It's the same in the USA. Last year, fewer white babies were born than in non-white ethnic groups. And the white populations in Texas and California are already a minority. The discussion here is not about immigration, nor even about educated immigration versus ignorant, non-educated and therefore unproductive and expensive immigration. And it has nothing at all to do with racism, as certain handicapped imbeciles erroneously claim from time to time. The discussion is about restricting immigration in general so that you can keep the steady erosion of your own culture and your own standards down to a reasonable level. And which does not, naturally, prevent any of us from continuing to assist as many people as we wish on-site in their own native countries.
Or maybe the English have another, more obscure reason for their tiny and uncomfortable tables and chairs. Who knows?
My newspaper was not one of those hideous British tabloids, but the IHT—the International Herald Tribune. At least, that is what it used to be. Some newly promoted manager there recently used his or her superior brain power to change the paper's name to the International New York Times, presumably in the belief that consequently more Americans will buy it. In order to do what? Read cricket reports? Or perhaps more non-Americans—in order to read about baseball? Or perhaps he or she merely believes that more New Yorkers will buy it. Or perhaps more non-New Yorkers or more ex-New Yorkers who want to read more about what's going on in New York?
Well, this is still an international newspaper, no matter who owns it, and it always has been since it was founded in 1887 under the name Paris Herald, later changed to the IHT. Decades of international history and tradition, including both World Wars, the legendary Art Buchwald columns—including his eternal 'Le Jour de Merci Donnant'—and so on and so forth. And nowadays the paper is based in Courbevoie near Paris and is printed in nearly 40 countries and on sale in about 160, many of whose exact location, or even approximate location, will continue to remain a mystery to a large number of New Yorkers.
But the newspaper’s management nowadays appears to be looking for a new kind of readership. Unless I am optically impaired, the space allocated to the arts (of no interest to many people on this planet and therefore existing mainly thanks to subsidies, grants and charity) appears to have been increased, as has the space on female fashion and, may none of us vomit, male fashion. Presumably this generates luxurious advertising income, but I would love to see the circulation numbers in a few years’ time.
And the newspaper's price is now around $4. Can you imagine that, paying over $1,200 per year for your daily newspaper? Nevertheless, and just like the politicians, these guys usually create a committee to agree to their decisions and are therefore not individually responsible for anything (other than supervising committees). Which means that I have to withdraw my superior brain remarks, which will allow you in turn to nullify any related interpretations you may have derived from them.
The coffee and croissants arrived and I flipped through the international news pages. Conflict deaths in five different countries (the good old human race), three terrorist suicide bombings (the good old human race), debt crises everywhere (the good old human race), and I was about to start on the important section—the sports section—when a shadow fell across my table.
As you know, this is what shadows tend to do when someone or something places itself between you and your light-source. I looked up in order to identify the origin, and there was a man standing there. Next to my table. Just standing there. Looking at me. And preventing the sunlight from reaching my table. And there were other tables free.
My first reaction in such a situation is to wonder whether this is just another of the many simple weirdos to be found on this planet, or perhaps one of those people whose pleasure it is in life to cause mild annoyance a few times a day, or whether he might even in fact be a homosexual on the hunt, they´re all over the place these days, and more and more of them with every passing year, let me tell you.
It reminds me of a short story I read ages ago, in which homosexuality had become the norm (if you are of the Christian persuasion, you would have to imagine that God had created Adam and Bruce) and the heterosexuals were hounded by the authorities and only able to meet in dark, dingy bars late at night, with half of them disguising themselves as members of the opposite sex.
I do not detest homosexuals. Not at all. I respect them as much as I respect anybody else, including myself. Many of them—but certainly not all, don't get me wrong, they are no different to the rest of us in that respect—appear to be perfectly agreeable people whose effeminate body language also tends to frequently attract the platonic adoration of heterosexual females for reasons we don't need to go into here. And although I don't detest them, they are certainly not my cup of tea. Quite simply, I hold nothing against them and they, hopefully, hold nothing against me. I merely prefer them to keep away from my personal space and I promise faithfully to do the same in reverse. I actually feel sorry for them, as I do for a lot of things in this world of ours. I am not in the least bit interested in what they do with each other or, before I am corrected, to each other, nor do I wish to imagine it, thank you. They can just get on with it as far as I am concerned. They are simply aberrations of nature, nor are such aberrations restricted solely to the human animal. But it's not their fault, is how I look at it, nor can they do anything about it and nor, do I suppose, do they want to. And so, as with all things that cannot be changed, I merely ignore it and will continue to do so, providing, as I have said, that they continue to respect my personal space. Particularly, for example, on the beach. And also providing that that short story hypothesis remains what it was: a hypothesis.
Nevertheless, and as I have mentioned, I was in a good mood, and so I merely raised a polite eyebrow to my silent observer, upon which he gave me a reasonably acceptable smile in return.
"Excuse me sir," he said, "I am indeed sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if I may take up a moment of your time? I am conducting a survey and it really need only take about two minutes. A maximum of two minutes I assure you, I can guarantee you that. Or should I perhaps return in a short while, after you have finished your breakfast?"
