sean’s neighbor recently said he looked like “a rude, foul-mouthed, fat old man”. However, this description could apply to almost everyone I know in their late 70s, and not just the men. Sir Sean’s family was so poor when he was born that his mother, whose name was Euphemia (not a joke), put him to bed in a drawer. Now fabulously wealthy, he talks endlessly about how enthusiastic he is about his glorious motherland Scotland, although his love for the place doesn’t stretch as far as persuading him to live in it.

  Former James Bond girl Britt Eckland is also present, promoting her new book Britt on Britt by Britt Eckland (no egotism there). She turns out to be suitably eccentric, as is expected of movie stars. When not talking about herself, she and her dog Tequila run backwards around the park. One sees this all the time in Hong Kong and mainland China, but this is the first time I’ve seen it in the west. Running backwards “is better for health” she explains. (Clearly, she means her health, not the health of people who have to dive out of their way.)

  When the session featuring the unnamed guest opens, I am intrigued to see that Mystery Man turns out to be Gordon Brown, Prime Minister of Britain. He had decided that instead of partying with Presidents Hu Jintao and George W. Bush at the Beijing Olympics he would instead hang out with a load of bookish types and watch it on television, like me. What a cultured individual.

  Evening falls. A group of Asians (they look like they come from the west of China) arrives and starts playing Chinese instruments in the middle of the city. The thin, high, haunting wail of the erhu and the evocative twang of the oriental zither are so atmospheric that a huge crowd gathers. Even the man playing the haggis stops to listen.

  It makes me realize how important it is for communities to experience culture from other parts of the world. I decide to bring a packet of sporran home with me to cook for my friends and family. Also, it’s way cheaper than wallpaper paste in Hong Kong.

  Thursday, August 14

  Day Three. I am standing in the street with a pile of newspapers, reading reviews of my session. “Dangerous and witty,” one reviewer says. Woo hoo!

  Locating a coffee shop with Wi-Fi, I find a seat and turn on my email to tell folk back home about my positive reception. But instead I am distracted by finding that someone has sent me a link to a heated debate about Asian comedy on the internet.

  “Asian comedians are retarded,” complains Wah Jai on Asian-Central.com. “They give Asians a bad name. Anyone who finds them funny are only laughing because they make fun of the Asian stereotype with the retarded accents they have.”

  A guy called Ray fights back, but doesn’t sound very convincing: “Some of the Filipino ones, umm, yeah, they were ok.”

  A response from one John Lee says: “You are clearly jealous of the Chinese because we have the real Buddha and your Indian religion is a fake! Or as we say in Beijing: ‘Shur shur shur she shar’.”

  Suddenly, there is a clash of cymbals. The coffee shop has been invaded by entertainers. One member is a young British comedian who shall be nameless (and who should for his own good always forget to announce his name). He performs free of charge for us. His act consists of shooting out the sort of puns you find in Christmas crackers. “When a clock is hungry, it goes back four seconds,” he quips.

  We stare at him blankly.

  “A bicycle can’t stand on its own because it is too tired,” he offers.

  Our blankness blankens further.

  He hands out cookies—and at last gets a smile. I feel like telling him that it is no use doing this sort of joke. By the time the audience works it out, the joke-teller has been sacked and is tucked up in bed with a nice cup of hot strychnine.

  Later, I see a woman called Bridget Christie doing a show in which she imagines that the world’s first diarist, Samuel Pepys, who lived in the 1600s, is transported to the modern day and introduced to the modern equivalent of the diary: blogs on the Internet. Pepys comments: “August the second. Ate a stick of celery. See, it’s rubbish. Stop blogging.” I laugh so hard that a mouthful of coffee shoots two meters from my nose.

  Late that night I end up in a pub with a group of top UK authors. Finally, my chance to learn the secret of making money by telling stories. But barely 20 minutes into the conversation it is clear that the challenge faced by story-spinners here in the UK, arguably the world capital of literature, is almost as bad as it is in the east. The west is not going to be my salvation, I realize. If anything, it may even be WORSE here, as there’s so much competition. The other authors explain to me that the number of writers who make a good living purely from writing books in UK is tiny—less tha
n one in ten. “Probably less than one in 20,” a bearded man from Ireland adds gloomily. “Or 30 or 40 or 50.”

  “We’re talking about creative books, of course,” says the woman who was dominating the conversation. “If we were talking about Organic Chemistry A Level Textbook, you can probably make a bob or two bashing them out for years on end.”

  Everyone around the table nodded sagely.

  “I once wrote a book on Organic Chemistry,” says the dour Irishman. “Didn’t even make any money out of that.”

  The festival organizer’s representative orders a round of drinks to cheer everyone up. The woman dominating the conversation tries to convert her complaint into an inspirational lecture. “Of course, no one writes for money. We write for other things, like respect, and, er.”

  “I write for money,” says the Irishman. “But I don’t get any.”

  I tell them that if writers in the UK, the birthplace of the modern novel, cannot make a decent living, what hope is there in the rest of the world?

  The woman says: “At least, it’s cheaper to live in Asia. Our cost of living is horrendous here.”

  I wonder whether to tell her that the castle being advertised in the property shop around the corner from the festival venue’s main gate is listed at the same price as a small apartment in the Hong Kong suburb of Happy Valley, but I decide not to. It would sound too much like one-upmanship. The really curious thing is that the small apartment in Hong Kong would probably be a better long-term investment.

  “So how do authors in this country live?” I ask.

  “We have second jobs,” replies the Irishman. Several were university academics, two were school teachers, one was a lawyer and one described herself as “a kept woman”.