Well now, he sounded normal, he sounded educated—not something you can take for granted in the U.K. these days—and I liked the guarantee of the two minutes, something rarely proffered by most of the poor sods taking surveys. And anyway, it would be interesting to find out if he was telling the truth about the two minutes or not. A morsel of psychological entertainment on a sunny morning, why not?
He was dressed fairly formally and, it seemed to me, expensively. Dark blue overcoat, dark blue suit, black shoes, looked new, white shirt and a yellow tie you wouldn't find in one of your department stores for the masses. Early forties I would guess, a somewhat roundish face but not too fleshy, short blond hair, not fat, not thin, fairly tall, close to six feet in height, i.e. a few inches smaller than myself, all in all an optically presentable kind of chap.
"No, it's fine, it's no problem," I said pleasantly. I am usually pleasant of course, there is no point in being otherwise. In fact you would usually describe me as a seriously pleasant person, unless you happened to be around when I was forcibly obliged to react to an unpleasant one.
"Take a pew and fire away, dear sir. My pleasure," I said. I didn't offer him coffee, not much point in doing that for just two minutes, I am sure you agree.
He sat down, awkwardly of course, hampered as all tall people are, and a lot of short people also, by the smallness of the British tables and chairs; but he sat sideways to avoid bashing his knees against mine (aha, definitely educated), which otherwise would have meant that I would have had to shift sideways. I do not enjoy unwanted physical contact with others, not even if I know them—good looking females, needless to say, being the exception to the rule, whether I know them or not.
"Well, sir, I thank you for your courtesy," he said. "Now this survey is merely an initial contact with just one question, just one single question, wh
ich is as follows. Would you possibly, I emphasize possibly, be prepared, I emphasize be prepared, to consider, and I emphasize consider also, undertaking a project for my organization, one hundred percent legal and to your satisfaction provably so, a consultancy role involving little or no active endeavor on your part, an estimated duration of three months, perhaps even less, paying a fee of €500,000, of which €100,000 in advance and non-returnable, irrespective of the usefulness of your contribution and/or even if you were to resign from the task prematurely? You may resign overnight by the way, without giving reason, and from our side, there is no requirement for a contract, either verbal or written. And, as I have mentioned, you would get to keep the €100,000."
All of this was spoken in a rush, perhaps because of the two minutes he´d quoted, and he leaned back in his tiny chair and looked at me carefully, as if trying to calculate what effect his ludicrous and impossible query might have had on me.
As well he might. I really don't need my pleasant mornings to be messed about with by conversations with nutcases or criminal fraudsters, whichever of the two he turned out to be. And so I just stared at him—I am quite good at staring—while considering the most effective and at the same time least offensive manner in which to reply and get rid of him while avoiding unpleasantness on the one hand, and allowing me to rapidly return to my sports pages on the other. No more wasting of my personal time on this fine sunny morning. No sir, this would go no further. That might result in my good mood mutating into a peevish one. And we wouldn't want that.
"If I may be so bold, we only have another thirty seconds or so, sir," he said, sounding for all the world like a normal, pleasant business person mentioning the need to reach a decision before an agreed contract deadline.
May God, Mohammed, Buddha, Krishna, Thor or whatever your preference is, or whatever you were brainwashed into believing as a child, spare me. I should simply have said 'No', but I was desirous of saying 'No' in a way that would be fully understood, supporting my negative in other words, with a concise, clear and descriptive rationality which would allow no further room for discussion, nor for his continued presence at my breakfast table.
Which, if you look at it one way, was a mistake which involved me in a pretty weird series of events over the next few weeks, including an unwanted acquaintance with some rather obscure representatives of our national security forces. But if you look at it another way, it wasn't a mistake. Money is rarely a mistake and, as it turned out, I was to receive quite a lot of it. Sophie Tucker was the one who paraphrased it best. I've been rich, she said, and I've been poor; and let me tell you…rich is better.
It just goes to show, life is an ocean and its waves are sometimes quiet and languid and gentle, and sometimes they are huge and noisy and life-threatening, and these waves can take you to just about wherever they want to take you and the only thing you can do about it is to learn how to swim in all the varying conditions because, like all animals, you don't want to sink, drown, perish before your time. Do you?
"Let us forget about the two minutes," I told him, "three minutes is O.K. by me and my answer is 'No' and I'll tell you why. I mean this politely, I have no wish to cause any unpleasantness or insult you in any way, trust me on that, I would merely like to terminate our brief encounter without further ado, and that is hopefully O.K. with you? You are obviously”, I continued, “not in a position to know whether I am a person of normal intelligence or not. But—as it so happens—I am, you may believe me on that. And, as such, I can tell you that in my opinion your offer is either an illegal one, a failed attempt at a not very good joke, or else you are insane, again no offence intended. In my opinion, that is, right or wrong. But as my opinion happens to be the only one I have, it is, regrettably or otherwise from your point of view, the only one that counts. And so…with apologies for repeating myself, the answer is no, and thank you very much. Have a nice day."
You will forgive my use of the latter phrase. It is an American expression converted unintentionally into the imperative by omitting the admittedly superfluous 'I hope you will'. If you have been to the USA, you are certainly acquainted with the expression, on account of having to listen to it a few thousand times every day. But it definitely serves a purpose and I certainly employ it from time to time.
"Well now, I am also," said the stranger, "a man of normal intelligence. And I was consequently expecting your reply to be more or less exactly as it was…despite the fact that my question was merely whether you would consider, or rather, merely possibly consider. But of course, I would not be so discourteous as to try and persuade you otherwise. I naturally accept your answer, and I accept it as a definitive one. On the small chance, however, that you might possibly change your mind, may I take the liberty of leaving you with my business card? And I hope you will accept my apologies for having taken a portion of your time; and please allow me to assure you that if I do not hear from you again, you will not be hearing from me. I guarantee you that. In the meantime, my sincere apologies, and may you also have a nice day or, perhaps," and I could swear his eyes were twinkling—a ridiculous phrase, but it serves to portray a certain facial expression—"a nice life."
And with that he stood up, smiled politely with his round and pleasant face, and walked away.
* * * * *
Well, for a nutcase, he certainly wasn't a troublesome one. So much the better. I ordered another coffee and got back to the sports pages. God knows what footballers or—if you are an American and have difficulty distinguishing between hands and feet—soccer players, think of some of the crap that the British tabloid journalists churn out every day. I read an article by chance the other day in a machine operator's newspaper in the factory. A player had been asked whether he would be renewing his contract with Manchester City at the end of the season and he had replied that he didn't know. And maybe he didn't, maybe the club hadn't even discussed it with him yet, or maybe it hadn’t even determined what conditions, if any, it might be prepared to offer him, or whatever. A thousand reasons, the guy just didn't know. And the headline was, oh yes: 'Rodriguez Denies Contract Renewal Talks—The End?' followed by a fabricated article adding absolutely nothing else. This kind of stuff is written by mentally backward persons for consumption by persons with the mental capacity of a dying snail, of which, as we know, there are a large number on this planet, very large in fact. And also for the jellyfish, as my friend Steve would say (jellyfish being one of the few creatures on the planet which do not possess a brain of any kind at all).
The IHT on the other hand is an interesting journal, it has real sports articles written by journalists with a literary education and it is more international to boot. I checked the mid-week European results, I briefly perused the text devoted to what had actually happened in the games, and then I leaned back—metaphorically of course, given the chair I was sitting in—and I lit up a cigarette (please don't say it, it is boring; furthermore, you are right; and also furthermore, I am happy to admit to plenty of other defects also, should you so wish) and picked up the nutcase's visiting card.
OBRIX CONSULTANCY PARTNERS
Suite 12, Royal Strand Towers
The Strand
London WC2N 5RS
U.K.
Jeremy Parker, Senior Partner
Tel. 0044-77571404691
Typical. Not only a fraudster but an amateur one. It doesn't tell you what they do, the suite address possibly denotes temporary office space and, oh dear me, a mobile phone number. But no doubt he picks up a customer here or there, there are always enough simpletons to be found on this planet and there always will be. This planet of ours contains a sizeable percentage of human beings with severely limited cerebral capabilities, no change century after century, today and tomorrow, being born right now as you and I drink our coffee. My estimate, in my opinion, is a pretty good one - 10% intelligent, 50% neither intelligent nor stupid, or intelligent only in certain ways and therefore not intelligent, and 40% stupid, thick as two planks. Not their f
ault, they don't make their own brains, they´re just born the way they are, you can see the differences already when they´re young, walk into any old school and take a good look, ask a teacher. All walks of life, good lawyers and lousy ones, productive factory workers and useless ones, good politicians and brainless liars and wafflers, you name it. The same percentages all through, more or less.
You know those bars, cafés, restaurants where you can´t pay, no matter how much you try, and it can take you up to half an hour sometimes? That´s because the waiters and waitresses are morons or at least semi-morons. I don't mean that nastily—as I have just mentioned, they don't manufacture their own brains—I am merely employing the word factually as per the dictionary. They never come near your table, and whenever they appear somewhere else, they never look at you and so you can't attract their attention—unless you choose to shout across the intervening space in Mediterranean fashion, upon which they become haughtily offended and disappear again. These people are unable to grasp the fact that someone may be wishing to leave and that it is their job to facilitate this. They have no idea whatsoever of how long that person has been trying to leave. Their brains tell them that it has only been a minute or so and if the customer isn't prepared to behave normally and politely and wait for as long as he, the waiter, feels like, then he'll be treated as he deserves. Morons, as I say, as per the dictionary.
But such is life. These things do not seriously disturb me. They are the flotsam and jetsam of our existence. They are not to be avoided but they cause no serious harm. And if I have a habit of making observations to myself on such matters, well…they cause no harm either.
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